The Dark Hour

by Robin Burcell

  “Indeed. Arnaud?”

  “It contains a file.”

  “Open it.”

  He heard two clicks as the guard maneuvered the mouse to access the flash drive. “It doesn’t open.”

  Griffin glanced at the screen, saw nothing happening. They’d failed. Even so, he wasn’t about to announce their attempt at downloading the virus to Hilliard’s computer. “As I said, there was nothing on there. We didn’t have the password to copy any files.”

  “Apparently our security efforts work,” Luc said. “Now what to do with the two of you . . .”

  The guard who searched them said in French, “It will be difficult to smuggle two bodies. And DNA if we kill them here.”

  “True,” Luc said. “What do you suggest?”

  “To make it seem as though they came and went. Tie them up, and toss them below. Shoot them down there. It will be years before they are found, and their bones will be lost amongst the others.”

  “Take care of it.” Luc looked at his watch. “Unfortunately, I have an important meeting I am expected at in a few hours.”

  “What are you planning to do?” Griffin asked in English. No sense letting on that he understood every word.

  “Is this that moment you get me to confess as a delaying tactic?” Luc gave an exaggerated sigh. “You realize this entire operation was a setup?” The words struck Griffin like a blow to his gut. His instinct had told him as much. Someone was using his dead wife to get to him. And Luc smiled, saying, “If truth be told, you’re much better off dying a slow death in the bunker. Now if you’ll excuse me, I must leave.” He returned the gun to the guard, then walked out of the room.

  The first guard took out plastic ties often used by law enforcement for handcuffs. He walked up to Griffin first, saying, “Hands behind your back.” Anger surged through Griffin as he felt the cuffs being pulled tight.

  The guard moved to Sydney, cuffed her, then pushed them both toward the door. Griffin stepped out into the hallway, quickly taking in the situation. Everything Luc said was true. They would’ve been killed before they ever made it out, he realized, as the guard gripped his arm, directing him down the hallway past the two other guards with automatic weapons standing on either side of the door.

  One of the four guards led the way, another took up the rear, the remaining two each taking custody of Griffin and Sydney, guiding them down a back staircase. The lead guard unlocked the door at the bottom, holding it open so that everyone could pass through. It led into a long hallway that ran the length of the building, dimly lit overhead by a row of fluorescent lights that wavered in intensity as though about to burn out. The floor was tiled in dull gray linoleum, and their footsteps echoed as they walked toward a steel door at the end, its huge rivets testifying to its solid state. When they reached it, one of the guards took out a large key, the sort used in very old jails, and Griffin wondered if the door wasn’t a relic from World War II, opening to the underground bunker Luc had mentioned.

  Griffin was half correct. The construction was definitely from that era, but it led to another staircase, again leading down. At the bottom, beneath a lone light bulb housed in a steel cage, was another door, the same construction as the last. The guards halted them at the top, and the lead guard descended alone, using the large key to unlock, then open the door at the bottom. It creaked as he pushed it flush to the wall, before returning to the top of the steps. “Take them into the bunker,” he said.

  Griffin’s guard grabbed his arm, then Sydney’s, forcing them side-by-side down the staircase. At the bottom, he pulled them to a stop, saying, “Don’t move.”

  The weak light spilled out into the cavern casting their shadows over more steps that descended about four feet into the darkness. Sydney stood stock-still beside him, her mouth hanging open as she viewed the cavern. “Oh my God . . .”

  As Griffin’s eyes grew adjusted to the dark, a musty smell wafting in on the cool air, he realized there were thousands and thousands of skulls and bones stretching out at least eight feet in front of him, before dropping off into the blackness beyond. They were looking at part of the underground cemetery, the bone-filled catacombs, undoubtedly that part not accessed by the public on their tours.

  Griffin craned his neck around, trying to see who was behind them.

  “I said, don’t move,” the guard shouted.

  Like hell. He looked at Sydney, mouthed the word jump. She looked down at the stairs, the chaos of bones, then nodded.

  “Now!”

  They flew out the door into the pitch black. Air rushed through his hair, and he landed with a clatter on his feet, then fell back, rolling to his side as he bumped and jarred his way down an avalanche of skeletons that echoed and rattled in his eardrums. His mouth and nostrils filled with dust as the bones continued to fall on top of him.

  “Shoot them!” a guard called out in French.

  The sound of automatic gunfire filled the cavern, sharp deafening cracks bouncing off the cavern walls.

  “Are they dead?”

  “There’s no light down there. How do I find them?”

  “You idiot. Arnaud, get a light. Close that door. Do not give them the advantage.”

  “What if they escape?”

  “To where?” the other guard replied. “Those tunnels were closed off a long time ago. Hurry with that light. I want those two killed.”

  Griffin heard the door slam with a loud clang that echoed down the tunnel walls.

  And then dark and absolute silence.

  Chapter 41

  December 11

  Washington, D.C.

  Carillo and Tex took a seat in the back of the room, while Izzy sat at the computer, all waiting for the moment when Griffin’s access to the lab’s computer system opened the door. Izzy’s fingers danced across the keyboard, his gaze glued to the screen. The only time he paused was to sip from a mug filled with black coffee and four sugars. Too sweet for Carillo’s taste, and the guy was already on his third cup. “Firewall’s still up,” Izzy said, tapping the cursor down the screen.

  “Give ’em time,” Tex replied, looking at the clock. “Maybe they haven’t found the right room.”

  “What if they can’t get to the computer?” Carillo asked.

  Maddie, who was seated at a table near them, her head resting on her arms, eyes closed, looked up long enough to say, “Trust me. I’ve seen Izzy work. He could get in without them.”

  “Maybe,” Izzy said. “After hours and hours. This way makes it easier. All we need is for someone to double click that file . . .”

  “Let’s hope it doesn’t take hours,” Carillo replied, then nodded his head toward the far side of the room so that he and Tex could talk without being overheard. “What’re you planning on doing with these two when they’re done?”

  “Safe house until we conclude the case.”

  Carillo glanced at Maddie, who appeared to be dozing again. Her only fault was in having her picture on the wrong guy’s computer. Not that he had time to worry. There were too many facets to this case to feel sorry for any one person at the moment. “How about the reporter that ran that article in this morning’s paper?”

  “Other than she seems to get the inside scoop on more stories than every reporter this side of the White House?” Tex replied.

  “My thoughts exactly.”

  “Actually, I—”

  “We’re in!” Izzy said. “Yeah!” He tapped away at the keys, his foot, his whole body bouncing as he worked. Apparently the caffeine was kicking in. “I was worried they wouldn’t be able to get into a computer to open the file and execute it. But they must have found one.”

  Carillo walked over to the monitor to watch Izzy, while Tex pressed the button on his Bluetooth ear piece, opening a communication with Dumas. “They planted the computer virus,” he told Dumas. “So far so good . . .” />
  “You find anything, yet?” Carillo asked Izzy.

  “Need a couple seconds to get around.”

  Carillo waited, trying to follow, but Izzy opened and closed computer windows so fast, Carillo couldn’t keep up. He looked over at Tex. “Any word from Griffin yet?”

  “Still too early. They’re not supposed to meet up with Dumas for another thirty. Clearly they succeeded.”

  Carillo eyed the clock. He didn’t like waiting on this side of the action, not with Sydney out there facing things like double agents and viruses—the noncomputer type. She was competent, but some of this stuff was beyond her expertise and training. Hell, it was way beyond his, and he wasn’t sure he’d be out there doing the same thing. After about ten minutes, he realized he couldn’t stand the waiting. He had to do something besides watching Izzy clack away at the computer. “Any reason you need me to stick around? I was thinking of running a little background on that reporter.”

  “Go ahead,” Tex said, apparently distracted. “I’ll be taking off as soon as I get someone up here to watch these two.”

  Carillo left. If he wanted to get the goods on this reporter—because he damned well knew that something was up with her—he was going to have to see her personally.

  Chapter 42

  December 11

  Alexandria, Virginia

  Tex pulled in behind a minivan parked on the street, which gave him a view of the reporter’s house. Merideth Garrett lived in a middle-class neighborhood of Alexandria, where Christmas lights sparkled along a number of rooflines of the mostly two-story, brick-fronted homes. No Christmas lights were on at her place. No lights at all.

  He checked his watch. His contact at the paper said she had left her office about fifteen minutes ago, which meant he had plenty of time to wait. Just about to settle in, he saw another car parked farther down and someone seated within it—something he might not have noticed had another vehicle not backed out of the driveway across the street, its white reverse lights shining just enough to allow Tex to make out the top of the guy’s head.

  Tex exited his car, its cab light having already been disconnected, and he left the vehicle door slightly ajar to avoid any noise. He crouched below the eye level of the vehicles parked between him and the other car, nearly slipping in a patch of snow that hadn’t been cleared from the sidewalk. As he neared the last vehicle, he drew his gun, held it against his leg, then made his final approach.

  He walked up to the car’s passenger window and saw the driver watching him, a gun pointed in his direction.

  “Jesus effing Christ, Tex,” the driver said. “I almost shot your ass.”

  “Carillo? You said you were doing background work on her. Not coming here.”

  “I like the personal touch. Get in the damned car so I can roll up the window. It’s cold out there.”

  Tex got in.

  “Was I that obvious?” Carillo asked.

  “Only because someone backed out across from you,” Tex replied. “Driveway’s empty now, so I’m thinking you’re good.”

  “Aren’t you a little out of your jurisdiction? Like the wrong country?”

  “You’re thinking CIA. ATLAS sort of works in the gray area.”

  “That area I know well. What the hell you doing here?”

  “Got tired of twiddling my thumbs waiting for Sydney and Griff to come up for air.”

  “Any word on them yet?”

  “No. And frankly I’m worried,” Tex said. “With Marc and Lisette missing, and the timing of this article, I’ve got a really bad feeling it’s all connected. Figured I’d pay this reporter a call to see if she’ll consider revealing her source in the interest of national security.”

  “You allowed to beat confessions out of reporters?”

  “Technically not. But placing bugs in their houses when one goes in to politely ask questions tends to be overlooked.”

  “Unless one ends up in court.”

  “And that’s where plausible deniability comes in,” Tex replied. “If you don’t know I’m planting them, you can’t testify to it.”

  “Glad you’re not telling me, and saves me the trouble of coming up with a better idea. Figured you guys would’ve had her phone tapped by now.”

  “Already tried that on her landline. She uses her cell phone almost exclusively.”

  Carillo leaned back and gave a sigh. “Remember the good old days before cell phones were all the rage?”

  “Gathering intel was a helluva lot easier back then.”

  Headlights from an approaching car lit up the dark street. The vehicle slowed, then turned into the driveway of the reporter’s house. “That her?” Carillo asked.

  Tex watched as she got out of her car, then walked up the drive to a side door. “It’s her.”

  “You think if we both show up, it’ll be a bit of overkill?”

  “I think—” Tex stared at the upper story, the movement he saw in the darkened window. “There’s someone in that house.”

  “The hell . . . you think it’s CIA?”

  “No way. As pissed off as Thorndike was this morning, he probably peppered this place with bugs the moment she left for work. In and out. Which means this can’t be good.”

  They flew from the car, raced across the street to the closest house, keeping tight against the snow-covered shrubs, crouching below the window line, their weapons drawn. Tex signaled to Carillo to take the corner of the house, giving him the vantage point down two sides. When Carillo was in position, Tex moved to the side door, checked the knob, found it unlocked. He waved, and Carillo ran up. They stood on either side of the door.

  “Ready?” he whispered.

  Carillo nodded.

  Tex pushed the door open with his foot, aimed his weapon. The place was still dark.

  Most people turned the lights on when they came home.

  Tex glanced around, saw the light switch in the up position. He pointed. Carillo nodded in understanding. Seemed that either her light had burned out, or it had a little help. Tex was betting on the latter, and he and Carillo entered the kitchen. They began their search on the bottom floor, room by room, when they heard a sound coming from the front of the house. They moved toward the stairs. Tex took one step and almost tripped.

  He looked down, saw a body on the floor.

  “It’s the reporter, Merideth,” Tex whispered. He crouched beside her, put his fingertips to her neck. No pulse.

  A floorboard creaked at the back of the house.

  Her killer was still there.

  Tex motioned for Carillo to follow him. As they neared the rear of the house, they heard a door slam. A dark figure raced past the window. Tex and Carillo ran back through the kitchen, out the side door. They heard a car engine starting, the rev of a motor, then the screech of tires. The car was gone by the time they got to the sidewalk.

  “Son of a bitch,” Tex said, watching the taillights disappear around the corner.

  He and Carillo returned to the darkened house. “She dead?” Carillo asked.

  “Real dead.”

  “Guess we don’t need to plant those bugs.”

  “A bit of a waste at this point.” Tex rubbed the tension from his neck. “You touch anything in there?”

  “Just the door on the way out.”

  “Let’s get rid of our prints, then get the hell out of here before someone calls the police.”

  They met up at Tex’s office at the Recorder about a half hour later. Carillo stood in the hall as Tex unlocked the door, turned on the light, then threw his coat on the extra chair. “You want a drink, while we wait on word from Griffin?”

  “What’dya got?” Carillo asked, shrugging out of his own coat.

  “Whiskey.” Tex poured two glasses, then handed one to Carillo.

  Carillo lifted his in toast, then took a s
ip. Very smooth. He looked over at the bottle, saw it was twenty-five-year-old Scotch whiskey. No wonder. “You think CIA hit her?”

  “The reporter? Hell no,” Tex said. “Thorndike would’ve been first in line to find out who her source was.”

  “Unless he knew who the source was.”

  “Any reason the FBI would want her dead?”

  “None whatsoever—never mind we tend to avoid that sort of thing. What other alphabet agencies we need to consider?”

  Tex stared at his glass, swirling the amber liquid. “Maybe it’s not one of ours.”

  “Then who would it be?”

  “I’m guessing whoever is after Griffin. Probably the Network.”

  “The Network? What are they? A renegade TV station?”

  “International cabal of crooks is probably the easiest explanation.”

  “And what, like they infiltrated the government?”

  “Some of them are the government.”

  “Always a comfort to hear.”

  Tex put his feet up on his desk, drained his whiskey glass, then looked Carillo in the eye. “So maybe it depends on your interpretation of the government. These guys have some heavy-duty movers and shakers who fund their favorite politicians.”

  “Like Grogan?”

  “Like Grogan.”

  “So they’re behind burning this CIA agent in France? And burning Griffin?”

  “I’d bet my retirement on it.”

  “Maybe even this Atlantis conspiracy?”

  “Whatever that is, exactly, yeah,” he said as his cell phone rang. “Tex.” He listened, then suddenly sat up, putting his glass on the desk. “You’re sure . . . ? Goddamn— Uh, sorry, Father, but goddamn it to hell . . . Yeah . . . Keep me informed.” He disconnected, looking at Carillo. “That was Dumas. He says Griffin and Syd didn’t make the rendezvous.”

  Carillo looked at his watch. “They were due a little over thirty minutes ago.”

  “It’s possible Griffin found something, maybe needed to backtrack. Happens all the time. But Dumas can’t get a hold of him by cell.”

  “What about Sydney’s cell?”