Back Blast (21 page)

D
enny Carmichael stared at his computer monitor, the thick worry lines in his forehead tight with concentration. He was reading the website for the
Washington Post
, and on it an article filed at six fifteen a.m. by metro reporter Andrew R. Shoal. The story laid out the bare bones of the killing of Leland Babbitt, the escape of the killer, and a carjacking ninety minutes later that, police were saying, might have been related to the earlier crime.

There was no mention of Catherine King in the article, and she was not included in the byline, but Denny had heard all about her surprise appearance at the scene last night and her proclamation that she knew Brewer and Mayes had been in Washington Highlands at the site of Gentry’s first act in the area.

There was also no mention in the piece of the two CIA employees the
Post
reporters ran into at the carjacking scene, and while Carmichael was thankful for this, he presumed Catherine King would be working on that end of the story and he’d be forced to deal with her soon. Actually, he was certain of this, because shortly after eight a.m. the
Washington Post
investigative reporter herself had called Denny’s office, asking his secretary for a meeting on background with the director of NCS.

Denny didn’t know if King was just fishing or if she had some clearer picture of what was going on. The fact that she knew Mayes and Brewer had been in Washington Highlands Saturday night was a problem, because now there was no way he could claim the Agency’s appearance in Chevy Chase was only a curiosity about Babbitt’s killing and not part of something that they had known about for several days.

Carmichael’s secretary came over the intercom, breaking his train of thought. “Sir, Suzanne Brewer of Programs and Plans is asking for five minutes.”

He tapped the intercom button. “Send her in.”

Brewer stepped into the office, and Denny found himself impressed with just how good she looked, considering he knew she had been wandering around murder scenes at three thirty that morning.

As always, she was all business. “I just got the preliminary autopsy report on Babbitt. It doesn’t fit the witness statements at all.”

She handed the paper over the desk, and Carmichael took it. He adjusted his reading glasses and began skimming it. While doing so he asked, “What do you mean it doesn’t fit?”

“The coroner recovered fragments of a .308 round from Babbitt’s lung.”

“And?”

“That’s a rifle caliber.”

Carmichael looked over his glasses at the younger woman. “I am a marine, Suzanne. I know what kind of weapon fires a .308.”

“Of course you do. Forgive me, I’ve been talking to analysts all week. You know that’s a round commonly fired from a sniper rifle. Not always, but certainly it must be fired from a rifle. But the Townsend guards say they first encountered the masked subject in Babbitt’s backyard, less than forty yards away from where Babbitt was shot. Certainly not a sniper’s distance. Plus the subject was not carrying a rifle of any kind, nor was there a rifle found in Babbitt’s yard. It’s going to take a while to get ballistic results back, but when we do, I feel sure it is going to indicate the rifle was fired from somewhere else, meaning Gentry could not have been the shooter.”

Carmichael took another moment to skim the report. While he read, Jordan Mayes entered the office. He and Brewer chatted softly about the coroner’s finding.

Finally Carmichael looked up from the paper. “Apparently the security men were mistaken. They thought they saw someone on the property, but it wasn’t until they were out on the golf course that they actually came across the fleeing suspect. According to reports he was wearing a backpack. Perhaps he had time to break down his weapon. Remember, this is Violator. He could probably do that in two seconds.”

“I thought of that, but there is something else.”

Carmichael’s eyes flitted to Mayes, but then they rested again on Brewer. “Go on.”

“Saturday night in Washington Highlands, our target risks life and limb to obtain a small-caliber pistol, killing two people in the process.”

“So?”

“So does it make sense that Monday night he assassinates a man with a sniper rifle? Where did he get the gun? Did he have it Saturday?”

Carmichael shrugged. “Maybe you’re overthinking it. We suspect he also took money from the Aryan Brotherhood dealers. Maybe he didn’t need the weapon, but finding the little pistol was just a happy accident, so he grabbed it. He could have a weapons cache the size of a Walmart and we just don’t know about it.”

Brewer thought it over a moment. “True. But one other thing worries me.”

Now Carmichael sighed audibly. “Let’s hear it.”

“The reporter from the
Post
pointed out all the blood on the Beltway and asked me if there was some other crime scene. He thought the shooter had been injured somewhere after the Babbitt killing, considering the fact he couldn’t have possibly bled like that for an hour and a half.”

“And what do you think that means?”

“I . . . I don’t know.”

“You have a lot of questions, but no conclusions.”

“Agreed. I just feel like we are missing an important piece of what is going on here.”

Denny said, “I don’t mind you speculating, but your job is not to solve a murder, it is to prevent Gentry from threatening Agency personnel.”

“I understand that, sir. But if there is more than one attacker, or if I am looking for the wrong man . . .”

“You are
not
looking for the wrong man. Gentry has killed Agency assets many times before. He has killed people here in D.C. this week, and I’m quite certain he killed Babbitt. Gentry, an assassin, arrives, and two days later the man formerly in charge of hunting him is assassinated. That’s proof enough as far as I’m concerned. And there is no one else involved, because Gentry works alone. Trust me, I’ve been chairing the Violator Working Group for five years. You’ve been with us for less than three days.”

Chastened, but clearly unconvinced, Brewer said, “Yes, sir. Of course you’re right.”

As soon as she left the office, Carmichael looked up to Mayes. In an accusatory tone he said, “You brought her into this operation.”

Mayes said, “I did, and for good reason. Look, Denny, we hit a patch of terrible luck when Hightower and Gentry both went for the same target at
the same moment. That complicates things in the short term, but it’s nothing to worry about long term. Brewer will do her job. She knows she’s not here to investigate a murder.”

Denny let it go, rubbing his tired eyes. “Gentry has acted the last three nights in a row. Let’s plan on being ready for his next move this evening.”

Mayes nodded. “I’ve doubled the men watching Hanley’s home. Two sniper teams now. Violator’s other known associates are fully covered. He might be good, but he’s not going to reach out to anyone here without us seeing him.”

Carmichael said, “I hope you’re right. What about this other problem?”

“Catherine King?”

“Yes. Should I meet with her?”

Mayes shook his head. “Put her off for a day.”

“What will waiting one day accomplish?”

“Events are moving fast. If we bag Violator today quietly we’ll tell her we thought there was a threat to the Agency in the city, so we naturally looked into the Babbitt killing. Turns out we found nothing.”

“And if we don’t get Gentry today?”

“Then we put a lure in King’s article. Feed her something that will get back to Gentry, and make him think she knows what this is all about.”

Carmichael screwed his face up. “And Gentry reads the
Post
?”

“It’s Catherine King, Denny. Her articles get picked up all over. TV media will run with a story like the one we’ll give her. Everyone will be talking about it. Trust me, if you tell it to King, it will go in Gentry’s ears.”

Carmichael thought it over, then he nodded. “I like it.”

Mayes cautioned, “But give it a day before we go that route. We’re not looking for publicity in this. That’s a last resort.”

“Agreed.”

C
ourt slept in his closet until nearly noon, and then he woke quickly, snatched up his pistol, and looked out into his little room. It was still and quiet; dust hung in the small shaft of light coming through the high window.

He lowered his gun and groaned with the fresh onset of pain in his side. He touched the bandages on his rib cage and found them sticky with blood. He needed to change them, but before he did he left his closet bunker and sat on his little bed. He grabbed the television remote just as the noon news began, and he flipped around until he found a local station.

The first images on the screen were of a helicopter sweeping its searchlight over a residential street lined with large homes. Court immediately recognized the property of Leland Babbitt. It was surrounded by two dozen vehicles; Maryland State Police patrol cars, Bethesda Police, ambulances, and fire trucks.

The news anchor’s voiceover gave context to the images, telling the viewers some things Court already knew, and telling them other things that surprised him.

“Maryland State Police released a statement this morning saying Babbitt had been shot to death, and the killer was then chased on foot by private security nearly half a mile before briefly holding hostages at a McDonald’s on Wisconsin Avenue. He then managed to elude law enforcement and escape, and his whereabouts are currently unknown.”

Court sighed. So much for accuracy in the news. There were two complete falsehoods in that one sentence, since he wasn’t the killer and he’d held no hostages.

Then came the images of the scene on the Capital Beltway, and this time the anchor relayed a passably accurate version of the events there, including the jackknifed semi and the armed carjacking.

But Court found it extremely odd the report made no mention of D.C. Metro police encountering the suspect at that scene as well. Hell, he’d been shot, so they
must
have suspected him of being the man involved in Babbitt’s murder.

This piece ended and a new story began, so Court flipped channels to CNN. After a few minutes he was surprised to see that they also ran a brief piece about the brazen assassination of a Maryland businessman and the audacious and violent escape of the assassin.

Court was national news.

He groaned aloud in anger and turned off the TV.

He stood and grabbed a beer from his little refrigerator. In the bathroom, he drank from the can while he changed the black and sticky dressing over his gunshot wound, tears of pain welling in his eyes.

—

M
atthew Hanley had spent a large part of this Tuesday off-site, meeting with SAD Air Branch staff at Andrews to discuss the registering of some new aircraft with shell corporations so they could be used in an upcoming operation in Central America. Through a front company the CIA had recently purchased four very used and totally untraceable de Havilland DHC Twin Otters from an Indonesian air transport service that had gone bankrupt and then shipped the planes to the States for refitting and refurbishment. Once Hanley had the new paperwork complete, the aircraft would go to work in Central and South America, moving supplies and men to denied areas for the Special Activities Division.

They would be completely untraceable to CIA, but for now they sat at Andrews in a sealed hangar, and Hanley wanted to inspect them personally.

He didn’t return to his sixth-floor office at Langley until three thirty, and when he did he found Suzanne Brewer waiting on a sofa in an outer office, working quietly on an iPad while Hanley’s secretary talked on her phone behind her desk.

Hanley feigned a pleasant look upon seeing Brewer, but he had a ton of work to do and was in no mood to talk to Denny Carmichael’s newest foot soldier.

She stood with a charming smile. “Hi, Matt. Suzanne Brewer. It’s been a while.”

“Of course, Suzanne. How are you?”

“I’m good. I’ll be a lot better if you can give me ten minutes of your time.”

Hanley replied, “Can you make it five?”

“Five is great. Thanks so much.”

The two of them walked together into his office.

Hanley did not know Brewer well, but one couldn’t be a member of senior staff here without hearing her name on a regular basis. Her career had been skyrocketing straight up since she’d joined the Agency, just after getting her master’s at Villanova in International Studies. Hanley had seen her name tied to all sorts of successful programs, and she’d never spent more than two years at the same desk, instead working her way steadily up the ladder.

Hanley was still several rungs above her, but he felt sure he would top out long before Suzanne Brewer, who seemed to be just getting started. He could imagine her running the whole damn Agency someday, so he told himself he should go out of his way to curry favor with her on her way up, so hopefully she’d remember his actions later on when she had the power to make his life either a little more pleasant or a lot more difficult.

Hanley said, “So, I hear you are working on the Violator operation.”

“That’s correct. I was put in the Working Group when Violator showed up in D.C. I guess you could say this is my geography, considering I am in charge of domestic asset protection. So now I’m trying to guess Violator’s next move and, since I’m new to all this, I’m having some difficulty.”

“He’s a hard target, no question about that.”

“You heard about Babbitt, didn’t you?”

“Saw it on the news. You’re thinking that was Gentry?”

“Carmichael is certain of it.”

Hanley shrugged.

Brewer said, “Townsend Government Services had contractors hunting Gentry in Belgium last month. He killed several of them, as a matter of fact. We think it likely Gentry learned Babbitt’s name somewhere during the course of that operation, and that’s why he targeted Babbitt here in the States as soon as he arrived. He thinks it will take some of the heat off of him so he can pursue whatever his objective is.”

“That’s a plausible theory, I guess,” said Hanley, but there was no conviction in his voice.

She recognized his uncertainty, and added, “I thought the Babbitt killing looked like it had been carried out by more than one man, but Carmichael doesn’t buy that. I also spoke with Hightower about this, and he backed Carmichael up. He said Gentry often operates in a manner to obfuscate the fact he is working alone.”

Hanley’s eyes went wide and he took hold of the edge of his desk with both hands. “You spoke with . . .
who
?”

“Zack Hightower.”

Hanley put his big forearms on his desk now, then he leaned over them, nearly halving the distance between himself and Brewer. “What the
hell
are you telling me?”

Brewer was confused, and she did not hide it. “I’m sorry. I must have something wrong. I was told Zack Hightower worked for you on the Goon Squad . . . sorry, the Golf Sierra Task Force.”

Hanley continued looming over her. “That is correct.”

“Then . . . what is it you don’t understand?”

“I don’t understand how it is you spoke with him recently.”

“Why not?”

Hanley sat back in his chair now. Gave a huge shrug to his big shoulders. “Because I went to the man’s funeral five years ago.”

Brewer herself sat back in her chair in surprise. “Well, I can assure you he is very much alive. He is no longer with the Agency officially but has come in to help me understand the tactics of our target.”

Matt Hanley took out a handkerchief and wiped his ruddy face. “Okay. Zack’s back from the dead to help you find the guy who killed him. Just another day in the office around here. I’m with you.”

She said, “This isn’t my first rodeo. I’ve run security at facilities where I couldn’t know what was going on inside. I’ve protected assets and employees from threats that were unclear to me. But the capabilities of this threat and the importance of the people I’m being asked to protect in this case have me thinking I need to know more about what is going on here. I thought perhaps you might have some other advice for me since you worked with Gentry for several years.”

Hanley said, “Suzanne, we don’t know each other very well, but I hope you will take this recommendation as it’s intended, just a friendly suggestion.”

“Of course.” She picked up the stylus for her iPad and touched it to the screen, ready to take notes.

“Your job is to fortify the gates of this institution. In my opinion, based on twenty-five years of experience around here, the greatest dangers to the institution are already inside the gates.”

She did not reply.

He said, “Court Gentry is Denny’s war. He’s brought you in to help him fight it, but there is no future in it for you. Sure, maybe you’ll kill your target, and that might be a little feather in your cap, but this isn’t true Agency business, and someday Denny is going to crash and burn for all his extracurricular activities.” Hanley spoke softly. “You are a winner, Suzanne. I see it. Don’t follow Denny Carmichael down into the dirt.”

Brewer smiled a little while looking down at her iPad. Hanley got the impression she was trying to extricate herself from what she saw as nothing more than a personal conflict between Hanley and Carmichael. She did so by ignoring his comments entirely. “I know Gentry killed several men in his unit when they tried to detain him. Can you tell me what he did before that? Why they were after him in the first place?”

Hanley saw Brewer wasn’t going to listen to his advice. Denny was top dog, so she would do what he said, not follow Hanley, a topped-out and burned-out minion.

He said, “I don’t know what Gentry did before he killed the other men on his task force. Whatever happened with Court Gentry five years ago, it hurt Denny personally or professionally, maybe both.”

Brewer said, “CIA does not vendetta-kill our own because some exec is pissed off.”

Hanley smiled at her. “If you think Denny Carmichael is just an exec, then you aren’t going as far in this building as I thought you were. Denny
is
the CIA these days. He has the president’s ear, because he kills a lot of bad guys, and the director fears him, because the director doesn’t want to get any of Denny’s blood on his own hands. In the history of this Agency there has never been a more powerful entity than Denny Carmichael.
Never.
Doing his bidding will help you move up to the seventh floor, but like I said, Denny’s house of cards will tumble, and those left standing will sweep away anyone connected to the man. If you know what’s good for you—”

Apparently Suzanne Brewer had heard enough. “Director Hanley, this has nothing to do with my future aspirations with the Agency. Violator is a threat to Agency personnel, and it is my job to protect Agency personnel. It is as simple as that. Take yourself, for example.”

“What
about
me?”

“You have to know you are a potential target of this man.”

“Of course I know.”

“Then why don’t you let me increase your security profile?”

“Carmichael and Mayes put a team of JSOC skull fuckers on my house. They are
hoping
Gentry comes after me.”

“And that makes you feel secure?”

“Hell no! It makes me feel like a goat tied to a stick! I’ve got two of my guys riding with me and I’ve requisitioned an armored car. But it won’t be enough. If Gentry wants me, he’ll get me.”

“Then let me help you. I can give you a full motorcade, a dozen security officers.”

Hanley did not answer her directly. Instead he said, “Last night I walked out onto my back patio and talked to the trees. I figure that if Gentry is coming for me, he’s probably back there somewhere waiting for me to go to bed.”

“What are you telling the trees?”

Hanley laughed. “The truth. I’m telling them that all this shit is Denny’s doing. Not mine.”

“Aren’t you just giving him an easy shot?”

“Gentry doesn’t
need
an easy shot. Won’t make any difference to him if he has to skulk into my house. This way my poor Ecuadorian cleaning lady won’t have to wipe my brains off the wall, she can just hose it off the patio tile.”

Suzanne Brewer stood. “I certainly hope that doesn’t happen to you.”

He stood as well, and they shook hands. “Yeah. Me, too. Somebody has to be left standing when Denny goes down. I’m hoping it’s me.” He shrugged, lurching his big shoulders up and down. “I’m hoping it’s you, too.”

“Thank you for your time today, Matt.”

Brewer left the office, and Matt knew he had not managed to dent her thick armor at all.