Thomas Caine series Boxset

by Andrew Warren

  “I’m looking for a woman, a doctor. Her name is Nena Vasani.”

  “This woman, she is a citizen of Sudan?” Khairi asked, a guarded tone creeping into his voice.

  “I swear to you, I mean her no harm. I just want to talk to her.”

  “Very well. I will see what I can do.”

  “There’s something else.”

  “Nem ealaa almudii qadma? Yes, go on?”

  “Puff Adder. I need anything you have on him. Last sightings, who he’s been working with, current whereabouts.”

  The voice was quiet for a long time. “I confess, I told myself he must be dead by now. But I never knew for sure. Just salat … a prayer.”

  Caine closed his eyes. For a split second, he saw the girl’s face in the darkness, the whites of her eyes pleading, begging, staring wide at him …

  His eyes snapped open. He realized his breath had quickened, his heart was racing. He forced himself to calm down.

  “Maybe,” he said. “But I don’t think so. I think he’s alive.”

  The man sighed. “This will take some time. Be underneath the Tuti Bridge early tomorrow morning, by the boats. My man will meet you there.”

  “I said this was just between you and me.”

  “He will bring you to me. Trust me, it is safer this way. For both of us. Be there at eleven.”

  “I thought you said early?”

  The voice on the other end of the line chuckled. “I’m an old man, Thomas. To me, that is early.” Again there was a brief hiss of silence. “Besides,” he added, his voice weak and tired, “I very much doubt either of us will be getting much sleep tonight. To speak of that man is to invite nightmares … Shaitan jinn.”

  “Tomorrow,” Caine said. “I’ll be there.”

  He hung up the phone.

  He lay down on the bed and stared at the ceiling. Khairi Abboud. The old spymaster had helped Caine on his operation in Sudan, years before. But the political situation in the region changed daily. Could he trust him now?

  You’ll find out tomorrow. Get what you need, and move on. The cold logic comforted him. But still, his mind was restless.

  Khairi had spoken of nightmares, and the shaitan jinn. In the Islamic faith, the name roughly translated to ‘evil forces.’ The Christian equivalent would be ‘Demons.’

  Caine stared at the ceiling until sleep made his eyes heavy and he succumbed to the numbing darkness. When the nightmares finally came, he did not see demons, or evil spirits.

  He saw her … Wide, frightened eyes, clawing fingers. He tossed and turned and imagined screams of pain in the sweltering darkness.

  Chapter Thirteen

  “I’ll need to see some identification, ma’am.”

  Rebecca looked up at the muscular, imposing man. Crew cut, cheap suit, sunglasses … Standard-issue FBI.

  “Not exactly playing it subtle, are we?” she asked as she fished her leather ID case from her purse.

  The man took the case and flipped it open. He examined her picture, then peered at her over the rims of his wraparound sunglasses. “I’m not sure what you mean, ma’am,” he said in a monotone voice.

  “No,” she muttered to herself. “I’m sure you don’t.” She heard Clayton DuBose snort, and chided herself.

  “Sorry, missed my morning latte,” she said, smiling up at the agent. “I do appreciate your thoroughness. Good WITSEC.”

  The man in the rumpled gray suit handed her badge back and tilted his head to the mic clipped at his lapel. “I have a Freeling, Rebecca. Requesting access to the witness, over?”

  Rebecca looked to her left. A pair of agents in similar clothes paced back and forth in front of the elevators. She knew another team was also guarding the stairwell, at the opposite end of the corridor. Besides the obvious agency presence, she had spotted a janitor in the lobby, and two maids rolling carts past the elevators. She was certain they were undercover operatives.

  She had to admit, the FBI was taking Lapinski’s safety seriously.

  The agent’s walkie squawked back to life, and a woman’s voice answered his inquiry. “Rebecca Freeling? That’s the D/NCS. She’s cleared. On my way.”

  The FBI agent handed her badge back to her and glanced at Clayton. He frowned. “Your security detail will have to wait outside, ma’am.”

  DuBose took a step forward. He glared down at the man and crossed his arms. “You might want to check that again,” he snarled.

  Rebecca put her hand on Clayton’s arm and smiled. “Clayton, I’ll be—”

  The double doors behind the agent swung open, cutting Rebecca off. Standing behind the doors was a petite, athletic-looking woman wearing a charcoal business suit. Her eyes darted back and forth behind a pair of slim, rectangular glasses. A thick wave of brown hair was piled atop her head in a messy bun. Her nails were cut short, and she wore no polish.

  “Director Freeling? Welcome to the Royal Suite.” She glanced up at Clayton. “I’m sorry, we weren’t informed you were bringing a friend. I was under the impression you were only here as an observer.”

  Rebecca rolled forward past the guard and held out her hand. “That’s correct. This is Clayton DuBose, from Security Operations. He was assigned to me after I was attacked. We believe the people responsible may seek to harm your star witness. Miss?”

  The woman blinked, then held out her hand. “Zavala. Special Agent Zavala.”

  As Rebecca shook her hand, she noticed the woman’s eyes were two different colors. One was blue, and the other was a light hazel brown.

  The woman nodded and gestured into the suite. “All right, I'll get him clearance. After you, Director.”

  Rebecca rolled into the large tiled foyer of the Four Seasons Georgetown’s Royal Suite. The suite occupied the top floor of the dark brick building. The hotel itself was fairly small, considering it bore the Four Seasons marque. Its grounds were quiet and secluded, nestled among the historic buildings of old Georgetown.

  A gold sculpture stood on a lacquered black podium in the center of the larger foyer. Rebecca looked up and saw sparkling pinpoints of light twinkling above her. Swarovski crystals were set into the ceiling. The tiny gems reflected the overhead lights like a galaxy of shimmering stars.

  Clayton followed her inside the opulent foyer. Rebecca turned her attention back to the woman.

  “Since I’m just an observer, why don’t we keep things on a first name basis. Please, call me Rebecca.”

  The woman nodded. “Fine by me. I’m Alejandra, but everyone calls me Ajay. Now, first things first, Rebecca.” Zavala gestured to a pair of agents wearing blue FBI windbreakers and standing in the corner of the foyer.

  Rebecca nodded and handed one of the men her purse. As he searched the voluminous Hermes bag, the other man swept her with a metal detector wand. It clicked and beeped, but the man seemed satisfied with the results.

  When the man finished with Rebecca, he swept the baton over Clayton. DuBose slipped a Glock 22 pistol from his waistband and handed it to the agent. He raised his hands over his head, and allowed the man to continue. The detector warbled and chirped as it approached the hem of his right leg.

  Clayton reached down and slid a tiny Ruger LCR revolver from an ankle holster.

  “Back-up gun,” he said with a grin. “Forgot it was there.”

  Zavala’s eyes darted up and down his body, as if scanning him for more weaponry. “Sorry,” she said. “No armed guests allowed past this point. Robbins, be a lamb and get him a receipt.”

  One of the FBI agents scribbled some notes on a small pad. He tore off the top sheet and handed it to Clayton.

  “We’ll hold them for you up here, Mr. DuBose.”

  Clayton took the slip of paper.

  The special agent led them from the foyer into a luxurious living room decorated in rich brown and cream furniture. The curtains were drawn closed, and the room was dim, lit only by a small table lamp in the corner.

  Three more FBI agents sipped coffee and spoke in hushed tones. A
s they entered the room, Rebecca caught them staring at her. She returned the stare. They broke eye contact and filed out of the room.

  “Zavala … is that Russian?” Clayton asked, watching the men scurry from the room.

  The woman laughed. “Strike one, big guy. My father was Mexican, and my mother was from Argentina. I’m one hundred percent Latina.”

  Once they had the room to themselves, Rebecca glanced at DuBose, then took a deep breath. She rolled to a stop and turned to the woman. “Alejandra … Ajay … I’m getting the distinct impression I’m not wanted here.”

  Zavala cocked her head and removed her glasses. “What gave you—”

  Rebecca shook her head. “Let’s not waste each other’s time. I get it, it’s a jurisdictional thing. I pissed in the FBI’s pool, and you guys don’t like it.”

  Zavala chuckled and sat down on a chocolate leather ottoman. She rested her chin on her hand and glanced back and forth between Rebecca and DuBose.

  “Yeah, that’s one way to put it.”

  “And how would you put it?” Rebecca asked.

  The special agent cocked her head. “You ran an illegal CIA paramilitary operation on U.S. soil. You stormed a farmhouse belonging to a U.S. citizen. And you shot and killed several other U.S. citizens in the process of executing this operation.” She arched an eyebrow and gave them a crooked smile. “So, yeah. The FBI does get a little pissy about that stuff.”

  Rebecca nodded. “That’s what I thought. But right now we—”

  The other woman raised her hand. “Not finished. According to the report, this operation also saved the life of a six-year-old girl. A Chinese national, who was being held against her will by the asshole in the other room. She was leverage, right? To blackmail a foreign agent?”

  Rebecca brushed back a strand of crimson hair from her face. “Yes. That’s all true.”

  She noticed Zavala’s eyes drift from her to the window. The sunlight outside was diffused to a soft glow by the thick white curtains.

  “You got kids, Rebecca?” the woman asked.

  “No. I don’t.”

  “Married?”

  “Not even dating. You?”

  Zavala looked back at her and nodded. “Divorced. I shouldn’t say this, but as far as I’m concerned, some things … they go beyond jurisdiction. Know what I mean?”

  “Yes I do. So, are we good?”

  The special agent flicked a spec of lint off her gray pants and nodded. “Yeah, we’re good. This is just the same old inter-agency crap.” She checked her watch. “In a few hours, these hearings will be over anyway. Our friend Mr. Lapinski will be remanded to the U.S. Marshals for Witness Protection. And then we’ll be out of each other’s hair.”

  “I’ve been asked to review your security procedures and the transportation plan,” Rebecca said. “It’s just a formality. I’m sure you have everything under control.”

  Zavala squinted at DuBose, then looked back at Rebecca. “Let me get this straight. You’re the Director of the National Clandestine Service. You run black ops, you control your own special activities group … bunch of ex-Navy SEALS, Green Berets, and other professional badasses. And whoever is after this guy has your agency so spooked they assigned you a personal bodyguard?”

  Rebecca looked the woman in the eye. “I wasn’t always in this chair.”

  Zavala stood up and rested her hands on her hips. “Okay then. Let’s get started. We can go over our route, personnel, security precautions. I’d welcome any input you might have.”

  “I’d appreciate that. But before we get started, could I ask a favor?”

  “Shoot.”

  “I’d like a word with Lapinski. Alone.”

  The special agent closed one eye and stroked her chin. “That’s not exactly standard procedure.”

  Rebecca smiled. “Not even remotely.”

  The bedroom was cavernous and dark. Thick curtains blocked the windows, and the lights were turned off. A thin sliver of sunlight pierced between the drapes like a glowing blade. It was the only light in the room.

  As soon as the gilded door shut behind her, Rebecca’s nose wrinkled in disgust. The room stank of body odor and grease. As her eyes adjusted to the dim light, she saw platters of half-eaten food scattered throughout the room. The plates covered the dresser, the nightstand … They were even tossed among the luxurious ivory sheets and gold silk pillows of the king-sized bed.

  The room’s air conditioner was set to full blast, yet even the constant jet of cold air could not cleanse the room of the stuffy, lingering miasma.

  “Ted?” Rebecca called out. The bed sheets shifted and moved. A plate of cold French fries tumbled to the floor, sending splatters of ketchup across the cream carpet.

  Ted Lapinski sat up in the bed. His skin was pale, and his round cherubic face had turned pale and gaunt. Despite the massive quantity of food in the room, he appeared to have lost weight.

  “Director Freeling. Hey, this is quite a sendoff. Sorry about the mess. Didn’t expect visitors.”

  His voice was a flat, lifeless monotone. When Ted had been a Director in the NSA’s Tailored Operations Cyber-warfare unit, Rebecca had accused him of acting more like a used car salesman than a high-level intelligence operative. But now, she had to admit, she missed that touch of cocky bravado in his voice.

  Don’t, she warned herself. Do not underestimate this man. Lapinski hired private mercenaries to drug and kidnap you. He used an innocent child to blackmail a Chinese assassin. He forced them to execute compromised intelligence assets. And he tried to kill Sean Tyler, a CIA officer’s son.

  All that was true, but on some level, she knew Lapinski was a victim as well. Someone, an unknown party high in the intelligence community, had leverage on him. She remembered the raid at the farmhouse … the look of sheer terror in his eyes when he realized that he was a loose end. Armed men had already tried to erase him and everyone he had been in contact with.

  The question was why? What did he know … and who was pulling his strings?

  “Christ, Ted, you look awful.” She looked around the room. “Nice digs though. Sure beats that farmhouse you holed up in. Bit rustic for my tastes.”

  Ted stood up and stretched. He wore a white t-shirt, stained at the armpits, and loose boxers. He plodded a few steps forward and picked up a pair of navy-blue dress pants that lay in a crumpled heap on the floor. He struggled to keep his balance as he slid into the trousers, one leg at a time.

  He gave the room a quick, cursory glance. “Still a cage, Rebecca. Just nicer scenery behind the bars.”

  He sat down on the bed. Rebecca rolled closer, glaring at him. “It’s a five-star hotel, Ted. If I had my way, you’d be in a dark hole halfway across the world. Show a little gratitude.”

  Ted looked up at her and chuckled. “Gratitude? You know why they picked this place?” He gestured towards the curtains. “It’s the windows. This is one of the few suites in DC that has bullet-proof glass in the windows.” He shook his head. “Funny, I always thought that would be a common amenity here in our great nation’s capital.”

  “Ted, we don’t have much time. In five minutes, the FBI is going to come through the doors. After that, this thing moves on rails. Senate Intelligence Committee, your testimony, Witness Relocation. Then, a few weeks of enhanced security. After that you’re on your own.”

  Ted rolled his head left and right until the bones in his neck and shoulders popped. “You still don’t get it, do you, Rebecca?”

  “Ted, I don’t care how big a star witness you think you are. They can’t watch your back forever. Let me help—”

  Ted ran his fingers through his hair. His eyes bugged wide open. “No, no. I mean, you’re being way too optimistic. You actually think they’re going to let me testify?”

  “Who, Ted? Who is they? This is your last chance. Help me! Whoever it is that wants you dead, I want to find them. I want to stop them. The FBI is just going to play this by the books.”

  “You realiz
e any information I give you could jeopardize my immunity?”

  “You just said you’re worried you won’t live long enough to testify. I think immunity from prosecution is the least of your concerns.”

  Rebecca eyed a half-eaten club sandwich sitting on a brown tufted chair. “That’s why you’re ordering all this food, isn’t it?”

  He hung his head. “Couldn’t decide what I wanted. Last meal, you know? Wanted it to be good.”

  A loud knock thudded on the door. “Mr. Lapinski,” AJ’s voice called out from the other side. “Ten-minute warning.”

  “That’s my cue.” Rebecca spun her chair around and rolled towards the door. “Guess you can take your chances with them.”

  “Wait!” Lapinski called after her. His voice sounded hesitant.

  Rebecca turned around.

  Lapinski’s face was calm, devoid of emotion. He stared at her for a few seconds. His pale blue eyes looked lost and confused.

  “Rebecca, I just … I want you to know, I’m sorry. I’m sorry for what Bernatto did to you. For what I did to you. I always respected you, and I … I never thought …”

  “I don’t need your apology, Ted. I need intel. I need to find these people and stop them. If you can’t help me with that … then go to hell.”

  She started to turn around again, but Ted's voice stopped her.

  “I know you don’t believe me, but I swear, I don’t know who it is. I never knew. I turned over all my information to the FBI. All the texts, emails, all of it. These people were careful. There’s not enough information in the file to identify them. Maybe if you can find someone else, someone like me, someone they were blackmailing … then you can corroborate, cross-reference the intel.”

  “Someone like the DNI? John Blayne?”

  Ted nodded. “I can’t prove it, but he must have been involved. Like I told Caine.”

  Rebecca nodded. “John Blayne is … he’s missing.”

  Ted swallowed. “Yeah. I figured. The only other thing I can tell you is, this person, whoever they are, they had me use my position to access personnel files. They wanted data on potential assets. Like the assassin in China. There was a file they sent me with a code name … PUFF ADDER. I did some digging on my own. PUFF ADDER was a South Sudanese rebel fighter named Simon Takuba. He was part of a black op Bernatto ran, back before he became the D/NCS. It was off-books. I think Caine may have been involved.”