Текст книги "Hidden Order: A Thriller"

Автор книги: Brad Thor

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Текущая страница: 15 (всего у книги 26 страниц)

CHAPTER 38

FORT BELVOIR

VIRGINIA

After purchasing groceries and a few extra items of clothing, McGee and Ryan returned to Brenda Durkin’s. With coffee brewed, they made sandwiches and turned the Colonel’s dining room into their makeshift operations center.

The name of each member of Ryan’s former destabilization team was written on a three-by-five card and taped to the wall. Under those, cards were added based on what Ryan could remember about her teammates including physical descriptions, training and experience levels, where they lived, what their marital status was, if they had children, and what their weaknesses and potential pressure points were, among other things. They were attempting to create the best 30,000-foot picture possible and from there they would zoom in on their target.

Stevenson, the community bank manager, had been very helpful. The reams of banking information he provided included credit histories, ATM transactions, and credit card statements. Two team members had even set up their mortgages through Stevenson’s bank. The guy Ryan ultimately wanted, though, had been much more careful. His personal financial presence in the data was almost nonexistent. There was only the corporate stuff. He had been smarter than the rest of the team members and had established follow-on bank accounts for his money to wash through. Even if somebody pierced the community bank, they’d have a lot more work to do to track down where he lived.

That was fine by her. They’d catch up with Tom Cushing, the team’s leader, eventually. They weren’t looking for the head of the pack now anyway. They were looking to pick off someone a little bit further back.

As far as Ryan was concerned, they had taken a significant leap forward. The team had not been disbanded; it had just been pushed further into the shadows. The question that she didn’t want to wrestle with, but which was still there, was why had she been cut loose? Why did they not bring her along with them? She had thought she had been a pretty good fit, even when she was acting as her teammates’ conscience.

Was that it? Was that why she had been let go? Had her morality been that inflexible? Granted, she’d been fairly rigid when she joined the team, but once she’d been tossed in the deep end and saw not only how much was at stake but how ruthless the enemies of the country were, she had begun to quickly play ball.

Maybe her being added to the team had only ever been window dressing. Maybe someone on the seventh floor had leaned on Phil Durkin and he had assigned her to the team in order to appear like he was at least trying to make things right. Who the hell knew what was real and what was fiction when it came to anything anymore at the CIA?

Ryan forced the question from her mind. It was a rabbit hole that went absolutely nowhere. There were bigger things she needed to focus on at the moment.

The Eclipse team still existed and they were still being funded via the Central Intelligence Agency. That was a big part of the puzzle that had now fallen into place. The next question she needed answered was what they were up to. Were they destabilizing Islamic countries so that their current governments could be overthrown and replaced? If so, was Jordan on their list? And if it was, how far along were they and who else beside the Muslim Brotherhood figures that had been photographed meeting with them in Cyprus were they involved with? Nafi would want all the details. Of that, she was sure.

She was also sure of what their next move should be, but McGee didn’t agree. He liked the idea of isolating one of the team members; he just didn’t like the person she had picked. McGee had his own feelings when it came to whom they could double back against Phil Durkin and the team.

“There is no way you’ll get Tara to crack,” Ryan had told him.

“The hell I won’t,” the man replied. “Everyone cracks. Drag their kids in and they crack so fast your head’ll spin.”

“We’re not bringing anyone’s children into this.”

“That’s a mistake.”

“Jesus, Bob. We’re talking about little kids.”

“What kind of monster do you think I am?” McGee retorted. “Nothing’s going to happen to them. We’re just going to use them for leverage.”

Ryan fixed him with a withering look. “No, we’re not.”

“So then what? We go with your guy? Florence of Arabia?”

“Cut it out. Florentino makes more sense than Tara at this point. He’s the weakest one on the team, he’s the person I had the strongest rapport with, and based on his credit card history, we know what bar he spends every Tuesday night in when he’s in town.”

“The only reason you two had such strong rapport is because he didn’t try to put the make on you.”

“He actually had reservations about many of the things Cushing was pushing the team to do.”

The older operative stood looking at the names on the wall and took a sip of coffee. “Just because your Arabist had his moral compass set a little truer north than the rest of them,” he said, lowering the mug, “doesn’t mean he’s going to cooperate with us.”

“We’ll see what happens.”

“I’m telling you, it’s a mistake. We should go after the Tara woman. We use her kids, she talks, and bang. We’re golden.”

“No kids. No bang.”

“I didn’t mean bang as in—”

“I know what you meant, but we’re done discussing leveraging anybody’s children. I’m not doing that. Understood?”

McGee was silent and Ryan shot him another look. “Understood?”

“Fine,” he finally replied. “We’ll do it your way. No kids.”

“And you’ll let me handle Florentino? You promise to stay out of my way?”

“What are we, suddenly in a negotiation?”

“No,” she said. “This isn’t a negotiation, it’s an operation, and I want to make sure that there is no confusion as to chain of command. This was my team, I know these people, this is my op. Easy enough?”

“Fine,” McGee relented again. “But let’s just be clear on one thing.”

“What’s that?”

“The minute any guns come out, this becomes my op and we do things my way.”

CHAPTER 39

WASHINGTON

DISTRICT OF COLUMBIA

Florentino Marche had been born in Brooklyn, New York, and was the only child of an Italian father and a Puerto Rican mother. He had attended Columbia University, where he showed considerable aptitude for languages, particularly Arabic. From there he had gone on to Georgetown and a master’s degree from the Center for Contemporary Arab Studies. The Central Intelligence Agency made their approach shortly thereafter.

He was a tall, thin man with dark features and curly hair. With his black-framed eyeglasses and retro fashion sense, he came off as more geek than chic.

There were at least a hundred other hipster men in the crowded bar dressed just like him. Waitresses shuttled to and fro with pitchers of beer and trays laden with rings and wings. Televisions mounted on every wall broadcast a myriad of current as well as classic sporting events. It was difficult for Ryan to move through the crowd unimpeded. Table after table of young men invited her to join them, some less sober and more insistent than others. Finally, she spotted Florentino.

He was sitting with a group of friends in a booth. Instead of talking to each other, they were all looking down at their phones, texting. Occasionally, some team on one of the TVs would score, the crowd would cheer, and Florentino’s booth full of hipsters would look up and react. She needed to get his attention.

Tipping a waitress to slide him a cocktail napkin with a cryptic message had occurred to her but Florentino was too smart and too paranoid to bite on something like that. Guys like him didn’t get sent notes on cocktail napkins.

She was trying to come up with another option when she saw him tuck his phone in his pocket, say something to his friends, and get up from the table. As he walked toward the restrooms, she fell in step behind him and followed.

Her question now was whether she was going to present herself before or after he used the men’s room. Probably better to wait till after.

Slowing her pace, she picked a spot where she could wait and watch for him to come back out. He didn’t go into the men’s room, though. He kept walking toward the back of the building.

He hip-checked the crash bar on a fire exit and stepped outside. Smoke break?

She needed him isolated anyway. Behind the building was just as good as anyplace else. Besides, it was too noisy inside. She could barely hear herself think.

Catching the door before it closed, she slipped outside behind him.

The rain had recently stopped and a mixture of young men and women stood in the puddled alley smoking and carrying on conversations. Florentino stood near a dumpster with his back to her. He never was very good at tradecraft. He was more academic than true field operative and no matter how many times she had tried to impress upon him the need for situational awareness, he had never seemed to get it. It was obvious by the ease with which she was able to approach him that he still didn’t.

“Hello, Florentino,” she said.

The young man looked over his shoulder and then turned to face her. “Lydia,” he said. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“I’m supposed to meet a friend for drinks. I thought she might be back here having a smoke. What are you doing here?”

“Out with friends, too. Drinking. You know.”

“Yeah.”

“You got your haircut,” he said. “It looks good. Cool.”

“Thanks. So what have you been up to?”

The young man paused, reluctant to answer. “Not much. You know. A little bit of this, a little bit of that.”

“Florentino, you don’t have to lie to me,” Ryan replied. “I know what you’ve been doing.”

“What are you talking about? What have I been doing?”

“From what I’ve been told, lots and lots of travel. How was the food in Cyprus?”

“Cyprus?” he said, stalling. “That’s in Greece, right?”

“Or Turkey. It depends.”

“Yeah, right. You mind if I?” he said, fishing out a pack of smokes from his pocket and holding them up.

“No, go ahead. You know how bad those things are for you, right?”

He smiled, tapped one out, and pulled it from the pack with his mouth. “You sound like my mom.”

“Your mom’s right,” said Ryan, as she watched him remove his lighter and fire up his smoke. His hand appeared to have a slight tremble.

“How are you doing?” he asked after a deep drag. “I heard you’re still with the company, huh? How’s that been going?”

“I don’t have a lot of time. How about we talk about Cyprus instead?”

It sounded like a question, but it wasn’t. “Uh, okay,” he replied, his eyes flicking to the left.

Ryan glanced over her shoulder. “Are you expecting someone, Florentino?”

“Me? No. I mean, one of my friends was supposed to come out for a smoke, too.”

“In the meantime, tell me about Cyprus. Better yet,” she said, growing uncomfortable, “why don’t we step back inside?”

He pulled the cigarette from between his lips and held it up as he exhaled a cloud of smoke. “Can’t smoke in there.”

“Well, when we’re done talking, you can come back outside.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

Ryan was going to ask why that wasn’t a good idea when she saw his eyes shift once again. This time, though, there was something different about the way he did it and the blood in her veins turned to ice.

Dropping to the ground, she spun and was just about to pull her Glock when a volley of shots rang through the alley.

CHAPTER 40

Ryan had pulled Florentino to the ground and was trying to maneuver them to cover behind the dumpster. There was chaos as the smokers ran in multiple directions screaming.

“You knew!” she wanted to yell at Florentino, but then she noticed he wasn’t moving. He had a gunshot wound to the chest and another at the base of his throat. Blood ran from his mouth as he lay on the wet pavement. As she reached out to feel for a pulse, two more shots skipped off the side of the dumpster and Ryan leapt back. She knew better than that. The only aid you gave in a gunfight was putting rounds on the enemy.

Two shots rang out, both in rapid succession. They were followed by two more. She had no idea how many attackers were in the alley, but she did know that someone was using a suppressor and someone wasn’t.

With her weapon up and ready, she was about to snatch a quick peek around the edge of the dumpster when she heard McGee’s voice.

“Tangos down. I’m coming to you. Don’t shoot. Be ready to move. Copy?”

“Affirmative,” Ryan replied. Her weapon was in tight, close to her chest, but ready to be fired.

McGee approached soundlessly and then scuffed the ground with his shoes the last couple of feet, so she would know where he was. He nudged Florentino with his foot to see if he would move. He didn’t. He was probably dead.

Stepping around the dumpster, he held his free hand out to Ryan and helped her up.

“Is he dead?” she asked, looking down at her former teammate.

McGee nodded. “I think so.”

Ryan bent over and felt for his pulse as she surveyed the scene. “What the hell happened?”

“At least three shooters,” McGee replied, pointing with his 1911 to the bodies on the ground. The baying of police Klaxons could be heard only a few blocks away. “We need to get going.”

“Go through their pockets,” she told him, jerking her head toward the shooters. “I’ll do Florentino.”

“Waste of time. We need to get moving.”

“Bob, please,” said Ryan.

Shaking his head, McGee disengaged and moved quickly over to the three dead men. By the time he was done patting them down, Ryan had joined him. She had Florentino’s iPhone.

“That’s not coming with us,” the former Delta Force operator said as he pointed at the phone. “They can track us with it.”

She knew he was right. “I just want to see what he has on it and then we’ll toss it.”

“Fine. Right now, let’s just get the hell out of here.”

Ryan nodded and followed McGee as he headed quickly down the alley. Just before they emerged at the sidewalk, he stopped and listened.

“Damn it,” he said.

“What is it?”

“The police are getting close. We’re going to have to go the long way around to get the car.”

They had debated whether to park far from the bar or to park closer. Ryan had wanted to be closer in case they needed to get out of there fast. McGee had wanted to be farther away for exactly that same reason. There were good arguments to be made for both and in the end they had split the difference.

They moved perpendicular to the sound of the approaching police cars and made sure not to be seen. As keyed-up as police officers would be racing to a shooting, they were still taught to keep their eyes open and look for any potential suspects leaving the scene of a crime. While Ryan doubted the cops had anything more to go on than an address and “shots fired” in the alley, she didn’t want to risk getting rolled up. The only way they were going to get to the bottom of what was going on was to stay as many steps ahead of Phil Durkin as possible. They couldn’t do that if they were sitting in jail.

They also couldn’t do that if they were dead. Even though Ryan had a bunch of questions she wanted to ask, she kept quiet. It wasn’t only the police they had to watch out for. There could be more shooters looking for them right now. Both she and McGee needed to move quickly and quietly.

As they neared the car, Ryan removed Florentino’s iPhone and rapidly scrolled through his texts, emails, and browsing history.

“Anything?” McGee asked.

“Personal stuff, but nothing we can really use,” she replied as she stepped over to a storm drain and tossed it in.

“For what it’s worth, the stiffs in the alley were clean, too. No ID, no pocket litter, nothing.”

“More pros.”

McGee nodded. A block away, they could hear another police car and they both climbed quickly into the Mustang.

Once they had put enough distance between them and the scene, Ryan asked, “How the hell did they find us?”

“I think maybe we found them.”

“Meaning there was a team on Florentino?”

McGee nodded and made another turn in order to see if anyone was following them. “I’ll bet they have teams on all of them.”

“But why kill Florentino?”

“I don’t think they meant to kill him. I think they meant to kill you.”

Ryan was quiet for a moment as that sank in.

“They nailed him in the upper chest and base of his throat,” McGee continued. “Right where—”

“My head would have been had I not dropped,” she said, finishing his sentence for him.

“With that kind of luck, we ought to stop off and have you buy a lottery ticket.”

“It wasn’t luck,” she replied pensively. “It was instinct. Florentino knew they were there. His eyes gave them away. For some reason, something inside me just told me to react.”

“Call it whatever you want, but you were smart to listen to it. Between you and that Florentino guy, I’m glad it was him and not you that bought it.”

Ryan didn’t respond.

McGee accelerated to make it through the light that was changing up ahead. Once he had cleared the intersection, he asked, “Do you think he knew what they were intending to do to you?”

Ryan shook her head. “No. We were friends once. If he knew, I think he would have found a way to warn me.”

“Maybe he did.”

She fell silent again and McGee didn’t push the conversation. After several minutes, Ryan said, “I’m glad you followed me outside. Thank you.”

“You would have been fine,” he replied. “You’ve got great instincts.”

“No, you were right. I got lucky. Very lucky.”

“Don’t start second-guessing everything now and overanalyzing it. It’s done.” Changing the subject, he asked, “Did you recognize who was shooting at us?”

“No. I’ve never seen them before.”

“I don’t know what kind of pies Durkin has his dirty little fingers into, but he has access to a lot of manpower. Two hitters at my place, two at yours, and now two more on Florentino.”

“If you’re right,” said Ryan, “and he’s got people watching the other team members, we’re not going to be able to get close to them, much less get them to talk to us.”

“There is still one way,” McGee reminded her.

“Bob, I told you no. No children.”

“That was when they’d only used a Taser on you. I thought being shot at might change your mind.”

“It hasn’t. We’ll have to come up with another way.”

“Well, the McGee idea factory is closed for renovations. You’re going to have to come up with something on your own.”

Ryan turned in her seat to face him. “Are you telling me you won’t help?”

“I’m telling you that you got my best idea. Hell, you got my only idea. I’m fresh out. That’s it.”

She didn’t believe him. “We just need to think harder.”

“If I try to think this thing through any harder, there’s going to be smoke coming out of my ears. Listen, you know me. I’m a simple guy. I made a career out of tracking down bad guys, kicking in their doors, and shooting them in the head. Sometimes I delayed that last part long enough to have a chat with them, but not often. I’m not a schemer. I don’t construct intricate plots and ruses. I’m a door kicker. It’s in my blood and I’m not ashamed of that.

“As far as I’m concerned the shortest distance between two points really is a straight line. Often the simplest answer is the best.”

“Wait,” she interjected. “Say that again.”

“What? About the simplest answer being the best?”

“No, the other part.”

McGee took his eyes off the road and looked at her. “About the shortest distance between two points being a straight line?”

“That’s it,” Ryan admitted with a look of satisfaction.

“What’s it?”

“It’s something Tom Cushing, our team leader always said. The shortest distance between two points isn’t a straight line, it’s an angle.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning,” said Ryan as she opened the Mustang’s glove box to see if it had a map, “I think I know how we’re going to beat Phil Durkin at his own game.”

CHAPTER 41

BOSTON

MASSACHUSETTS

She had lied to him. She had told him her name was Chloe. He knew it wasn’t, but it didn’t matter. Prostitutes lied. Drug addicts lied. Runaways lied. They all lied. He had lied, too. When her instincts kicked in and the fear began to consume her, he told her he wasn’t going to hurt her. She knew he was lying, but at that point there was nothing she could do about it except die.

The doctors had lied, too. They had told him that as long as he continued diligently with the medication, he would be able to keep things under control. And by things, they meant his urges, his impulses, that primal part of himself that delighted in power and the taking of life. He saw himself as a lion on the savannah; free to eat whatever he wanted whenever he was hungry. Of course, that’s what the meds were for. They were supposed to curb his “appetite.”

It didn’t mean he stopped killing, though. They brought him out from time to time, sent him hither and yon. One of the doctors asked him once if he expected any explanation as to why he was asked to kill. It was a very frank session, but then again it was a very frank subject. Nevertheless, he merely shrugged in response. He didn’t need an explanation or a justification. It was all about balance. Without some form of equilibrium, all living things on the savannah, even the lion, would perish from the earth. Taking a kudu or a water buffalo or even a giraffe or elephant from time to time was simply nature’s way of maintaining harmony. He was the lion. It was what lions did.

Tonight, the lion was preparing to kill again. It would be dramatic, as befitted his stature. The young woman he had left in the Charles was because he had been hungry. When a lion is hungry it eats. This is the way of the world. This was the way of his world. For the moment, he was satiated. Having cleansed himself of his need, he could focus on the task at hand.

Another key, another garage, another vehicle, another neighborhood. Everything was waiting for him, just as before. Locking the garage door behind him, he removed his flashlight and surveyed the van. Upon it was the name of a plumbing company. It had a Boston address and a Boston telephone number as well. It wouldn’t strike anyone as unusual that such a vehicle might be out at night conducting a plumbing repair. Plumbing problems happened and they happened at all hours.

Sliding open the cargo area door, he found coveralls with the name Mickey embroidered on the left chest and the company name on the back, worn work boots, a tool belt, a pillow, and a clipboard loaded with invoices and the other accumulated receipts and pieces of paper a person of his assumed identity would amass in the course of doing his job. There were lengths of copper and PVC pipe, blowtorches, cylindrical tanks, a padded moving blanket, various pieces of plumbing equipment including grates, drain snakes, and rods of all sizes, heavy metal buckets with lids, plungers, spare parts, multiple service manuals, old plumbing catalogs, a few cinder blocks, and a small stack of bricks that looked like they might have been reclaimed from a job site. The monotony of it all would bore even the most inquisitive of police officers. For his part, though, he had no intention of dealing with law enforcement. They merely appeared after the fact to admire the lion’s work.

In the back of the van was a large metal “gang box” on casters used for organizing and locking up tools or other pieces of equipment. Removing another key from his pocket, he placed his flashlight between his teeth and stepped into the van. He walked back to the gang box and tapped its lid with the key. He knew there was a little mouse inside but the mouse was being very quiet.

He tapped again, and then again once more. Fear radiated out from the box like steam from a pile of hot rocks doused with water in a sauna. He felt a chill run through his body. Getting a purchase on the gang box, he shook it violently and then pounded the lid near one of the airholes with his fist. He pressed his ear up against the side and strained to listen. Was the little mouse cowering? He certainly hoped so. A mouse should cower in the presence of a lion.

He rested on his haunches for a full five minutes without moving. Then, without warning, he lashed out and gave the appliance a kick. He enjoyed torturing his victim this way. It made him feel powerful and in control, which of course he was. Looking at his watch, he ran though all of the steps on his agenda for the evening. It was going to be a long night, but he was looking forward to it.

Reaching into his backpack, he removed the dinner he had prepared and laid everything out on a piece of newspaper. He turned off his flashlight and allowed himself to be consumed by the darkness. It was not something that frightened him anymore. It had become part of him and he a part of it.

The darkness had been when his grandfather would come for him. The man’s enormous, gnarled hands trafficked in unspeakable terror. On a shelf overlooking his bed, as those hands did what they did, sat a small plastic lion, watching. It never attacked, never pounced and went for the man’s throat, though night after night the boy wordlessly willed it so. No matter how horribly he suffered, or how strenuously he entreated the lion with his eyes, it never moved, it never so much as even twitched.

How he had admired the lion. How he had admired its supernatural reserve and its lack of concern for anything but itself. It didn’t fear the darkness. It didn’t fear the old man and his gnarled hands. It feared nothing and everything feared it. When he committed his first kill, he had made sure the lion was there to savor the moment with him. He wanted the lion to see that he was no longer afraid. Just as important, he wanted the lion to see that he could strike fear into others.

Sitting back in the van, the killer steadied his breathing, slowed his heart rate, and became one with the darkness. From inside the stainless steel box, he caught a fresh scent of fear, heavy with the inevitability of what the night would bring, and the certainty that there was nothing and no one who could ever stop the lion.