The Export

  “No, I think until we get a much better handle on this, you should lay low. Low, as in, get the eff out of the country low. Use one of your aliases. Go somewhere crowded, where it will be harder for someone to notice the lone American.”

  “Run – you want me to run?” he protested.

  “No. Take time to assess the situation. Lay out an action plan, and then execute it with the fury I know you have boiling inside of you right now.” She got up from her seat and made herself another coffee, then gave Matt a hard time for eating her last donut. But she still seemed puzzled by something.

  “Matt, I don’t get one part of this whole thing.”

  “And that is?”

  “If the coroner said Helene died of a heart attack and the subsequent fall, and there were no signs of foul play, and her security team, who she liked and trusted … why did you pull a blood sample? Why the secrecy?”

  Once he told her about the turquoise ring and the arrangement he and Coleman had made, she understood.

  “Two more things, Claire,” he said, not hiding the urgency of the situation, “please get your team to check the CCTV in the area around the dock bar, my boat, and your building. If these guys made the mistake of getting their images captured, we might have a solid lead to pursue.”

  Dale agreed and began typing an email to one of her metro police department contacts. To them, they’d be looking for two suspects and nothing more.

  “You said two. What was the second thing you needed?”

  Matt thought for a moment. Everything had happened so fast tonight. What was it, what was the other thing? he asked himself. Then it came back to him.

  “Ask the cops when they’re reviewing the CCTV to find me at the dock bar around one in the morning. I was wearing this shirt and talking with a blonde in a Nationals t-shirt. I ordered a drink, and that’s the last thing I remember. I need to know if she was involved and how I got from my barstool to the boat.”

  “Jäger?” she asked. “I’ll bet it was friggin’ Jäger. You always get into trouble with that stuff!”

  He smiled innocently and shrugged his shoulders.

  A knock at the door let Dale know that the FBI security team she’d texted had now arrived. Both she and Matt could relax a bit, for now. That is, if she could be sure they were on her side.

  Armed, plainclothes men and women were dispatched to read a newspaper or play on their phones in the lobby, in the underground parking garage, and in the perimeter around the condo building. They would ensure Dale’s safety, as best anyone could, and get her to the FBI building later that morning. For Matt, who refused any help, his game plan was set. It was time for him to get moving. The robe he had changed into while Dale ran his clothes through the dryer was tossed on her bed. When he came back into the living room, he smiled at the steaming hot mug of coffee waiting for him on the counter. Or so he thought.

  Dale walked past and grabbed the drink. “Back off, buddy, that’s mine.”

  The two went over the plan once more. Then it was time for Matt to get moving. Suddenly something he’d neglected to do hit him. He swore under his breath. “Claire, give me your phone. I’ve got to warn Charlie,” he said in an urgent tone. Then, “Shit, all his numbers are in my dead phone!”

  “Never mind. I’ve got them.” Dale went to her laptop and typed in MI5. Before long, she was on the phone, as an FBI official, asking for Charlie Chaste’s office. Once she reached him, she asked how he was and then handed the phone to Matt. Relieved to hear his friend’s voice, Matt went over what had happened and urged him to watch his back, front, and every possible direction. Someone related to Sinclair was surely after him, too.

  “No worries, my friend,” Charlie assured him. It took a lot to ruffle this Brit.

  “I’ll be on the lookout here. And for Christ’s sake, stay the hell away from the water for a while. Yes?” After a few more exchanges, Charlie signed off, and Matt drew a deep breath of relief.

  Another knock at the door announced the arrival of one of the FBI techs, delivering a new, secure iPhone for Matt as well as two disposable burner phones that he could use and discard without a trace anywhere in the world. She also delivered his suitcase and backpack, filled with jeans, t-shirts, his hiking shoes, toiletries, and a variety of his passports and identity cards. He searched through the bags but failed to come up with the final items he’d hoped to see.

  “No hiking gear?” he protested. The aide shrugged her shoulders.

  “Buy some as needed,” Dale answered. “It’s time to get moving.”

  Matt thanked the aide and closed the door behind her, then turned to face Dale for what he thought might possibly be the last time. There she was again, gun in hand.

  “Take this, I have plenty,” she demanded, holding the Glock and shoulder holster with two extra clips out for him to take.

  There was no reason to push back. He needed a weapon, and the gun safe in his condo was the last place he wanted to go right now. He quickly changed into a pair of jeans and replaced his sneakers with the hiking shoes and socks. He slid the holster into place and then put on the light sport coat the aide had brought. Matt grabbed his two bags and walked straight to Dale, stopping a foot from her. He wanted to kiss her goodbye, but the look on her face, despite the love in her eyes, reminded him of her boundaries.

  “We keep getting drawn to one another,” she said softly, “sent toward each other, Matt, but you need to remember. As long as we’re both doing this work, carrying guns and chasing bad guys, we can’t be together.”

  He continued to look into her eyes, then leaned forward and kissed her cheek good-bye. Moments later, the door to her condo closed behind him, and he was on his way.

  One of the security agents tossed Matt a set of keys and pointed to a dark-blue Chevy Malibu parked in the garage. Tossing the bags in the backseat, Matt jumped in, buckled up, and drove out into the early morning. He headed north toward NSA headquarters in Fort Meade, Maryland, by way of the Baltimore-Washington Parkway. Instead of continuing straight north, he exited at Route 50 and headed east toward Annapolis. That was familiar territory to him – he knew the ways in and out of town and wanted to schedule two appointments before he put his exit plan into play.

  First, he called DNI in McLean and and spoke with Coleman’s second-in-command, Freddie Morrison. After they talked through what had happened, Morrison cut to the chase.

  “You didn’t call just to hear how sorry I am about Helene,” he stated. “What can I help you with, Matt?

  “Can you meet me in Annapolis, at the Irish pub on Maryland Avenue, just off the circle, at noon?” he asked. “It’s important.”

  “I’ve got meetings all day at the NSA,” he stated, “Can’t you come here?”

  Matt understood but pushed for the pub meet. “It’s best, considering what I have seen recently. We need to meet away from any offices,” he added. “Cloak-and-dagger stuff, if you catch my drift.”

  Morrison didn’t respond right away. Perhaps he was checking his schedule or assembling a team to go with him, in case something was amiss.

  “Make it 12:30, and I’ll see you there.”

  Matt smiled. A few years back, when Matt became a pawn in a power play between the intelligence agencies, a few senators on the intelligence committee, and the White House, it was Morrison who had sided with Coleman. He had been the one who suggested the export-only status for Matt that settled the matter, at least for the time being and the current administration.

  “Thanks, Freddie, see you there.”

  Matt smiled again as he continued the drive. Despite the bright sunlight blinding other drivers, he enjoyed its warmth and took the time to appreciate being able to see it again. After all, just hours before, someone had tried to kill him.

  He drove into town and found a parking spot, which surprised him because vacationers, summer tourists, and families visiting the cadets at the Naval Academy usually scooped up every spot, all season long.

  He took a f
ew minutes to search for something in his phone and then set out to conduct some personal business. He kept the jacket on and the gun in place. He’d watched the rearview mirror along the way, looking for a tail, but told himself to tamp down the paranoia. After all, if any agency was involved, with all the electronics in the phones, the cars, the drones, and the CCTV cameras, anyone with the right clearance could be on him anywhere he went. And, if the two from last night were just hired thugs, they were probably – hopefully – already on their way back to Britain. They’d meet again, though. Matt would make sure of that.

  He walked into a small office located on East Street and introduced himself to the receptionist. “I don’t have an appointment, but I need to see a lawyer as quickly as possible,” he told the girl.

  “I’m sorry, but Mr. Cleary doesn’t have an opening today. Perhaps you can schedule something for tomorrow.” She checked her computer. “Yes, he’s available at ten and then again at three. Which works better for you?” she asked.

  “Neither,” Matt said abruptly. He had to get this task taken care of, and it had to happen now.

  “Tell Mr. Cleary, or any other lawyer you have here this morning, that I will pay $5,000, cash, for one hour of their time – if it can happen now.”

  “Alrighty then,” she responded with an awkward smile. “Give me just a minute.”

  Matt looked around at the waiting room. There were plenty of chairs, but no one else waiting. This won’t take long, he thought. Let’s see if five grand is still five grand.

  When the receptionist returned with a broad smile, he had his answer and returned it with one of his own.

  “Let me show you back.” She led him down a short hall and into Cleary’s office. “He’ll be right with you. Please make yourself comfortable. If I can get you anything…”

  “Coffee, light and sweet, please.” Matt waited for no more than two minutes before the coffee, in Cleary’s hand, arrived. They shook hands, and then the attorney walked around his desk and sat down in a red, high-back leather chair. The smell of fresh coffee made Matt relax, but he noticed something else that he found troublesome.

  “You like cigars, wonderful!” Matt said sarcastically. Matt didn’t mind pipes or cigars. He just hated cheap tobacco. For a man who could afford an office in downtown Annapolis, he was surprised at the stench. Cleary laughed and apologized.

  “Not to everyone’s liking, I know. We can move into a conference room where I don’t allow myself a puff, if you wish.”

  Matt shook his head. “It’s okay, this won’t take long.” He reached into his pocket, withdrew an envelope, and leaned forward to hand it to Cleary. A quick stop on the way had allowed Matt to withdraw $20,000 dollars, in hundreds, for pocket money.

  “Should that gun worry me?” Cleary asked, noticing the butt of the Glock sticking out of Matt’s shoulder holster.

  “Only if you intend to commit a federal crime in the next half-hour.” Matt reached into the jacket pocket opposite the gun to retrieve his FBI credentials.

  Cleary inspected the badge and photo ID and then handed it back. “What can I help you with, Agent Christopher?”

  Matt smiled. “I need you to write my will, and I need it done today.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  With the writing of his will now taken care of, Matt left the attorney’s office and set off for a brisk walk up toward the Academy. He needed to work off excess energy, get his body pumping, and prepare for his meeting with Morrison.

  Despite the number of people strolling slowly through the city like Christmas shoppers at a mall, he was able to head straight to the Academy grounds. But as he approached the gate, he realized he’d made a mistake. Even with his FBI credential, he’d draw attention to himself if he informed the guards at the metal detectors that he was armed. Instead, he turned right and walked back down Maryland Avenue, around the State House Circle, over to Main Street and the Irish Pub.

  Checking his watch, he hoped Morrison would show up early but not too early. Matt intended to find a good spot to watch and see if his lunch guest was traveling alone. He smiled when he looked at the TAG again, thankful the watch was waterproof, a present from Coleman on his thirtieth birthday. At 12:15, a black SUV pulled up in front of the pub, and Morrison hopped out. There was only the driver. Matt didn’t notice any follow-up cars.

  After the customary greetings, Matt asked the hostess for a table, a quiet one, if possible, in the bar area. With food and drink ordered quickly, Matt focused on the man who could very soon be named Coleman’s successor.

  Morrison, a former and highly decorated U.S. Marine, had maintained his lean, chiseled look and flat-top hair cut, despite having retired from the service 30 years before.

  “What’s so important, Matt?” Morrison asked. He was a very busy man, and with the DNI recently deceased, things were in a state of flux. People were posturing for favor and an upgraded office, perhaps one with a window, while the security of the nation was supposed to be front and center of everyone’s attention.

  “Let me ask you one question first, and then I’ll get right to it.”

  “Go for it,” Morrison said impatiently.

  “Does the name Sinclair mean anything to you?” Matt watched the man sitting across from him very closely. He knew him well enough already to know his tells. He had seen them in meetings with Coleman and others. Could this man be trusted?

  “I know that Thomas Sinclair shot himself in London recently. I may have met him once a long time ago when I was on the embassy staff there. Why?” Morrison asked.

  “Okay,” Matt said. Morrison’s answer seemed perfectly normal, so without further delay, Matt dove in. In full detail, he went over the same event itinerary that he and Dale had reviewed. London, Quebec, Moscow, the Swiss flight, Jackson Hole, his near-death experience, and the words the hitman had whispered nearly 12 hours ago.

  Morrison sat back in his chair, clearly deep in thought.

  Matt was famished. When it became clear the DNI man’s processing would take a while, Matt decided he wouldn’t let his meal grow cold and tore into the big plate of shepherd’s pie while he watched the gears turn in Morrison’s head.

  When he finally sat forward, Matt leaned in as well.

  “As far as I am concerned, I agree with the plan you and Dale put together. You should get the hell out of the country and lay low somewhere until we can find those two assholes or dig up more on who’s behind all of this.”

  Matt exhaled. Working as an operator in the intelligence and counter-intelligence world often afforded all the adrenaline any adventure junkie or patriot might desire. But working with and against the best of the best at investigation, secrecy, manipulation, and execution was indeed dangerous. Mix in a heavy dose of political and monetary influence, the power struggles of generations, and the turbulent wind of changing CEOs and presidents – and operators were often isolated and left without support.

  Matt didn’t need the job. But he was good at the work, thrived on it. He felt he was making a difference. Maybe someday he could walk away. Perhaps convince Dale he was finished with it. For now, though, he was set on revenge and felt much safer now that Morrison might have his back.

  “So, why’d you call me instead of Helene’s number one?” Morrison asked, smiling at Matt as he nearly choked on his food. Matt took a few seconds to clear his throat and voice a response. He could feel his muted phone vibrating in his pocket but ignored it.

  “You’re a funny guy, Freddie,” he laughed. Matt drank down the remainder of his Coke Zero. “That prick has had it in for me for years. Now that she’s gone, I have no idea if he’ll get the top job. If he does, I’m sure he’ll make a move on canceling my arrangement.”

  Morrison reached for the check, but Matt had already dropped a crisp $100 bill on the table.

  “Matt,” Morrison said as he stood up from their table, “my bet is that he’ll be so busy stuffing his head up the appropriate asses to try to get Helene’s job that you’r
e not even on his radar.”

  Matt nodded. “I guess maybe you’re right.”

  “Thanks for lunch, now get your butt to BWI and head over to Thailand or Vietnam until we know more about this. Nothing’s really changed. You still report to Dale at FBI, she’s your manager until someone says otherwise.”

  They shook hands, and Matt watched as Morrison left the restaurant. The waitress came back and handed Matt the leather holder with $60 change.

  “Keep it,” he said.

  Minutes later, he was back in the Chevy, headed for an airport. He checked his missed calls and saw there was one from Dale. Before he could hit redial, his phone rang again, CD appearing in lieu of her name on the caller ID.

  “You okay, Matt?” she asked. “You in the air yet?”

  “Soon,” he told her.

  “Stop screwing around. You left here hours ago!”

  “Had to stop at the mall and get some hiking gear. Your girl forgot to pack mine,” he teased. “What’s up?”

  “We got Helene’s bloodwork back, and everything was clear, nothing out of the ordinary, no drugs, nothing suspicious.”

  Matt shook his head. There had to be something. Most times, in the presence of a heart attack, certain enzymes are produced and detected in the blood.

  “Okay, I’ve got another sample back at my condo. I’ll get it to you so you can run the second one, but do it under another name, okay?” Matt waited for her response. He knew that if there was a planned or developing conspiracy, a tech could have been told to say the sample had no traces of foul play. Another tech, another fake name, and the sample might yield something different.

  “Where is it? I’ll get it. You need to stay away from there, or damn it, Matt, if I find you anywhere near there, I might shoot you myself!”

  He smiled. “Under the vodka,” he answered. She’d know it was in the freezer, stashed beneath the bottle of vanilla vodka he always kept literally on ice.

  “Good, now hit the road and text me tomorrow, okay?”

  “On the road again,” he began singing. It was the only Willy Nelson song she liked.