The American Agent (An American Agent Novel Book 1)

by Eric Dabbs

  "So, I hear you have some paramount information to share with us," Grant said with undeniable enthusiasm, his red hair and fair skin dimmed a shade in the reflection of the mirror.

  "Indeed," Alex replied.

  "Well? Anything I need to know?"

  "Let's just say things could get interesting." Alex's chiseled jaw formed a sly grin. Peaking the interest of the young British agent might be fun. Grant didn't appear a day over thirty years old, maybe mid-twenties. He had rookie written all over him, and Alex doubted he was the one he should be sharing classified information with.

  "Oh bloody come on...give me something. The general stuff."

  Alex noted the second use of the word bloody since they'd left the airport. "Well...you do look like a man who can keep a secret."

  Grant's eyes were as wide as silver dollars, unblinking in the rearview mirror.

  "It's quite possible that two British citizens are linked to a terror plot against the United States. That's all I can give away at this time."

  "Two of our own? I hope that's not the case, chap. That would be unimaginable."

  "Bloody unthinkable."

  "Stop it." Samantha punched Alex in the leg.

  Grant returned his focus to the road ahead, compact cars whizzing by on their right side. Suddenly, driving on the opposite side of the road seemed weird, but he supposed the British thought the same of America. He didn't think it would bother him that much, but for some reason it unnerved him.

  To combat the queasy feeling in the pit of his stomach, Alex turned his attention to the sky, which was dull and gray. The radio meteorologist chimed on about a mostly cloudy day with a fifty percent chance of rain. Of course, anyone could have predicted that forecast.

  Alex looked over at Samantha. Her eyes lightened, and her lips revealed a hint of a smile, likely due to his conversation with Grant. As they drew closer to the city center, the buildings and the monolithic architecture hugged close to the roadway. The structures had a damp appearance, the stone edifices stained with dark streaks at the corners under gutter down spouts. It had rained this morning by the looks of it all. Even the sidewalks looked wet.

  "There's HQ," Grant announced. He waited for a car to pass so he could parallel park in front of the building. "Up the road, across the Westminster Bridge are the Houses of Parliament."

  "That's interesting," Samantha replied this time. She looked at Alex with big eyes. "Maybe we can take a tour before we leave."

  He figured she wanted him to take it easy on the poor fellow.

  "I could arrange that." Grant beamed. "I have connections, you know." He brought the vehicle to a stop, put the gear shift into park, and switched off the ignition. "Sir Helmsley, the director of MI5 has been briefed for your visit. He's waiting, so you can follow me."

  After they exited the car, the trio stopped at the security checkpoint inside the main entrance. Two guards in police uniforms directed them through a metal detector. Once cleared, they climbed a set of wide stairs to the second floor.

  With a pep in his step, Grant showed them the way to Sir Helmsley's office. But his hands went to his hips and his eyes grew solemn as the door closed with him on the outside, left out of the important meeting.

  37

  "Charles Helmsley,” the director introduced himself with a lively spirit, "most welcome to meet you."

  "As you already know, I'm Alex Banks." Alex shook his hand. "With the U.S. Department of Homeland Security."

  Helmsley gave his hand a healthy pump and then turned to Samantha. "And this is Ms. Peterson of the CIA."

  "That's right," she replied. "You can call me, Samantha."

  "Good to make your acquaintance, mates." Helmsley shook her hand as well. He was a gentleman with gray receding hair and a thick mustache, maybe mid-sixties. He offered a puzzled frown upon closer inspection of Samantha's bruised nose and the cut under her eye, but he refrained from commenting.

  "First off," Alex said, "I apologize for bringing you in on a Sunday, sir."

  "It's no sweat off my back. We're used to toiling around the clock. Besides, what else would I be doing, playing cricket?"

  "Afraid I'm not familiar with that game." Alex placed his hands in his pockets, jingled some loose change. "Just to fill you in, Ms. Peterson is assisting me because Homeland Security and the CIA have deemed this investigation worthy of a joint effort."

  "Jack filled me in on most of the basics, but go ahead, take a seat, and we'll see what we can come up with."

  "Jack?"

  "The Secretary of your Homeland Security Department, Jack Reynolds. You do know him, don't you?"

  "Oh yes, of course, I'm just not on a first name basis with the big boss."

  With a suspicious glint of his eyes, Helmsley nestled his hefty frame into a chair behind his desk. He gestured toward a pair of guest chairs and waited for them to sit. "What do you have for me?"

  "Two names," Alex replied. "Last names only, but we hoped you could fill in the blanks."

  "Pennington and Winslow are the names," Samantha said.

  Helmsley brought a hand to his chin, stared off in deep thought. "Those names strike a chord, but without more, there's not much I can offer."

  "There's more." Alex pulled a thumb-drive from the inside pocket of his jacket, flipped it in his fingers for a second, and then handed it to Helmsley. "We've got mug shots. It's a video file, recorded from Alfred Coraco's ritzy art party a couple of nights ago. Maybe you can give us a positive I.D. on the two men? We believe they're British from their accents."

  Helmsley inserted the thumb-drive into a USB port on his all-in-one computer on his desktop. After a few clicks of the mouse, he angled the monitor to where they could see. Samantha scooted her chair closer to Alex for a better view, sitting elbow to elbow.

  "You might want to fast forward to the good parts," Alex said. "The incriminating evidence doesn't kick in until I'm in Coraco's office."

  "And how did you find yourself in Alfred Coraco's office?"

  "That's classified."

  "Of course." Helmsley snorted as he fast forwarded the video playback. It took only a few seconds.

  "There it is." Alex pointed a finger at the screen.

  Helmsley hit the play button. The video showed Alex sifting through desk drawers, opening the safe, and otherwise rummaging through the real estate tycoon's office up until the camera lens was placed face down on Coraco's desk after Alex removed the bow tie. Wood grains filled the picture for a moment, and then darkness.

  "Is that all you have, Mr. Banks?" Helmsley stated. "Just some incriminating bank documents you swiped from his safe?"

  "It's just starting to get good." Alex perked up. "Listen."

  The audio played on from the video feed. "Mr. Pennington, Mr. Winslow, come in," a voice of Spanish decent came through the speakers mounted under the computer monitor. "I hope ten million pounds will help you sleep better at night, Mr. Winslow?"

  "That was Alfred Coraco," Alex said.

  Helmsley nodded.

  "I'm sure it will," another voice replied. Clearly, the so-called, Mr. Winslow.

  "Inform the flight lieutenant that he will receive the same compensation when his duty is fulfilled," Alfred Coraco said.

  "Certainly," an unidentified person replied. Alex suspected the voice belonged to Pennington.

  Alex said, "Watch this."

  For only a second or two, the feed showed the faces of the two British gentlemen. Helmsley straightened in his seat, rewound the video, and played it again, pausing it on a still shot of the two men.

  "Can you identify them?" Alex blurted, eagerness causing his mouth to water.

  Helmsley stared, his jaw dropping. Without taking his eyes off the screen, he removed a pair of reading glasses from his desk drawer, placed them on his nose, and leaned in closer. "I don't believe it. On the life of the queen, I don't believe it."

  "Who are they?" Samantha asked. She leaned so hard into Alex's side to get a better view of the monitor
that she might as well have been sitting in his lap.

  "Just a moment." Helmsley tapped the intercom button on his desk phone. "Elizabeth."

  "Yes?"

  "Get Baxter in here...on the double."

  "Straight away, Sir Helmsley."

  "I'm afraid your video has answered...or better yet...raised some serious questions about an investigation we're involved in." Helmsley sighed, his chair squeaking as he shifted in his seat. "Mr. Banks."

  "Yes?"

  "What we're about to disclose to you and Ms. Peterson is confidential and it cannot be discussed with anyone, including your own superiors, until we have verified our suspicions. We're only going to share it with you because I believe we need your intel to assist in our own investigation. Is that clear?"

  With his jaw so tensed up, Alex could only nod in agreement. Samantha did the same.

  "You called for me, Sir Helmsley?" A middle-aged man stuck his head in the office. He was slim with muddy brown hair and heavy bags under his eyes.

  "Yes. Come in, Baxter. You need to see this."

  "Sounds most important by the tone of your voice."

  "You shall very well see." Helmsley opened a palm to Alex. "William, this is Mr. Alex Banks of the U.S. Department of Homeland Security." Then he nodded in Samantha's direction. "This is Ms. Samantha Peterson. She's CIA." Baxter acknowledged them with a polite shake of his head as Helmsley turned to his guests. "Mr. Banks and Ms. Peterson, this is one of our agents, William Baxter. He's been working on a case of vital importance to our great country."

  After the introductions, Helmsley replayed the video feed for Baxter to see. Alex watched as a look of bewilderment grew on the agent's face. Helmsley froze the frame on the two British gentlemen. Baxter's jaw sagged low in sheer astonishment.

  Baxter met eyes with Helmsley and seemed to ask permission to speak with a simple nod.

  "Proceed," Helmsley said.

  Baxter took a deep breath before speaking. "Our investigation is only a day old, but nonetheless in full swing. Yesterday morning a top secret stealth bomber was reported down in the northern Atlantic. The bird was brand spanking new. It was in the final phases of test flights when it crashed into the ocean. The senior officer in charge since the plane's inception and the test missions that followed...was none other than Air Marshal Miles Winslow of the Royal Air Force."

  "The same Winslow in our video?" Samantha blinked. Twice.

  "One and the same," Baxter replied. "In your recording, a man you've identified as Alfred Coraco has agreed to pay our Air Marshal ten million pounds for some sort of service. And the most interesting fact...is that he mentioned, not by name, but by title, that of a flight lieutenant receiving his share of the proverbial pie as well."

  "Which flight lieutenant do you suspect Coraco was talking about?" Samantha's hand clamped down on Alex's forearm. He glanced down as her fingers found purchase. Fortunately, his jacket and shirt sleeve provided a barrier against her nails.

  "It is quite possible that he was referring to our very own, James Hollingsworth. He was the pilot of our downed stealth bomber. He was second in command of his squadron when he was tapped to join the secret program."

  "Now things are starting to add up." Alex pulled his arm free from Samantha's grasp, leaned back in his chair, and crossed his legs. With his mind turning somersaults inside his head, he caressed his forearm with his hand. Samantha had dug in pretty good. "By the way, who is the other man, the one who goes by the last name of Pennington?"

  "That's where things get sticky." Baxter checked with Helmsley, who okayed him to continue. "The Pennington in your video is one of our well respected and honored members of parliament, Sir Henry Pennington."

  The weight of their findings saturated Helmsley's office with a lengthy silence. Finally, Helmsley directed a question to Alex. "And you suspect that these two blokes are somehow involved in a terror plot against the United States?"

  "I can't be one hundred percent sure at the moment. It’s possible they may have assisted Alfred Coraco and a group of terrorists who go by the name of The Crescent Moon. But I am certain of this, Coraco has got his hands on a nuclear weapon, and I believe their plans are to use your stealth bomber to transport it undetected to American soil."

  "Baxter," Helmsley said.

  "Sir?"

  "Will you be so kind as to interrupt Air Marshal Winslow's quiet Sunday morning? I'd like to have him in for a line of questioning."

  "I’d be chuffed to bits." Baxter shuffled for the door.

  “That means he’s very pleased with this break in our case,” Helmsley said.

  Alex shared a serious look with Samantha, and then nodded at Helmsley. In a short period of time, they'd made a lot more progress than he'd expected, and he figured they'd learn even more before the day was over.

  38

  From behind a two-way mirror, Alex observed as the British agent, William Baxter, questioned Air Marshal Winslow for nearly an hour, recounting the testimony given to the Royal Air Force review panel concerning the disappearance of the stealth bomber, Scepter One.

  Sir Helmsley took up the space next to Alex, his lips puckered and his glasses on the end of his nose, with his hands clasped behind his back. Samantha stood so close to the mirror her breath fogged a spot in front of her. Realizing what she'd done, she backed away from the glass, shot Alex a knowing glance, and then resumed watching the interrogation.

  The air marshal’s first volley of answers seemed well rehearsed, but his shifty eyes and shaky voice revealed a general uneasiness about being called in unexpectedly. And as Helmsley had noted, Air Marshal Winslow's plans for skeet shooting had been postponed for later in the afternoon.

  The air marshal sat in a metal chair with his elbows on a fold-up table. The walls were gray and bare, designed to strip away any level of comfort. If a web of lies was masquerading as the truth, Baxter appeared ready to expose it.

  He placed his hands on the table and leaned forward. "Relax, Air Marshal. You seem a little arsed. There’s no need to be bothered or uptight, I only want to ask you a few more questions."

  "As I said before, I've already told the incident review panel everything I know."

  "And as I've told you, Winslow—”

  "You can address me as Air Marshal Winslow, I believe I've earned it."

  Baxter straightened, removed his hands from the table. "Yes, I believe you have. As I have explained, we are conducting our own investigation of the incident. As a matter of fact, we believe the aircraft was, indeed, stolen and not lost at sea."

  "That's absurd. What would make you think such a thing?" The air marshal crooked his head forward. "What are you suggesting?"

  "I'm not suggesting anything, but the evidence—”

  "What evidence?" Air Marshal Winslow stared up at Baxter. "The air force board declared the plane down over the Atlantic Ocean and Hollingsworth dead. What kind of evidence could you possibly have that would suggest otherwise?"

  Alex wondered if the air marshal had the review panel in his back pocket, or had the panel's aim been to merely save the career of a respected senior officer?

  No one talked in the observation room. As Alex listened and watched, he found himself inching closer to the two-way mirror, his hands digging into his pockets, jingling the loose change again. Samantha cleared her throat, a clear indication that she wanted him to stop. In response, Alex removed his hands from his pockets and folded his arms. As the questioning continued, he raised one hand to his chin for support.

  Baxter pressed on. "How about an eye witness account that puts you at Alfred Coraco's art party?"

  "My presence at the party proves nothing. I'm a free man, Mr. Baxter, I can attend any social gathering I wish."

  "You're correct about that, mate."

  Winslow's face lit up, and his voice growled out a reply, "That's Air Marshal, Agent Baxter."

  "My apologies." Baxter grinned like he'd scored a point. "Just your attendance at the party doesn't con
demn you. But what if I told you we had more than an eye witness account? What if I revealed to you that we have the inside scoop on the conversations and activities that took place inside Coraco's office?"

  Winslow's face went from flushed red to stark white. "How could you possibly know what went on behind closed doors? You're bluffing."

  "Maybe." The mirth on Baxter's face faded. "Maybe not." He glanced at his watch. "Will you look at that? It's high noon, chap."

  Winslow scowled at Baxter, his teeth grinding together, but he didn't speak.

  "Sorry about that, I meant, Air Marshal. Why don't we break an hour for lunch? Afterwards we can pick up where we left off."

  The air marshal rose from the chair, glaring at Baxter with disdain etched on the craggy lines of his face. And after a moment of silent confrontation, he snorted with a dismissive shake of his head and made a beeline out of the room.

  "Why did he let him off the hook like that?" Alex asked Helmsley.

  "A simple tactic," the director replied. "Lay the wood to the fellow and then ease up a bit. Give him time to think. Stew if you will, Mr. Banks."

  After the comment, Helmsley moved past Alex to the door, but turned and said, "I suspect the air marshal is about to make an emergency phone call to Sir Henry Pennington. If you noticed, Baxter failed to tell Winslow that we had proof that Pennington was at the party too. That was intentional to make him feel isolated."

  "Smooth move," Alex replied.

  Samantha concurred with a nod.

  "Do you think he'll opt for legal representation?"

  "I doubt it," Helmsley said. "Pennington will probably advise him that that would only make him look guilty. So, I suspect Winslow will stick to his story, which will play into our hands. Get ready, Mr. Banks. You're up after lunch. Baxter will resume the questioning. After that, you will take over. We think the shift in interrogators will throw Winslow for a loop." With that, Helmsley left the room.