by R. A. McGee
“It’s almost like you’ve been a flight attendant,” the woman said with a smile.
“I don’t want you to have to worry about me anymore today. You bring me a handful of these bad boys, you can just forget I’m even here.”
“Sir, I’m not sure if that—”
“Come on. What's the worst that could happen?”
The flight attendant looked at Clark, then Miri, and disappeared behind the curtain. She re-emerged moments later with a dozen little bottles in a plastic bag, as well as two full-sized bottles of ginger ale. She handed the package to Clark.
“No more today, right? We have a deal?”
Clark shook her hand. “Cross my heart.”
The woman smiled and moved around the rest of the cabin, collecting orders.
“I’m impressed,” Miri said, accepting the two bottles of ginger ale from Clark.
“What?”
“Turning on the charm a little. That’s the old you, you know… from before. It’s nice to see.”
Clark started to say something, but stopped, instead opening one of the little bottles and drinking it down.
“We’ll have to work on that next,” Miri said, looking down at her phone.
“At least I’m not smoking.”
“I’m sure you would if you could, but you don’t want to piss off your stewardess friend.”
“I think they prefer ‘flight attendants’ now.”
“Don’t change the subject. How much are you drinking?”
“I like to imbibe a little.”
“A lot more than you used to.”
“Be glad you didn’t see my room,” Clark muttered under his breath.
“What?”
“Nothing. What are you working on?”
“Trying to connect to the Wi-Fi.”
“You paid that ridiculous amount for the in-flight Wi-Fi? And you say I have a problem.”
“First off, you gave your landlord in Mexico fifty thousand dollars and you’re worried about me spending fourteen ninety-nine on Wi-Fi?”
“Good point,” Clark said, opening another bottle.
“Second, I need to get in touch with Lucy,” Miri said.
Clark drank the bottle and exhaled as the burn of the alcohol escaped from his lips.
Miri entered the code for the Wi-Fi, typed out a text, and hit send.
The two sat, Clark watching the monitor on the ceiling and Miri looking out the window.
Minutes later, Miri’s phone chimed. She scrolled through the message. Clark leaned in and looked over her shoulder. “So?”
“Hold on, she typed a book. Give me a second.”
Miri scrolled further down the message.
“What does it say?”
“Give me a minute, damn. Stop rushing me.”
“Sorry,” Clark said sarcastically.
“Dummy,” Miri said. She scrolled through the rest of the message and then turned her phone off. “Okay, she said—”
“Wait a second,” Clark said. He very slowly unscrewed the bottle of travel vodka, then sipped it slowly, dragging the sip out for nearly a minute, before putting the empty bottle with the growing number of its kin in the makeshift trash bag in his lap.
“You done? You good now?”
“Continue,” Clark said with a smirk.
“Lucy said she tracked what she could on the burner phone. The number itself is obviously no help, as it’s just registered generically to AT&T. So she found a way into the company’s website and took a look at their shipping database. Apparently, they keep track of all the phone numbers they assign per phone, so they don’t issue duplicates. They batch the numbers together in shipping loads and keep track of the distributors that they send that group of numbers to.”
Clark blinked several times. “Who the hell knows this shit?”
“Right? Lucy tracked the phone from the manufacturer to the distributor. She pretended to be the FCC, alleging a bogus complaint against the distributor, and forced him to say where he sent that load of phones.
“It’s not exact, because once they sell the phone, the little stores that buy them could take them anywhere, but the distributor is willing to bet a substantial fine that the phone was sent to Northern Virginia or the District.”
Clark stopped himself before he cracked another bottle. “That puts the purchaser of César’s burner phone in our backyard.”
“Exactly.”
“It still doesn’t prove that it was McHenry.”
“No, but it doesn’t rule him out either.”
Clark nodded, processing the information.
“I had her look into something else,” Miri said, leaning closer to him. “I wanted her to go over all the Butterfield evidence again. Take a look with fresh eyes.”
“I haven’t seen any of that,” Clark said. “I left before y’all figured everything out.”
“I’ve seen it, and it’s damning stuff. Hangs everything around Butterfield’s neck.”
“So, end of story?” Clark said.
“Maybe. Maybe not. I didn't think much about it at the time, but now… now I don’t know. It’s all too clean and neat. Butterfield is an asshole, sure, but is he that dumb about computers to use his own accounts?”
“What did Lucy say about it?”
“She said she found something, but she’s not sure if it’s important.”
“So let’s meet up with her, see what she has.”
“We’re in an airplane right now, Clark, don’t be silly.”
“I meant later. We should meet later.”
“I know,” Miri said. “She’s going to meet us at Dulles when our flight lands. We’ll see what she came up with.”
“Good,” Clark said.
“Yeah. Good.”
Thirty-Two
McHenry looked out the car window, staring at the water of the Potomac River as the town car smoothly glided along the George Washington Memorial Parkway, turning off at an unnamed road and up to a guardhouse. Unlike the last time he’d been here, this time McHenry had an appointment.
It wasn’t that he couldn’t force his way into a meeting with the director of the Central Intelligence Agency. On the contrary. McHenry’s years of dedication and service—first in the military, then the CIA, and finally as the figurehead of Blackthorn—had given him contacts and influence that were second to none.
That being said, in this instance, he felt it better to be more official and aboveboard. No reason to make Brockman think he was rushing or in a panic, even if McHenry himself hadn't decided whether he had a reason to be or not.
A quick exchange of information and the guard waved the vehicle by, and the driver took the route to the front of the off-white building at the center of the property.
The George Bush Center for Intelligence was named for the former president who’d also run the agency for a time. McHenry had worked with the man during his tenure and found him to be competent, if a bit in the dark about the real mission of the CIA.
McHenry got out of the car, smoothed out his suit coat, and buttoned his trench coat to steel himself against the brisk wind that was blowing. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
He walked into the lobby of the building, its white and black granite floor his runway. He paused for a moment, looking at the ceremonial wall with stars carved out for operatives who had been killed in action. McHenry had known several of those stars, and counted himself lucky that he’d never become one.
“You made an appointment this time,” a rough voice said from behind him.
McHenry turned to face Assistant Director James Selwyn. Selwyn was a big man with a red nose and a buzz haircut that masked the bald spot that had been growing since college. “I wanted to be respectful of the Director's time.”
“That’s a first,” Selwyn said, gesturing McHenry to follow him.
Selwyn led McHenry around a security checkpoint, with its metal detector and x-ray machines, then down a hallway past the regular elevators that
the rank and file used, to a small service elevator. Selwyn swiped a card and pushed a button, sending the elevator to a floor that wasn’t listed.
“I trust you’re well,” McHenry said.
“Not bad. Some crazy things going on in Africa right now. The Congo specifically. Amazing what some governments will do for money. Or rather, what some governments will allow to be done to their citizens.”
“Indeed it is,” McHenry said.
The elevator chimed and Selwyn led the older man to a small room, which McHenry knew from prior experience to be completely soundproof, free of bugs and any other recording equipment.
There were brown, sound-dampening acoustic tiles on the ceiling, and on the floor sat a large white noise generator. Before McHenry got a chance to sit down, the door swung open and Eric Brockman entered.
Brockman was still young, and handsome enough—fit and trim, with blond hair that was just beginning to thin. He had a successful career as a NOC, or non-official cover agent. A ghost. A spook under deep cover, readily cut free by the government at the first sign of trouble. His average looks let him be everyone and no one all at the same time.
“McHenry. I hope you don’t mind if I’m up front with you and tell you that I’m squeezing this in between an ass-chewing I just received from the president and a press conference in five minutes. No disrespect, but I can’t give you much of my time today.”
“Thanks for seeing me, Eric. You know I wouldn’t come if it wasn’t important.”
Brockman gestured to one of the leather conference chairs arranged around the table and McHenry sat stiffly.
“How’s the hip, old man?”
“As good as it can be. Don’t get old, it isn’t worth it,” McHenry said with a laugh.
“I don’t plan on it,” Brockman said. He glanced at his watch. “What can I do for you?”
“You know, Eric, I could give you the whole particulars and I could get in-depth, but as you mentioned, I know you are busy. Additionally, I would hope that my prior relationship with you has afforded me a bit of latitude.”
Brockman nodded. “Now I’m intrigued.”
“I need to borrow one of your people. It’s for a thing I have going on.”
Brockman leaned back in his chair. “Anyone in particular?”
“Not especially. I just need a SAD operative. Beyond clandestine and quiet. I need the utmost confidentiality on this.”
“Special Activities Division? You need someone killed?”
“Without going into too many details, I don’t think so. But the possibility exists.”
“You have an entire team of people, McHenry. Why would you need to borrow one of our guys?” Selwyn asked from the door where he leaned.
“I can give you the entire history of the thing if you have time,” McHenry said, his eyebrows raised.
“No. No, that’s not necessary. This isn’t the first time we’ve farmed people out to other agencies. I assume you can’t use one of yours?”
“It’s a matter of internal privacy.”
“Okay. I trust you, McHenry. But…” Brockman let the word linger.
“I’ll owe you,” McHenry said.
“Good. Jim will get the details worked out with you. We good here?”
Selwyn nodded and McHenry stood, offering his hand to Brockman.
“Thanks, Eric. You have no idea the jam this is going to get me out of.”
Thirty-Three
McHenry walked up to the private elevator into Blackthorn, swiping his passcard to get to the secure floor. His driver was still parking the car, so he was alone with his thoughts.
The meeting with Brockman had gone about as well as could be expected. The amount of latitude he was given because he’d trained the men at the CIA was incredible. Now he just needed to figure out the best way to deploy his new resource.
He stepped off the elevator, walking stiffly, and turned the corner, running into Lucy Gordon as he did.
She dropped a handful of papers on the ground and immediately bent down to get them.
“Oh, McHenry. Hi,” the flustered young woman said.
“Ms. Gordon,” he said. “Sorry about that.”
Lucy was collecting papers and stuffing them into her over-the-shoulder bag. “That’s okay, you know me, I’m a klutz sometimes.”
“Well, I still apologize. The last thing you need is a doddering old man running into you.” McHenry looked at his watch. “A little late to go for lunch, isn't it?”
“I worked through lunch today. Starving,” she said in a singsong voice. “So I’m going to do that.”
“Okay. Will I see you later? There’s something I wanted to ask you about.”
“Um, yeah, I’m not sure. After the dentist, I have to go to my mom’s house.”
“I thought you were going to lunch?” McHenry said. “Now there's a dentist? Talk about a power lunch.”
“Right, well... okay. You got me. I was taking a late lunch so I could sneak off and get a cleaning. I didn’t want to use any sick time for the appointment. Sorry about that.”
“I don’t care in the least,” McHenry said. “If you’d rather get your teeth cleaned than eat, who am I to judge?”
“Right. Well, okay, good. Sorry for trying to sneak out, I’ll just let you know next time.”
McHenry looked at the woman’s hands, clenched around the strap of her bag so tightly her knuckles were white. “Is there something wrong, Lucy?”
“Wrong? No, nothing’s wrong. Why would you say that?”
McHenry looked at his tech officer. Silence hung heavy in the air until he smiled. “No reason. If something does come up, you be sure to let me know. I’d love to help.”
“Of course. Thanks. I’ll see you later.”
Lucy walked past the man, and out the exit door to the stairwell that only Blackthorn employees had access to.
McHenry watched her go, acutely aware of his pulse throbbing in his neck.
He put on his best smile and walked through the office, greeting any employees he ran into, his mind a thousand miles away running scenarios.
He turned the corner and a plump woman with a black bob came around her desk toward him. “Mr. McHenry?”
“Yes, Rita.”
“There’s someone here to see you.”
“Waiting? Who let him in?”
“Well, I did. It’s just… he’s sitting in the conference room.”
McHenry looked at his secretary, then toward the windowed conference room. The blinds were shut. He shrugged his trench coat off and handed it to the woman, tucked his thumbs into his suspenders and walked over to the conference room door. McHenry gave a courtesy knock, then opened the door.
Sitting at the table was a man McHenry had never seen before. Dark-skinned with a clean haircut and a brilliant set of white teeth, the man was spinning a knife on its point in the palm of his hand.
“How did you get that in here?”
“Your security isn’t very good,” the man said.
“Should I know you?”
The black man stood—he was several inches taller than McHenry—and reached his hand out. “Lester Keever. I believe we have a mutual friend at Langley.”
“Ah.” McHenry nodded. “How did you beat me here? I just got in.”
“I’m not really sure why that matters,” Keever said.
“Just curious. Regardless, I’m glad you’re here. I assume Director Brockman filled you in on our conversation?”
Keever smiled and McHenry thought he might go blind. “No. Not at all. I don’t ask a whole lot of questions. He told me that, until further notice, I’m working for you, and that suits me just fine. So what is it you need taken care of?”
“Straight to the point. I like that,” McHenry said. “There’s someone I need followed. I need you to report back on what they’re doing. Simple.”
“Possibly,” Keever said.
“Possibly? What does that mean?”
“I like to be thorough,
Mr. McHenry. Know my target, their strengths and weaknesses. Their family status, their dog's name. Everything. But I sense that time is important here. So I think I’ll settle for, how long do you expect this person to live?”
“Mr. Keever, at this time I’m only asking you to follow them, nothing more.”
“It’s always more. Every time. That’s why Brockman calls in men like me.”
“I’ve been a man like you, Mr. Keever. No need to try to sell yourself to me; you’ll find me difficult to impress. If I have need of your more... unique skill set, I’ll let you know. For now, you’re only to watch and report.”
“It’s best if I know from the beginning what the endgame is, and how comfortable you are with it. Situations can be fluid and get messy. I like to know where things stand from the beginning.”
McHenry studied the man in front of him for a moment. There was something about his eyes that seemed off. Like one was lazy, or colored strangely. He wondered if the man had a lazy eye, or cataracts. He refocused on the conversation. “I would very much like for this person to live to be older than me. I want you to do everything in your power to ensure that happens.”
“But…?”
“But the situation is fluid. This could change—and if so, I’ll let you know. If I do, then you are free to do whatever you deem necessary to accomplish the job.”
“I can dig it,” Keever said.
“Do you have any assistance?”
“I have a couple guys I can bring in. They aren’t in the game, so I’d have to pay them something. I assume I’d just bill the Agency?”
“Please,” McHenry said. “Despite what I said, Mr. Keever, I’d like to resolve this with minimal violence.”
Keever leaned back on the table and put his feet up in the leather seat of a chair. “We don’t always get what we like. How comfortable are you with that?”
“Let’s just cross that bridge when we come to it, shall we?” McHenry said.
“You’re the boss. Got a name for me?”
“I’ll do you one better. She’s in the parking lot right now. If you hurry, you can still catch up with her.”
Keever smiled big and bright. “She?”