King and Maxwell

by David Baldacci

  “We heard on the TV that the White House has refused to comment,” said Sean. “Is that how high?”

  Littlefield gave a barely perceptible nod.

  Michelle was still standing. Littlefield looked up at her and said, “You gonna join the party or what?”

  Michelle sat down. “Why send one soldier out with all that money? Who couldn’t see only bad things happening with that?”

  “Apparently everybody except the stars and bars over at the Pentagon,” replied Littlefield. He opened a file in front of him. “You two figured out what Wingo is or was?”

  “He’s not an Army reservist,” said Sean. “Nobody exits the uniform one year before a full pension to take a sales job at a translator firm with DoD secretly footing the bill.”

  “You have done your homework,” said Littlefield, looking impressed. He glanced down at the file in front of him. “You two familiar with DIA?”

  “Defense Intelligence,” replied Michelle. “Like CIA but in uniform.”

  “DIA has a bigger budget than CIA and they actually do more in certain parts of the world. But post-nine-eleven the two agencies have learned to play nice.” He paused. “You two don’t have security clearances anymore.”

  “So just leave out the juicy parts,” said Sean. “And be clever enough to work them in some other way.”

  Littlefield chuckled. “It’s not a secret. It was in the papers not that long ago. DIA has bulked up its clandestine field units big-time. They’re working closely with Langley overseas in certain hot spots. We can all guess where those might be.”

  Sean said, “But I didn’t think DIA was authorized to conduct covert operations that went much beyond your basic intelligence gathering, drone strikes, or getting guns into the hands of our enemy’s enemy.”

  “That’s true. But that’s also where CIA comes in, because they are authorized to do that and a lot more. However, they’ve also had their budget slashed and committed some very public missteps lately. And even with defense cuts and sequestration the DoD has the funds to do more stuff.”

  Michelle said, “Are you saying that CIA provides the cover of their station platforms overseas—”

  Littlefield broke in, “And training at the Farm in Virginia.”

  Michelle continued, “And DIA provides the field operatives?”

  “DIA has even copied Langley on their Persia House initiative, creating a body to merge resources on problem countries around the planet. The difficulty has been how to leave soldiers behind after their units have been called back home. One way was to take the uniform off but not for real—train the solider up and deploy him directly into the field of concern with an appropriate backstory that CIA would support.”

  “So Wingo is recruited for a mission for DIA and CIA. He sets off with a billion in euros and disappears,” said Sean.

  Michelle added, “Any idea where he is now?”

  Littlefield shook his head. “Still in the Middle East? India? Back in the States? Your guess is as good as mine.”

  “Who was he supposed to meet?” asked Sean. “And deliver the money to?”

  “Been trying to get that info. So far, no answers. But we did get something in, not in the CIA/DIA loop.”

  “How?” asked Michelle.

  Littlefield looked disappointed by the question. “Hey, CIA and military aren’t the only ones playing overseas; the Bureau has resources there too.” He lifted out a piece of paper from the files. “Wherever Wingo was heading to, there were bodies found. All of them had been shot.”

  “Who were they?” asked Sean.

  “Muslims.”

  “From where?” asked Sean.

  Littlefield put the paper back in the file. “Don’t know. But let me clarify. They weren’t from any official government over there. They were insurgents.”

  Sean and Michelle took this in and Sean said, “Insurgents? So are you saying…?”

  Littlefield nodded, a grim look in his eyes. “The euros from us might, and I emphasize might, be going to a group that wants to topple an Islamic government.”

  “Which one?” asked Sean.

  “Don’t know. We’re funding Syrian rebels publicly now, with both weapons and other supplies, so I don’t think it’s them.”

  “That narrows the choices,” said Sean. “To some really bad ones.”

  “And if that became public? And the identity of the country?” said Michelle.

  “Not good,” answered Sean.

  Littlefield said, “We’ve been known to send aid to the enemies of our enemies before. But we do try to keep it on the QT. In this situation that’s not a can of worms anyone wants to open. Unfortunately, this can has been partially opened. Somehow the story about the money and Sam Wingo made it to the press. That’s another reason we need to keep a tight lid on the kid. The press will be all over him otherwise. We have an agent with eyes on the Wingo house. There are media trucks all over the place. It’s all starting, and once the press is on the hunt they don’t quit until a bigger story comes along. And I don’t see that happening.”

  “Good thing we got Tyler out of there when we did,” noted Sean.

  “But the money never made it to where it was supposed to go?” said Michelle.

  “Apparently not. Either Sam Wingo stole it or somebody took it from him.”

  “And why are you really looping us in on all this?” said Sean. “I doubt it was my partner’s eloquence about sticking something up your, well, you get the point.”

  “It wasn’t her eloquence, although it was good, I have to admit. It was the kid.”

  “What about him?” said Sean.

  “The only people he’ll talk to are you two. And we need him. Or at least the Bureau believes we do, to get to the bottom of all this, because he’s the only connection we have to his old man. And the Bureau doesn’t want to be seen as manhandling a kid who might have lost his soldier dad in combat.”

  “All of which means you need us,” said Michelle.

  “For now,” replied Littlefield, who then smiled stiffly at her. “Until we stop needing you.”

  He rose. “Now let’s go.”

  “Where?” asked Sean.

  “To see the man.”

  “FBI director?” said Michelle.

  “Aim higher,” said Littlefield cryptically. “A lot higher.”

  CHAPTER

  42

  “CONGRATULATIONS, IT’S ALL YOURS,” said the man.

  Alan Grant shook the man’s hand and looked up at the building he had just purchased. It was an old AM radio station in rural western Fairfax County complete with a two-hundred-foot-high transmission tower. It had once broadcast crop and farm animal prices along with local news and weather on weak AM frequencies, but it had been unused for years.

  The man looked at Grant. “This thing is sort of a historical landmark around these parts.”

  “I’m sure,” said Grant.

  “Hope you’re not going to tear it down.”

  “Wouldn’t think of it,” said Grant.

  “Going to run your own station? You’ll need to jump through lots of hoops with the FCC.”

  “Got it all covered, thanks.”

  The man walked to his car and drove off, leaving Grant alone with his unusual purchase. He walked the perimeter and then stopped at the tower, gazing up at its two-hundred-foot height. Parts of it were rusty and some cross members needed repair. He had been inside the building, which was brick with few windows and a partially rotted front door. There was lead paint and asbestos ceiling panels, but that was okay, too. He didn’t need to make structural changes to the place, but there would be changes, lots of them. And they needed to be done quickly.

  He checked his watch and then sent a text.

  Five minutes later the two tractor-trailers came rolling up the winding road to the building. Three men sat in the front seat of each rig. The trucks stopped and the men got out. They opened the rear doors of the trailers, and five more men jumped down from ea
ch one. With sixteen men in total working, it wouldn’t take them long.

  A ramp was dropped from each trailer, and the men started offloading building materials.

  Grant unlocked the door to the station and the men began carrying in all the materials, including twin gas-powered generators.

  Grant consulted with his foreman and then walked around inside the station directing the placement of the materials. Some of the other men began collecting junk and other debris from inside the old radio station and carrying it out to the trucks. The men worked steadily and methodically, and hours later what had been in the station was now in the trucks and what had been in the trucks was now in the station.

  Grant studied some plans that had been set up on a long piece of plywood laid on sawhorses in what had once been the lobby of the radio station. He consulted with the foreman, made notations on the construction plans, and gave some suggestions.

  They were on a tight schedule, and Grant was pleased to already hear the whine of power tools as the men commenced preparing the building for the required rehab.

  He again walked the interior with the foreman, pointing out where he wanted the vestibule walls to be.

  “Five layers of SID,” he said, referring to “security in depth.” “From the controlled perimeter of the guts to layer five.”

  The other man nodded and pointed to various spots. “Intrusion detection points.”

  Grant nodded and pointed out spots for more. They would be taking a six-sided approach to this project, meaning all four walls, the ceiling, and the floor. Construction would be from true floor to true ceiling. There would be special insulation and slip-proof acoustic fill between the first and second layers of gypsum board, with fire-rated plywood over that.

  Every penetration into the secure space, whether it was ductwork, utility lines, or any others, would be sealed off with acoustical foam. All ductwork would have metal bars to prevent access. All penetration lines would be configured to come in at only one juncture point and be properly sealed off to prevent unauthorized entry or electronic surveillance.

  The windows would be covered and sealed and would not open. They would be alarmed and outfitted to pass TEMPEST certification, as would the entire facility. There would be one rear emergency exit with no external hardware on the door; it would carry deadlocked panic hardware and be alarmed 24/7 with local annunciation.

  All doors would be nearly two inches thick, made of eighteen-gauge steel, have acoustic sweeps and seals, be self-closing and locking, have RF shielding, and be connected to alarms. The door hinges would be reinforced to seven-gauge steel, lock areas predrilled to ten-gauge steel, and the door closure to twelve-gauge.

  Grant continued to walk the interior, seeing in his mind all that would be there very soon. Motion sensors, emergency backup power, access control. No one without a key card, a PIN, and the requisite biometrics on the security checklist would be admitted. Anyone else approaching the building would not have a pleasant time.

  A perimeter gate would be set up two hundred yards down the road and a guard stationed there. For five hundred yards on all sides of the building there would be sensors implanted in the ground, laser lines, observation posts, and every other intrusion detection device that Grant could reasonably deploy here.

  The exterior of the building would have enhanced noise generators and sound-masking devices that would defeat any attempts to capture sensitive information.

  Grant ventured to the very center of the building and visualized where the vault would go. It would be a steel-lined modular room with a Class 6 entry door. This was the guts of the operation, an operation that would be taking place fairly soon.

  He walked outside and studied the perimeter. The best place for these types of facilities was on a military base where you could have a dedicated response force. However, Grant did not have that option. He needed to work with what he did have, and an army he did not.

  He ventured over to the transmission tower. Very soon it would have a number of satellite dishes tethered to it. They would all be beaming and receiving information through a concrete electronic pipeline of Grant’s own fashioning. With that technology he could have made billions in the business world because no one, as yet, had been able to truly protect electronic data—particularly from mobile devices—as it went from point A to point B.

  Wars in the future might still be fought on dirt and in the air and on the seas, but probably the most critical confrontations would take place in cyberspace as countries used armies of cyber soldiers to attack infrastructure, power grids, financial markets, transportation and energy hubs, and more, all through the click of computer keys instead of the pull of a trigger or the drop of a bomb.

  What Grant was doing was akin to this type of futuristic warfare. But his target was fairly specific. In fact, it was about as focused as one could get.

  He finished walking the perimeter, spent a few more minutes with his men, and then drove off. He noted with satisfaction that the security perimeter was already being installed. Along with the building Grant had also purchased a hundred acres. The closest home or business was miles away. He liked his privacy.

  He reached the main road and sped up. He turned on the radio and found the all-news station he had been searching for a few seconds later. He waited until the top of the hour and then smiled as the lead story came on.

  It was the old story of a missing billion euros along with a missing soldier. But now that story had new elements. The anchor paused for emphasis here and then announced with a flourish that:

  “Information has just come to light that hints at the possibility of an illegal plot emanating from deep within the power corridors of the U.S. government, which might have serious international ramifications.”

  Grant was glad that the story had hit all of the salient and salacious points. That had been his hope when he had it planted.

  He turned off the radio and sped up. He had some confidential information to purchase. But with enough money there was nothing on earth anymore that could be truly kept secret.

  CHAPTER

  43

  THEY WERE IN DOWNTOWN D.C. NOW, and the car Wingo was following swung into a parking garage. Wingo hesitated and then pulled in after it. It was a pay garage, and each driver had to get a ticket before the gate would lift. Wingo parked about six car spaces over from the other man.

  Then things got dicey. There was a bank of elevators. People were waiting for the next one. The man walked up to the queue, and Wingo followed. He pulled his ball cap down tightly over his head and adjusted his sunglasses. He was not about to take them off. He’d changed his appearance since Afghanistan but he couldn’t take a chance on being spotted.

  The group stepped onto the elevator car. It carried everyone to the lobby, where they all clambered onto another elevator. In the back Wingo saw that the man he was following pushed the button for floor six. When the doors opened on that floor several other people got off as well. Wingo was the last off. He watched as the man walked down the hall and turned left. Wingo followed, stopping at the intersection of the two corridors.

  He watched as the man entered a door. It closed behind him. Wingo continued on, passed the door, and looked at the name on the wall next to the door.

  The Vista Trading Group, LLC.

  Wingo continued on down the hall and then stopped, wondering what to do. He had a gun. He could perhaps burst in and make a citizen’s arrest. That, of course, would be stupid. He had no evidence. He was a wanted man himself. He had no permit for his gun. The police would come and he would be the one arrested.

  He rode the elevator back down and returned to his rental. He did an Internet search on the Vista Trading Group, LLC. He got the perfunctory website that told him nothing much of interest. They were engaged in defense contracting as consultants. He looked under personnel but did not find the picture of the man he had been following. He could simply have been going there for a meeting. He didn’t have to work there, Wingo
concluded.

  This had been a dead end, but Wingo wasn’t done with it yet. He would wait out on the street; when the man left, Wingo would take up the trail once more. It was then that Wingo noticed a shop across the street. He got out, ran across, and entered. Thirty minutes later he came back out and walked into the parking garage.

  He went over to the man’s car, looked around to ensure no one was watching, and then knelt down and attached the surveillance bug under the man’s bumper.

  Wingo quickly left the garage and got back to his car. He slid in and then powered up the device he had purchased. The shop had been one of those places that sold police scanners, handheld electronic wands that detected metal, handcuffs, police batons.