The Kill Order (8 page)

11

ATLAS (Alliance for Threat Level Assessment and Security)

U.S. Headquarters, Washington, D.C.

I
t was well after six
P.M.
by the time Griffin left for his office—once Marc finally relieved him at Lisette’s apartment where they were keeping Piper. They’d soon be making plans to place her in witness protection, but until then, Lisette and Marc were her babysitters.

McNiel wasn’t in, and Griffin hoped he’d left for the day, knowing that anything his boss would have to say to him was not going to be good. He checked his voice mail, hoping that Sydney had finally returned one of his calls. There were no messages from her. After one more try on her cell phone, he telephoned Tex, needing to hear at least
one
friendly voice that evening.

Tex was still in California, waiting on evidence in the South San Francisco killing that might lead to who had gone after the hard drive. “Hate to break it to you, Griff. It’s possible she’s not picking up because Carillo may have already called her. At least that’s the only reason I can think of. Let’s just say he wasn’t real happy when I left him.”

“You told him what was going on?”

“He guessed. He did, however, promise not to say anything directly about Mexico, at least not until you had a chance to talk with her yourself. But we
are
talking about Carillo, here. He beats to his own drummer, so hard to say if he did or didn’t tell her anything.”

“Looks like he has, otherwise why wouldn’t she call me back?” He stared out the window, thinking things had been much easier when he’d only known Sydney from afar. Unfortunately he hadn’t counted on the circumstances that had thrown them together on that Rome operation, or the growing attraction the longer they’d worked together. After that, it had been all too easy to ignore what had taken place in Mexico. Ignore? No, definitely not ignore. Avoid. “Makes me wish I’d come up with a better cover story.”

“Spies are supposed to be good at lying. Sort of a requisite. Except when it comes to the girl you’re sleeping with.”

“I’m taking things slow.”

“What part?” Tex asked. “Telling her the truth or sleeping with her?”

Griffin leaned back in his chair, resisting the urge to hang up on Tex. It was none of his business whether Griffin and Sydney had actually slept together, but he couldn’t ignore the dig. “And what? You didn’t sleep with Genevieve after your night out in Paris?” he said, referring to the CIA agent Tex was now dating, one whom he’d met on their last mission. “You’ve known her less time than I’ve known Sydney.”

“That’s different.”

“Why?”

“Because we pretty much know all there is to know about each other. At least the important stuff. Like where we
met
the
first
time, even if we didn’t know what each other did for a living. I wouldn’t want to be you if Sydney’s figured all this out before you tell her.”

“Well it’s looking like she knows,” he said, picking up a pen from the desktop, then drawing concentric circles on his blotter.

“She’s smart, Griff. And right now you’re digging yourself into a really deep hole that’s gonna bury you.”

“Thank you for your philosophical analysis.” He jammed the pen tip into the blotter paper, causing a tear. “If I admit I’m an ass, do I get to skip the lecture when you get back to D.C.?”

“Don’t ask me, ask Sydney.”

Griffin tossed the pen aside. “Have to go. Duty calls.”

He disconnected, then glanced up at the clock. Nearly six-thirty. He wasn’t even sure why he’d bothered to come in. He might as well go home, he thought, then heard the elevator open on the floor. A moment later, McNiel stopped at his door. “My office. Now.”

Definitely a bad sign.

“Where’s the report on Quindlen?” was all McNiel said as Griffin walked in.

He was referring to a drug and gunrunning case down in Pocito, Arizona near the border, allegedly run by an ex-CIA agent, Garrett Quindlen. They’d recently learned that Quindlen was connected to a man known only as Brooks, who was the reported mastermind behind the ring. The high-priority case had moved down on the list once this current case was brought to their attention. “For the most part, done. I wasn’t able to follow up on the last lead, since this came up.”

“Once Tex finishes up in California, have him follow it up. If there’s any connection between Brooks and Quindlen, I want it. And the update on South San Francisco?”

“The girl is with Marc and Lisette. They’re following protocol and she won’t be left alone. As for Tex, he met with Carillo,” Griffin said. “He did not have a copy. He said he gave it to Sydney.”

“Tex
discussed
this with Carillo?”

“Actually, the other way around. Apparently Carillo was the one who made the copy and gave it to Sydney. After the murder in South San Francisco, and the connection to the copy machine, it didn’t take much for him to deduce that our presence was related.”

“How much does he know?”

“Enough,” Griffin said, “to make a very educated guess about our involvement in Mexico.”

“And what has he told Fitzpatrick?”

He thought about what Tex said. “As far as I know, just about the murder in South San Francisco. He’s allowing us to tighten our own noose.”

“
Your
noose,” McNiel corrected. “One that wouldn’t be there if you’d dealt with this correctly in the beginning. You failed your mission, ignored the kill order, and Fitzpatrick has the list. You’ve endangered countless lives as a result.”

“What was I supposed to do? Kill an FBI agent?”

“Had it been Orozco in that boat, you would have killed him.”

“I didn’t know him, and
he
was a criminal.”

“You didn’t know her, either. Not then.”

“But I followed her for long enough to get a feeling. She’s on our side. If I ask her for the list, she’ll give it to me.”

“She was
supposed
to have turned it over back in October, when we sent a team to San Francisco. How high does that body count have to reach before you put aside your personal feelings and realize that she’s demonstrated on more than one occasion that she has her own agenda?”

“If I can—”

“The last thing we need is a rogue FBI agent putting this country in danger because she can’t follow orders.”

“At least let me talk to her.”

“Too late. The search has been done.”

Griffin stared in disbelief.

“After what happened in South San Francisco, my hand was forced. I contacted Pearson to do the search. Can you imagine what would have happened if Fitzpatrick had run those numbers?”

Griffin didn’t want to imagine. He didn’t want to think at all. “Where is she?”

“She left Pearson’s office. Probably home by now.”

Griffin was out the door before McNiel even finished talking. The moment he was in the parking lot, and able to make a cell phone connection, he tried calling again. It rang several times, then went to voice mail. “Syd. Call me. Please. It’s important.”

He tried again once he was on the road, but this time, it went straight to voice mail, telling him that she had probably seen his call, and was choosing to ignore him. He drove straight to her apartment, the speed laws be damned. And once he was there, he called her house phone, telling her he was in the parking lot, asking her to at least meet him outside.

He waited, even though she didn’t answer. A few minutes later, she came down, and Griffin saw her walk out the lobby doors, then over to his car.

“Why are you here?” she asked.

“Because we need to talk.”

“Apparently we needed to talk a long time ago. I heard you were in California. You were there to investigate the numbers I made copies of. You
knew
about them, and you never told me.”

He took a deep breath, not even sure what to say, and could almost hear Tex’s voice in his head, telling him to start at the beginning. “It was classified or I would have. The case in Mexico. Your father’s friend. Robert Orozco.”

He could see her tensing, and realized that Carillo had
not
told her everything. “What about him?” she asked.

“When you were down there . . . When he gave you the list of numbers—”

“You’re
admitting
that ATLAS was involved with my father’s case?”

“Then and now. I was there in Mexico when you were. Tex and I were both there.”

He wasn’t sure, but it seemed she stopped breathing momentarily. It was several seconds before she responded, the longest several seconds of his life. “What do you mean
you
were there?”

“In the helicopter. After you left Orozco’s house.”

Her mouth dropped open. She stared at him in silence, tried to speak, then turned away. He stepped toward her, and she held up her hand, warning him off.

He didn’t dare move closer.

“I need to think about this,” she said.

Finally she looked at him. He saw the confusion, the hurt, the betrayal on her face. All directed at him. And then, as if it hit her at once, she turned the full force of her gaze on him. “Oh my God . . .
You
shot at me . . .
You
were up in that helicopter, firing at my boat.
I could have been killed
.”

“I know.”

His response seemed to surprise her, as if maybe she’d expected him to deny it. “You mean you were supposed to . . . ?”

He refused to answer. There were so many variables, so many things he couldn’t even begin to explain right now.

“I asked you a question. Were you supposed to kill me?”

“It’s not as cut and dried as ‘supposed to.’ ”

“I can’t believe I’m hearing this. A kill order? Why would you keep something like that from me?”

“I’m sorry. I—”

“No.” She shook her head and backed away. “You
don’t
get to apologize like it’s some minor transgression. You shot at
me. And
you kept it a secret. How the hell am I supposed to believe that anything we have together—
had
—is even real?”

“It is—”

She closed her eyes, wrapping her arms around herself. “Why are you even telling me now? Here? In the middle of a parking lot? It’s not like there weren’t plenty of opportunities.”

“You wouldn’t answer your phone.”

“Oh. You were going to tell me on the phone? That’s rich. Because I have nothing to say to you. It’s January. Or did that escape your notice? And this happened when? Last October?”

“Syd . . .”

“I don’t want to hear it right now.” The bottom of her eyelids glistened and he knew she was having a difficult time keeping it together.

She turned away, started to walk off.

“Syd.”

She stopped, rounded on him, an anger like he’d never seen lighting her eyes. “No. I knew you were involved. That ATLAS was involved. I guessed that much, after Carillo called. The whole timing thing with the murder over there and Tex showing up at his place. But not this.
This
I
never
expected.”

“At least let me explain.”

“I think the time for that is long past.” She looked like she might walk off, but stopped, suddenly. “Are
you
responsible for tearing up my apartment? Couldn’t find the list at Carillo’s place?”

“What? No. I—”

“Go to hell.”

She turned away, walked toward the apartment building. When she stopped at the doors, hesitated, he thought she might return, talk to him. But she merely reached up, brushed at her eyes, apparently composing herself before entering. She never looked back.

12

T
he meeting at ATLAS the following morning dragged on for far longer than Griffin had hoped. As McNiel spoke, going over possible actions they needed to take, Griffin’s attention wandered. He’d had little sleep, his mind turning over every possibility of how to straighten out this matter with Sydney. A thousand what-ifs, and not one would have solved the problem. It didn’t matter that Tex had warned him, for weeks in fact, because in every scenario in which he informed her of their shared past, her reaction was always going to be the same.

Hurt and betrayal.

He hadn’t wanted to inflict either on her. Surely that should count for something?

Deep down, though, he was very much aware that the reason he hadn’t told her was completely self-serving. He knew she’d leave, walk away, and never look back.

Just as she had yesterday.

And he didn’t know how to fix this. In fact, he was fairly certain he couldn’t. Not without some divine intervention, something he had little faith in these days.

“I’m assuming that’s what you still believe?”

McNiel looked directly at him, waiting for an answer.

“Still believe?” Griffin echoed. He had totally lost track of the conversation.

McNiel’s gaze hardened. “That the Black Network’s involved. Wingman and Wingman has never been implicated in any of the Network’s activities. Or in any illegal activities. At least not enough to be charged.”

Donovan Archer got up to pour himself another cup of coffee. He was a relatively new agent, and hadn’t worked the number of cases that Griffin had. “In my book,” Donovan said, “that makes them a bigger candidate.” Which was exactly what Griffin was thinking. The Network specialized in politics—handpicking their own candidates or bribing public officials already in office, be it in the U.S. or on foreign soil—the better to set domestic and foreign policy that furthered their own agendas and lined their pockets. The problem with keeping such an organization viable was that it took vast amounts of money, and the Network had no qualms about lining their coffers with drug and arms trafficking, or selling of technology, or any other means that they saw fit.

“Why do you think that?” McNiel asked Donovan.

“Are you telling me that an organization like the Network that’s infiltrated the U.S. government, doesn’t have tentacles reaching into the intelligence arena? How else are they always one step ahead?”

How indeed? Griffin thought. “Whether W2 is part of the Network or not,” he said, “it has no bearing on the bigger question. Someone’s been monitoring electronic data, or they wouldn’t have been at that warehouse looking for something they shouldn’t have even known about.”

“The Devil’s Key? Agreed,” McNiel said. “The timing is far too close to ignore. So whoever it is, they had to have knowledge of the program’s capacity to begin with, or they wouldn’t have known what to even look for.”

Which didn’t bode well. The Devil’s Key exploited a back door into a data mining program developed more than twenty years ago by a software company. The Strategic Integrated Network Case Management System, better known as SINS, was marketed as cutting-edge case management and sold to a number of foreign countries around the world. Of course, it was also stolen—they suspected by someone at Wingman and Wingman—and sold on the black market to even more countries. Once the NSA discovered the back door’s existence—and the very real threat of it possibly being used
against
the U.S.—they started on damage control. What the intelligence communities didn’t know was who proposed, then implemented the spyware into the program. McNiel believed it was a Network operation from the start, and Griffin tended to agree.

“Maybe I’m missing something,” Donovan said, returning to his seat. “Devil’s Key? This is about what Sydney Fitzpatrick found in Mexico?” Donovan had not worked the BICTT case when Sydney had found the key in Mexico, and since it had been on a need-to-know basis, he hadn’t been included in the intel.

“Yes,” McNiel said, and Griffin could see the stress in his face.

“So it’s true?” Donovan asked. “There really is a back door built into the SINS program?”

“Not just built into the program,” McNiel replied. “But into the millions of computer chips throughout the world. They can infiltrate any system.”

Donovan was just taking a sip of coffee and nearly choked on it. “Uh, did I hear that right?”

“You did.”

Unbeknownst to all but a few select individuals, because of the chips used, the program allowed for a back door into
any
computer that contained one and was running it—providing one had the code to get in.

It was not only a political nightmare, it was a national security disaster waiting to happen. Once this backdoor vulnerability on the chips had been discovered, the U.S. government, realizing the devastation, the potential for evil, took the unprecedented step of destroying every known copy of the code that allowed entry. There were ten codes in all, aptly named the Devil’s Keys.

Nine were destroyed. The tenth was stolen by a former government operative, Robert Orozco, about to be arrested along with Sydney’s father for their involvement in the BICTT banking scandal. The theft of the code was Orozco’s insurance policy. Leave him alone. If they came after him, he’d make sure the code was delivered to enemy hands, and reveal what the U.S. had allowed to slip through their fingers.

For twenty years Orozco had been the most hunted man in the world, successfully dropping out of sight until one FBI agent did what the entire CIA failed to do. Find him. Sydney Fitzpatrick had wanted answers about why her father was murdered, and Orozco had been a friend of her father’s. Based on some childhood memory of a fishing trip her father had taken her on down near Ensenada, she located Orozco, who gave her the last known key code, apparently thinking he’d be safer without it.

And he was right—to some extent. When, after several years, the CIA failed to locate him or the code, ATLAS had been given the task—along with the kill order.

Donovan was clearly trying to wrap his head around what he’d just learned, and McNiel said, “Welcome to our national security nightmare, should the Devil’s Key fall into the wrong hands.”

“You mean, what this girl in South San Francisco has sitting in her head?
That’s
the Devil’s Key?”

“The same.”

And Griffin said, “We have to assume the Network’s involved, and they’re probably one and the same as W2. They’ve certainly had the capabilities to run a program like this. And for them to show up at some obscure repair shop in South San Francisco of all places . . . That copy machine was sold in a batch of dozens, and the guy who bought it was running the numbers from it on his computer.”

“Right now,” McNiel said, “we’d be remiss in thinking the Network isn’t doing the same. Who knows where their tentacles reach.”

“If that’s the case, we’re in bigger trouble than we thought.”

“If that’s the case,” Donovan said, “stay off the goddamned Internet.”

McNiel’s phone rang. He answered it, listened, clearly disturbed. “Of course not. The only search I knew of is the one you did . . .” He closed his eyes, then rubbed the bridge of his nose. “No, Brad. We’re
not
running some rogue operation here. I would have informed you if that were the case . . . Exactly
what
is she saying happened . . . ? Yes, I’ll hold.”

He covered the mouthpiece of the phone. “It’s Pearson. Apparently someone was in Sydney’s apartment. Ripped through the whole place, probably looking for the list.”

“List?” Donovan echoed. “As in
the
list, key, whatever the hell it is?”

Griffin’s gut twisted. “She mentioned it last night.”

“Why didn’t you say something?” McNiel asked.

“I had other things on my mind.”

Apparently Pearson came back on the line, because McNiel uncovered the phone. “I assure you, Brad. We aren’t in the habit of breaking into FBI agents’ homes . . . Yes, a lapse of judgment at Carillo’s condo, but my agents were worried about the classified nature of the . . . Of course. I’ll see you there.”

He hung up. “Hard to deny our involvement when we’ve already conducted
one
illegal search.”

“Not quite,” Griffin said.

“In Carillo’s case, it’s the thought that counts. Lucky for us Pearson’s more worried about the fact someone else is searching.”

“That’s three,” Donovan said. “The warehouse where Piper was found, Carillo’s before Tex could get there,
and
Sydney’s. Hard to overlook.”

“Hers,” McNiel said, “was apparently searched
after
Pearson had already been there and confiscated her computers. They’re clearly looking for the Devil’s Key—the only place they haven’t hit yet is Mexico.” He picked up the phone and called Tex. “New mission. Contact Robert Orozco and verify that he does or does not have a copy of that key. He may be in danger,” he said, then explained about the search on Sydney’s apartment.

There was a knock at his door, and his secretary opened it, looked in. “Sir? Lisette’s on your other line. She says it’s urgent.”

“Thanks.” Then, after telling Tex to call him the moment he made contact with Orozco, he disconnected, and picked up the second line. “Lisette . . . ? He’s here now . . . I’ll tell him.” Then to Griffin, “Your witness said she heard a name mentioned when she was at the scene. Brooks.”

“If we were looking for a connection to the Network,” Donovan said, “we just found it.”

That was, unfortunately, all they knew about the man they believed to be instrumental in the creation and theft of the Devil’s Key—just the one name—even after the recent intel on the gunrunning operation with Garrett Quindlen in Pocito, Arizona. “When was this?” Griffin asked. “I didn’t hear it mentioned.”

He pressed a button so that they were on speakerphone, and Griffin repeated the question to Lisette.

“Apparently it happened just outside the building, before she entered. And before she realized what was happening. The two men who came into the warehouse were talking
to
him.”

“As in she
saw
him?”

“Definitely. I think she could do a sketch of the man.”

“If so,” McNiel said, “it might be our first glimpse of a face that has eluded us for a couple decades.” He looked at Griffin. “Call Fitzpatrick. This takes priority.”

“Somehow I doubt Sydney’s going to want to help us with this. In fact, I’m probably the last person she’s going to want to talk to.”

“Notice I’m not asking. So fix it. Whatever it takes.”

N
ot wanting to be overheard, Griffin went to his office and closed the door before calling Sydney. He left a message, asking her to get back to him. When he tried again, it went straight to voice mail.

Resisting the urge to hurl his own phone across the room, especially since it was tethered to the wall by the cord, he leaned back in his chair and stared out the window, trying to think how McNiel expected him to fix something that was undoubtedly broken beyond repair.

And that was where Donovan found him several minutes later. Still seated, just staring out at the leaden sky.

“We should talk,” Donovan said.

“About?”

“Sydney.”

“There’s nothing to discuss.”

“Shouldn’t you at least call her?”

Griffin grabbed his keys, then his coat and started toward the door. “I have. Several times. She’s not answering.”

“Thought about driving over there?” Donovan asked, following him onto the elevator.

“So she can slam the door in my face? Yeah. I thought about it. For all of ten seconds.”

“Then she slams the door. At least you tried. But if you don’t go? What’s she supposed to think?”

“That she dodged a bullet—no pun intended.”

“FYI? There comes a point when the hole you dig is so deep, there’s no climbing out. And you’re getting to that point.”

Griffin jabbed at the Down button. “I take it you’ve been talking to Tex?”

“As a matter of fact, yes. He’s worried about you,” Donovan said, placing his foot in the elevator door so it wouldn’t shut on him. “Because you’re having a real hard time seeing what’s right in front of your face.”

Donovan removed his foot; the elevator closed, leaving Griffin alone as it descended.

He looked at the keys in his hand, knowing that Donovan was right. So what if she slammed the door in his face?

Any reaction from her was better than not knowing what she was thinking.

He drove to her apartment, managed to enter the lobby when someone was walking out, and took the elevator up. He knocked on the door, and when no one answered, he called out her name.

The door behind him opened.

“Sydney’s not home.”

He recognized her neighbor, Tina, and her black Lab, Storm, both standing there watching him.

“Any idea where she is?”

“No. She took off a while ago.”

“If she comes back, can you tell her to call me? It’s important.”

“Sure thing.”

He left, sat in his car, and tried to think where she might go. And then it occurred to him that she usually kept in close touch with Carillo. He called.