The Dark Hour

by Robin Burcell

  “That was before Grogan’s murder,” McNiel replied.

  “You just told us that his murder appears to be an isolated incident.”

  “I said early reports seemed to indicate such. What I didn’t mention was a secondary MI5 report on the assassination attempt on a member of Parliament, who was also sitting on a committee to tighten port security. In fact, he used the growing threat of pirates as his impetus to increase funding for maritime security. Once Grogan heard that, he approached the Senate committee to reopen the LockeStarr investigation before the global summit started, intending to bring it up there to tighten security in international ports and shipping lanes, too. Rumor has it that was what his speech was about today, or would have been, had he finished it.”

  Reopen the LockeStarr investigation . . . “What was MI5’s analysis?”

  “They believe the Black Network may have been behind the attempt.”

  The Black Network was set up as a conduit for terrorism funding, arms trafficking, drug money laundering, sale of nuclear technology, and the bribery of public officials in order to infiltrate governments. They also specialized in the takeover of corporations that would further their goals. LockeStarr, a mega corporation with one of its many holdings involved in shipping port management, was believed to be one of the Network’s conglomerates, though no tangible link had ever been proven.

  Griffin needed no proof.

  Publicly, everyone believed that the LockeStarr investigation was merely about it being controlled by foreign investors, which was not the ideal solution for running U.S. ports. ATLAS and the CIA, however, knew different. Griffin’s wife had learned from her informant, Faas, that someone in the U.S. had tapped into and passed on the information containing every security measure and flaw of every U.S. port to the very company trying to take it over. She was killed following up a lead on LockeStarr.

  That LockeStarr was the recipient of the stolen port data, Griffin had no doubt. The question the various intelligence agencies had never been able to settle on was why? If, as they suspected, LockeStarr was really a front company for the Black Network, it was for one of two scenarios, both favored by the Network: A false flag operation in which some Network terrorist activity on home soil was blamed on foreign terrorists. Or it was the sale of the information to the highest bidder, one who might be interested in knowing the weaknesses in port security that could be exploited for arms and drug running.

  In either scenario, the Network had the same goal. To show that the various intel agencies and top governmental officials in the U.S. were incapable of dealing with the threats posed by other entities. Similar false flag operations run by the Network had allowed them to move their own people into positions of power when they’d come up with solutions to the problem or pointed the finger at those who allegedly had allowed such disasters to happen.

  Unfortunately, after the death of Griffin’s wife, the port data had never been recovered, and the investigation quietly closed when no other evidence had been found linking LockeStarr to the theft or to the Network.

  No wonder McNiel wanted him out of the way.

  It also explained the guilty look Tex gave him earlier, and he glanced at the report on the missing AUV, his thoughts spinning. Senator Grogan’s murder, the phone call from Faas’s niece, and now this. “Has anyone tied in the Amphitrite with LockeStarr?”

  “Obviously that’s one of the things you’ll be checking into on the Jamaica mission with di Luca. Tex will be heading the LockeStarr team from here.”

  Normally Griffin would’ve been heading the team. His wife’s history with LockeStarr precluded that, and the conversation he’d overheard was suddenly very much in context. “I’ll get back to work, then,” he said, and left the room, ignoring the relieved look on McNiel’s face as he shut the door.

  Work was the last thing on his mind. Back in his office, he sat at his desk, went over flight schedules on the computer, even as he wondered if the information from Faas’s niece was legitimate. The caller, Petra, had intimated that their meeting was time sensitive, whether because the source would disappear, or someone was watching Faas, Griffin didn’t know. If the latter, it also meant someone could be monitoring the Netherlands airports, and he decided that he’d take a red-eye into Brussels, then a train into Amsterdam. He wasn’t about to allow this lead to slip through his fingers should it be legit, and he most definitely wasn’t about to take chances should it be a setup.

  Tex knocked at his door as Griffin was verifying his flight and train schedule. “Look, Griff. I would’ve said something earlier, but McNiel was worried about—well, the emotional toll.”

  Griffin stared at his computer, mentally going over everything he needed to take care of before he left. Two years . . . He’d been looking for—

  “Griff?”

  It took him a moment to gather his thoughts, realize that Tex was talking to him. “Sorry. You were saying?”

  Tex narrowed his gaze. “We were talking about LockeStarr.”

  “I’m sure you’ll do an admirable job tying them into the Black Network without me.”

  “You didn’t think that two years ago when McNiel pulled you from the case.”

  “I have something else to occupy my time.”

  “Bullshit. The only thing that would—” Tex suddenly turned, swung the door closed, then crossed the room, his look one of accusation. “There is nothing else. What have you heard?”

  Griffin contemplated not saying a thing. But he knew he’d need someone on his side, and when it came to allies, there was none better than Tex. “Faas’s niece called.”

  “I didn’t even know Faas had a niece.”

  “Apparently he does.”

  “Or someone wants you to think he does.”

  “Trust me. I’ve thought of that. Bottom line is, Faas has some information for me.”

  “The only reason this information would come out now is to lure you into the open. LockeStarr’s suddenly on our radar, and out of the blue, a sleeper agent contacts you? Hell. Not even a sleeper agent. His damned niece.”

  “I don’t care if it was his neighbor’s second cousin twice removed. I’m going to Amsterdam.”

  “What about Marc and the dive team?”

  Griffin hesitated. Leaving his team shorthanded was not something he’d ordinarily do. He could not, however, let this potential lead get away from him. He had no family of his own. Becca had been it, all he’d had left, and they’d taken that away from him. “Tell Marc I’m sorry. I can’t go. He’ll understand.”

  “And what the hell am I supposed to tell McNiel?”

  “Tell him whatever you want,” Griffin said, scooping up his keys and walking toward the door. “If it’s the last thing I do, I’m going to find out exactly who it was who killed my wife.”

  Chapter 5

  December 4

  The White House, West Wing

  Washington, D.C.

  Miles Cavanaugh, a deputy national security adviser to the president, looked at the number on his cell phone. Chet Somera. Finally, Miles thought, answering the call. “Well?”

  “The kid got away. We missed him. Both places.”

  “How?”

  “He works at one of those electronics superstores. TVs displayed on every wall, every one of them showing the news about the senator’s murder. When I went inside, asking for him, the manager said he went home sick.”

  “So why didn’t you get him at his place?”

  “Somehow he must’ve figured we were there. We’ve been sitting on his apartment all night. He hasn’t been back.”

  “If he was spooked, then he knows. I want him found. What about the other computer? The one belonging to Hollis?”

  “Cloned, then erased.”

  “Find out if he had any other friends, anyone else he might have told.”

  “Will do.�
�

  Miles disconnected, then started pacing the room. More loose ends. This was the last thing he needed right now.

  Someone knocked on his door, then opened it without warning. Ian Thorndike, director of the Special Activities Division, the black op arm of the CIA, walked in. “This has gone too far,” Ian said, closing the door behind him.

  “Too far?” Miles replied. “That’s the goddamned understatement of the year. The senator’s dead and that item you were so keen on keeping under wraps is missing, so does it really matter?”

  “What matters,” Thorndike said, “is that we start on damage control. Recover the item. We know where it was sent. We know who it was sent to, and we have a fair idea who the intended recipient is.”

  “Who would that be?”

  “Zachary Griffin.”

  Miles stared at Thorndike. “What the hell is ATLAS doing involved in this?”

  “ATLAS isn’t involved. For him it’s personal. I have a feeling someone thought they were doing him a favor by passing the information on.”

  “And let’s say this package is . . . delivered to him.”

  “He’d be the last person we’d want it delivered to. We’d have to shut everything down.”

  “Or shut him down. Hypothetically speaking, how hard would it be to tie his hands? Make him ineffective in the field?”

  “Hypothetically? Not impossible. And if the package is recovered before he sees it, unnecessary.”

  “We can’t take any chances. You know what you need to do,” Miles said.

  “This conversation is over,” Thorndike replied, walking toward the door. “I’m not about to rock my kingdom so that you can attempt to build yours.”

  “Don’t forget it’s your agent out there you want to protect.”

  “Is that a threat?”

  Miles forced himself to breathe evenly when he saw the flash of emotion in Thorndike’s eyes. “No. I’m just reminding you of what you have to lose.”

  Thorndike stood there for several seconds, then, “I can’t burn Griffin unless I have a good reason to.”

  “Maybe you’re just not looking hard enough.”

  “If it happens, understand this. You’ll be left to clean up the mess on your own. You have no idea what this man is capable of.”

  “You think I’m afraid of him?”

  “You should be,” Thorndike said, yanking open the door. “Did I mention he’s ex–navy SEAL? A walking killing machine. And that was before we got ahold of him.”

  Miles waited until Thorndike left the office, then closed the door and returned to his desk, picking up the phone to make a call. When it was answered on the other end, he said, “He thinks Zachary Griffin will try to pick up the package. Some sort of personal connection. He didn’t say what.”

  The silence on the other end of the phone seemed to stretch forever, then, “I don’t like that Griffin’s involved.”

  “Neither did Thorndike. I think I have him convinced to blacklist Griffin.”

  “Thorndike didn’t question why?”

  “No. I have a feeling he’ll do anything to keep his operation going. Whoever he has out there, he wants to protect.”

  “We’ll make sure something comes up on Griffin. Was there no mention of the identity of Thorndike’s agent in the field? That information would be invaluable.”

  “None.”

  “Should it come up, I need to know immediately. No matter the hour.”

  “Of course.”

  Miles disconnected, leaned back in his chair, certain this would eliminate most of their issues. Within a short time the CIA would have more than enough evidence on Griffin, and he discounted Thorndike’s seemingly dire warning about having to clean up any mess. Griffin was about to be burned, and once that happened, Miles doubted the man would be capable of much at all.

  Chapter 6

  December 4

  Amsterdam, The Netherlands

  Zachary Griffin, backpack slung over his shoulder, bought a map of Amsterdam from the bookstore at the Central Station, passing the clerk a five-euro note. “I also need a tram ticket,” he said to the cashier, a short woman with curly red hair.

  “How many strips?”

  “Just one.”

  “Cheaper to buy five.”

  “One please.”

  She shrugged, handed him the tram ticket, then his change.

  “Thank you,” he said, but she had already moved on to the next customer, a man in a blue overcoat, who was buying a newspaper.

  Griffin shoved the unneeded map into his backpack, gave a casual glance toward the man, recognizing him from the train, then stepped out in front of the brick-fronted Victorian-like building that served as a hub for Amsterdam’s streamlined blue and white trams that ran along tracks throughout the city. The snow-covered plein was crowded with people bracing against the frigid December wind. Pedestrians, hooded and muffled, rushed toward the first tram that would take them into town. A few bicyclists rode through the swirling flurries that had added several inches to the snow already on the ground. Griffin barely noticed, his mind on his upcoming contact and a meeting where everything seemed wrong—as though the whole thing was being orchestrated. And if it was a setup? Whoever was responsible knew exactly what would bring him out into the open, no matter the cost.

  And still Griffin had come.

  He crossed the snow-blown street to the comparative warmth of the tram shelter. The Number 5 tram arrived about three minutes later, and he filed on amid the other passengers, handing his ticket to the woman in the booth at the back. Outside the swaying car in the growing dusk, the snow-topped bridges over the grachten and canals formed a picturesque backdrop, unappreciated by those who braved the cold, clutching their coats tighter as they quickened their pace. At last he heard his stop announced, Hobbemastraat.

  Faas’s niece was supposed to be waiting in the bar at Sama Sebo, a restaurant located a short distance from the tram stop. The diamond-paned windows at the bar entrance gave it a quaint, old world appearance, perfect for its location near the “Fifth Avenue” of Amsterdam, where well-heeled customers shopped at designer stores. He pushed open the door, then gave one last look outside, noticing a man in a long black overcoat across the street, hovering in the doorway of a shop, smoking a cigarette. He didn’t move, simply stood there. Even so, the hairs on the back of Griffin’s neck prickled, though he had no reason to suspect their location had been compromised. The stranger could be waiting for anyone . . .

  Stomping the snow from his shoes, Griffin stepped into the warmth of the restaurant and was greeted by a man in his late forties, tall, dark brown hair, and dark eyes. “Goeden middag,” the man said.

  “Goeden middag,” Griffin replied, his Dutch somewhat rusty. “I’m meeting someone.”

  “Petra?”

  “Yes.”

  “She said you’d be coming in. This way.” He showed Griffin to a small table in the bar, where a young blond woman sat by the window, drinking beer from a tall glass.

  “May I take your backpack and your coat?”

  “My coat, thanks.”

  Griffin hung his backpack on the chair, then sat opposite the woman. She was about ten years younger than Griffin, late twenties, petite, with short hair and blue eyes. She reminded him of a pixie, not an art dealer—though he doubted she’d appreciate the comparison.

  “You are Faas’s niece?” he asked, addressing her in English. “Petra?”

  She nodded.

  “Zachary Griffin,” he said, shaking hands with her as a waiter appeared with a beer for Griffin as well as an order of sateh babi, skewered pork drenched in peanut sauce.

  She plucked a skewer from the plate, bringing with it the savory scent of grilled meat. “Help yourself,” she said.

  “No thanks.” He looked out the window, through the falli
ng snow, saw the man across the street toss his cigarette into the gutter. “We should go.”

  “The museum is just down the block,” she said with barely a trace of an accent, “and we’re not expected for at least an hour. It closes at six.”

  “It’s the getting there that has me worried. Did you happen to notice the man standing in front of that shop?”

  She glanced out the window. “He is waiting for his wife. I ran into the two of them on the way over, and he asked if I could recommend this place for dinner and if it was expensive.” She laughed as she reached for her beer. “I expect his wife is now spending all his money in the boutiques. I heard her asking him for his credit card as I was crossing the street.”

  “When did you last speak to your uncle?”

  “This morning.”

  “Did he tell you anything further?”

  She cocked her head, gave Griffin a small smile. “Whatever it is, he insists on telling you in person. He did say he was very sorry and he wishes that he could change things.”

  Griffin wasn’t sure what to believe, and he dug some euros from his pocket, dropped them on the table. “I’d rather not wait.”

  She took a last sip from her beer, then stood. Griffin accompanied her to the coat check, and as they put on their coats, the man who had seated him walked up. “You’re leaving so soon, Petra?” he asked.

  “Off to meet my uncle. When we have time, we’ll have to come back for the best rijstaffel in all of Amsterdam.” Petra leaned forward, giving him air kisses, cheek to cheek. “I will call you very soon.”

  Griffin and Petra stepped outside into the cold. The man who had been lurking in the doorway across the street was gone, but Griffin’s unease remained.

  Petra directed Griffin to the left, and they continued down Hobbemastraat. “The Rijksmuseum is not far from here.” She looked over at him. “You have come a long way for information that may or may not help you.”

  Griffin didn’t reply. He hadn’t seen Faas in years. They’d been friends, but that was long ago. A different time. And now that he was about to get the answers he’d been searching for, he didn’t quite know how to feel about it. The weight he’d been carrying all this time, the guilt . . .