Authors: Andrew Britton
The Operative (27 page)
That was still months away, though. No need to worry about it now. He was eager to get back and see how Princess Yasmin fared in the next phase of her evolution.
Dr. Gillani called Alex Hunt to let him know that the packages had arrived. She asked again what they were.
“Need to know,” he told her again.
The agent had been asleep in his Hell’s Kitchen apartment, exhausted by the previous day’s events and the long night of answering questions from the police and his own people. The police seemed satisfied that he had left Franklin May standing on a street corner and had gone right back to Dr. Gillani’s lab. He couldn’t tell what his own boss thought. The assistant director in charge, Samantha Lennon had been pulled from a squash tournament to deal with the situation. She had always been suspicious of Hunt because he did not seem to be after her job. Paranoia was a funny thing. The truth was, he liked having all access to information and resources without the responsibility of running the field office.
Hunt showered and grabbed a coffee at the corner of Forty-Fifth and Eighth Avenue before heading to the subway. He took the One train downtown, emerging at Rector Street and walking to the lab.
He felt almost guilty about how easily the packages had got into Manhattan. The Trask name, an oblivious and innocent driver, cargo bound for the NYPD. It guaranteed there would be sharp scrutiny of the handiest packages, and an assumption that the rest were more of the same. Why wouldn’t they be?
Hunt crossed the narrow footbridge and passed the site where he had left Franklin May. The area was still marked off with yellow police tape, and an officer was standing guard. Employees were entering the building, some clearly unaware of what had happened right outside their door.
Hunt didn’t smile. He didn’t feel anything. He had done what had to be done.
And in two days, after nearly two years of groundwork, after a nearly flawless execution in Baltimore, he would finally finish the job.
So the larger mission could begin.
CHAPTER 20
WASHINGTON, D.C.
K
ealey could have slept for a month. He woke with the alarm, moving to the bathroom before he was really awake, giving himself the luxury of a few seconds to remember why he was up and what he was supposed to be doing. At least he knew his way around the bedroom in the dark. Kealey had slept in so many beds over the years that that in itself was a small, happy miracle.
ealey could have slept for a month. He woke with the alarm, moving to the bathroom before he was really awake, giving himself the luxury of a few seconds to remember why he was up and what he was supposed to be doing. At least he knew his way around the bedroom in the dark. Kealey had slept in so many beds over the years that that in itself was a small, happy miracle.
In fact, he thought as he snapped on the bathroom light, the time he’d spent in this rented house might be the longest he’d stayed put since he was a kid.
Rented house,
he thought. Not a rented
home.
His life had not wanted for excitement, for travel—often to places most people had never heard of—and even for romance. But home was something that had eluded him. The desk jockeys, the informants, even the politicians he had known all seemed to envy him his freedom. CIA field guys listened a lot more than they divulged, and Kealey wasn’t a talker to begin with. So he never told them, told anyone except Allison, how much he missed having anything approaching roots.
he thought. Not a rented
home.
His life had not wanted for excitement, for travel—often to places most people had never heard of—and even for romance. But home was something that had eluded him. The desk jockeys, the informants, even the politicians he had known all seemed to envy him his freedom. CIA field guys listened a lot more than they divulged, and Kealey wasn’t a talker to begin with. So he never told them, told anyone except Allison, how much he missed having anything approaching roots.
“Your stability is all self-generated,” she had told him in one of their recent therapy sessions.
She was right. But what he told her, half joking, was also true: “Boy howdy,” he’d said, “bootstrapping does wear you down.”
Hot water was waiting for Kealey after his shower and shave. He had smelled nothing brewing and swore when he saw it. He had set the Krups timer the night before but had forgotten to put coffee in the filter. So he had Lipton to go. It failed to satisfy, but Kealey got the caffeine kick start he needed. He grabbed the ticket he’d printed out and the overnight bag he’d also packed the previous night. He hoped he hadn’t forgotten to put anything important in it. Like his Glock, hidden in a leather toiletries bag. That was the real reason he preferred to travel by train. It was the only mode of public transportation that was relatively unchanged since it was invented: schedules were an approximation and security was nonexistent. There were no bag checks, and the gun stayed with him.
The drive to Union Station took a little longer than he’d expected, with checkpoints and roadblocks still in effect. It would be that way for at least a week, until Homeland Security had determined there were no in-motion or pending threats against the nation’s capital. Kealey wasn’t surprised to see them, to have to show his license and registration to beat cops; he’d simply forgotten.
Sometimes you get so deep into something, you forget what it does to the real world,
he thought as he finally reached the station.
he thought as he finally reached the station.
Long-term parking was at 50 Massachusetts Avenue, NE. It cost twenty dollars a day and wasn’t really worth it. But since Andrews was paying, Kealey indulged. The station’s beautifully refurbished lobby was cavernously empty. Anyone who was getting out of the city had done so the night before; anyone who was already out wasn’t coming back.
Kealey checked the arrival/departure board, noted his track, and went to it. The IA man he was traveling with was already there, waiting at the open gate. He was dressed in a black raincoat and a dusty, badly rumpled suit. Kealey had never met Reed Bishop, but he knew him at a glance.
He was a man who looked like he’d just lost his daughter.
Kealey didn’t go directly over. He stopped at a coffee shop that was just opening, waited to go in, then got himself a tall black hazelnut and a couple of biscotti. He washed the tea taste from his mouth, then walked over to the gate.
“Reed?” he asked.
The man was staring at a color tablet. Kealey caught a glance before Bishop clicked it off. He was reading the
Christian Science Monitor
. Kealey knew the paper well. More than a few times he’d tucked himself in a corner of one of their reading rooms around the globe. For some reason, the kind of people who ended up searching for CIA agents never thought to look there. Maybe they thought it was a temple, a sanctuary. Or maybe they thought Company men couldn’t read.
Christian Science Monitor
. Kealey knew the paper well. More than a few times he’d tucked himself in a corner of one of their reading rooms around the globe. For some reason, the kind of people who ended up searching for CIA agents never thought to look there. Maybe they thought it was a temple, a sanctuary. Or maybe they thought Company men couldn’t read.
A pair of heavily lidded red eyes looked up. They were set in a pale face that seemed even whiter because the owner hadn’t shaved. “Yes, I’m Reed,” the man said numbly. “Mr. Kealey?”
“Ryan.” He set the bag of biscotti on his carry-on, offered his free hand. Bishop took it mechanically. “Can I get you a coffee? You look like you could use one.”
“No thanks,” he said. “I’ve given up ... well, smoking.”
Kealey looked at him. “Okay. I’m guessing you can’t have coffee without a smoke?”
Bishop smiled weakly. “Since I was thirteen.”
“That’s a helluva double whammy. Most people would have trouble with just one or the other.”
“I know. But I promised.”
Kealey didn’t pursue the discussion. He saw the ticket in Bishop’s hand and suggested they board.
The Acela—Amtrak’s equivalent of a bullet train—made the Washington-to-Boston round-trip several times a day, hitting Baltimore, Philadelphia, and New York, among other stops, along the way. As he and Bishop walked along the platform, Kealey did not see a lot of heads in the train’s windows or people on the platform. The conductors were standing beside an open door, chatting.
“Looks like we may have a car to ourselves,” Kealey remarked.
Bishop glanced over and nodded. He was carrying a small gray cabin bag that didn’t seem especially full. It had wheels, but he didn’t use them. Kealey felt the guy was trying hard to be present, but he recognized the mechanical movements, the programmed responses. He hoped Bishop would snap out of it enough to be of some use. He would need help in New York, not extra baggage.
The first-class car wasn’t empty, but it was nearly so. They had the forward section to themselves. There were facing chairs and side-by-side chairs; Kealey selected the former, with a small table between them, close to the door. He didn’t want anyone overhearing what they had to say. That was another advantage trains had over airplanes.
Not that they had anything to say, immediately. Bishop stared out the window as the train moved through the station. Kealey finished his coffee, ate a few bites of a biscotto, and tried to imagine what he was thinking.
What
does
one think when his child dies? In a terrorist attack that he survives.
What
does
one think when his child dies? In a terrorist attack that he survives.
“You want to talk about it?” Kealey asked.
“Not really.” Realizing that had sounded more dismissive than he’d obviously intended, Bishop looked at him and said, “No thanks.”
“I was there,” Kealey said.
That got Bishop’s attention. “At the convention center?”
Kealey nodded. “I was there for Julie Harper’s dinner.”
Bishop leaned forward. “What do you know?” His eyes were open now, alert.
“Only what you do, I’m guessing,” Kealey said. He leaned into the table. “Reports of an inside job. G-man killed last night near a Trask lab. And ... I’m sorry, truly sorry for what you’re going through.”
That caught Bishop off guard. He had gone into professional mode, not thinking of his own loss.
“Thank you,” he said.
“If it’s any consolation, even a small one, I took some of those SOBs out personally,” Kealey told him.
“Not at the dinner,” Bishop said. “I was there.”
“No. We were in the parking garage when it all started. Armed myself from my little trunk arsenal, made our way in through a kind of back door.”
“We?”
“My date, sort of. Allison Dearborn, a Company shrink. Her nephew—”
“Was the one who tweeted,” Bishop said. “I heard about that. Your idea?”
“We all pitched in.”
“Well done,” Bishop said. “That’s why you’re on this job. Couple of directors playing who-can-you-trust.”
“Pretty much. What about you?”
“You mean, how did I get picked?” Bishop asked. He shrugged a shoulder. “Who knows why the higher-ups do what they do. I spent most of my career behind a desk. Then, suddenly, I got a field assignment.” Bishop smiled thinly and looked down. “It does matter, Ryan.”
“Sorry?”
“What you did in Baltimore,” Bishop said. “You got a chance to act. I’ve never felt so goddamn helpless.”
“It’s only temporary,” Kealey assured him. “We’re going to find these guys, and we’re gonna skin them.”
Bishop nodded. “You ever smoke?”
“No. I’m vice free.”
“Really?”
“Sure. Unless we’re including the Ten Commandments.”
That drew a little smile from Bishop. “I promised my daughter I’d quit. Just when I need one most.”
Bishop looked like he was about to lose it, and Kealey sat back to give him space. Bishop rallied when the conductor came by for their tickets, followed by a porter, who asked them if they wanted anything to eat or drink. Kealey hoped he didn’t ask for anything hard. He didn’t. All he wanted was water and a bran muffin. Kealey was guessing that would be the first food he’d had in a lot of hours.
There was usually a lot of get-to-know-you chat on an almost three-hour train ride, but not this time. Kealey didn’t think Bishop was snubbing him when he went back to his tablet and checked e-mails. But it also didn’t help Kealey get to know the man on whom his life could possibly depend. That was important. He didn’t want to be relying on a man—even a thoroughgoing professional—whose thoughts were elsewhere.
“I probably know the answer, but why did you agree to this?” Kealey asked.
“You mean, now?”
Kealey nodded.
“I could ask you the same thing,” Bishop said. His reply wasn’t challenging; it was a simple statement.
“I don’t follow,” Kealey said. “I didn’t lose anyone—”
“If you were still officially a Company man, you would have been given mandatory leave. You killed people in Baltimore. Enemy combatants as far as we know, but there’s been no investigation. The good fortune of you being in the right place at the right time, and armed, has not been questioned.”
Kealey made a face. “I don’t think I like that.”
“You misunderstand,” Bishop said. “Or maybe I’m not making myself clear. I don’t doubt you. But standard operating procedure has gone out the window. It always does in these situations.”
“I’m here because the president asked me to be,” Kealey replied. “I have a habit of saying what’s on my mind, which is one reason I’m
not
a Company man anymore. Brenneman obviously felt the situation required that kind of outside point of view.”
not
a Company man anymore. Brenneman obviously felt the situation required that kind of outside point of view.”
“And someone who was already primed by action, maybe even a little hair trigger after the day’s events,” Bishop said. “The president wanted a pit bull and not a bloodhound. I’ve seen hundreds of psych profiles over the years to understand how people get into one of the ‘triple o’ situations, where they overreact, overreach, or overcompensate. That’s why ninety percent of my subjects go bad. Not because they
are
bad, but because they shouldn’t have been doing what they were.”
are
bad, but because they shouldn’t have been doing what they were.”
“Are you saying I’m a good witch or a bad one?”
“Neither, Ryan. I don’t know you. I’m saying that I understand why the president picked you,” Bishop replied. “Since I got the call last night, I’ve been zeroing in on what we have here. The scope of this suggests we’re dealing with the ‘other’ ten percent. A person or persons who are bad because they
are
bad. That’s why I’m here. Because truly bad men don’t just take cash from the evidence locker or shoot someone because they’re angry at their spouse. They don’t just kill my daughter. They kill a
lot
of daughters. That’s not going to happen on my watch, if I can prevent it.”
are
bad. That’s why I’m here. Because truly bad men don’t just take cash from the evidence locker or shoot someone because they’re angry at their spouse. They don’t just kill my daughter. They kill a
lot
of daughters. That’s not going to happen on my watch, if I can prevent it.”
Kealey took a moment to reflect on what Bishop had said. “I like that. But there’s something that doesn’t jibe.”
Bishop regarded him. “What’s that?”
“We don’t know that New York has anything to do with Baltimore. Shouldn’t you be there, where the FBI poser was ID’d?”
Bishop smiled thinly. “Touché. There’s something else.”
Goddamn it,
Kealey thought.
Nothing ever changes, except to get worse.
“What didn’t the sons of bitches tell me?” he asked.
Kealey thought.
Nothing ever changes, except to get worse.
“What didn’t the sons of bitches tell me?” he asked.
“It came in very early this morning, and I’m sure they didn’t want to wake you,” Bishop said.
“I’m sure they just didn’t want to tell me,” Kealey said. “What is it?”
Bishop touched the tablet several times, then handed it over. It was an eyes-only message from FBI director Cluzot:
Cargo from Quebec hijacked. Believed to be in NYC.
“What cargo?” Kealey asked. A frisson of fear rolled up his spine. His first thought was of a nuclear weapon.
Bishop leaned over and tapped another button. A color photograph came up. It was a mug shot with an RCMP stamp in the corner.
“Top assassin, Pakistani born, spent her teenage years in Damascus and Cairo” he said quietly. He touched a button, and the screen dissolved. It would take a password to get back in. “Heartless merc, no apparent ideology. A CIA agent and I put her on a private jet up there with three Pakistani caretakers. At least, we thought they were. We don’t know what happened, except that three Pakistanis were found dead at the airport after we left, the plane ended up in New York, it was on the ground for under an hour, and then it headed out over the Atlantic.”
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