by Dean Atwood
ALSO BY DEAN ATWOOD
AGUA DE VALENCIA
THE RETREAT TOWER
THE SECRET TARGET
Dean Atwood
Copyright © 2018 by Dean Atwood
All rights reserved. This book, or parts thereof, may not be produced in any form without permission.
This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Acknowledgements
Thanks to my wife Robin and my children Seth, Blake, Ashley and Tyler for encouraging me to continue writing.
A special thanks to Seth for providing technical assistance.
Chapter 1
Q uinton Target wasn’t the jealous type, but he was suspicious by nature. Women’s unpredictability unsettled him. Of course, it didn’t unsettle him enough for him to avoid the opposite sex. Quite the contrary, he loved women with all their intricacies. After numerous failed relationships, he thought he’d finally found the perfect woman — but he was beginning to have second thoughts.
He lay on the bed with his eyes wide open, observing Blaire, who was standing in front of the bathroom mirror, brushing her blonde hair.
She glanced at him and said, “Are you watching me?”
“Not on purpose. I opened my eyes and there you were.”
“Oh, I see. It’s an accident you’re looking at me that way.”
“What can I say. I’m a voyeur. I like watching you.”
“Good thing for you I’m an exhibitionist.”
“One of the many things I love about you.”
“I didn’t mean to wake you.”
“Where are you going so early? You didn’t get to sleep until three this morning.”
“Whose fault was that?” she said with a smile.
“I’ll take credit for the last half hour, but you didn’t get home until around two.”
“I know. I’m sorry I haven’t been around much, lately.” She turned her back to him and added, “It’s been crazy at work. I have another meeting early this morning.”
“I understand,” he said, although he didn’t really understand the change that had come over her recently.
“I should be back to a more normal schedule within a couple of weeks.”
“Good.”
After she finished getting ready, she sat on the bed next to him, laid her hand on his chest, and gave him a peck on the cheek. “Go back to sleep.”
He closed his eyes momentarily and then opened them to watch her walk toward the stairs. “Are you going to be late again tonight?”
She stopped and shrugged her shoulders without turning around. “I’m not sure. I’ll call you later.”
When Blaire reached the bottom of the stairs, he heard her phone ring. He could tell the volume had been turned down, but he recognized her ringtone.
In a loud whisper she said, “I told you not to call me when I’m at home ... I don’t know what time the meeting will get over ... Yes, I’ll have lunch with you. Now hang up. We can talk at work.”
After Quinton heard the downstairs door shut, he rolled over and closed his eyes, but the gnawing feeling in his stomach was preventing him from falling asleep. He tossed and turned a couple of more times before accepting the futility. He climbed out of bed, went through his morning bathroom routine, put on his clothes, and headed out the door.
Like most mornings, he walked down the red brick walkway of the downtown mall in Charlottesville, VA. Blaire and he had moved into their nearby townhouse six months ago, and until recently, things were going quite well from his perspective. He was an FBI agent, and she was an NSA cyber analyst. Because of security protocols, they couldn’t always share information about their cases, but they had an appreciation of the demands of each other’s job. When one of them had to stay late at the office or disappear out of town for a few days, the other didn’t question it. The frequency of Blaire’s business trips had increased during the past two weeks, and after each trip she seemed a little more distant. There was nothing overt. They were cordial to each other, didn’t argue, and still had sex. But, something beneath the surface had changed, and it bothered him that he couldn’t pinpoint the cause.
Many of the quaint shops and restaurants on the downtown mall were closed at seven in the morning, but the Mudhouse Coffee Shop was open. As Quinton approached it, he saw a woman standing by an outside table. She was wearing army green shorts, a camouflage shirt with first lieutenant insignias, and a UVA baseball cap. From a distance, she was very attractive. She had high cheek bones, bluish green eyes, and shoulder length, auburn hair. Although her features were still striking up close, they were overshadowed by her personal hygiene. Her hair was tangled, her complexion was oily, and there was a hint of perspiration odor beneath her deodorant.
“Good morning,” he said in a cheery voice.
“QT, I need to talk to you right away.” She looked around nervously to see whether anybody was watching them.
“I’m going to get coffee. Why don’t you join me?”
“Where’s your lady friend today?”
“Who, Blaire? She had to go to work early.”
“Good, I don’t want big brother listening to us. The NSA would love to find evidence of my whereabouts. Those bastards have eyes and ears everywhere.”
Quinton had grown accustomed to the woman’s paranoia. He’d met her five months ago on the way to get his morning coffee. She’d appeared to be homeless, although he didn’t know that for sure. He’d struck up a conversation with her and bought her breakfast. Since that time, whenever he’d seen her, he’d offered to take her to eat or join him for coffee. Even though she was often disheveled, her teeth were always pearly white, which was an indication she wasn’t a drug addict. And, he’d never smelled alcohol on her breath. He assumed her problems were related to mental illness, perhaps PTSD. He wasn’t sure how she’d come into possession of the lieutenant’s shirt. She could be ex-military, the shirt could’ve belonged to an ex-husband, or she could’ve bought it at Goodwill.
“Let’s go inside and get some coffee. I’m buying,” Quinton said.
The woman scanned the area again and said, “OK, but I want the seat facing the window.”
Quinton ordered the coffees and they sat down at a table that gave her maximum visibility to the vicinity.
“Are you ready to tell me your real name?” Quinton said.
“I’ve already told you to call me Lieutenant Mad.”
“That sounds more like a psychological condition than a name to me.”
“I like you QT. You’re one of the good guys, but you’re part of a corrupt government. If I gave you my full name, your curiosity would get the best of you. You’d run it against your databases. It’d be flagged, and the FBI, NSA, CIA and God knows what other clandestine agencies would be all over me. After they took me in for torture and questioning, they’d eliminate you and your girlfriend because you inquired about me.”
“I wouldn’t want that,” Quinton said, acquiescing without believing a word she said. “Tell me what’s so urgent this morning, Lieutenant Mad.”
“I was near your townhouse last night and I saw a man in an SUV watching your place.”
Playing along, Quinton said, “Were you close enough to get a description of him?”
“Yup. The windows were tinted, but he had the driver’s side window open.”
“What’d he look like?”
“He looked like a hitman to me. He’s probably a contract killer, not a company man.”
“What makes you think that?”
“He wasn’t polis
hed enough looking to be a company man. Besides, most of the government vehicles are black. His SUV was white. If it were me, I’d drive something a little less conspicuous, but maybe he’s using reverse psychology. The good cowboys always ride white horses, right?”
“Can you be more specific about his appearance? Was there anything distinctive about him?”
“He had black hair and a dark complexion. A handsome guy, except for a three-inch scar shaped like a lightning bolt, gouged into his left cheek. At least, I think it was a scar. It could’ve been a tattoo or a birthmark. I can’t say for sure.”
“I didn’t see anyone matching that description this morning when I left the townhouse, but I’ll be watching for him.”
“If I were in your shoes, I wouldn’t wait for him to show up. I’d start looking for him. It’s been my experience that there are times when you need to be patient and times you need to be proactive. This is a time to be proactive.”
“Good advice,” Quinton said. “You didn’t happen to get the license plate number of the SUV, did you?”
The lieutenant took a candy bar wrapper out of her pocket and opened it to reveal the license plate number written on the inside of it. “Here it is for what it’s worth. If this guy’s a professional, which I believe he is, that number will lead you nowhere.”
“I’ll run it and see what I come up with.” Quinton paused and then said, “By the way, how do you know where I live?”
“I have my sources.”
Quinton waited for her to elaborate, but she left it at that, and he didn’t pressure her for more information. “In case I need to get in touch with you, do you have a permanent residence?” he asked.
“Do you mean, am I homeless?”
“Are you?”
“No, a friend of mine gave me a key to the Jefferson Theater. I’m living in a room in the basement. It has concrete walls with metal corner beams, so the spooks can’t bombard me with microwaves or listening devices.”
“You wouldn’t happen to own a mobile phone, would you?”
“I have an untraceable phone without GPS tracking. Hand me your burner phone, the one that you don’t think anyone knows about. I’ll enter my number in your contact list.”
QT hesitated before reaching into his pocket and giving her the phone. “How’d you know I have a burner?”
She ignored his question. “This number is for emergency use only,” she said. “My phone has a limited number of minutes. And, don’t copy my number to your FBI phone contact list. I don’t want any government agency to have it in their databases.”
After she gave it back to him, he said, “Do you want me to give you my number?”
“I already have your FBI and burner phone numbers.”
Quinton wasn’t sure whether he believed her or not, but he decided not to press the point. He looked at her to gauge her reaction when he said, “I would think somebody like you, who distrusts intelligence agencies, would distance herself from them. You’re having coffee with an FBI agent and live a few blocks from the FBI office.”
“Sometimes hiding in plain site is the most secure. I’m probably as safe here as any other urban area. I’m not cut out to be one of those end-of-times fanatics, who lives like a hermit in a rustic cabin somewhere in the wilderness. I don’t expect you to understand this, but the reality is, as long as I stay invisible, the spooks are willing to pretend I’m dead. But, if I become visible — begin to show signs of life — they’ll stop looking the other way and come after me with everything they’ve got. I’m trusting you won’t reveal my whereabouts.”
“If I betray you, who am I going to have my morning coffee with?”
“You’ve got that blonde arm candy of yours to keep you company.” The lieutenant gulped down her coffee and stood up. “I’ve been here too long. I have things to do. You watch your back and your girlfriend’s. Something is going down. Mark my words.”
“Thanks, I will.”
Quinton sipped his coffee and thought about the lieutenant. He decided that he’d check into her background to see what he could come up with. He felt a little guilty, but he justified his planned actions by convincing himself that he might be able to find a family member who could get her the treatment she needed. She’d be more paranoid than normal, if she knew he’d snapped a photo of her with his iPhone one evening when Blaire and he had spotted her at the downtown mall. He took his last swig of coffee and tossed his Styrofoam cup into the trashcan. Then he picked up the cup the lieutenant had left behind on the table. Fingerprints would simplify his search.
The more he thought about it, the more he thought the lieutenant was right, waiting and hoping for the best isn’t always the best strategy. After doing the background check on her, he intended to be proactive and find out what was going on with Blaire.
Chapter 2
E ven though the FBI office at the Charlottesville Federal Building and US Courthouse was within walking distance of the coffee shop, QT elected to drive his car. He parked in one of the reserved parking spaces and walked into the building’s lobby. It was empty except for a few early arriving lawyers and courthouse employees. QT approached the FBI office suite, which was protected by a facial recognition system and electronic ID card reader. He inserted his keycard into the reader and looked into the camera. A virtual ID card with his picture displayed on the screen. It had a check mark next to it, signifying he was authorized to enter. When he removed his card, the door clicked and unlocked. He opened it and entered before the five second time limit expired.
He glanced into Special Agent Clinton McCoy’s glassed-in office. McCoy spotted him and motioned with his hand for QT to come in, which he did.
“Good morning boss,” QT said.
“Have a seat. I have a couple of things I need to talk to you about.”
“You sound serious. What’s up?”
“As you know, the FBI’s mandatory retirement age is fifty-seven. I requested a special extension to the age of sixty, but I received word yesterday that my request was denied. So, as of my birthday at the end of this month, I’ll be retiring.”
The expression on Quinton’s face was one of shock. “I had no idea you were that old,” he said and then added as an afterthought, “not that fifty-seven is old. Are you OK with it?”
“I’m reconciled to it. My wife, Kathy, is happy about it. She has big plans for us to travel the world. We’ll see how that goes.”
“I hate to see you leave.”
“Thanks.” McCoy looked out of his glassed wall and then back at Quinton. “I need to tell you something else in confidence.”
“OK.”
“I was contacted a month ago, about a joint task force being formed by the DIA to investigate a defense contractor. The operation is being run out of Charlottesville. I recommended you as the FBI participant; however, I was overruled.”
“Who overruled you?”
“The head of the Richmond Field Office. He said they wanted to avoid a conflict of interest.”
“That makes no sense. I don’t have anything to do with defense contractors. How could I possibly have a conflict?”
“The conflict isn’t with the defense contractor, it’s with one of the team members.”
“Who?”
“NSA Cyber Analyst Blaire Saunders.”
“I see. You told them Blaire and I are living together, and they didn’t think we could be professional enough to work on the same team?”
“I didn’t tell anybody about your relationship. Somebody in the intelligence community must have done a background check and found out about it.”
“Since I wasn’t selected, who from the local office is on the task force?”
“Nobody. The Richmond office assigned somebody. I don’t know his name or anything else about him. The field office is keeping me totally in the dark. Has Blaire said anything to you about it?”
“No, believe it or not, we seldom discuss work.”
“I automatically go on aler
t whenever the FBI is asked to join a task force with other intelligence agencies. Those guys don’t always play by the rules. That’s why I’m telling you about it. I don’t want you to be caught off-guard, in case you somehow get drawn into it through your relationship with Blaire.”
“Now that you mention it, Blaire has been out of town several times during the past couple of weeks and has been acting a little strange. Maybe it has something to do with the assignment.”
“If she gives you any details about the operation, I’d appreciate it if you’d tell me. I don’t like being shut out of an investigation that’s being executed in my territory.”
“I doubt she’ll say anything about it, but if she does, I’ll make you aware of it.”
“It goes without saying, you need to keep a wrap on this conversation.”
“As far as I’m concerned, we never spoke.”
“I don’t plan on officially announcing my retirement until a replacement is named, so keep that quiet, too.”
“Will do.”
Clinton McCoy leaned back in his chair and relaxed as though he had unloaded a burden by sharing with Quinton and was now back in business as usual mode. “How’s the embezzlement case going?” he said.
“It’s straightforward. The purchasing manager used a loophole in the company credit card procedure to run up two million dollars in charges. Some people are hard to understand. He had to know he’d get caught eventually, but he did it anyway.”
“He probably thought the company would just fire him to avoid the bad publicity instead of getting the FBI involved.”
“You could be right, but I still think he’s an idiot. He’s got a wife and two small kids.”
“What else do you need to do before requesting a warrant to arrest him?”
“I’m finalizing the electronic evidence and I need to interview a few more witnesses, including the suspect himself. We should be ready to move within the next two weeks.”
“That could be the last case we close while I’m head of the Charlottesville Resident Agency.”
