by JT Sawyer
Two more hours then I’m out of this rathole.
He figured it was best to avoid flying into and out of Caracas given the current tension between the U.S. and Venezuela over trade sanctions and with his former status as an ambassador. Plus, it was far easier and safer bribing the guards near the Colombian border, an hour’s drive to the northwest.
Since retiring from Foreign Affairs, he had used his previous connections around the world in his consulting business, connecting wealthy CEOs with government leaders in third-world countries to further their mutual interests, which mostly centered on the hydroelectric, petroleum and coal industries.
Hunley viewed himself as an economic adjuster of sorts who forged a path through murky international relations, helping financial lenders, corporations and malleable political leaders in suffering nations to come to a mutually agreeable contract so billion-dollar energy projects could unfold without the entanglement of government regulatory commissions. It rarely entered his mind that his business only benefited a handful of local politicians in his target country while providing decades of impoverishment to the rest of the population. The considerable consulting fees he received from the construction firms and oil companies in the U.S. who were contracted for their work abroad was more than enough to further diminish his skeletal morality.
He caught a glimpse of Rimaldi leaving the café, watching as the man stopped by his car to talk to some teenagers squatting under the shade of a cypress tree.
He marveled at the presidential candidate’s vitality, recalling when he was filled with such passion in younger days. He seems to intuitively understand what people want—and want to hear—except he’s sincere as hell. God, he’d never survive in DC.
Hunley shook his head. I’m not even sure he’d make it through his first term here without someone popping him off for being so goddamn upstanding. But as long as he’s willing to sign off his oil to Roth, he’ll do.
As Hunley pulled away from his parking spot, his thoughts shifted to the villa and winery beside his second home in Tuscany that he’d be able to purchase in a few months as the image of Rimaldi faded from his rearview mirror.
He pulled out his cellphone, dialing an unlisted number.
“Yes,” said a young woman named Michele Henderson who served as Hunley’s personal problem-solver on the dark web.
“Are you in a secure place to talk?”
“Hang on,” she said as a door slammed in the background. “Go ahead.”
“Everything is getting underway with the candidate. He’s even more suited to being president than I expected. And with the overwhelming support of the Venezuelan elite who’ve fled here for Miami and Dallas over the years, we should have a smooth transfer of power with Rimaldi.”
Hunley made his way onto the highway. “I need you to get a hold of Landis. Tell him to send the contract to the email address I’ll send you. Rimaldi already knows what’s expected of him. In a few weeks, he’ll fly up to Texas and meet with Roth and myself at the ranch to finalize things. It’ll be on Roth’s private jet, which will depart from Colombia, so there’s no issue with customs. See to it that those logistics are all taken care of, then get our usual three-man team down here to begin working with Rimaldi.” He was referring to his economic hit squad, comprised of his lawyer, public relations expert and oil lobbyist, who would begin grooming Rimaldi.
“I’ll get right on that as soon as I hang up. Also, I spoke with Landis earlier. He was pretty on edge. Said the operation at Burke’s house had a snafu with one of the security guys surviving the blast—somebody who turned out to be undercover agency.”
He clutched the steering wheel, gritting his teeth. “What? Shit! This was supposed to be a straightforward job.”
“Said he needs me to burn this guy Shepard in the media…expose him as a rogue agent and leak his identity so he takes the fall for all the deaths. Now, that’s something I can certainly do, but I’m going to have every intel analyst out there looking for me once that story hits. I’ll have to go dark for a few days until I can get up and running with some new hardware.”
“Understandable. Just get back in touch with me ASAP. There’s too much riding on everything now, and I’ll need your services more than ever.”
He turned onto the entrance ramp for the highway, gazing at the sooty waters of the bay ahead.
“And one more thing…this morning I heard about a botanist with the geographic society down here who believes she discovered a rare orchid along the Colombian border. It’s in a region of virgin jungle that Roth’s petroleum engineers indicated was an oil-rich valley that we’ll have to doze for the extraction rigs. Contact my usual asset in Cartagena and tell him to take care of the woman before this gets any more publicity.”
“Consider it done.”
12
Langley
Patterson heard a knock on his office door then saw Lynn Vogel and her assistant, Jessica Quinn, enter.
Vogel had been the chief targeter for Shepard’s team for the past four years. Her sole focus was to identify then gather intel on a single individual to learn their habits, preferences, daily routines and travel patterns to provide the SD operators with the data they needed to plan and execute their mission. She was a meticulous woman whose cyber-skills were as refined as Shepard’s sniper craft, both of them working together to eliminate threats in far-flung places, and Shepard often joked that he heard Vogel’s voice more than he did Cassie’s.
Having begun her service to the country in the navy’s cryptography division, Vogel had risen through the ranks at Langley and rarely missed her mark as an analyst.
The analyst’s long black hair was pulled back into a tight ponytail with seemingly every hair in place, and her white blouse and gray pants were neatly pressed.
With her confident gait and professional demeanor, Patterson always thought the woman looked like someone who would be just as at home navigating the contorted political topography of the White House as she was strolling through CIA headquarters. He was grateful to have her as the head analyst for his SD unit.
Twenty-eight-year-old Jessica Quinn seemed as energetic and bright-eyed as always, and Patterson could see why Vogel had put so much time into training her as a targeter for the SD units during the past year so Vogel wasn’t spread so thin.
“You wanted to see us, sir,” Vogel said, standing before his desk.
“Please.” He motioned to the leather chair to his right.
Vogel sat down, immediately adjusting a stack of books on the corner of Patterson’s desk so they were all evenly aligned before sliding back into the chair while Quinn remained standing.
“I know you and Cal have worked closely over the years, even if from afar the majority of the time. I also know you have to be wondering what the hell happened at the Burke place, like Cal and myself.”
“The Feds and media reports indicate a gas explosion,” said Quinn.
“Yeah, sure.”
Vogel cleared her throat. “What do you need me to do?”
“The Director of National Intelligence is breathing down my back to get answers, and I want you to quietly look into the events leading up to that gathering at Burke’s place. Scan through the security data from his electronic surveillance system. It was fried in the blast, according to the FBI reports, but they don’t have the type of accessing skills you possess. See what turns up, then review the satellite footage from that neighborhood. I want the comings and goings of the vehicles at that party.”
“Retrieving footage of that nature is going to leave a trail with the NRO,” Vogel said, referring to the National Reconnaissance Office, which was responsible for operating reconnaissance satellites then relaying pertinent intelligence to government agencies. “What should I tell them?”
“I’ll get a hold of my colleague there and let him know it’s for a training exercise for a new analyst,” he said, glancing up at Quinn. “When you’re done, look over the security footage and logs from the past
week at Burke Enterprises to see if anyone or anything stands out between the two locations.”
He rubbed the back of his neck. “And keep this between us. No one on Shepard’s old team or amongst the other analysts in your division needs to know about this.”
Both women nodded. Vogel folded her arms, muffling an exhale. “May I speak freely, sir?”
Patterson leaned back in his chair. She had been working for him for four years and still had a need to keep up a military formality between them; any suggestion to do otherwise only made her hold her head up more firmly.
“Go ahead.”
“I already looked into the other surviving member at the party, Reggie Sinclair. It appears he had $10,000 deposited into his bank account last week from an unknown Swiss account. He’s still in a coma at the hospital, but it would be worth questioning him when he recovers.”
He tapped his fingers on the desk, looking out the window to the right briefly then back at Vogel. A part of him felt like reprimanding her for such unilateral action, but at the same time he needed answers, and she had been trained to circumvent any intel obstacles in the way of data-gathering.
“So, you’ve dug deep on this already. Keep going and report back directly to me here when you know more—no emails or calls, just keep up the façade that you’re here for our usual briefings.” He glanced at both women then aimed a hard stare at Quinn. “And that applies to you as well, Jessica. I need both of you on this.”
“Yes, sir,” the young woman said.
Vogel stood, unruffling the sleeves of her blouse then walking to the door as Quinn trailed behind her.
“And Lynn, I know you’re just looking out for Cal, but next time, run things by me first.”
She gave a hearty nod. “Of course, sir.”
13
Washington, D.C.
The day seemed more overcast than it should have been given the light mist coming down as Ian Landis clutched the black umbrella closer to his body. Quickly walking past a hot dog vendor at the edge of the park, he avoided eye contact with everyone, not even noticing the two cute females jogging past him. His world had been reduced to tunnel vision and a churning stomach that felt like it was about to rupture from all the stress.
He glanced up nervously at each tree and scanned the rooftops of nearby buildings and apartment complexes, wondering if Shepard would leap from above or slide a scoped rifle out from a window.
He’s eventually going to piece all this shit together with his resources, and I’m not about to spend the rest of my days glancing over my shoulder. Landis clumsily kicked a twig out of his path as if it would restore some order to his world. That bastard…how did he survive the blast? Now I have to clean this up. Why couldn’t one of the secretaries have been outside the house when it blew instead of this fucking guy?
Landis veered off on a side path that led to a picnic table nestled in the maple trees. He aimed a pensive nod at the figure sitting down, trying to recall if the man had such a full wispy chin beard when they met last month in another park. Like before, the man’s face was partially obscured beneath a blue hoodie and sunglasses, only allowing Landis to make out the features from his nose on down.
And didn’t he have a scar on his cheek last time?
The stout figure leaned back, depressing the play button on a tape recorder.
“What the hell? Nobody said anything about recording this meeting,” snapped Landis, his face ashen.
“Relax, Ian,” said the man as he turned up the volume on the device, which emanated the sound of croaking frogs. “Just a little background noise for safety’s sake in case there are other ears in the vicinity.”
Landis sat down at the opposite end of the picnic table from the man, who looked like he had just come from a peaceful stroll.
“I’ll be glad when all this cloak-and-dagger bullshit is over.”
“So you can go back to your normal life, picking up prostitutes down on Fifth?”
Landis’ eyes widened. “The fuck…are you following me now?”
“Your ineptitude at taking care of things with this operation has made some of us think that you are losing your edge.”
“Who said that? Roth? I’ve served him for years. Must be that smug prick Hunley with his….”
The man held up his beefy hand. “I’m not your therapist or your priest. I don’t give a shit about yesterday, but I do care about tomorrow, so see to it that this mop-up operation goes smoothly.”
He removed a flash drive from his pocket, handing it to Landis. “This is the dossier on Shepard for your pal on the dark web. She should be able to put together a nice media package to send off to the Times, Post or whatever. I’ve included several emails of reporters there who have covered unsubstantiated stories before…well, partially unsubstantiated, which is what most of journalism is these days.”
Landis palmed the flash drive, stroking its side with his trembling thumb as if it was a treasured artifact. “So, you know this guy Shepard…is he really the badass you said he is when we last spoke?”
“The baddest—eats baby demons for breakfast.” The man grinned, shaking his head. “He’s a man, Ian. He bleeds like the rest of us, and soon he’ll be tossed in prison for murder if he doesn’t end up getting shot to hell in a firefight with whichever law-enforcement agency is unfortunate enough to cross trails with him.”
The man picked up the tape recorder, leaving it running, the monotonous sound of frogs grating on Landis’ already shredded nerves. “After this, we’re done here, and I’m finally back on a plane to Texas for a while.”
“Adios, hombre,” the man said, pausing a foot from Landis and standing sideways to him. “Don’t release the story on Shepard until after tonight. I still have to tie off the loose end with Burke’s bodyguard, since he’s the one who disabled the security cams at the house so Montoya could do his thing.”
“I thought Sinclair is still at the hospital?”
“Yep, sometimes those head injuries can really take a turn for the worst.”
14
“Geez, this place looks like it was hit with a Hellfire missile,” said Tremblay as he and Carter walked up the driveway towards Burke’s former estate, which was little more than a framework of rubble and charred stumps surrounded by glittering shards of glass on the ground in every direction. The only thing left standing was a small barn in the distance and a Japanese-style teahouse down by the creek at the south end of the property.
Carter walked past the FBI forensics team, who were standing beside their mobile command post, processing personal items on a series of tables spread under a large shade canopy.
“Funny how you guys always show up just as lunch arrives,” said James Corelli, the team leader, as he pointed to the two coolers near the tailgate of the van. “Help yourself, just don’t eat all the cookies.”
“Pass, but I will take a coffee,” Carter said, grabbing a Styrofoam cup and pouring herself some of the brew from a carafe on the table. As she sipped the tepid fluid, her eyes drifted over the formerly opulent grounds then up to the remains of the estate.
“Wonder how many more palaces like this the guy had around the world,” she said.
“Three more,” said Corelli. “In California, Belize and Spain.” The man frowned, shrugging his shoulders. “What can I say? I’ve been a follower of his for a long time. Burke’s one of the reasons I got into science in the first place. His solar energy projects in Latin America back in the nineties was like the stuff of sci-fi for a twelve-year-old kid.”
“I always knew you were a geek, but that’s some serious nerd shit, Corelli,” said Tremblay, crunching down on a cookie.
“Yeah, you need to get a life like Tremblay here, who has the release of the new Halo game counting down on his iPhone’s timer.” Carter stepped closer, looking at the evidence bags. “So, anything of significance so far?”
Corelli thrust his thumb over his shoulder. “The federal arson investigator just left. Said that the b
last sure as hell wasn’t from a gas leak. Found evidence of Symtex and fragments of a timer in what’s left of the kitchen. That combined with the gas being turned on was what caused the mushroom cloud.”
“Symtex,” whispered Carter. “Last case we worked on that involved that type of explosive was with the Serbian hit in Queens when that dope factory blew up.”
“Last couple of cases along the East Coast were Serbians, actually,” said Tremblay. “Remember, our field office in south Boston investigated a similar explosion last year.”
“Yeah, but the Colombians and MS-13 gangs use that stuff too.” Carter set down the partially empty coffee cup. “We’ll have to talk with the gang task force guys when we get back and see which faction has been accepting hits in these parts.”
“You really think they’d leave such an obvious trail?” said Corelli. “And why take out Burke and his people?”
“Don’t know yet, but we still need to do the legwork,” she said, looking at Corelli. “So, nerd…Burke must have acquired a lot of enemies over the years given all he was into. Any ideas?”
“Hell, he undertook philanthropic ventures in so many countries during his career and pissed off so many government leaders in the process that it could be any number of individuals or groups, but I just don’t see them going to this extreme.”
“But most of the other guests were his senior staff,” said Carter. “It seems to me that whoever orchestrated a hit of this magnitude timed it to eliminate anyone who could take over the reins at Burke’s company. This smacks of corporate espionage more than mere revenge.”
“Not to mention that most of the critical hardware at his company disappeared shortly after the blast here,” said Tremblay.
Corelli rocked his head from side to side, contemplating the question. “His software and research would have been extensively backed up. The man had an obsessive nature, judging from all the interviews I’ve read.” He raised his hands. “Look, I’m not a data forensics guy, so you should talk to them back at HQ if you want to know more, but my guess is that he had the source codes for all of his software contained offsite—and I don’t mean on the cloud for someone to hack into. He probably had a physical location somewhere else.”