by Jack Slater
“Well—” Pope grimaced. “That’s the problem. We know these guys had very similar careers. They jumped from base to base at roughly the same times. The problem is, their files are clean. Way too clean to be real.”
“They’ve been sanitized,” Ikeda deduced.
“Exactly. All these documents tell us is that they both worked in Army intelligence about the same time in about the same places. Their performance evaluations are either missing or written by superior officers who don’t seem to exist. Anything about that strike you as unusual?”
Trapp groaned. “Where should I start? These guys have black written all over them. Where did you get with the Army?”
Pope raised his eyebrows meaningfully. “Stonewalled. These guys were discharged a decade and a half ago. Either someone knows who they are and what they were up to and isn’t telling us, or –”
“– Or just as likely it was so long ago that nobody has any idea, and now they’ve gotten this far, they don’t exactly want to go plowing up the field in case they find a body,” Trapp finished.
“Precisely.”
“I sent a request to the agent in charge at the St. Louis field office to go to the Center in person and pull the paper records, just in case they contain something that didn’t make it into the system, but I’m not hopeful. We are further than we were, but it’s looking like a dead end.”
“What about interviewing everyone connected to Grover and Fitz?” Burke asked. “That has to be better than nothing, right?”
It was an option, Trapp thought, but one that was more understandable for a cop than someone in his own line of work. Pope shortly said the same.
“If that’s all we’re left with, then we’ll do it. But I’m kind of hoping to avoid that. Ex-military is the same as retired law enforcement – they are close-knit groups. Who’s to say these guys haven’t asked their old friends to let them know if anyone comes asking around? Or worse, what if they are still working together?”
Burke nodded but stayed silent, looking a little embarrassed that he hadn’t considered that eventuality.
“Nick’s right,” Trapp murmured thoughtfully. “If we can, we need to do this quietly.”
“You have any suggestions?” Pope groaned, massaging his temples. “Because I have to tell you, Jason – we are all out.”
Trapp nodded. “One.”
“Care to share?”
“A guy I used to work for in Delta. General Caldwell. If there’s something to know about these guys that isn’t in the files, I’m guessing either he knows it, or he can tell us who will.”
Pope sat up and reached for a pen off-screen, which hovered over a notepad that set just in view. He looked up expectantly. “You got his number?”
“Not that easy, champ.” Trapp winced. “He’s a… How can I say this? A cantankerous kind of guy. Lives off grid near the Shenandoah National Park.”
“Of course he does…” Pope sighed. “Okay then. What about an address?”
The two FBI agents were in the air less than half an hour later. It could have been sooner, but they chose to fly in an unmarked Bureau helicopter, as opposed to choosing one of the more numerous – and more conspicuous – units marked with three yellow letters.
“What about that?” Pope called out through the intercom headset, pointing at a small homestead surrounded on three sides by thickets of thickly-hemmed trees and bracketed on the fourth by a narrow dirt track, about wide enough for a 1990s pickup truck.
Kelly craned over him in a fashion that might have caused a couple of raised eyebrows had it occurred back in the office, rather than in the field.
“It’s in the right place,” she said, her voice raised over the combination of the rotor wash and engine noise.
Pope shrugged and leaned forward to tap the pilot on the shoulder. He indicated the small clearing in question and asked, “You think you can put us down there safely?”
“Sure thing,” came the casual, almost lackadaisical response.
He knew that the FBI pilots were good – mostly former military – but even so, his lunch almost parted company with his stomach as the man guided the small aircraft into a steep dive before pirouetting the bird’s tail 180° and setting it down on a dime just behind a small, three-sided carriage roofed with rusted corrugated iron. It had the bed of a pickup poking out.
One from the nineties.
“Thanks, buddy,” Pope said, lifting his headset off his ears and yelling out right over the noise that ensued. “You good to wait here?”
“Ain’t got a better offer,” the pilot replied with an accompanying thumbs-up. He reached under his seat and pulled out a paperback. “I’ll be here when you need me. You go do your secret agent shit.”
Pope chuckled. “Thanks, Dick. Be right back.”
The engine had powered down by this point, though the rotors were still turning in long, lazy spins overhead. They were visible now, which provided a somewhat more disconcerting reminder of the damage they might do to an unsuspecting passerby. He jumped out and kept his frame hunched over far longer than was probably necessary. They were both dressed in black suits – him wearing a tie and Kelly only an open shirt, which proved to be an advantage when his tie whipped violently in the chopper’s wash.
By the time they reached the homestead itself, a wooden cabin with a small covered porch and a tin roof, the sounds and fury had almost completely died away. Pope reflected that a man like the one Jason had described – one so unconvinced by modern society that he’d chosen to remove himself from it – probably had little love for the method of arrival, either.
“What do you figure?” he asked as they made it to the cabin, stopping just short of the porch. “Think anyone’s home?”
Kelly took a step back, her short-cut hair bobbing around her chin as she did so. Her eyes passed over the entire cabin, and she took her time before she spoke.
“There’s smoke coming out the chimney,” was all she said.
Pope liked that about her. She was economical with her choice of words – and with when she did and did not choose to speak in the first place. Too many agents in the Bureau were blowhards, obsessed with the sound of their own voice and with climbing the ranks, but she was not one of those.
Of course, counterintelligence wasn’t the greatest sinecure for someone interested in chasing promotion. It was quiet, methodical, essential work done out of the public eye. It had to be. But that went just as much for those within the FBI as those without.
But perhaps that made it a perfect place for the young agent. It wasn’t just that she was modest, but she had the smarts and the work ethic to go with it. He suspected she would go far.
Now that she mentioned it, he could smell the wood smoke. It wasn’t so different from the smog and vehicle pollution of the streets of DC in chemical terms – worse in the summer, with the heat and humidity.
He took a step up onto the porch and knocked loudly on the wooden door. “General Caldwell – are you in there, sir?”
There was no answer. Not even the creak of movement elsewhere in the building. Pope frowned. Was the guy deaf? Surely he couldn’t have missed the sound of a helicopter landing in his front yard. It couldn’t exactly be an everyday occurrence.
He tried knocking again.
Again, no answer.
Without turning to face Kelly, he said, “What do you think? Should we go in?”
A gruff voice answered, causing him to jump almost out of his skin and to land back on his leather souls with an audible thud against the wooden floorboards.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” the voice intoned roughly. “Stay exactly where you are. And don’t turn around.”
Pope cleared his throat, careful not to make any sudden movements, mindful of Trapp’s description of the man’s mood. “General –”
“Did I ask you to speak, son? Keep your eyes front and your tongue still till I tell you something different.”
Feeling like he hadn’t sinc
e Parris Island and with his cheeks coloring, Pope grunted, “Yes sir.”
“That goes for you as well, young lady.”
For her part, Kelly said nothing.
“Are either of you armed?”
They replied in the affirmative.
“Weapons on the ground. Nice and slow. You first, big guy.”
Pope did as he was instructed, reaching for his holster and retrieving the pistol with a thumb and forefinger before holding it out and away from his body. He then crouched and placed it gently on the ground.
“Now you.”
Kelly followed.
“Good. Now kick them away. Nice and far, now.”
He kicked out with the side of his Oxford shoe, sending the pistol skittering across the wood until it toppled off the other end of the porch. He winced, half-expecting a misfire. Now that would be a hell of a way to end a hell of a day.
“Excellent,” the voice – he presumed Caldwell – said, seeming more relaxed. “You can turn around now. Both of you.”
Pope did as he was told, and to his surprise noted that General Caldwell wasn’t even pointing a weapon at him. He was armed with an antique wooden hunting rifle with a lustrous sheen, but the weapon was shouldered.
“You look surprised.” Caldwell grinned. “Did no one ever tell you you’re only supposed to point these things if you’re prepared to shoot?”
Well, at least that’s promising, he thought.
“Yes, sir. Just wondering why you made us go through that whole charade, that’s all.”
“I just needed to check you weren’t rangers,” Caldwell grunted.
Pope frowned with genuine confusion. What the hell was this guy talking about? “Army Rangers?”
“Why the hell would the Army be looking for me?” Caldwell asked, a smile playing on his lips. “I served my time. And then some.”
“Then who?” Kelly asked.
The general’s expression softened as he looked at her, and Pope wondered whether that was why she’d spoken up.
“Park rangers.”
Pope decided he had better things to do than ask why the park rangers might be after Caldwell. “Do they usually send choppers out looking for you?”
The old man shrugged. “First time for everything.”
“Sir, we’re with the FBI. You mind if I reach into my jacket for my ID?”
“No need, son,” Caldwell scoffed. “I knew who you were the second you stepped out of that bird.”
“Have we met?”
“Not your name,” came the reply with an expression on Caldwell’s face that indicated he thought the question was frankly idiotic. “You’ve got that Bureau scent all over you. Damn suits.”
He shook his head wonderingly. “Well – are you going in or what?”
“After you, sir.”
“You came this far, didn’t you? After you.”
Pope pushed the cabin’s front door, finding that it was unlocked, and entered. The cabin was small, only a few rooms set over a single floor, but it was neatly arranged. They stepped directly into the living room, which was covered on three walls by floor-to-ceiling bookshelves and a smoldering woodstove on the last.
Caldwell seated them on the only sofa and poured them each a cup of coffee before he was prepared to engage. Pope sensed he’d spent a lot of years giving orders, and then once that life was over, he’d retreated here. It might have been weeks since he’d last spoken to another human.
“Thank you,” he said, accepting a steaming cup.
“Now, how can I help?” Caldwell asked.
“Sir, my name’s Nick Pope. I work in counterintelligence at the Bureau.”
“Thought as much.”
“Do you know a guy called Jason Trapp?” Pope asked.
“Never heard of him,” Caldwell replied without so much as a flicker of recognition passing over his face. “Should I have?”
Pope bowed his head a second before continuing. “General, he’s in no trouble. He sent me here. Said you might be able to help with something.”
Caldwell took his time before replying. He didn’t look even faintly embarrassed. “In that case, I’m at your disposal.”
Pope reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a cell phone. He turned it on and faced the screen at Caldwell. “Sir, do you recognize either of these men?”
This time, the general looked more pensive as he studied the photos of Grover and Fitz. He gave a curt nod. “Unfortunately.”
“Why do you say that?”
“What do you know about them?” Caldwell replied.
Which wasn’t exactly how Pope had hoped this conversation would go. He didn’t have time for a game of twenty questions.
Glancing around the cabin’s small, austere living room, Pope asked, “General – have you been following the news from Mexico?”
Caldwell laughed. “Son, do you see a television in here? I spent the better part of my entire life following every news story that bubbled up from some shithole corner of this godforsaken planet. I spent the last five years trying to forget about all of it.”
“I envy you, sir. Unfortunately, right now I don’t have that luxury. Last week, the administrator of the Drug Enforcement Administration was executed in Houston, along with half a dozen US Attorneys. The two largest Mexican drug cartels are currently engaged in a drag-out fight south of the border, and the violence is spilling over into the US itself.”
“What do Grover and Fitz have to do with any of that?”
“You know their names, then?” Pope observed.
“Like I said – unfortunately.”
“Tell me about them.”
Caldwell sighed and suddenly looked several years older. His skin, clean-shaven and scarred by decades of shaving accidents, sagged. “Have you ever heard of an organization known as the Apparatus?”
Pope, nonplussed, shook his head.
“I suspected not. Few have. Fewer still have any idea what it is – or I should say was.”
“I’m all ears,” Pope remarked dryly, glancing meaningfully at Kelly to indicate that she should take notes. Unsurprisingly, she was already way ahead of him, a pad balanced on her knees, pen hovering expectantly over the paper.
“It was a relic of the eighties, I suppose,” Caldwell said, settling into his chair. “A think tank, for all intents and purposes.”
He looked sharply at Kelly. “This is classified, you understand. And it will be long after all of us are dead.”
“I can keep a secret,” she replied without blinking.
Even Caldwell cracked a smile at that. “I’m sure you can. Okay – where was I?”
“A think tank,” she said.
“Yeah. But not the report writing kind. None of that bullshit. The Army has enough of them already. It did, anyway, and I don’t suppose much has changed. The Apparatus was an informal kind of organization, dreamed up by some officers in Army intelligence and special forces who thought that Big Army was too slow, too hidebound, too stuck in the past.
“It was modeled on another outfit known as the Activity, or Task Force Orange. That’s another group that works hand in glove with Delta and the Rangers to gather intel ahead of putting special forces boots on the ground. The Apparatus was the other side of it. Instead of helping them when they got there, it was all about putting them there in the first place. Far-fetched plans, big ideas, derring-do, that kind of thing. And it had a whiff of Iran Contra about it, too. Always countenancing ideas that most of the rest of us thought were beyond the pale. And I’m no bleeding heart, believe me. I just didn’t think they were good concepts.”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know the details.” Caldwell shrugged. “I just heard the whispers. I suppose most of us in Delta of a certain vintage did. To be honest, I thought the whole thing died out.”
“Apparently not,” Pope said through gritted teeth, growing exasperated.
“Quite,” Caldwell said. “But Lieutenant Colonel Grover, if anyone wa
s going to take the whole thing too far, it would be him.”
“Why do you say that?”
“He always had a problem with cause and effect. Fitz I don’t know jack about. But I remember Grover. Remember that he never truly understood escalation risks, which is why he never made full bird. He’s the kind of guy who would push the nuclear button out of interest and not bother wondering what might happen when the Russians detected the launch.”
“Comforting,” Kelly remarked, lifting her pen from the paper after a burst of furious notetaking.
Caldwell scrunched his nose. “Not so much. Tell me, how exactly do you suspect that Lieutenant Colonel Grover is involved in all this?”
“It’s still unclear. We think he’s working with one of the cartels. Probably the Crusaders, but that’s only a guess. Exactly why is still up in the air. But I’d be interested in your theory.”
Caldwell demurred. “I don’t have all the details. Only what you told me.”
“Humor us.”
“In that case, I think he planned it.”
“Planned what?” Pope asked, frowning.
“Everything,” Caldwell replied, stretching his palms wide. “I don’t think he’s working for the cartel, I think they’re working for him. It would fit with what I know of the Apparatus. Seizing control of a cartel, turning it against the rest, it’s practically ripped from their playbook. It’s big, it’s bold – and it’s downright foolish.”
“To what end?”
“Well, that rather depends, doesn’t it? Are they still working for the government – or are they just out for themselves?”
39
It was amusing, thought Fernando Carreon without displaying any evident sign that he was in fact amused, that a man so arrogant as Warren Grover should make such an elementary mistake.
The cartels had learned – mostly – long ago that it was possible to pick a fight with the government. It was possible to go to war with another cartel. It was possible to draw the wrath of the United States of America.
On occasion, it might even be profitable to pick two.
But going with all three was not just unwise, it was beginning to look downright foolish.