Back Blast (49 page)

C
ourt lifted his head from the peephole quickly, took several steps back, and raised his pistol. At a distance of ten feet from the door he calmly fired the gun at waist height, raised it slightly and fired again, cycled a few inches to the left and fired, then to the right. Over and over and over.

His Glock 17 carried eighteen rounds and he emptied the entire weapon, dropped the magazine, and expertly reloaded it with a fresh one. He moved back to the door, now riddled with holes, and he stepped to the side. Reaching carefully for the latch he opened it, then he lowered into a squat and leaned around, his pistol leading him.

Three of the men here were dead, their bloody bodies draped haphazardly over one another and their blood draining out on the beautiful hall carpet. A fourth had been shot in the lower back; he writhed in pain and tried to roll around to get his pistol aimed in Court’s direction.

Court fired once more into the back of the man’s head, sending a spray of blood and gray matter across the hall carpet.

He then hefted his backpack off the floor next to the door and spoke into the microphone in his hand. “Four men up here. They are all down. I’m clear. We’re missing two.”

The reply from Zack came back quickly. “Not for long, bro. Movement below my poz.”

“I’m coming to you.”

A soft reply now. “Better hurry up, or you’ll miss the festivities.”

M
urquin al-Kazaz sat in a private room in the back of Marcel’s restaurant in Washington Circle. In front of him was a seventy-dollar filet mignon, and just beyond that were three members of a visiting Chinese trade delegation, here in D.C. for a meeting with American energy officials.

Kaz had wanted to cancel tonight’s meet but these three were potential intelligence sources. China was a nation where Saudi needed a better intelligence presence, and these men were only in town for a day. He decided to go ahead, although he pushed the meeting from the reasonable dining time of eight p.m. to six, which meant the restaurant was mostly empty.

But not totally. He was surrounded by security here, ten men in all, with two more drivers in the lot outside with the vehicles. The three Chinese men had asked about the entourage of obvious security officers, but Kaz had passed it off as his standard operating procedure here in America, where crime was, unfortunately, so much worse than it was in the kingdom of Saudi Arabia or the People’s Republic of China, two places where governments knew what to do with their criminals.

That won him some agreement from his potential sources.

During dinner the Saudi’s mind bounced back and forth between the past week’s hunt here in the area and the conversation with the Chinese businessmen, but just when he’d managed to push most of his worries away about all the compromises in Carmichael’s campaign to kill his ex-assassin, Kaz’s phone rang with a distinctive ring.

He excused himself, stood up and walked towards the back wall of the restaurant, and held the phone to his ear.

“Yes?”

“We are under attack!”

Kaz walked all the way into the corner of the room now and leaned into the phone. It was Cha, the team leader of the assets, and his voice echoed as if he was in a stairwell.

“What?”

“Kimal and Hani are dead, Mohammed and the others are not reporting. I think they are—”

“Where are you?”

Kaz heard the man scream. “Jawad! Jawad! Cover—”

“Listen to me, Cha. Listen carefully. Do you have anything on you that relates back to the embassy? Anything at all?”

“What? I . . . I don’t know. You have to send another team.”

“It’s up to you, Cha.”

“Jawad? Jawad, are you still with me? Jawad is not answering! I have to—”

Kaz heard the soft pop of a suppressed gunshot, then he heard the phone fall to the ground, bouncing several times. The line stayed open, and the Saudi Arabian standing in the restaurant dining room just pressed the phone tighter to his ear.

Sweat covered his brow and trickled down the back of his neck. He looked up to his dinner guests, halfway across the room. They spoke among themselves a little, but they looked back at Kaz as they did so.

A few seconds later Kaz heard a scuffing sound, possibly of the phone being picked up from the floor. Then a soft voice spoke into the device. It was almost nonchalant, but utterly convincing. “I’m coming for you now. I don’t know who you have protecting you, but you’d better hope they are a lot better than these guys here.” A pause. Then, “These guys were shit.”

Kaz said nothing, but he did not hang up.

The man on the other end said, “I know. I know
everything
. Trieste. Denny. Israel . . . You.”

Murquin al-Kazaz panicked. He hung up the phone and snapped his fingers, summoning his principal protection agent. With only the quickest and barest of explanations to the men at the table, the Saudi intelligence chief raced for the front door of the restaurant, his detail scrambling to form a diamond pattern around him.

The three Chinese businessmen sat at the table staring at one another, wondering who the
fuck
was going to pick up the check.

—

C
ourt did not, in fact, know everything. He assumed the operative would have been speaking with his control officer, and his control officer would know what this was all about. For this man to so brazenly run operatives to do the bidding of the CIA told Court this man was deeply invested in the outcome.

The fact that Court had no idea who this man was, or why he was so involved, made his threats difficult to construct, but he’d done his best to act like he knew what the hell was going on.

He could only hope this would encourage the man and his cohorts to scatter like roaches in the light.

At which point, if it all went to plan, Court would stomp on them all.

—

D
enny Carmichael had an eight p.m. meeting with the Violator Working Group here at the Alexandria safe house but for now he just listened in to Dakota’s JSOC team as it converged on the Ritz-Carlton Pentagon City. The TOC had lost camera coverage of Gentry after he left the lobby, but by checking the elevator he entered they knew he went to the fifth floor, and by pulling information from the hotel’s server they saw the only door to have a card key placed in it at the right time was 545.

Now JSOC moved through the lobby, Denny watched them on the feed, and they disappeared into the elevators and stairwell.

It was his fervent hope these men did not find their target. Or at least didn’t find him alive. Denny had sent Kaz’s men as soon as he’d received the report of Gentry in the mall, and since this location was only three or four minutes’ driving time from the Saudi safe house, he knew his foreign assets would arrive well before the army boys of JSOC.

—

W
hile he waited he looked at the television monitor next to the Ritz feed. CNN was on and, he had to admit, their story about the death of Jordan Mayes was perfect. An artist rendering of “Jeff Duncan” appeared on
the screen as they spoke of a lone motorcycle assassin who raced up next to a vehicle carrying two senior CIA officers and opened fire.

There were witnesses who appeared on camera claiming there was more than one shooter, but the surviving CIA official in the vehicle—CNN went to great lengths to point out she was female, as if that was surprising—verified to authorities and in an off-camera interview with the network that she only saw one attacker.

As usual, CNN was going virtually wall-to-wall with the story, and they were helpful with the “lone gunman” narrative, dismissing the other witnesses by devoting a segment to errors in witness memory, and even having a psychologist on set to explain how the PTSD the witnesses were experiencing from this traumatic event was, no doubt, causing them to misremember.

Denny had to admit it; Suzanne Brewer had come through.

He couldn’t have been happier about that, but what he heard from the JSOC radios a few seconds later caused his heart to drop.

“This is Dakota. I have bodies. Wait one.” A pause. Then, “Jesus Christ. I’ve got four dead in the stairwell. None are the target. These are armed men, fighting-age males. All dead. All head-shots.”

Another call came over the commo net. “Harley to Dakota. We’ve got four more up here on the fifth floor. All DOA, multiple gunshots. I do not see Violator among them. Suggest we get the fuck out of here, boss, local PD might already be en route.”

“Roger that. Everybody exfil.”

Denny sat alone at his desk. He remained still for a moment, until his phone rang, startling him. Looking down, he saw it was Kaz.

“Yes?”

“Gentry killed them. All of them. He’s coming for me now. He knows!”

Denny Carmichael breathed heavily into the phone now. Things had spun completely out of control. Kaz was the calmest intelligence official Denny had ever worked with. If he was losing his cool, Denny knew he was in trouble. “Calm down. He doesn’t know anything.”

“He
knows
! He told me he knew about Trieste.”

“You spoke to him?”

“Yes.”

“And what does that mean? Trieste. It means nothing. He’s flailing, Kaz.
That’s all. He’s trying to get into your head. To get you to expose yourself. If you stay calm you will be—”

Kaz said, “I can’t help with this anymore. My exposure is too great.”

Carmichael shouted into the phone, “Listen to me, Kaz, you aren’t going anywhere till this is over!”

“Forget it! The local police will take control of the scene. My men are dead. The dead will be identified as Saudi, it will link my nation with the hunt for Court Gentry, and everyone will know. It is only a matter of time before they connect the pieces.” He paused. “I have to get out of the country.”

“No! We’ll come up with a story for the press. I’ll talk to them personally. We’ve manipulated it so far, we will control it.”

“
What
story?”

Carmichael said, “Come to me here. We can talk about this. I’ll put it on the books as an emergency liaison meeting between our offices. They won’t let you bring your detail to the safe house, but I can send an armored motorcade to pick you up and bring you to me.”

“I don’t know what you think we can accomplish.”

“Damage control, Kaz! We stop the bleeding on this op, and then we go back on offense.” Carmichael looked at his watch. “I have an emergency meeting with the Working Group at eight, but I’ll send the cars to pick you up now and you can wait in my office till I’m finished.”

There was a long pause. Then, “Send your very best men.”

—

C
ourt and Zack exfiltrated the Ritz hotel and then began driving south, out of Arlington. The plan was to return to Court’s safe house, of sorts, in the woods an hour south of the District. Zack didn’t think much of the plan; he wanted to stop for celebratory pizza and beers, but Court insisted they lie low for the rest of the night.

They were most of the way down I-95 and nearing the turnoff to the little airport when Zack got a call from Matt Hanley. He put it on speaker so Court could hear.

Zack gave Hanley an after-action report on the events at the Ritz, and Hanley seemed pleased, but quickly it became clear he had something else he wanted to talk about.

“I just got some interesting news from a guy who used to be in Ground
Branch. Now he is driving in the secure motor pool. I put out feelers with a few outside the division yesterday saying I was trying to find out where Denny was spending his nights, and this guy came through.”

“What did he say?” Court asked.

“The U.S. head of Saudi Arabia’s Mukhabarat in D.C. was just transported to a CIA safe house in Alexandria.”

Court asked, “Why is that significant?”

“The place he went to is a damn citadel. It’s called Alexandria Eight. It’s been around forever. It’s old, but the Agency doesn’t have a more fortified installation anywhere in the District.
That’s
going to be where Denny is hiding out.”

Court understood. “And this Saudi is going to be the guy I talked to on the phone. Who is he?”

“His name is Murquin al-Kazaz. Denny has known him for over a decade.”

“Do you know him?” Zack asked.

“No. I never did liaison intelligence shit. I don’t trust the House of Saud the way Denny does.”

Court said, “We need to identify al-Kazaz’s involvement with Operation BACK BLAST.”

“Easier said than done. I don’t have any access to that.”

“It doesn’t matter, Matt. We have access to
him
. You just have to get me into Alexandria Eight. I’ll get him to talk.”

Hanley snorted into the phone. “Did you not hear what I just said? It’s Fort Knox, Court.”

“If it’s a safe house, then you have schematics on it.”

“I do. I have blueprints, and the defensive plan from security.
That’s
how I know it’s impenetrable.”

“Prove it. Let me see the prints and plans.”

Hanley thought it over a minute. “All right, I’ll send them to Zack’s phone and you can look. But that’s only to prove to you that I’m right. You aren’t getting in there, and I’m not going to let you go on a suicide mission.”

—

C
ourt spent nearly a half hour looking over the defenses at the CIA safe house while Zack drove. The facility was impressive, to say the least, but Court was motivated to find a way in.

He found himself significantly less motivated to find a way out.

While Court worked, Zack listened to country music on the radio. He sang along with Dwight Yoakam, then hummed along with Johnny Cash. When some cornball and sugary new country artist came on the radio, however, Zack just sat there and bitched about the state of the music industry till Court told him to shut the hell up so he could think.

An aircraft flying low overhead on its base leg to Stafford Regional Airport, just a mile to the south of where he sat, gave Court an idea. After a few more minutes’ work, he called Hanley back.

While Zack and Matt listened quietly, Court laid out his plan in as much detail as he could.

When he was finished, Court said, “So, Matt. What do you think?”

Hanley replied with one word. “Disallowed.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s suicide, that’s why.”

“I can do it.”

“No one can do it. Plus, you told me how you’d get in, but not how you’d get out.”

Court cocked his head. “I
did
tell you how I’d get out.”

Hanley said, “I . . . I thought that part was just a joke.”

“It might still be. But I’m willing to try it.”

“Are you insane?”

“No, sir. But I am in a hurry. If we do this we have to hit right now, while al-Kazaz is there.”

Hanley wouldn’t budge, so Court said, “Matt. Denny is going to figure out you helped me. The war between you two is going to get worse.”

“That doesn’t mean I’m going to green-light you on this. Denny is a criminal, and he’s an asshole, but I’m not going to kill him.”

“Why not? He killed Jordan Mayes.”

Hanley replied quickly. “We can’t prove it. The one real witness says it was you.”

Court said, “I’m not going after Denny. If I get to him, I’ll talk to him, but I swear to you I will not hurt him. No promises on this al-Kazaz fucker, though.”

“Sorry, Court. The answer is still no.”

“Matt. I
need
to do this.”

“That’s where you are wrong, Six. If you pull this off, it won’t change what happened in Trieste.”