“They wouldn’t have used it on a black op. Too big an identifier.”
Carillo should have known, and the thought sobered him. Suddenly he lost all taste for the expensive whiskey, and he set his unfinished drink on the desk, thinking that he had to do something to help. After a moment, he said, “We find who killed this reporter, we find this Network mole?”
“That’d be my guess.”
“Where do we start?”
Tex pulled a sheet of paper from his desk. “My feeling? Someone who’s been involved in this from the beginning knows something. Here’s the list of names present at each of the security task force meetings ever since Griffin was burned.” He slid over a sheet of paper.
Carillo picked it up, looked at it. “Who are you liking as a suspect?”
“Anyone who’s not me.”
“That narrows it down.”
“Unfortunately it could be any of them.”
“Then we’ve got a lot of bugs to plant. I vote we go alphabetical.”
“That puts Cavanaugh at the top,” Tex replied. “Good place to start, now that I think about it. He’s said a couple things that just seemed off. Besides that, I’m not really sure how he got where he is.”
“Meaning what?”
“Meaning you can usually trace the smashed fingers of those left behind on the ladder of success as others have climbed their way up. Cavanaugh? He sort of came out of nowhere.”
“So even if he isn’t guilty of espionage, he’s guilty of something? How do you want to go about this?”
Tex reached over, grabbed the bottle of whiskey, topped off Carillo’s glass, then refilled his own. “Not get caught, for starters. It could lead to a prison sentence.”
Carillo held up his glass. “I’m all about the gray areas.”
“Yeah, this might be beyond the gray areas. Just so you know.”
“Put it this way, Tex. My wife’s divorcing me for everything I’ve got, and then some. In other words, my pants are already down, so it’s not like throwing me in jail and taking away my pension’s gonna do much more than she’s already doing.”
“Makes me glad I’m not married.”
Chapter 43
December 11
Paris, France
The air smelled of moldy, damp earth. Lying on her side, Sydney tried to free her hands. No such luck, and she remained motionless for several seconds while she took stock of herself. Nothing felt broken. A little banged up, definitely bruised, but she could live with that. She could even live with the fact her face was pressed into something smooth and round, about the size of a human skull. What she couldn’t live with was the total Stygian blackness. She hated the dark. Hell, she was afraid of it. Her one phobia. “Griff?” she whispered.
“Over here.”
Somewhere behind her. She tried to roll over, sit up, but with her hands behind her back, the motion sent her sliding down even farther, like being on a mountain of ceramic Lincoln Logs. A much preferable vision to the reality, she thought, aware of the dust in her mouth, grateful it had no taste. She scooted toward the sound of Griffin’s voice, feeling herself sliding again, using the motion to roll in his direction. A few seconds later, her feet touched a more level surface. “This is the point where you tell me that you have a secret tracking device activated and your guys will come rushing to the rescue any second, right?”
“I knew I forgot something when I dressed this morning.”
She heard him moving below her, as though he were shifting around in a bunch of hollow blocks. “What are you doing?”
“Trying to get to the knife in my boot.”
“A knife? For God’s sake, I thought we were going to die down here.”
“We still might die down here. You ever try to get a knife from your boot with your hands tied behind your back?”
“Maybe I can get it.”
He cursed as he slid farther from her. When the pile of bones stopped moving, he said, “I’m putting my foot toward you. You should be able to feel the hilt at the top of the boot. Slide it straight out.”
She heard something clunk down beside her, a skull, no doubt, and she reached back toward him with her cuffed hands. “Can you move a bit closer?”
“I’m upside down. It’s not as easy as you think.”
Sydney snaked toward him, felt the top of the boot. Just a little bit farther, and she had the knife, slipping it out, grasping it tightly in her hand. “Got it.”
“Let’s get to the bottom of this pile. If we drop it, at least we have a chance of finding it.”
Holding tight to the knife, she maneuvered her way down the pile of bones until her feet touched the cave floor. They worked their way to a sitting position, back to back. Sydney opened the knife. And even though she worried he’d slice his wrist, he managed to slide one tie over the blade and cut free. From there, it was short work to remove hers, and he pulled her to her feet. She lost her footing, slipping on a long bone, and he caught her.
“Thank you,” she said, her face against his chest. She could hear his heart beating.
“We’re not out of here yet,” he said, righting her.
And though she wanted nothing more in that moment than to have him continue holding her, erasing the chill of being there bound and helpless, she stepped back. “Any bright ideas?”
“Let’s take a look.”
He pulled his small LED from his pocket. “Guard missed it,” he explained, as he shone it around, lighting up the piles and piles of bones, with the skulls staring out at them.
“I think I liked it better in the dark.”
“Over there.” Griffin aimed the light, and she saw iron bars blocking off the part of the tunnel they were in—a dead end if there ever was one. If there was any hope, it was on the other side of the wrought-iron gate, locked with a thick chain. Griffin pulled on it, as though determining its strength. “If I had to guess, it’s to keep people out, probably away from the bones.”
“Lucky for us.” She eyed the lock. “Can you pick it?”
He examined the lock. “The pick I need is back in that office.”
Griffin shone his light up. Sydney noticed another bunker door, probably belonging to the adjoining building, the steps having crumbled away a long time ago, leaving no access, even if they could somehow open it from the outside. Their best bet was climbing over the top of the cage that closed them off from the tunnel beyond. It stood about ten feet high, the top of the cavern several feet higher. On the other side, it would be next to impossible to get up without a ladder. On this side, they had the advantage of about six feet of bones piled against it.
“Our best bet,” Griffin said.
Griffin helped Sydney up the bone pile, which lost a couple of feet in height as they shifted and moved. He lifted Sydney higher. She was able to grab on to the top bar, pulling her foot over to straddle the frame. Griffin flashed his light, and she looked down, thinking that ten feet was an awful long way.
Suddenly the cavern lit up as the guards opened the bunker door.
“Where are they, you fools?”
“Over there! They’re getting away.”
Two guards started down the steps, then fell as they hit the mountain of bones.
Griffin jumped up, swung over, and was down the bars almost before Sydney had reached the bottom. He took her hand, dragged her away, just as the guards fired at them.
Griffin heard the shouting behind him. He didn’t turn to look. Any delay could mean death. Instead he pressed his thumb on the tiny switch for his LED, the blue light reflecting off the rough-hewn ground of the limestone tunnel for a quick second before he let go. Several more shots sounded in succession, the sharp cracks echoing through the cavern. About ten feet ahead he’d seen a tunnel leading off to the left, and several feet farther up a larger tunnel leading to the right. He left t
he light off, not wanting to give them a clue, just in case they’d gotten through the locked gate. Holding Sydney’s hand, he counted the paces, then quickly flashed the light, saw the opening to the left. He pulled her in, then stopped, listened. He heard them talking, their voices carrying through the tunnel, then the sound of heavy footsteps. Apparently they’d shot the lock.
“What now?” Sydney whispered.
“We need a couple weapons before we go farther.”
“You’re not thinking of going back?”
“Not without firepower.”
He turned on his light, took a quick look at the keyhole-shaped tunnel they’d entered, the top rounded, the bottom narrow down the center, and rock benches carved along the length, probably part of the shelter from the war. Perfect for what he had planned. They stepped up onto the ledge, their backs pressed against the wall. The bench placed them a little over two feet above the ground, and Griffin watched the main tunnel, saw the light bouncing on the cave floor as one of the guards called out, “There are two tunnels up ahead. Which way? To the left or right?”
“To the right!” the other said. “The manhole.”
Griffin waited for the first guard to pass, saw him shine the light into their tunnel, its beam hitting the opposite wall as he continued straight, leaving Sydney and Griffin in the dark. The second guard walked up, his flashlight beam also hitting the opposite side. As he walked past without looking, Griffin jumped. He wrapped his left arm around the man’s neck, cutting off his circulation, pulling him backward off balance. The guard reached up with both hands, clawing at Griffin’s arm.
Griffin grabbed the rifle as it swung from the guard’s shoulder strap. The moment the first guard turned toward him and aimed, Griffin pulled the trigger, the sharp report cracking off the walls. The first guard slumped to the ground. Griffin dropped the rifle, brought his arm up, applying pressure to the guard’s carotid. The man jerked a few times, then went limp.
Griffin lowered him to the ground, fished through his pockets, finding the plastic cuff ties. He secured the man’s wrists behind his back. “Wait here,” he told Sydney, handing her the man’s rifle and handgun. “I’m going to get the other weapons.”
He stopped at the edge of the tunnel, listened, heard nothing. Using the guard’s flashlight, he checked in both directions, then ran down the passageway, retrieving the first guard’s gun. As he reached down to pull the rifle strap from the dead man’s shoulder, he noticed a tattoo on the man’s forearm. A black scorpion. Something he’d seen on other operatives for the Network.
That answered the question about who these men were working for. Now all he and Sydney had to do was get out of here. One of the guards had said something about a manhole being the only way out. So be it. He only hoped the other two guards who hadn’t followed them through the tunnels weren’t waiting at the top.
Sydney stopped, thinking she heard a distant echo coming from the direction of the dead guard. She aimed her pistol.
Griffin stopped with her. The only sound now was their breathing. He tapped her on her shoulder, indicating they should continue on, and she reached up, adjusted the strap of the long gun hanging at her back, its unfamiliar weight making her shoulder ache after their endless minutes traipsing through this last tunnel. According to Griffin, the one guard had said the tunnel to the right led out, but as of yet, Syd hadn’t seen any indication that they were getting any closer to escaping.
“It ends,” Griffin said, pointing.
His pale blue light bounced off a very solid-looking limestone wall, and her heart sank. “Maybe there was more than one tunnel to the right.”
And then Griffin shone the light upward. “There.”
She saw a dark hole about four feet in diameter at the top of the cave, and as he moved the light about, it reflected off the bottom rung of an iron ladder affixed to the wall of the narrow tunnel, before it disappeared into darkness higher up. It was undoubtedly the manhole the guard spoke of. Unfortunately, the opening was ten feet above the ground and they had no way to get to it.
“What now?” she whispered.
“I’m thinking.”
A shout from the main tunnel brought them up short, someone crying, “Ici!”
“You better think fast,” Sydney said, aiming her gun that direction. “No doubt someone found the dead guard.”
A moment later, an answering shout told her she was correct. It was only a matter of minutes before they were discovered, maybe less, and situated where they were at the end of the tunnel, they were the proverbial sitting ducks.
“Get up on my shoulders,” Griffin said.
“I’m not leaving you down here.”
“You have a better idea?” he said, aiming the light upward once more.
She eyed the bottom rung, so tauntingly close that she could almost touch it with the barrel of her rifle . . . “Actually, I do,” she said, tucking her handgun in her waistband, then slipping the rifle from her back to see if her idea held merit. “You think these shoulder straps would hold your weight?”
Griffin reached down, pulled on the strap of his rifle. “You’re brilliant.”
“Yeah,” she said, first ejecting the magazine from her long gun, before ejecting the round from the chamber. “Remember that the next time you’re mad at me.” She shoved the magazine in her back pocket, then slung the gun across her back again.
“Take the light,” he said, handing it to her. She put it in her front pocket, and he said, “Ready?”
He put his hands on her waist, she gripped his shoulders, and they stood there, an infinitesimal moment in the dark, the heat of his chest next to hers, and his breath on her cheek. “Ready,” she said, and the warmth vanished as he lifted her.
She slid one knee onto his shoulder, then the other. He shifted, stepping to the side, and she gripped the hair on his head to keep from falling.
“Try to save me a few strands,” he said.
“Hold still and you won’t have to worry.” She reached up with her hand, feeling around for the tunnel opening and the rung of the ladder, its rough metal surface cold against her hand. “Got it,” she said, as the sound of heavy footfall echoed through the tunnel.
“They’re getting closer.”
“Thank you, Dr. Obvious.” She hooked one arm around that lowest rung, then grabbed the rifle slung across her back, slipped it off, unhooked and threaded it so that it was hanging downward. “Done. You think we should hang the other one from this to make it lower?”
“Cette voie!” someone shouted.
“No time,” he said. “Climb up and shine that light down so I can see.”
Sydney ascended so that she was several rungs higher, before reaching into her pocket and retrieving the light. She turned it on, aimed it downward. Griffin stood there, looking up, the rifle about a foot above his head.
He jumped. The strap held as he grasped the long barrel, swinging in the air. A gunshot rang out, its echo cracking down the tunnel. “Go!” he said. And her last sight of Griffin before she shut off the light was him attempting to hoist himself up the length of the rifle.
Chapter 44
December 11
Washington, D.C.
Miles Cavanaugh lived in a downtown apartment in an upscale area of D.C. No doorman at the front, Carillo noted from the passenger seat of the utility truck Tex drove. He and Tex both wore Pepco Electric jackets over their street clothes, on the off chance anyone looked too close. The white truck, with its blue and green Pepco logo, looked like the real thing, the only difference being the additional equipment inside, everything from plastic explosives to an array of electronic gadgets and listening devices that no utility company had access to. “I take it you guys do this a lot,” Carillo said.
“Not sure I can legally answer that,” Tex replied, pulling up about two doors down from the building. “But I have been
flagged down by a few citizens demanding to know when their power would be restored.”
Carillo got out, placed the orange cones on the street, while Tex opened the back of the truck and took out the equipment box.
They approached the complex, moving around to the back of the building to access the telephone from Cavanaugh’s unit. Carillo kept watch while Tex tapped into the trunk line, waiting for Cavanaugh’s number to come up on his monitor. “Shouldn’t we be wearing phone company uniforms?” Carillo asked.
“Probably. But this is all I could get at this hour. Trust me. No one will pay attention, long as they see the official signs.”
As soon as Tex finished, he disconnected, closed the box, then motioned for Carillo to follow him into the condo.
Cavanaugh wasn’t home. It took Tex less than a minute to bypass the security system, then break into the house. Once inside the flat, Tex placed several devices, while Carillo looked around, hoping to find some sign of Cavanaugh’s activities. The place was clean—unless one counted the unusual number of gold ingots found in the false bottom of his dresser drawer.
“Wonder how much this is worth?” Carillo called out to him.
Tex walked in, looked into the drawer, picked up one of the ingots, rubbing the face of it with his gloved fingers. “Feels real.”
“Quite the stash on a government salary.”
Tex replaced the ingot, then the false drawer bottom. “Guess our instincts were right,” he said, as he and Carillo left. “Gold is one of the Network’s favored payment plans. No paper trail.”
Tex reset the alarm, locked the door, then shut it tight, while Carillo stood guard at the end of the hall, watching the elevator. “Let’s go,” Tex said.
Carillo pressed the button. The elevator door opened. Thorndike and another agent stood there, guns out, pointed at them.
“Step in, boys,” Thorndike said. “And don’t make any sudden moves.”
Thorndike holding a gun on them . . . Definitely the last person Carillo would ever have expected to see, and he wondered how the CIA director was going to spin this. The four men rode the elevator to the ground floor. Outside, the street was deserted. Thorndike directed them to the left. They walked for a block, when Thorndike said, “See that van up there? I want you both to get in when the door opens, then have a seat. And shut up.”
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