The Temporary Agent (27 page)

Fifty-Four

The sedan entered the eight-story garage, but instead of following the gentle curve of the ramp that led to the floors above, it made a sudden, sharp turn onto a steep downward ramp.

Winding around to another ramp, the vehicle descended into an underground parking area.

This floor was empty.

Winding around one more time, the vehicle reached a third ramp, the access to which was blocked by a heavy chain draped between two cement columns.

Here the driver stopped, shifted into park, and switched off the motor.

Tom studied the area but saw no other vehicles.

He looked at Savelle.

“Back where we started, right?” she said. “Well, more or less.”

Tom said nothing.

Savelle smiled. “He’s going to meet us on the floor below. We’ll take the elevator down.”

Stepping out of the sedan, Tom could hear the faint, echoing sounds of the city above.

As the driver escorted him and Savelle to the elevator at the far end of the floor, the city sounds grew even fainter.

They rode the elevator to the final floor, deep in the building’s substructure.

Tom noticed that a convex, disk-shaped mirror was mounted where one of the back corners met the ceiling.

The mirror would allow anyone about to enter the elevator to confirm that no one was lurking in the corners to either side of the door.

A security measure for those who made use of the parking garage late at night.

When the elevator reached the bottom and the doors opened, Tom immediately noticed the lack of any city sounds at all.

Nothing but total silence.

Emerging from the elevator, he saw that the area immediately beyond the doors was the only section-lit.

Within that limited patch of illumination, no vehicles were visible, and beyond its edges were shadows so dark that Tom couldn’t even see the corners of the structure a hundred feet away.

Or know what those corners contained.

What he did know was that Savelle had taken him to a location that was as private and secure as one could hope to find in the crowded city.

Tom glanced at the hulking driver, who had taken a position at his right side, then looked at Savelle.

She was facing him.

“The building belongs to Raveis,” she said. “The security cameras at the entrance went offline prior to our arrival. And as you can see, there are no cameras on this level.”

Tom took a quick look around to confirm this.

As he searched, he took note of the only other exit.

A fire exit comprised of a pair of double doors, directly across from the elevator.

Mounted on the wall next to that door was an emergency phone.

Tom looked to his left and saw that beyond a pair of concrete columns—a good two hundred feet away—was the ramp that had been blocked off above.

The other way out, and a long way off.

Savelle observed Tom making his visual scan and said, “Meeting here is standard protocol. Cell signals can’t reach this far underground, so no one can listen in. And Raveis recently had this entire level shielded to prevent radio waves from penetrating, so even if someone managed to plant a bug or came down here wearing a wire, they’d only hear static. It’s safe here, Tom. Even the attendants upstairs are Raveis’s men, so they know to not come down here no matter what.”

Tom understood that his having been brought to this place to meet with Cahill made perfect sense.

But he wasn’t buying it.

While this place clearly provided the privacy and level of security that Cahill would no doubt require, a number of other reasons for choosing this locale came to Tom’s mind.

None of them were good.

In fact, each one of them caused his gut to tighten sharply.

He didn’t see the point in masking his doubts.

“You told Cahill it would take us an hour to get here,” Tom said. “But it only took half that.”

“I wanted to leave extra time in case there was traffic on the FDR.”

“It’s Sunday night. Traffic would be southbound.”

“Better safe than sorry, right? Anyway, like I said, Cahill is a bit keyed up. I can’t be certain what he might do if we weren’t here when he arrived.”

Tom could have let that go but decided not to.

The time for games had passed.

The time for all hands to be laid on the table was here.

“That’s the thing,” Tom said. “It’s hard for me to imagine Cahill being keyed up. He was a Recon Marine, elite of the elite. And don’t forget, I fought beside the guy. I’ve never seen anyone as composed under fire as he was.”

“I don’t think he’s the man he used to be.”

“Yeah, that seems to be the consensus.”

“Grave injuries can change a person,” she said. “So can watching the one you love bleed out and die.”

“You know that firsthand, I take it?”

Savelle continued to stare at him.

Tom thought of the smartphone secured beneath the laces of his boot.

The lack of a cell signal meant Carrington could no longer listen, but the device was still recording what was being said.

No battle plan survives first contact.

And the only way out is through.

All Tom could hope for now was to get what he could and escape with the smartphone.

And his life.

Fifty-Five

“I’m too tired to play pretend with you right now, Savelle,” Tom said. “Cahill isn’t meeting us here, is he?”

“No, he is, Tom. Just not right away.” She studied him, then said, “How much do you know? I mean, if we’re not pretending anymore.”

“I know that you sent the Chechens to kill Cahill. And I’m guessing their gang brothers came after you for revenge. I’m guessing, too, your men were rivals to the men loyal to Kadyrov. I also know that you had Carrington send Hammerton and me to the property on Front Street, a property you had purchased anonymously using the stolen identity of soldier who died under your command.”

“She wasn’t just a soldier,” Savelle said. “Not to me.”

Tom thought about that, then nodded. “I’m sorry. For your loss.”

“It was a long time ago.”

While that may have been factual, Tom knew it wasn’t the whole truth.

He recognized hollow words when he heard them.

For Savelle, it still felt as though it had happened yesterday.

And likely would for the rest of her life.

“So Stella figured that part out, did she?” Savelle said. “She looked up the property?”

“That doesn’t matter.”

“It matters who else knows, Tom. Your girlfriend? Your new best friend? Carrington? You don’t think I actually believed you’d turn over your former CO? I need to know what you know. And who else knows it.”

“Raveis knows by now,” Tom said. “I told Carrington to fill him in.”

“I doubt that. Raveis is the last person you’d trust. And for good reason. Also, you wouldn’t be here if Raveis knew. You wouldn’t be here trying to save Cahill one more time. No worries, though. I’ll be long gone before Raveis figures out what really happened.”

“Living off the grid isn’t as easy as it seems.”

“Maybe not on a Seabee’s savings. But for someone with the right resources—someone who knows how the intelligence community works and has the necessary cash—trust me, it can be done.”

“The weapons cache was destroyed. You and Kadyrov have nothing left to sell.”

“
That
cache was destroyed. There are others. But we need Cahill dead, and we need him dead in a way that will lead to a Senate investigation. Like I said, Tom, kill a pretty journalist, throw in an extramarital affair, and you own the news cycle for days. But all we need is one journalist to put the pieces together. Once Cahill’s op is exposed, Senate hearings will feed the public outrage over the government knowing about massive weapons caches in our major cities—knowing about them and doing nothing. No one will care that the caches were under twenty-four-hour surveillance by multiple agencies. All people will need to hear is ‘guns’ and ‘Islamic terrorists’ and ‘government cover-up’ and ‘rogue CIA op.’ And then all hell will break loose.”

“You were the source,” Tom said. “Not Carrington. You tipped off that journalist, the one Raveis bought off.”

“And by doing that, Raveis forced me to adapt.”

“But how did you know Erica DiSalvo and Cahill were together? It was a secret. Not even Cahill’s oldest friend knew.”

“Because I know every trick Cahill knows. I learned them from the same man he did. But more important, I
knew
Cahill. He’s a man, like every other man, with his own set of weaknesses. One look at their photo in the paper and I knew. I knew because I wrote the file on him. Just like I wrote the file on you. I know you and your weaknesses, too, Tom. Which is why I know you will kill Cahill for us the moment he steps off that elevator.” Savelle paused. “Like I said, here we are, right back where we started.”

“Except that you have no leverage this time,” Tom said.

“I know you think that, but you’re wrong. Dead wrong.”

Tom said nothing.

Savelle took a breath, then let it out.

“Let me guess, Tom. Your new friend isn’t feeling well,” she said. “Hammerton. He’s running a fever, right? That’s his immune system treating the implant as a foreign body.”

“What implant?”

“The implant I injected under his skin while he was sedated. At the farm. And by implant, I of course mean tracking device. The immune system’s reaction is a side effect, one we haven’t found a way around yet, but the device is still only in the prototype stage. The real issue is the power source. A transmitter powerful enough to be read by a satellite has to have a power source. Microscopic batteries don’t last very long yet. It’s a good thing for us you acted when you did. Good thing for us, too, that you were kind enough to take your injured friend home with you. But what soldier leaves another behind, right? Not you. That was one thing I knew I could count on from you.”

“You’re bluffing,” Tom said.

“According to the latest update, they’re in a hotel in Midtown. The Hotel Chandler, to be precise. Does that sound about right? By the time our people got to Carrington’s safe house in White Plains, he was long gone. But we’ll find him soon enough. Find him and kill him, too. Just like we will kill your Stella and Hammerton. Kill them in terrible ways—unless, of course, you do what we want you to do. That’s all you need to do to ensure a quick and painless death for them. And for yourself.”

“You have men, Savelle. Have them kill Cahill. Or just kill him yourself. You don’t need me.”

“No, Tom, it has to be you. It has to be the man whose life Cahill saved. The unstable drifter stuck in a dead-end job. The homeless PTSD case Carrington foolishly recruited for a highly sensitive search-and-rescue mission.”

“And how is that going to achieve your objective of getting an investigation launched?”

“Turn on a TV, Tom. The feeding frenzy has already begun. Remember, Erica DiSalvo is missing. Cahill buried her body somewhere, so no one knows for sure yet if she’s dead or not. But maybe missing is even better than dead. Missing keeps the hope alive, you know. Missing keeps people tuned in to the news for the latest update. Missing gets anguished family members on TV, and that always stirs things up. The pieces will begin to fall into place when Cahill is ambushed and killed by the basket case Carrington sent to find him. And when classified files are found on Carrington’s computer—files detailing Operation Voyeur, files implicating DC insider Sam Raveis—well, all hell will break loose then.”

Tom quickly realized something.

“You’re up against a timetable, aren’t you?” he said. “You need those other caches confiscated now. Why?”

“Raveis’s theory about the attack coming during Fleet Week is wrong. The time to strike—for the greatest psychological and emotional impact, not to mention the highest casualty rate—is Christmas. As in weeks from now. Imagine Manhattan streets crowded with families from around the world, all of them here to see the window displays and shop. Hotels full, theaters full, restaurants full. An environment rich with soft targets. The loss of life would be staggering, the scars left on the American psyche devastating. The world would never be the same again.”

Tom had heard enough, reached fast for the 1911 hidden under his jacket, but before he could do more than palm the grip, he felt the cold steel of a pistol’s muzzle pressing against his right temple.

Savelle’s driver had moved, and moved fast.

A Glock was in his right hand, his left grasping Tom’s right wrist.

Savelle removed a pair of leather driving gloves from her jacket pocket and pulled them on.

Moving close to Tom, she reached around his torso and pulled the pistol from his waistband.

Stepping back, she examined the weapon.

“You aren’t messing around, are you, Tom,” she said. “I love an old government-issue Colt. By the shape of the hammer spur and the markings, this is old military surplus. I’m guessing this makes it untraceable, right?”

Tom ignored that. “Storming a motel in the middle of nowhere is one thing, Savelle. You’re not going have men storm a crowded New York City hotel. You may know where Stella and Hammerton are, but you can’t get to them. Not without a shitload of shots being fired, and I don’t think you’re crazy enough to want that kind of attention.”

Savelle removed the mag from the Colt, then expertly racked the slide, her waiting palm cupped over the ejector port to catch the ejected round.

Pocketing the mag and the round, she said, “I’m a little surprised at that, you being a Seabee and all. I would think you’d know better than anyone that there are more ways than one to breach a perimeter.”

Holding on to the empty Colt with her left hand, Savelle searched Tom with her right.

“I’m fortunate to be associated with a man who is capable of anything. You’ve dealt with him already, so you know what I’m talking about.”

She found the mag in his jeans pocket and the cell phone in his jacket, taking them both.

The mag she also pocketed, but the cell she dropped to the cement floor and crushed with the heel of her shoe.

Then she patted down Tom’s torso and crotch.

“No wire,” she said. “Not that it would have done you any good down here, but I’m surprised.”

She finished by moving her hands down Tom’s legs, never going below his ankles.

Finally, she rose and stepped back.

“I’ll need you to lose the gloves, Tom.”

Tom didn’t move.

Savelle’s driver shifted the muzzle from Tom’s temple to his ear, left it there for a moment, then moved it back to Tom’s temple.

He pressed the cold steel even more firmly against Tom’s skin.

Tom removed his work gloves and dropped them to the pavement.

“This is the big leagues,” Savelle said. “You understand that, right? This is the world stage we’re on. It doesn’t get more important than this. Kadyrov will have no problem setting an entire city block on fire if that’s what it takes to get to the people he needs to get to. The people who matter the most to you. People you would do anything to keep from burning to death in some tragic hotel fire. Do you really want that, Tom? Stella dying like that? In prolonged agony? The way you and I almost died? Remember the heat? The smoke burning our lungs? The panic? Is Cahill really worth that? Is his life worth letting others die so horribly?”

“If that’s what it takes to keep you from arming our enemies.”

“Now who’s bluffing, Tom?”

It took all Tom had to keep his rising anger from showing.

Anger toward Savelle for what she had done, yes, but also because she was right.

Tom had no intention of letting Stella or Hammerton—or anyone—burn.

Nor was he going to give Savelle what she wanted.

All he needed to do was wait for his chance to move.

Or better yet, create his chance.

“How much is Kadyrov paying you?” Tom said. “How much did it take for you to betray your country?”

“More than I can ever spend. But I would have done it for less.”

“Why, Savelle? You’re a fucking West Point grad. Bronze Star, Purple Heart, the whole thing. Why do this?”

“Because scars on a man aren’t the same thing as scars on a woman. Do you want to compare torsos? Right now? Do you? Want to see the scar that was left after they took out my uterus because it was full of metal fragments? Want to see what’s left of my genitals? My breasts? Want to see what reconstructive surgery at the hands of VA surgeons gets you? Because it isn’t much.”

Tom said nothing.

All he could think of was what Carrington had said about Benedict Arnold.

A hero of the American Revolution before he turned traitor.

Not for ideological reasons, but simply because of insults and injuries he’d been forced to bear.

“I know you know what it’s like to be torn up, Tom. You wandered around for five years, no girlfriend, not even a one-night stand as far as we can tell. Nothing—till you met your precious Stella, that is. Beautiful face, flawless body, which she’s more than willing to flaunt, to send you naked pics of while you’re at work. Was it a relief, Tom, to finally be touched after five years? To lie naked with someone when you finally got up the nerve? I’ll never know that. Not now, not five years from now, not five years after that. No one will want me. Not the way
she
did. No one will want to look at me or touch me or want me to touch them. I would have rather been killed over there than to come back like this. Come back to hear all the promises. That they were going to do right by me, that all the doctors and nurses were going to put me back together again, that this country takes care of its soldiers, that there was nothing for me to worry about. All of it was lies.”

Savelle stopped short.

A thick vein throbbed in her forehead.

Tom was staring at it when he heard a voice emerge from the surrounding darkness.

A voice he immediately recognized, and would never forget.

Kadyrov’s voice.