Ezra snorted a laugh. “Sure.”
Gwen’s lips pressed together.
“You’re serious?”
She shrugged.
Ezra held up a hand. “Alright, let’s say, for the sake of argument, this is some complicated conspiracy and Coughlin is bent. You want to go to Armstrong? How do you know she isn’t part of it?”
“Have you got a better idea?”
Ezra dropped his voice to an urgent whisper. “You don’t just walk up and knock on the Director’s door.”
“You don’t think I know that?”
“I think we should follow orders,” Ezra said. “You really want to go back to debugging code?”
Gwen deflated some. She sank back into her seat and stared hard at the worn carpet. “But what if?”
Ezra groaned. His eyes went to the screen where a black and white picture of Sacha Duval stared back at him. “I admit it sounds like a Watergate scandal, but there’s no way of knowing who’s in on this. We go asking too many questions and we might be the next unsolved homicides.”
Gwen glanced around the sea of computer terminals on B3 to see if anyone was watching, then she reached for a thumb drive on her desk and cocked an eyebrow in question.
Ezra set his teeth together and let out air. He sounded like a tire that had sprung a leak. Trying not to move his lips, he said, “You’re treading dangerous ground.”
“Is that a yes?”
Through gritted teeth he said, “Yes.”
She slotted the USB drive into her machine and quickly copied everything associated with Operation medusa.
Chapter Fifty-Two
A howling wind whistled around the eaves of the old church. Noble crossed his arms over his chest and put his back to the wall. His toes felt like blocks of ice inside his shoes. Humans can die of exposure in temperatures as high as fifty degrees Fahrenheit, and it had to be twenty degrees colder. At least they were out of the wind, Noble told himself. He made a rewinding motion with his hand and said, “Alright, back up. Why would Coughlin want you dead?”
“He’s not the only one.” Duval cupped his hands together and blew into his palms. “Frank Bonner and Grey, they were all part of it.”
“A part of what?” Noble asked.
“Several years ago, the CIA’s Center for Cyber Intelligence Division created a highly classified program called CyberLance.”
“Sounds like something out of a William Gibson novel,” Noble remarked.
“I wish,” Duval said. “CyberLance is the tip of the CIA’s hacking arsenal. It allows the CIA to break into virtually any system on the planet and leave behind a digital footprint that points back to a separate entity.”
“What’s that mean in English?” Noble asked.
“It means they can use it to spy on anyone in the world and point the finger at someone else. They could hack into the Chinese defense system, melt down a nuclear reactor, and blame it on the North Koreans. Or plant evidence on the laptop of a Fortune 500 CEO that ties him to Russian organized crime. The sky is the limit.”
Noble nodded. It didn’t take much imagination to see how powerful CyberLance was when used as a weapon. He said, “What’s any of this got to do with you?”
“Nine months ago, someone stole the majority of the CIA’s weaponized cyber arsenal, including the CyberLance program.”
Noble let out a low whistle. “Any idea who made off with the files?”
“Coughlin,” Duval said. “He and Bonner were going into business for themselves. With a copy of CyberLance they could sell their services to the highest bidder. Need to sabotage a business rival’s manufacturing plant and make it look like it was a simple technical glitch? They can do it. Need to accuse your political rival of interfering in the election? They can make it happen.”
“How do Grey and his team fit in?” Noble asked.
Duval said, “In order for the program to work, you need ground access.”
“And they’re the CIA’s best covert entry team,” Noble said. He used the door frame to scratch an itch between his shoulder blades. “That’s a pretty tall claim. I assume you have proof?”
“I’ve got everything,” Duval told him. “Names, dates, dollar figures, and the accounts where the money went. It’s scheduled to release with the next Cypher Punk vault.”
“How do you know all this?” Noble asked.
“I have sources inside the CIA,” Duval told him. “That’s how I found out Coughlin was planning to abduct me from the embassy. He knew it was only a matter of time before I released Vault 7 and blew the lid on his operation. He had to shut me up. He called it Operation medusa. A Special Operations Group would infiltrate the embassy at night, take me out by force, and deliver me to a black site where Bonner could force me to give up the name of my failsafe. That’s when I decided to make a run for Montenegro. I tried to keep it quiet. I used back channels, but they must have someone inside the embassy.”
“They did,” Sam said, walking back into the narthex. She had her jacket on and her hair pulled up in a ponytail. “The secretary you used at the embassy was on Bonner’s payroll. She made a copy of every document you gave her.”
Duval’s brow wrinkled. The hurt was plain on his face.
Sam said, “She fled a money laundering indictment in the Netherlands. Bonner found out about it and used it as leverage.”
“Way to check your sources,” Noble said.
Sam elbowed him in the ribs. “Don’t be mean.”
“If it weren’t for him, we wouldn’t be in this mess.” Noble gestured to Duval. “This fop leaked classified American intelligence and put a lot of good field officers in danger.”
“Okay, granted,” Sam said. “But that’s no reason to be rude.”
“No reason to be rude? He committed treason. He deserves to be executed.”
She pulled her gun and held it out to Noble. “Go ahead, then. You want to do it? Or should I?”
Noble made an effort to soften his voice. “Okay, that was out of line, but what he did is still illegal.”
“I’m not defending him.” Sam tucked the gun in her waistband. “Yes, he committed a crime, but he deserves a fair trial. Not a bullet to the back of the head.”
Duval stood up so fast he turned over the stool. “Listen to yourselves! I expose government corruption at the highest levels on both sides of the aisle. Instead of hunting me down, you should be thanking me.”
Noble resisted the urge to punch him in the mouth. “Americans have a right know what goes on in our government. I won’t argue that. Government corruption should be exposed and the people responsible punished. But the way you went about exposing the corruption was wrong. Innocent people lost their lives. You got a lot of people killed. Did you ever stop to think about that?”
Duval groped for the overturned stool, set it right, and sat down again. He was quiet for a while, staring at the ground between his feet. Finally he said, “I never meant for anybody to get hurt. I didn’t know what else to do. I thought once I released the information, the world would demand justice and the people responsible would be brought to heel. Instead the world went on like it never happened. Most people don’t even care.”
“You nailed it with that last statement,” Noble said.
“You’re one to talk,” Duval said.
Noble fixed him with a hard stare. “What’s that mean?”
“Don’t pretend,” Duval said.
Noble pushed off the beam and uncrossed his arms. “What are you talking about?”
“You said yourself you aren’t here for me and you don’t care about the truth.” Duval thrust his chin at Samantha. “You’re here for her.”
Noble never took his eyes off Duval, but he could feel Sam watching him and his ears burned.
Duval shrugged. “I’m just baggage. No need to burden yourselves with me. You’re both spies. You can disappear. No one will ever see you again. Go on.” He waved a hand at the door. “Go. I’ll get by on my own.”
<
br /> Noble snorted. “You wouldn’t make it to the end of the drive.”
“Maybe I’ll stay right here,” Duval muttered. “Start a vineyard.”
His shoulders slumped and his chin sank into his parka.
Noble held up both hands. “Alright. Relax. No one is abandoning you.”
Duval looked up, like a puppy that hears a key in the lock. It was sad and endearing all at the same time. Noble thought of Shawn Hennessey and all the rest of the sad saps just smart enough to get themselves into trouble but not strong enough to protect themselves. He went to the door and peered out through the gaps before anyone saw the emotion on his face.
Emotions are the enemy, every bit as deadly as a bullet. Torres got himself killed when he let emotions get the better of him. Noble set his jaw and mentally boxed up all that sentimental bull. It wouldn’t help him get the job done. Sam was in a world of trouble and the only way to help her was to help Duval.
He felt a hand on his shoulder, turned, and found Sam at his side. She silently implored him with big dark eyes.
Noble cracked a grin. “Alright, doll. Turn off the doe eyes.”
To Duval he said, “I’ll help, but we have to be smart about this. Making a mad dash for the border is exactly what they expect.”
Sam tried and failed to hide a smile. She grabbed his collars, planted a quick kiss on his lips and pulled back beaming. “What’s the plan?”
“First, we need to buy ourselves some time to think,” Noble said.
Duval snorted. “Where do you buy that?”
“Hardware store.”
Chapter Fifty-Three
Matthew Burke sat in a rolling chair, watching live feed from drones circling France at twenty-thousand feet. Modern surveillance was a wonderful thing, especially in places like central Europe where cameras record every major intersection in metropolitan areas. Electronic eyes capture footage twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, and store it in government databases. It makes tracking fugitives painless and easy. Unless your target leaves the city for the countryside, where the only cameras are at gas stations and those usually back up to on-site computers.
After the tip about a carjacking in the tunnel, the team had done a marvelous job of tracking Noble’s movements, until he turned down a hard-packed lane running through a picturesque countryside of quaint cottages and rolling fields. That had been four hours ago.
Coughlin paced like a caged lion, barking orders and demanding to know where Noble had gone. Why weren’t they making any progress? His face twitched and his fingers clutched at the air. Damp circles formed under his arms. He kept tugging his tie until it resembled a noose hanging around his shoulders. He was on the other side of the situation room, haranguing a pretty young data expert when Dana leaned close to Burke and whispered, “He’s starting to scare me.”
Keeping his voice low, Burke said, “Let him rant and rave. It’s not getting him anywhere.”
Dana stood up and stretched.
Burke watched the lines of her body. Her breasts strained against a silk blouse and her skirt stretched tight across her hips. Several of the men near the back of the room stole glances. She was a showstopper alright but, tired as he was, Burke couldn’t bring himself to appreciate the view. Given the choice between sex and a nap, at the moment, he’d choose the nap.
She came out of the stretch and asked, “Need anything?”
Burke consulted his watch. “The last forty-eight hours of my life back.”
“So coffee?” Dana quipped.
“Extra cream and sugar.”
“Splenda,” she said before walking out the door.
Coughlin stomped past, headed for the other side of the room to harass someone else, and muttered, “Bet you’re real happy, Burke.”
“What have I got to be happy about?”
Coughlin stopped. His face twitched and jerked. He looked like the guy on the bus that you try to avoid. “Your buddy managed to give us the slip and helped an international fugitive escape justice.”
Burke shrugged his massive shoulders. “Coughlin, I’ll be happy when this is over and I can crawl into my bed.”
Coughlin planted his hands on his hips and shook his head. “One of these days you’re going to slip up, Burke. I hope I’m around to see it.”
One of the IMINT specialists called out, “I think I’ve got something.”
“Let’s see it.” Coughlin said.
A fresh wave of panic swirled in Burke’s gut like cheap liquor drunk too fast. He sat up and his brows pinched.
A black and white video showed the stolen Peugeot pull into the parking spot of a store. A tall man with rebelliously long hair climbed out. He kept his face turned away from the camera, but there was no mistaking that silhouette.
“That’s him,” Coughlin said in a voice raw with emotion and shot full of venom. “Where is this?”
The analyst consulted his computer and said, “A retail store on the outskirts of Vesoul, 11 Rue des Saules. The store is called Pro'Bois Tout Faire Bois.”
“In English,” Coughlin said.
Someone else said, “It’s a hardware store, sir.”
“What the hell is he doing?” Coughing muttered.
Noble went inside. He was gone thirty minutes and when he came out again he was carrying a shopping bag and a coil of rope. He looked directly into the camera on his way to the car. The image specialist froze the picture. “Seventy-eight percent match,” he said. “The hair makes it difficult to get good anchor points.”
“That’s him,” Coughlin said. “How long ago was this?”
The young man consulted his computer. “Less than ten minutes.”
Coughlin came to life like he’d had a shot of adrenalin straight to the heart. “I want all three birds rerouted to that location. Get me everything we can on the area. Gunn and Duval are probably held up somewhere close by. Did he pay cash or credit?”
“Cash,” one of the techs reported.
Coughlin cursed. “Can anybody tell me what he bought?”
“Forty-foot length of rope and two packages of plastic BIC lighters,” came the response. Image Specialists are experts at determining an object by the size, shape, and weight of the package. During the Cold War, they could look at satellite photos of crates arriving at Russian harbors and tell you if a shipment to the Kremlin hid vodka or the latest audio-video technology.
“You’re sure?” Coughlin asked.
The specialist nodded. “Ordinary BIC lighters. Two packs of six. Assortment of colors. Retail price stateside, six ninety-nine.”
“How do you know that?”
In answer, the specialist reached into his shirt pocket and produced an orange BIC.
Coughlin turned to Burke. “Is Noble a smoker?”
Burke shook his head. “Not unless he picked it up recently.”
“What’s he up to?” Coughlin wondered out loud.
“Something’s not right,” Burke told him.
“What do you mean?”
Burke motioned to the black and white still of Noble on the screen. “He looked right into the camera. He wants to be found.”
“Or he slipped up,” Coughlin said. “Maybe he’s getting tired.”
“Noble doesn’t make mistakes like that.” Burke said. He suspected Jake was about to pull a Houdini—intentionally allow himself to be tracked and caught only to disappear again, throwing off pursuit. Burke also knew that trying to warn Coughlin off would only make him more determined. Burke said, “He’s playing you, Coughlin. He wants you to chase him.”
Coughlin snorted. “Spare me the bull crap, Burke. I’m not buying.”
Burke raised his hands in surrender.
Coughlin coordinated the search. The room was a flurry of activity. Within minutes a drone was tracking the Peugeot as it rolled east over a dirt road that wound through rolling hills surrounded by small vineyards. A plume of dust followed the toy-sized car on the monitor screen. Coughlin took out his cellphone and
called Grey. “We’ve got eyes on target.”
Chapter Fifty-Four
“What do we do with it now?” Gwen wanted to know. She had the thumb drive in the palm of her hand, holding it out for Ezra’s inspection like it was an archeological artifact of significant importance. A cursory read-through of the files was enough to convince Ezra that she was right: those weren’t dummy operations planted for the sake of an exercise in cyber security. Dark things were hidden in those files, things Ezra wished for all the world he could un-see. Something sinister was going on and Ezra didn’t want to know or be forced to do anything about it.
Gwen lowered her voice. “We can’t get it out of the building.”
“We could bury the files in a photo and upload the photo to one of our phones,” Ezra suggested.
Gwen closed her fingers around the thumb drive and glanced around to see if anyone had heard that last remark. “Are you crazy? That’s espionage. We’d go to jail for life!”
“What do you want to do?”
“I still think we should go to the Director.”
“And say what?”
Gwen shrugged. “Show her the files and tell her exactly what happened.”
“What if we’re wrong?” Ezra said.
“What if we’re right?” Gwen countered.
“You don’t just walk in to see the Director,” Ezra said.
Gwen pressed her lips together.
Ezra held up a hand in surrender. “Alright.”
He reached for the secure phone on his desk. He had never had to call the Director of the CIA before. He said, “I don’t even know the extension. Do you?”
“It’s in the binder.”
He took out the Interoffice Communications Binder and opened it to the first page. “Here it is. Right below the Director of National Intelligence. Sure you don’t want to call him instead? I got the Director of National Security here too.”
Gwen narrowed her eyes. “Don’t be a wisenheimer.”
Ezra punched the number and waited. A tight knuckle of fear formed in his chest. Could he get in trouble just for calling the Director of the CIA? He listened to the line ring and imagined himself getting told off for breaking protocol.
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