by Chad Zunker
Still, it felt odd sitting there, not thirty feet away from a guy who’d just put Michelle in the hospital, and who twenty-four hours ago had chased her with a gun through the Metro terminal and out onto the sidewalks of the city. Using her burner phone, she took a few unsuspecting photos of Lenny sitting there at the bar. A half-drunk old man two barstools down tried to engage Lenny in conversation, but Lenny waved him off with a hard glare.
Natalie flinched slightly when the front door of the bar opened again. While pretending to mess with her phone in her hands, she watched as a thirtysomething man in a dark-blue business suit with slicked-back brown hair moved toward the bar. He didn’t look like he belonged in a joint like the Raven. He sat down on a stool right next to Lenny. Animated but hushed discussion quickly ensued between the two men. Using her phone, Natalie again took several pictures. Who was this guy? She didn’t recognize him.
The meeting lasted only a few minutes. The business-suit guy eased off his stool, slipped through the bar, and exited the Raven. Lenny stayed put, ordered another shot. Waiting only a few seconds, Natalie slipped out of the booth, moved toward the front door. Stepping outside, she followed the man in the suit up the sidewalk, leaving a twenty-foot gap of safe distance between them. He was already on his cell phone with someone—although Natalie was not close enough to make out the conversation.
Two blocks from the Raven, the guy stepped off the sidewalk and opened the driver’s door of a sleek black Lexus sedan parked along the curb. Natalie cursed. The Dodge truck she’d borrowed from Levi earlier that day was parked two blocks in the opposite direction. She quickly spun around, searching for a taxi anywhere in the vicinity. She spotted one headed down the street toward her, tried to flag it down without looking like a crazy woman, but it passed without slowing. The business-suit guy started up the Lexus and began pulling off the curb.
Natalie cursed again, gave up on the taxi. She typed the license plate number of the Lexus into a notes app on her phone. Then she sent it along with a brief text message to one of her contacts with Metro police, hoping she might be able to ID the guy ASAP.
When she returned to the Raven a few minutes later, Lenny Gregor was gone.
FORTY-FIVE
Lloyd walked down a sidewalk next to the Tidal Basin near the Jefferson Memorial. It was dark and drizzling out, so the sidewalks were nearly empty. Only a couple of hard-core late-night joggers still appeared here and there along the water’s running path. Most tourists were already tucked away in their hotel rooms. He found the rental dock with the paddleboats—which was currently closed—waited by a bench. Seconds later, a fiftysomething bald man with a neatly trimmed beard stepped out of the shadows directly behind Lloyd, sending a charge through him that almost made him reach for his gun.
“Why the hell do you always do that?” Lloyd said.
“Do what?” the man asked.
“Pop out from behind me. It’s unnecessary, and creepy.”
The man gave him a wry grin. “Old habits die hard, I guess.”
Lloyd shook his head. Bruce Markson. A thirty-year man with the CIA, who in his thirties and forties had done hundreds of covert tours all over the world. After taking a bullet in the leg during an operation in Tehran three years ago—one that had left him unable to move at a pace beyond a slow walk—Markson had transitioned to a desk job. The man knew just about everyone and everything going on over at Langley. Last month, when Lloyd had been chasing down Alger Gerlach, Markson had been the source who had shared with him that a secret operation was indeed going on involving Sam Callahan and Natalie Foster. Lloyd had been unable to get much more out of him. Even if they were old friends, Markson was not quick to divulge the Agency’s secrets, which Lloyd respected. But he needed the man to help him put some of the puzzle pieces together tonight.
“How’s the leg?” Lloyd asked.
“Still gets me from A to B, but I won’t be doing the Rock ’n’ Roll Marathon this year.”
“Me neither. But my excuse is I’m old.”
“Age isn’t how old you are but how old you feel, my friend.”
“I feel like I’m a hundred. How’s Marcia?”
Markson had married Marcia last year. His third wife. The CIA could be hard on marriages. So could the FBI, which was why Lloyd had never remarried after his divorce.
“What do you want, Spencer?” Markson asked, ignoring the question, lighting up a cigarette. “I don’t think you invited me out here in the rain to talk about my wife.”
“What can you tell me about the Lion?”
Markson took a slow drag but didn’t respond right away.
“I’ll get you started,” Lloyd offered. “Marcus Pelini, a thirty-year man much like you. A ghost who has barely existed in any official channels for the past fifteen years. A guy who somehow recruited a fresh-faced rookie lawyer into a situation that left him standing in a room full of dead bodies inside Moscow last night.”
Markson cursed. “How do you even know about Pelini?”
“I’ve been digging around for the past month—ever since I got my pants yanked down by the CIA. I placed Sam Callahan and Pelini together.”
“Dammit, Spencer! Haven’t I already warned you about going around and asking these kinds of questions? People are going to get hurt.”
“My father’s already in the hospital fighting for his life because of these questions.”
Markson tilted his head, pulled the cigarette away. “You serious?”
“A man broke into my condo last night looking for something, whacked him good over the head, and put my old man into a coma. He might not make it.”
“Damn. Sorry to hear that. But why do you think it’s connected to Pelini?”
“I’ve ID’d the guy. He’s one of yours. Guy named Madrone.”
Markson’s eyes narrowed. Dropping his cigarette to the sidewalk, he stomped it out with the toe of his shoe. Lloyd could almost see the wheels spinning in the man’s head, contemplating what he could or should share right now.
“Tell me something,” Lloyd urged him. “Hell, you owe it to my father. You’ve certainly taken enough money off him in our poker games over the years. My father nearly bled out on the carpet because of this guy Madrone, and whatever the hell is going on with Pelini.”
Markson took another long moment before finally responding. “Fine. You’re correct in that Pelini recruited Callahan last month for a covert operation called Black Heron. The operation took place in Moscow last night and went badly. The entire black-ops team was ambushed. Nearly everyone was taken out.”
“By who? The Russians?”
“We don’t think it was the Russians, although they’re certainly in play.”
“Someone else have reason to execute your team?”
“Maybe. We’re searching.”
“What can you tell me about Black Heron?”
“I can’t share those details with you, I’m afraid.”
“What about the kid? Was Callahan killed, too?”
Markson shrugged. “We’re not sure yet. Haven’t confirmed anything. But the kid has already proven to be a hell of a survivor.”
“I don’t get it. Why would Callahan sign up for this?”
Markson lit up another cigarette, took a puff. “Turns out Marcus Pelini is Callahan’s real father. Info that was dropped on him last month and used to recruit him.”
Lloyd’s jaw dropped. “You kidding me?”
“Nope. And you and I both know how messy father-son relationships can be. Hell, I still do stupid things trying to please an old man who can never be pleased.” Markson’s eyes narrowed again. “Now it’s your turn to talk. How the hell did you know Callahan was standing in a room full of dead bodies last night?”
“One of my agents intercepted a video feed from Moscow. She then shared it last night with Callahan’s fiancée. Minutes later, a man in a Suburban tried to crush her Jeep into oblivion with both of them still inside. My agent is in ICU. Natalie walked away okay but is cu
rrently missing.”
“You think Madrone did it?”
Lloyd shook his head. “He doesn’t match the description of the driver. But we ID’d Madrone at my condo, and I found him ransacking Natalie’s apartment a few hours ago. He fled out the fire escape before we could chat with him.”
Markson took a long drag on his cigarette. “I honestly don’t know what Madrone is doing.”
Lloyd could feel his neck flush red. “Don’t jerk me around, Bruce.”
“I’m serious,” Markson insisted. “He’s not operating within any official CIA channels.”
“So you’re telling me it’s just a coincidence that Madrone shows up right after your black-ops team gets sideswiped in Russia and starts wreaking havoc on any local players who might know more than they probably should?”
“Madrone got the shadow treatment earlier this year for special-assignment work. Pulled completely from the grid. Believe me, he’s not a guy you want to mess around with. He’s the guy you send into a cave all by himself to assassinate a Taliban leader.”
“What kind of special-assignment work?”
“I shouldn’t be telling you this. Few at the Agency even know. But we’re hunting an intelligence mole. Someone has been sharing classified information. It got one of our top assets killed in Moscow earlier this year. She was a mistress to Vladimir Zolotov, one of our key Russian targets. Madrone is part of a select off-the-books special-ops team that’s been hunting down the mole.”
“You think it’s someone inside the Agency?”
“We started there, of course. Nothing to show for it yet.”
“Who’s leading the hunt?”
“Bradley.”
Dan Bradley was assistant deputy director for operations. He was quickly climbing the CIA ranks. Lloyd didn’t know too much about him. The Agency didn’t broadcast news about their people.
Markson suddenly cursed as if he was putting some things together in his own mind and the sky was starting to clear for him.
“What?” Lloyd asked him. “You think Bradley’s involved?”
“I gotta go.”
“Talk to me,” Lloyd urged him.
“I need to look into something first.”
“Dammit, man. Don’t leave me hanging here.”
“I’ll call you in the morning, I swear.”
A split second later, Lloyd knew he’d never receive that call. He heard the familiar crack and pop of a sniper rifle, followed by Markson’s head snapping forward, spraying blood across Lloyd’s shirt. On instinct, Lloyd dove to the ground, just as he heard another shot and felt a bullet hit something directly behind him. Lloyd looked over to Markson, who had fallen face-first to the sidewalk. He was a goner.
Lloyd army-crawled forward, pressed his back up against the nearest tree. Another sniper shot, and the bark of the tree exploded just inches above his head. Lloyd had to keep moving. The tree couldn’t fully protect him. Five feet in front of him was a big green metal utility box. Pushing off the tree, he dove for the box just as he heard another sniper shot. The bullet hit the utility box with a loud pop. Lloyd pressed his back against it, pulled his gun out—not that he planned to fire it. The sniper was clearly on the other side of the Tidal Basin, taking shots across the water from a few hundred yards. Who was it? Madrone?
He took out his phone, called Epps. His heart pounded in his ears.
“Get to the Tidal Basin ASAP!” Lloyd ordered. “I’m under fire!”
FORTY-SIX
After sitting in the truck outside Lenny Gregor’s apartment unit until two in the morning with still no sign of him, Natalie finally gave up waiting for him to return. She had no idea if Lenny would even come home tonight. For all she knew, the guy could be currently staking out her brownstone right now. Exhausted, she got a room at the Washington Court Hotel, mainly because it was on the same block as Sam’s apartment building, and she just wanted to somehow feel close to him right now. With still no word from Sam, the full emotional weight of the past twenty-four hours was now hitting her hard.
Lying on the bed, she replayed the words from the note he’d left in his London hotel room for her in her head—Natalie, if you’re reading this, I fear the worst has happened to me—until tears covered her cheeks. They’d already survived so much. Their first devastating breakup two years ago, his tracker assignment gone bad last fall, his mother’s tragic death earlier this year that had sent them both down a difficult path, and his recent trip to Mexico last month. But could they survive this? Would they even get the chance?
Walking over to the window, she pulled back the curtains, where she had a view below of the well-lit Georgetown University Law School campus. The hotel clerk had found it an odd request for a room view—nearly everyone wanted a peek toward the Capitol Building a few blocks south—but Natalie had her reasons and didn’t bother to explain.
Standing there, she could still envision Sam walking the landscaped grounds of the beautiful campus with his backpack slung over his shoulder. They’d shared many picnics on the perfectly green grass beneath the clock tower. Natalie would often show up after one of his late-morning classes with a bag from Ching Ching Cha, their favorite Chinese restaurant. She smiled at those memories. When they’d first started dating, Sam had just been a regular law student hoping a degree would allow him to one day help those who were less fortunate than he was. She’d been a budding investigative reporter still looking to make her mark on the city. They were simply two kids falling in love for the first time. She fiddled with her engagement ring. So much had transpired since those days.
The buzzing of her cell phone snapped her away from the window. She snagged it from the hotel nightstand, stared at the incoming text. Bingo! Her contact at Metro police suffered from insomnia, so she wasn’t surprised to get a reply from him in the middle of the night, with a license plate trace of the Lexus sedan. It belonged to a man named Nathan Barnes of Capitol Hill. Natalie didn’t recognize the name.
She did a quick Google search on her phone. A profile page popped up near the top from a DC law firm called Easton & Lanister—a big corporate firm she did recognize. Sitting there on her screen was a smiling head shot of the same man in a business suit who had just engaged in a clandestine bar meeting with the muscle-bound army reject who’d tried to kill her last night. Why was this lawyer meeting with Lenny? Was he a law firm client? Not likely. Easton & Lanister represented big companies, not lowlifes. They certainly weren’t drinking buddies. What she monitored at the Raven was clearly a business meeting of sorts.
Natalie quickly skimmed through Barnes’s lawyer profile. Born in New Jersey. College at Rutgers. Law school at NYU. Joined Easton & Lanister five years ago, where he specialized in corporate and securities practices. No mention of wife or kids. Natalie pondered the connection to her situation. There was nothing obvious.
She found a few articles from eight years ago, when Barnes had played college lacrosse at Rutgers. He wasn’t a star or anything, but his name appeared in several different tournament write-ups. There was also a team photo, and she quickly scanned the names and faces of the other players. No one stood out as meaning anything to her. Moving forward, she found several articles on legal websites listing Barnes’s name—where he was involved in various legal matters—but again, nothing that looked connected to her current situation in any overt way.
Continuing her search, Natalie finally came across something interesting that grabbed her attention. It was a political article from a DC blog featuring a group photo taken the previous year on the Hill. Barnes was not central to the photo. He was standing over to the side. The central player in the group photo was Senator Clark Harris of New Jersey. According to the photo credits, Nathan Barnes was the senator’s nephew. Did that mean anything?
Of course she’d heard of Senator Harris, although, admittedly, she didn’t know too much about him. Newly elected, he had not yet established a long record of success or conflict in DC. She did a quick search on Harris to refresh
her memory. Five years ago, Harris had ridden a surprisingly strong grassroots movement and won New Jersey’s open Senate seat. Prior to that, he’d served two terms in the US House of Representatives. Engineering degree back in the day from Boston University. Harris owned a small engineering firm for two decades before going into politics. A wife and two daughters around Natalie’s age. Natalie skimmed the list of various Senate committees and subcommittees where Harris had served since his election. None of them really stood out as a point of real interest—except for one.
Senator Harris was a sitting member on the Senate Intelligence Committee.
FORTY-SEVEN
Sam tried and failed to sleep on the overnight train to Paris. Once they’d cleared the station in Milan with no sudden reappearance of his nemesis, Alger Gerlach, he allowed himself to settle down into the train seat next to Tommy and closed his eyes. But a disturbing reel of dark images kept scrolling through his mind and snapping him back awake. Mack being killed on the sidewalk right in front of him; Luis shot dead in Red Square; the others all ambushed in the Moscow safe house. During the past nine months, he’d probably seen more dead bodies, many of whom had taken their last breaths while standing right next to him, than most county morgue workers. He kept trying to find a way to reconcile the past year in his mind, in the same way that Pastor Isaiah had helped him to address and make some peace with the pain of his broken childhood. But the steadily growing body count all around him made it difficult to make sense of anything.