Back Blast (14 page)

Within one minute of passing through the door, Court decided he would become a faithful customer here at the Easy Market on Rhode Island Avenue.

Court grabbed a few items off shelves—more duct tape, a few cans of food, a bottle of water, and a candy bar—then he carefully stepped up to the register at a forty-five-degree angle, with his head turned slightly to the left and the bill of his baseball cap slightly cocked to the right. A lone clerk stood behind the counter, watching his approach. She was mid-twenties,
heavyset, and African American. Her nametag read LaShondra. When Court put his items up on the counter he glanced at her again and noticed she had a severely lazy left eye, with the pupil drooping down.

She looked tired, but she wore a kind smile. “Hey, baby doll, how’s your night goin’?”

Baby doll?
“It’s goin’,” Court said, looking to the left.

He paid for the tape, the canned food, the water, and the candy bar, and LaShondra put it all into a plastic bag. While he waited Court spent his time scanning reflective surfaces behind the woman, making sure there were no threats behind him. He glanced to his left, back out to the parking lot, and saw that it remained clear. He was careful, however, to avoid looking to the right, where the camera hung down pointing at him, just eight feet away.

As he left the store, careful to avoid looking up to the camera recording the front two aisles of the market, the clerk called after him, “You have a good night now, honey.”

“You, too,” Court muttered on his way out the door.

As he climbed into his car Court realized that he hadn’t carried on such a pleasant conversation with anyone in a long time.

O
n most days of the workweek, Leland Babbitt left his Chevy Chase home around seven forty-five a.m. to make it into his office in the District by eight thirty. But this Monday morning his garage door hummed and opened at a quarter till seven, and Babbitt emerged behind the wheel of his silver Lexus and backed down the driveway out onto the street.

A black Lincoln Navigator sat parked in front of Babbitt’s home, and inside it four men raised their hands towards Babbitt’s car.

Babbitt acknowledged them briefly with a nod as he passed them by. He wasn’t going to stop to chat with his home protection detail. He had somewhere important to be today—a clandestine rendezvous arranged with a high-profile official—so his attention was focused on beating the traffic and making it to his destination in plenty of time.

A half hour later Babbitt parked in the lot by the Capitol reflecting pool, climbed out of his Lexus, and pulled on a trench coat, and then he began walking west along the National Mall.

Leland Babbitt was director of Townsend Government Services, a private intelligence and security firm that worked on classified projects for the United States intelligence community. Townsend had been around for 150 years, making a big name in an extremely low-profile industry by employing some of the best headhunters in the world. Townsend had gotten its start in the old West when its investigators tracked down train robbers, bank robbers, even marauding renegade Indians. In the following century Townsend hunted Nazis and Russian spies, it helped catch Noriega and Serbian war criminals, and in the 2000s it had a hand in the capture of Saddam Hussein as well as many of the leadership of al Qaeda and other terrorist organizations.

But on its most recent mission Townsend Government Services had failed unequivocally.

Leland Babbitt and his company had been chasing the Gray Man for years on a cost-plus contract with the U.S. government. They’d come to within a hair’s breadth of killing him in Brussels; Babbitt himself had been there at the scene during the gun battle. Unfortunately for everyone, Gentry had escaped, and in the process he’d killed some of Babbitt’s men and wounded others.

The shoot-out in Brussels had been a major news event, of course, and although Babbitt had managed to avoid exposure in the media for himself and his firm, since Brussels, Denny Carmichael had treated Lee Babbitt like he had the plague. The Director of the National Clandestine Service had flatly refused every meeting, every teleconference, even private phone conversations with the director of Townsend since he’d returned to the U.S. Only a few clipped and businesslike e-mails had come from Carmichael to Babbitt, and these made clear that NCS was indefinitely suspending its contracts with Townsend and removing the private firm’s access to classified material.

Babbitt understood Carmichael’s frustrations in a general sense. For some reason Carmichael’s involvement in the Gentry hunt was very personal, so after the debacle in Europe it was no surprise that the head of NCS would naturally try to scapegoat Townsend. But Lee Babbitt had grown weary of the cold shoulder, and he was determined to end his company’s exile from clandestine work and get things back on track.

To this end Babbitt had e-mailed Carmichael over the weekend, insisting the two men sit for a face-to-face to put the matter to rest. Babbitt took into account the fact Carmichael was obviously trying to distance himself publicly from the happenings in Belgium, so he suggested an old-fashioned clandestine rendezvous. He gave Carmichael directions to a quiet location, told him he’d be there at seven thirty ready to do whatever he needed to do to end the rift and reboot the important mutual relationship between Townsend and the CIA.

Denny Carmichael hadn’t exactly agreed to the meeting, but he had not expressly declined it either, and Babbitt felt like Denny would come to the realization that a continued partnership between CIA and Townsend Government Services was in everyone’s best interests.

Denny would show, he told himself.

Babbitt had mentally prepared himself for a verbal beating from the grizzled spymaster. He knew his company hadn’t done what the CIA had sent it to do, but he was ready to spin it by reminding Carmichael that he had gotten closer to Gentry than the CIA had, and Carmichael should simply send Babbitt back out after the Gray Man.

Court Gentry had lived out his nine lives. Next time they would get him for sure.

Babbitt walked directly from his car to the meeting site. He knew he should have conducted some sort of surveillance direction route, but this was the fucking USA, and he was certain nobody was tailing him. Plus, he was too angry and focused on returning his forces to the Gentry hunt to devote attention to anything other than getting to his rendezvous and giving the person he’d meet there a very measured dose of his rage.

—

W
hile Babbitt walked to his destination, thinking about how much he wanted just one more opportunity to hunt Court Gentry again, the object of his thoughts was exactly one hundred fifty yards away, jogging along the National Mall, doing his best to catch up to the man in the Burberry trench coat before he lost him.

Gentry had been on the man’s tail since just before dawn. He’d found Babbitt’s home in Chevy Chase on USCrypto.org, and he’d parked his car in a little lot in front of a pair of tennis courts near a country club. He’d used the cover of the thick foliage on the edge of a golf course to get close to Babbitt’s property, and then he’d spent a cold, miserable hour under a magnolia tree in a neighbor’s yard surveilling the house.

Court hadn’t been surprised to see Babbitt had a security detail at his place; he was, after all, president of a security firm. A black SUV with four men sat parked in front, and two more men wandered the acre of property.

Court stayed well out of sight of any curious eyes, just squatting there against the tree trunk, watching the house.

At six forty-five the garage door opened and Babbitt rolled down the drive in his silver Lexus. Court didn’t stick around to see where he went; instead he jogged back across a golf course to his car. He had just climbed behind the wheel when the Lexus passed in front of him on Connecticut, and he fell into an easy tail behind it.

Babbitt drove straight towards the city, finally parking in a lot near the Capitol building’s reflecting pool. He climbed out and began walking towards the National Mall.

Court was confused. He’d assumed the man would be heading to his office, which, Court knew, was in the Townsend Government Services building in Adams Morgan. But instead of this, Court now found himself scrambling to find a parking space and to begin a hasty one-man foot-follow operation.

Court found a spot for his Escort just south of the mall and jogged back to where he had last seen Babbitt. Using his binoculars he caught a quick glimpse of his target at a distance as he walked west along Madison Drive. Court picked up his pace to catch up to him—the area was full of early-Monday-morning joggers, so Court didn’t stand out save for the fact he was wearing brown work boots—and slipped into a tailing position sixty-five yards behind. Soon Babbitt turned right into the Smithsonian Gardens Butterfly Habitat, a set of two footpaths that ran through a thick garden of various types of dense foliage.

Court doubted Babbitt was so into butterflies that he’d begin his workweek with them, so he presumed Babbitt was here for some sort of a clandestine meet.

Of course Court knew there was also a chance Babbitt was here for a Monday-morning hookup with a girlfriend, or a boyfriend for that matter, but the more Court thought about it, the more he wondered if the director of Townsend was here to link up with someone senior in the CIA.

Maybe even Carmichael?

It was almost too much to hope for, a lightly protected CIA exec, a man directly invested in the hunt for Gentry, out in the open where Gentry could bag him on just Gentry’s second full day of his op here in the U.S.

But Court thought it was possible.

He knew Leland Babbitt ran a private military company here in D.C. They had been part of the chase and they had nearly gotten him in Stockholm and in Hamburg. In Brussels they had gotten so close Court now wore a bright red scar in the shape of a bullet hole on his right forearm.

Court wondered if Townsend was hunting him here in D.C., as well.

He found himself getting excited that Denny Carmichael might just walk up the narrow path any minute. If he did, Court would deal with
whatever security force Denny had with him. This wouldn’t be easy, but the opportunity would be too good to pass up.

Then Court would find a way to get Denny back to his car, take him to his storage unit, and beat the truth out of him.

“Settle down, Gentry,” he said to himself. Bagging and zip-tying a nation’s chief spook wouldn’t be easy anywhere, not even in Paraguay or Namibia. Here in D.C. surely it would be virtually impossible.

Court forced himself to lower his sights a little. If Carmichael showed, Court would evaluate the situation. He doubted he could bag the man himself, so he’d just watch, listen in if he could, and wait for them to part ways. He’d stay on mission, following Babbitt back to his car and taking him at gunpoint as he climbed in.

Babbitt remained the target.

Court moved a little closer, then tucked himself into the foliage of the butterfly habitat and watched his target from behind and one hundred feet away. He placed the Walker’s Game Ear behind his right ear and turned the volume up.

W
hile Leland Babbitt sat on a bench in an outdoor butterfly garden near the U.S. Capitol building staring at his watch and wondering when the hell Denny Carmichael would show up, Carmichael was five and a half miles to the west, sitting in his seventh-floor office at CIA, sipping coffee and reading his morning Violator Working Group report.

The report started on a down note. There had been a grand total of zero positive IDs of Gentry the day before. Facial recog had gotten quite a few possible sightings, and analysts in the Violator task force were evaluating these hits now, but Brewer said she’d looked at all the images and to her nothing appeared terribly promising.

That was the bad news. The good news was that the facial recognition software had been tweaked and retooled overnight, using some newer images of Gentry taken from security camera images out of Belgium, and the technicians felt confident they would, sooner or later, pick him out from the millions of human faces from thousands of video feeds in the D.C. metro area.

Still, Denny had his doubts the Violator operations center would get much out of facial recognition. No, Gentry was too good for that. He would mask himself a dozen different ways to spoof the software.

Next in the report Brewer wrote that JSOC operatives were up and running in the city, ready to be vectored to the right location as soon as there was more information to go on. Two men were also over watching the home of SAD director Matthew Hanley, in the hopes Gentry would show up to question—or to kill—his former boss.

The report also confirmed that thirty contracted assets were on station in the area watching known associates of Violator.

This wasn’t in the report, of course, but Carmichael also knew the
Saudis would be deployed in the District. He hadn’t spoken with Kaz since he’d left him in the Kimpton in Alexandria the afternoon before, but Carmichael knew Kaz would waste no time getting his operation in gear.

Carmichael was confident one of the myriad elements involved in the hunt would locate Gentry soon, but he also suspected the action would really only start the second Gentry did something to expose himself to the hunters. He would make his play, contact a known associate or show himself at a CIA facility, and CIA would be ready.

And while Mayes sent JSOC and other assets, Denny would send the Saudis to cover any escape.

Court Gentry was going to die here in D.C., Carmichael felt certain. The only real worry was making sure it happened without either the media or the Department of Justice finding out about it.

Just then his intercom beeped. His secretary’s voice came over the speaker. “Sorry, sir, I know you asked not to be disturbed, but Department Director Hanley is here to see you.”

Carmichael put down the report and pushed the call button. “I didn’t see an appointment on the calendar.”

“No, sir. But he is insistent.”

Of course he is,
Carmichael thought. “Prick,” he said aloud, then he pushed the talk button again. “Send him in.”

—

M
atthew Hanley was a burly man, like a college linebacker who’d hit his fifties much harder than he would have liked, but still retained the ability to kick a much younger man’s ass if it came down to it. When he entered through the doorway Carmichael noted the SAD director filled the door frame nearly as completely as he filled his gray flannel suit, and it wasn’t until he stepped fully into the office that Denny realized Hanley had another man in tow.

Carmichael offered a fake smile, but he didn’t stand or step around his desk to offer a handshake. “Morning, Matt. What is it that couldn’t wait till you got on my calendar? And who’s this?”

Hanley said, “This is Travers. He’s on Jenner’s team.”

“Travers,” Carmichael said, his version of a greeting, and he scooped up the paperwork in front of him, anxious to get back to it.

Hanley’s voice was twice as loud as Carmichael’s now. “Tell me you did
not
know Court Gentry was here in the city!”

Carmichael lowered his paperwork again and looked back up. Suddenly he found himself significantly more interested in this impromptu meeting. “You saw him?”

Hanley’s jaw tightened. “Son of a bitch, Denny! You knew?”

“Shut the door and come in.”

Hanley nearly slammed the door, then he and Travers stepped over to Carmichael’s desk. Travers remained standing, while Hanley took the chair.

Before anyone spoke Carmichael hit a button on the console on his desk. “Get Mayes in here. Now.” He turned his attention back to Hanley and asked, “What did he say?”

Hanley jerked his head to the man left standing. “Ask Travers.”

Carmichael raised an eyebrow and looked to the younger man. “Talk.”

Travers was clearly nervous standing in the office of the legendary Denny Carmichael, but he composed himself. “He got me at gunpoint last night.”

Carmichael snapped back, “I thought you guys were supposed to be good.”

Travers did not reply, but Hanley spoke in his defense. “Come on. It’s Gentry we’re talking about.”

“Right,” said Carmichael. Quickly he looked down to Brewer’s report. On the last page was a list of Gentry’s known associates that she had covered with watchers. There was no mention of Travers on the list.

He looked back up to the Ground Branch officer. “Did you two know each other?”

“Barely. I’d met him a couple of times. We’d trained together some at Harvey Point and at Blackwater, and I had the Golf Sierra team over to my apartment once after a funeral. That’s how he knew where I lived.”

“I see he let you go. Why do you think he did that?”

“Because I didn’t have what he wanted.”

“And that was?”

“Answers. Just answers. He wanted to know what he did to initiate the SOS. I told him what I knew. That he waxed the wrong target on an op and then killed his team when they tried to detain him. He said he didn’t fuck up, and his team fired first.”

Carmichael shook his head. “He knows what happened. He’s here
trying to get intel on the executives involved in his hunt. He’ll target us, one by one, to exact his revenge.”

Hanley asked, “How long has he been here?”

“Less than thirty-six hours. I’m confident we’ll have him in hand soon enough. We have control of the situation.”

“Undoubtedly,” replied Hanley. “And by ‘control’ you mean Gentry is allowed to wander the city freely with a gun in his hand while he targets the homes of Agency employees. What’s the game plan, Denny? You just trying to lull him into a false sense of security before you drop the cage down over him?”

Carmichael rolled his eyes. “He was your man when he went off reservation.”

“And it was because of
your
order that he went off rez!”

Travers looked back and forth between the two men, his mouth shut tightly. Like most CIA officers he was good at keeping secrets, but he couldn’t fucking
wait
to tell the other guys on his team about standing up here in Carmichael’s office watching the old man and Hanley duke it out.

Jordan Mayes entered the room now, and Carmichael filled him in. As soon as he finished, Mayes turned to the younger paramilitary officer. “Travers, when you leave here I want you to go find Suzanne Brewer. Tell her every last detail.”

Hanley was confused. “What does Brewer have to do with Gentry?”

Mayes replied, “She’s running the TOC.”

Hanley sighed. “Brewer from Programs and Plans knows all about this, but the director of the Special Activities Division does not? Why is that, Denny? Why am I not involved? If Gentry is a legitimate danger, then why wasn’t I told?”

“Calm down, you’ve been protected.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“I’ve had a team of operatives watching your house.”

“Without my knowledge?”

Carmichael just shrugged. “I’ve had a lot on my plate. I was getting to it.”

“
What
operatives? You can’t task my guys without informing me.”

“They aren’t your guys.” Carmichael hesitated. “They are part of a special mission unit from JSOC.”

Hanley looked like he’d been poleaxed. He leaned all the way back in his chair. In a nearly hoarse voice he said, “What in the name of God are you doing?”

“I wasn’t planning on using SAD. I have sanction to pull certain military assets from—”

“Why?” Hanley quickly put a hand up in the air. “Why not tell me and call up Ground Branch assets?” He sat up straighter in his chair and raised a finger. “I get it. You are using me as bait.”

Carmichael grinned like a cornered dog showing his teeth. “He’ll try to make contact with you. You
know
he will.”

“Meaning . . . you think he’ll try to kill me.”

Carmichael did not respond for a moment. Finally he picked up the report again. “You’ll be safe.”

“Despite your best attempts to keep me out of the loop, Gentry has made other arrangements. Now I am involved, whether you like it or not. I know what’s going on here, and I know you are doing your best to keep this whole thing under wraps. For the sake of the Agency I hope you do keep a lid on it. If U.S. military forces go loud on the streets of Washington, D.C., some really curious folks are going to want to know why.”

Carmichael replied, “I am well aware of that.” He drummed his fingers on the table now. “I suppose some support from Ground Branch wouldn’t hurt. Why don’t you task a few elements to my Violator Working Group? We can involve them in the hunt, wrap this up even faster.”

Matt Hanley shook his head with a laugh. “You’ve got some brass balls, Denny. Trying to suck me into your debacle in the making so I’ll be invested in the outcome? No thank you.”

“I will remind you that I am your superior. Your men are, ultimately, mine to do with as I see fit.”

Hanley stood. “Can’t argue with you there. My guys are at your disposal.” He started to turn for the door. Then he stopped himself and turned back. “Of course, I can always drop by the director’s office. On something this big, you don’t mind if I check with him just to make sure everything is squared away.”

Carmichael’s jaw flexed. “On second thought, maybe SAD should sit this one out. I’m sure your operational tempo is keeping your forces busy.”

“As a bee,” said Hanley.

It was quiet now as two men who neither trusted nor liked each other squared off. Finally Carmichael looked back down to his paperwork and said, “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a lot of work on my desk.”

The meeting was over but, to the surprise of the senior executives, Chris Travers spoke up. “Sorry. Can I ask a question, sir?”

Carmichael looked up, annoyed. “What is it?”

“If Gentry really did what we accuse him of . . . why the hell would he come back, grab me like he did, question me like he did . . . and then just leave? I’ve been thinking about it all night. If he wanted to hunt down the people after him, why expose himself like that? He’s too smart to give away a tactical advantage.”

Hanley looked to Carmichael, his eyebrows raised, waiting to hear the older man’s response.

Carmichael said, “I have stopped trying to understand all of Gentry’s motivations. Did it make sense that he would eliminate his team and go on the run like that?”

Travers said, “If what he says is true . . . if they
did
shoot first . . . then, yeah, it does make sense. I love my team like brothers. But if they draw guns on me, I’m gonna do the same to them, and somebody’s gonna die.”

Carmichael said, “Son, you are not cleared for the op that got Gentry in hot water in the first place, so you are not cleared for anything that Gentry told you last night. That means the questions you are asking me are out of line.”

Mayes took over now, ending the meeting by ushering Hanley and Travers towards the door.

As they walked off Hanley put an arm around his younger employee. In a voice loud enough for all to hear Hanley said, “Don’t feel bad, Chris. I’m not cleared for it, either. Denny is the only one in the building with enough juice to know what Court did to put him in the CIA’s crosshairs. I bet Mayes here is flying as blind as the rest of us.”

The two men left the room. Mayes shut the door, then turned back to Carmichael. Carmichael said, “Don’t worry about Hanley. Despite his posturing, he’s in this as deep as me. If we leave him alone, he’ll continue to play ball.”

Mayes said, “I’m not worried about Hanley. He makes noise, but he always comes around. He knows you are the law around here, not the
director. I am, however, a little concerned about this Travers. I could see him becoming a problem.”

Carmichael nodded and said, “Agreed. He’s unreliable. I don’t want him operational until the Violator situation is resolved.” Carmichael quickly put up a hand. “Belay that. I want him out. All the way out.”

Mayes whistled. “Hanley is going to fight that tooth and nail.”

“Come up with something. Unfit for duty. Sketchy psych eval. Doctored blood work. Whatever. Hanley won’t be able to contest a positive drug screen.”

The intercom buzzed again, and Carmichael’s secretary said, “Sir, you have an urgent call from Leland Babbitt.”

Carmichael rolled his eyes. “I forgot. That bastard e-mailed me on Saturday, basically demanded I meet him this morning.”

Mayes said, “I don’t want you leaving the building again unless it’s to go to a safe house.”

Carmichael chuckled without smiling. “I’m not going anywhere.” He pushed the button for his secretary. “Put him through.”