by Mike Maden
And then Jack found it.
An announcement that Christopher Gage’s new company, Baltic General Services, was searching for property in Gdańsk.
But did it mean anything? Or just a coincidence?
Jack put it on a sticky note and posted it on his monitor, one of several staring him in the face now.
He hoped one of them would pay off soon.
18
WASHINGTON, D.C.
She put two .380 rounds right between the man’s eyes.
“God, I love this laser,” Dixon said.
The paper target hung limply in the air some thirty feet away on the indoor range. The beam from the red targeting laser attached beneath the short barrel of her SIG Sauer P238 pistol still danced on the silhouetted head.
“Good shooting, Senator.”
“Well, you trained me, didn’t you?” Dixon smiled.
Dixon and Sandra Kyle were the only two shooters in the subterranean range at the moment. Dixon preferred both highly personalized and private instruction from Kyle, who was happy to oblige. Kyle was a former undercover officer in the U.S. Capitol Police who had been detailed to Dixon’s office when she was in town. Now retired, the attractive African American woman had purchased the gun range and specialized in self-defense and concealed-carry courses for women. She also ran a private detective agency.
Dixon dumped her empty mag and double-racked the slide to ensure the weapon was completely empty before setting it down on the shooting table, barrel pointed downrange. She pulled off her headphones.
Kyle removed her ear protection as well. The empty, soundproofed room was the perfect place to hold a private conversation.
“I have a little problem I need you to look into,” Dixon began. She rather liked the smell of burnt gunpowder hanging in the air.
“Happy to oblige.”
“You haven’t asked me what the problem is yet.”
Kyle shrugged. “I owe you, whatever it is.”
Dixon shook her head. “You don’t owe me a thing. If anyone’s in debt, it’s me to you for all the years you’ve kept me safe.”
Dixon had received numerous death threats while in office, most of them nothing but noise. But on the few occasions when the threat profile escalated, Kyle was always there, rain or shine, no matter the time of day or night.
But that was Kyle’s job. Her sworn duty as a U.S. Capitol Police officer. In truth, she never had to face actual combat on Dixon’s behalf or anyone else’s, not even as an active-duty Air Police officer on her single tour in Kabul. But she was well trained and very loyal, eager to carry out the side jobs Dixon occasionally assigned to her, mostly involving gathering embarrassing intelligence data on political opponents as the need arose.
More to the point, when Kyle was arrested on a DUI in Virginia, it was Dixon who intervened, saving both her career and her generous public pension. Aaron had also provided the interest-free capital Kyle had needed to purchase the Alexandria gun range. So, in fact, Kyle did owe Dixon in perpetuity, and both women knew it.
Dixon hit the retrieval switch. The punctured paper target fluttered as it sped toward the shooting bay on a whirring steel cable. It snapped to a stop just inches away from her.
“Aggressive shooting, Senator. I assume this has something to do with POTUS?”
“Indirectly, yes.”
Kyle nodded at the shredded target. “Nothing quite so dramatic as that, I hope.”
Dixon laughed. “Just venting some frustrations.”
“So long as I don’t have to break into the Oval, I’m okay with whatever you have in mind. So, what is it?”
Dixon pinched the spring-loaded clips that held the target in place. “You know Ryan’s a Boy Scout. He has very specific ideas about his own versions of right and wrong.”
“Sure. I’ve seen him in action.”
“Well, I have it on good authority he’s terribly interested in me at the moment. He sees me as a political threat, and I know he’s looking to find dirt on me, any way he can.” Dixon laid the target on the gun table while she spoke.
“Is there any dirt for him to find?”
“No, of course not. But he will look, and as you know, anything he finds, even if it’s clean, can be turned to mud if put in the proper hands in the media.”
“So how can I help?”
“Put on his shoes for a minute and answer me this: If you were Ryan and your high-minded morals wouldn’t let you use federal resources like the IRS or the FBI to dig for dirt on your political opponent, how else would you do it?”
“He’s a pretty damn good analyst all on his own, as I recall,” Kyle said.
“I doubt he has the time.”
Kyle tapped her chin with a red-lacquered nail, thinking. “There’s an outfit that Gerry Hendley runs, Hendley Associates. Have you heard of it?”
“Yes. It’s a top drawer financial firm. Hendley was a legend on the Hill—still is, really. The senator and I conferred on a few bills together when I was still in the House before he . . . well, you know.”
Kyle nodded. She was an officer on patrol duty when she first heard the news that Gerry Hendley’s wife and three children had been killed in a horrible collision with a tractor-trailer on I-85. Torn up by the tragedy, Hendley effectively threw away his Senate career in a halfhearted reelection bid he lost badly. After he recovered his bearings, he eventually founded Hendley Associates. Despite being a lifelong Democrat, Hendley worked hard on behalf of the Ryan administration while he was in the Senate, willingly crossing the aisle on matters of national security, putting petty partisanship aside for the common good.
“I’m glad he landed on his feet,” Dixon said. And she meant it. She had admired Hendley back in the day and though he was no longer in office, he was still a force on the Hill. “It’s a first-rate firm, according to my husband. But how does that answer my question?”
“Hendley employs a guy by the name of John Clark. Do you know anything about him?”
Dixon shook her head. “Should I?”
“He’s a former Navy SEAL, ex-CIA. He’s getting a little long in the tooth, but he’s a guy you definitely don’t want to fuck with—pardon my French—and he’s a friend of Ryan’s.”
“Why does a financial firm employ an ex-spook? Security?”
“That would be my guess. Probably for Hendley.”
“Or someone else employed there.”
“Are you thinking about someone in particular?”
“Jack Ryan, Jr., is a financial analyst there.” Dixon felt a tingle on the back of her neck. That would be another direct link to President Ryan. And a retired operator like Clark had other implications. She frowned. Maybe Senator Chadwick really had been onto something.
Kyle nodded. “I’ll get right on it.”
Dixon folded up the decimated target and pocketed it.
“If Hendley Associates is after me, I want to know about it. But be discreet. I don’t want Gerry to know you’re sniffing around. There would be hell to pay if he found out.”
“Understood, ma’am.”
19
ALEXANDRIA, VIRGINIA
Jack carefully placed his folded clothes into the carry-on backpack. The weather in the southern hemisphere was turning warmer and he didn’t want to check any bags, especially on a commercial flight with multiple transfers.
His phone rang in the other room. He checked his watch. It was Gerry. Jack popped in his AirPods as he tapped his phone.
“Hi, Gerry. What’s up?”
“Just rereading the report you sent over last night. Had a few questions. Am I interrupting anything?”
“Just packing. Shoot.”
“You discovered a connection between Senator Dixon’s stepson and this Chinese partner in Poland.”
“Yeah. Found a little smoke, but no fire.” Jack d
ropped a couple of pairs of socks into the bag.
“But if I’m reading between the lines, you think there might be something worth digging into.”
“I wouldn’t be surprised. But I exhausted all of my online resources. That’s why I recommended Gavin taking over from here. If anyone can find something, it’s him.” Jack ran the zipper, shutting the bag.
“Unfortunately, Gavin and his team are tasked to something else at the moment. That’s why I’d like you to catch a flight over there and see what you can find on the ground.”
“Me? I’ve never been to Poland. I don’t have any contacts there, and I sure don’t speak the language. Why not send Midas? He’s fluent in Polish.”
“Midas is out of country right now. And before you ask, Dom and Adara are at Coronado, training in hand-to-hand fighting with some ex-SEAL instructors there. Ding and Clark are also indisposed at the moment.”
“Which leaves just me.”
“Not to worry. I’ve already arranged an excellent contact for you. An agent with the ABW—Poland’s version of the FBI.”
“Well, to be honest, you already approved my ten days of R-and-R. In fact, I’m heading out tomorrow.” Jack didn’t want to mention that his trip was all about the promise he made to Cory.
“Can’t you postpone it a few days?”
Jack hemmed and hawed. He didn’t like putting Gerry off. But keeping Cory’s promise was important. Damned important. A man keeps his word.
“I mean, I’ve already purchased the tickets—”
“I’ll pay the difference if they charge you for changing the dates.”
“That’s generous of you, but, well . . . it’s important.”
“Is your personal vacation time more important than the national interest?”
Not if you put it that way. “No, of course not. But snooping around for dirt on Dixon reads more like a Raymond Chandler novel than a national security matter.”
“That’s your dad’s call, not ours.”
Ouch.
“I guess I can put off my trip for a few more days. It’s not exactly time-sensitive.”
“Good. I’ve already contacted Lisanne to make the arrangements. You’ll be leaving tomorrow. She’ll be in touch.”
“You know this is a long shot, right?”
“I read as much in your report. But right now it’s the only one we have.”
“Any ideas you can throw my way?”
“I don’t have to tell you that D.C. is a political town. I need you to tread lightly over there. Don’t make any waves, don’t cast any aspersions. If Dixon even gets a hint that somebody is after her, or, worse, that your father is behind any of this, there’ll be hell to pay.”
“Understood. I’ll do my best.”
Gerry chuckled. “I know you will. That’s why you’re on the payroll, son.”
“I’ll find out what I can and stay in touch.”
Gerry rang off and Jack unzipped his bag to unpack.
Poland was going to be colder than where he had been planning to go and a backpack wasn’t going to cut it on a Hendley Associates business trip.
20
SAN FRANCISCO, CALIFORNIA
Fung was at his standup desk in his office at CloudServe. His fingers flew across the keyboard as he punched his way through a new coding algorithm. His phone rang.
Oh, shit.
“Hi, Amanda. What’s up?”
“Do you mind stopping by my office for a few minutes? There’s something I want to discuss with you.”
“Sure. Be right over.”
Fung hung up. He swallowed hard. It had been only a couple days since he pulled the most recent data for CHIBI. No word from him, but that wasn’t terribly unusual. The deposited money was all the confirmation he needed that CHIBI was satisfied.
Fung glanced past his glass wall and out at the work floor. The place was packed today. They all hated him, he was sure. Even the members of the Red Team he helped run for Watson. They were all jealous of him. He could only imagine their smirking faces as the FBI perp-walked him in handcuffs out of his office. He couldn’t bear the idea of it.
To hell with them.
Fung pulled out his slim wallet. Four credit cards. One was maxed out. He had Google Pay on his phone, too, linked to a fifth. Two hundred and change in cash. He could march out of his office right now, head home, snag his passport and a few clothes, then get the hell out. But where would he go? Thailand, to be with Torré? No. Too obvious. That would be the first place they’d look.
“Just . . . breathe,” he told himself. He was getting way out over his skis on this. Watson’s call was probably nothing.
Probably.
* * *
—
Fung approached Watson’s desk.
She was on the phone. He made a gesture that he could come back later. She scrunched up her face and shook her head, indicating the call wasn’t sensitive and motioning for him to grab a seat.
Fung fell into one of the springy plywood laminate chairs in front of her desk. Her corner-office view was something to die for. Of course she had the corner office. She was Dahm’s favorite, wasn’t she?
Fuck her. She was too stupid to know she had given him the keys to the IC Cloud, or, at least, a part of it, by showing him how to access the CIA comms satellite.
His eyes drifted to the framed photos on the wall behind her. Most were of Watson and the celebrity actors, musicians, and politicians who joined her, hammers and saws in hand, framing houses for disabled and homeless veterans in the Homes for Heroes charity she founded in honor of her dead brother, killed in some stupid war.
The most prominent photo was of Watson, Senator Dixon, and Aaron Gage smiling broadly for the camera, each in hard hats and safety glasses. The Dixon-Gage Charitable Trust was the biggest donor to Homes for Heroes, and Watson never let anyone forget about it. It was priceless publicity for her and for them. Hell, he wasn’t stupid. He’d even contributed to Watson’s charity. Office politics, and all of that.
There was also a framed American flag on the wall, presented to her by a local chapter of the Disabled American Veterans, with a plaque indicating it had once flown over the USS Arizona.
The wall also featured a case of her brother’s military patches, medals, and ribbons next to another picture of her brother in an Army uniform.
Good-looking guy. What a waste, Fung thought.
“Sorry to keep you waiting,” Watson said, hanging up the phone. “Thanks for coming.”
“No problem. What’s up?”
“First of all, how is your father doing on the chemo?”
A jolt of anger shot through Fung. He hoped it didn’t show. His father had insisted on an experimental cancer treatment that wasn’t covered by his health insurance. Naturally, he expected his dutiful son to cover it. That, and the Hawaiian cruise his parents were taking next month.
“He’s good.”
“If you don’t mind my saying, your reaction says otherwise. Anything I can do to help?”
“Only if you can convince my father to quit smoking. He keeps bribing his home health aides to sneak in packs of Newports. I’ve had to fire two already.”
“Parents,” Watson said, shaking her head. “Hard to train them. Even harder to pick them. Sorry about that.” She took a sip of herbal tea from a Homes for Heroes–branded cup she kept on her desk.
“Comes with the territory.”
“And how’s Torré?”
Fung brightened. “I spoke to him just last night. Everything’s going great. Three more months of HRT until he can get his surgery.”
“That’s wonderful. I’m very excited for both of you.”
“Anything to make him happy. I just wish he wasn’t so far away. But Thailand really is the best option for him.”
Watson leaned for
ward on her desk. “You’re a very generous person, aren’t you?”
Fung pointed at the picture wall. “It’s why we’re all here, isn’t it?”
Watson smiled, leaning back. “Yes, I suppose so. I could still learn a lot from you.”
“Look who’s talking. Someday you’ll have to show me how to set up my own foundation.”
“Sure, anytime.” She reached over to her purse and pulled out a business card. “Scott Shelby is a JD and a CPA. He did all the paperwork for Homes for Heroes. He’s the perfect guy to talk to.”
Fung studied the card politely before saying “Thanks” and pocketing it.
So far, so good.
“I never did hear how your meeting in D.C. went,” Fung said.
“Oh, fine. Great, really. The IC Cloud is airtight and running like a Swiss watch. Which is why I wanted to talk to you today.”
Here it is.
“About what, exactly?”
“About IC security. It’s too damn good.”
“And that’s a problem?”
“It is. For them as well as for us.”
“Why for them?”
“I got the sense that some of those department heads are getting a little too complacent. They need to remember they’re as responsible as we are for their own security.”
“Makes sense. But how does that affect us?”
“If Foley and the department heads ever come to believe they’re invulnerable, they won’t see a need to keep us around anymore. At least, not for security. And I don’t need to remind you that our highest profit centers are in services, not hardware and software sales.”
“So basically we’re cops who are going to break into the mayor’s office so that he keeps putting cops on the city payroll.”