Trade-Off

by Trade-Off (retail) (epub)

  FBI Headquarters, J. Edgar Hoover Building, Pennsylvania Avenue, Washington, D.C.

  Myers looked at his watch, then checked it against the clock in the foyer. The Director was late, but Myers doubted if he was in any position to dictate the schedule to his captors. He raised the radio to his mouth.

  ‘All positions, this is Goldcrest,’ he said. ‘Stay alert. It should be any time now.’

  Washington, D.C.

  Reilly pulled out into the evening traffic about fifty yards behind the black Ford, and Hunter put the mobile phone to his ear.

  ‘Keep going, Director,’ Hunter said. ‘We’re still behind you, and still watching.’ Then he covered the microphone of the mobile phone with his palm. ‘How long before he gets there?’ he asked.

  Reilly shrugged. ‘In this traffic, I guess about five or six minutes,’ he replied.

  ‘OK,’ Hunter said. ‘That will give us a bit of a head start. Take the next left turn and get us out of here.’

  ‘Good,’ Reilly said. ‘I thought for a minute you believed the line of crap that bastard was peddlin’.’

  Hunter shook his head. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I know better than that. I knew he was going to double-cross us.’ He put the phone to his ear again. ‘You’re nearly there, Director,’ he said. ‘Keep it slow, keep it steady.’

  ‘How did you know?’ Reilly asked.

  ‘Before the Bureau let me loose on the American public, they put me through a very short and very intensive training course at Quantico,’ Hunter said, ‘so I’d know which shirts and frilly underwear Mr. Hoover would have wanted me to wear and so on. The normal FBI training program lasts sixteen weeks, and I was pushed through about half of it. I read my way through most of the rest, and I’ve got a very good memory. There’s a classified operation called Bear Trap which is implemented when any FBI officer is snatched. It includes code-words which can be used without arousing the suspicions of the kidnappers. If the captive says the word twice, that means he’s using it as a code-word.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Reilly said, as he pulled out to overtake a stretch limousine. ‘I remember Donahue emphasizing a couple of words.’

  ‘Duress and immunity,’ Hunter agreed. ‘I can’t remember the decode for ‘duress,’ but ‘immunity’ means, basically, take out the bad guys. In this case, that’s us.’

  Pennsylvania Avenue, Washington, D.C.

  ‘Goldcrest, this is Sniper Four. Black Ford approaching slowly from the south-west. Single male in the driving seat, two figures visible in the back seat.’

  ‘Acknowledged. This could be him now. All positions, stand by. Wait for my order.’

  Myers had taken up position in a first floor office that offered a commanding view of the Avenue. He put a pair of compact binoculars to his eyes and looked down at the approaching vehicle.

  He could see the driver clearly enough, and immediately recognized the features of George Donahue, even with the strip of dark grey tape across his mouth. He could even see the glint of the handcuffs round his wrists.

  The figures in the back seat of the car were indistinct. He could see no sign of weapons, but that meant nothing. He wouldn’t have expected Hunter and Reilly to be waving pistols around in Washington D.C. – they were more likely to have shotguns pointing at the Director’s back through the front seat.

  It was his call.

  ‘All positions from Goldcrest. Identification is confirmed. Director Donahue is driving the car. The two perps are in back, presumably holding weapons on him. Teams Two and Six only, call when you have clear shots at both occupants of the back seat.’

  Myers released the transmit key and waited. He had picked the sniper team on the first floor of the FBI Headquarters and that in the building on the opposite side of the Avenue, to eliminate the kidnappers in a cross-fire. There was no traffic and no pedestrians so getting a clear shot shouldn’t be difficult.

  ‘Two is clear.’

  ‘Six is unsighted.’

  Myers looked down at the car again. Donahue was approaching very slowly. Something didn’t feel right. The figures in the back seat still hadn’t moved.

  ‘Two is still clear.’

  ‘Six unsighted. Wait. Six is clear.’

  ‘Two is clear.’

  Myers reached for his radio again, his mind racing. ‘Double-check,’ he ordered.

  ‘Two clear.’

  ‘Six clear.’

  Myers paused again, just for the second he needed to push his misgivings aside, then thumbed the transmit button. ‘Execute,’ he snapped.

  The first bullet shattered the off-side rear window of the black Ford and smashed into the steel plate just below the polystyrene head. The impact popped the head neatly into the air, and the three plates moved steadily and inexorably together.

  A tenth of a second later the near-side window shattered as the Team Six lead sniper fired, at exactly the same moment as the detonator wire fused into oblivion.

  For Myers, the nightmare came true as he watched the rear of the car arch upwards as some immense force took it. Then a second and third detonation filled the air as the remaining tubs of powder exploded. Flames blossomed from the ruptured fuel tank.

  The green bullet-proof window in front of Myers crazed, shook and then imploded, showering him with shards of glass and throwing him across the room. His head hit the opposite wall and he fell unconscious, blood dripping steadily from a dozen puncture wounds.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Thursday

  Washington, D.C.

  The stolen Lincoln was nearly two miles from Pennsylvania Avenue when they heard the dull rumble of the explosion. Reilly didn’t even blink, and Hunter’s only reaction was to switch off the mobile phone he was still holding. He opened the Lincoln’s glove compartment and tossed the phone inside.

  ‘We won’t need that again,’ he said. ‘I guess Donahue’s little ambush worked out real well, for us if not for him.’

  ‘His choice,’ Reilly said. ‘If he’d played straight with us, he’d be alive now.’

  ‘Well, we’ve bought ourselves some time with that diversion,’ Hunter said. ‘A few hours at least.’

  Reilly nodded, but didn’t take his eyes off the road. He was keeping the Lincoln as close to the speed limit as possible, trying to get out of Washington as fast as he could.

  ‘With that blast, every cop in D.C. will be heading for Pennsylvania Avenue,’ Hunter went on. ‘At least I hope they will, which should keep them off our backs.’

  ‘It’ll take a while for them to sort out what happened in the Ford,’ Reilly said. ‘With the amount of powder we put on the back seat, Donahue woulda been pretty well shredded, I guess. It’s gonna be a hell of a job working out if what’s left is one body or three.’

  Hunter snorted. ‘It won’t take them that long,’ he said. ‘When in doubt, they’ll assume the worst, which is that we weren’t a couple of suicide bombers, and that we’re still alive and kicking somewhere. What they won’t know is how we’re travelling, or where we’re going.’

  ‘They’re not the only ones,’ Reilly said. ‘Just where in hell are we goin’?’

  Hunter looked at him. ‘We’re following this through,’ he replied, his voice cold and bleak. ‘I’m following Christy-Lee until either I get her back from the bastards who snatched her, or I know she’s dead. Either way, the trail leads to Nevada, so that’s where we’re going. Have you got any problems with that?’

  ‘Nope,’ Reilly said. ‘I like the lady as well, and I got nothin’ better to do right now.’

  Pennsylvania Avenue, Washington, D.C.

  On Donahue’s instructions, dictated by Hunter, road blocks had already been positioned to keep Pennsylvania Avenue closed to traffic and the police simply left them in place. After the blast, officers closed in on the Hoover Building and began checking the ground around the wreckage of the Ford while they waited for the first ambulances to arrive.

  The scene outside the FBI Headquarters was one of total devastation ov
er a roughly circular area about seventy yards in diameter. The epicentre was the wreck of the rented Ford. The floor-pan chassis lay flat on the road, but nothing remained of the bodywork apart from the windshield pillars and the two rear wings, which were crumpled and twisted into surrealistically unrecognizable shapes. Even the engine had been blown a few feet forward clear of the wreckage.

  Scattered around the chassis was the rest of the car. The heaviest pieces, like the doors, were closest to the wreck, and were still largely recognizable. Lighter debris had been thrown further away, just twisted pieces of steel and torn fabric, unidentifiable.

  Donahue had taken the full force of the blast in the centre of his back, and had died instantly. The human body is surprisingly resilient, but Donahue had been sitting unprotected within four feet of a detonation of twenty pounds weight of mixed powder, and his head, torso, arms and upper legs had virtually disintegrated. The area around the Ford was liberally splattered with blood-stained clothing and small pieces of flesh and bone. His shins and feet, shielded to some extent from the blast by the seat squab, had suffered much less damage, and were lying about five feet apart some twenty yards in front of the wreck.

  Thirty minutes after the ambulances had arrived and a triage unit had been set up, the figures began to emerge. Apart from the obviously deceased occupant or occupants of the Ford, the smoking remains of which were already being picked over by six FBI forensic experts, there had been no deaths. But several serious injuries had been sustained by evening and night staff in the J. Edgar Hoover Building, caused by flying glass splinters that had speared through shirts, blouses and light jackets.

  Myers had regained consciousness, and was spitting fire, not least because he was acutely aware that when the dust finally settled he was the one most likely to be blamed for Donahue’s death. He waved away the medical orderly as soon as he’d bandaged his forehead, and took the elevator back up to his office.

  Once inside, he sat down at the desk and rested his head in his hands. His forehead was throbbing like some demented machine from the puncture wounds, and he had the mother of all headaches to go with it. No question, it had been a bitch of a day, and the bad news was it could only get worse. His phone rang and he picked up the handset.

  ‘Myers,’ he snapped.

  ‘This is the CommCen, sir. We have an external origin Priority One call for the Director.’

  Myers shook his head angrily, then stopped as the throbbing intensified. ‘The Director’s dead, for Christ’s sake.’

  ‘I know that, sir, but I have no authority to tell that to the caller. And CommCen rules stipulate that a Priority One call must be accepted.’

  ‘So what the fuck do you want me to do – call a medium?’

  The Communications Officer was patient. ‘No sir, but you or an FBI officer of Assistant Director level or above must take the call.’

  Myers stared blankly in front of him for a few seconds. He was almost certain that the call would have originated in Nevada, and he wasn’t relishing explaining how he – Myers – had ordered a sniper to open fire on a car driven by the Director, and had then watched as the car blew itself to pieces in front of him.

  When he’d first come round, Myers had wondered if by any chance a sniper’s bullet had holed the Ford’s fuel tank, which would mean he could blame someone else, but one look at the wreck had told him that that was a blind alley.

  ‘OK,’ he said, calm once again. ‘I’ll come down.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  He’d barely replaced the handset when the office door opened and William McGrath walked in. For once, Myers was pleased to see him.

  ‘I think the source in Nevada is on the line again, sir,’ he said. ‘The CommCen’s holding a Priority One call for the Director.’

  Myers paused, then stood up slowly and painfully. He smiled almost apologetically. ‘This is all getting a bit heavy for me,’ he muttered. ‘I know this source said he’d only speak to me or Director Donahue, but I really would appreciate it if you could maybe take over the dialogue.’

  McGrath nodded. ‘That’s pretty much what I came to tell you,’ he said. ‘I’ve just got off the line from the White House. I’m authorized to stand-in as Director of the Bureau until a new appointment is announced. That includes handling Omega and liaising with whoever the hell it is pulling the strings down in Nevada.’

  He turned back towards the door. ‘Come on. We’d better get down there.’

  Montgomery County, Virginia

  ‘Shit,’ Hunter said. ‘I forgot to ask Donahue about Billy Dole.’

  Reilly looked at him. ‘Yeah. What the hell’s a corpse in a field in Montana with a thigh-bone sticking out of its head got to do with a secret clinic in Nevada?’

  Hunter shrugged. ‘Well, it’s definitely too late now,’ he said.

  He looked at the road ahead. They’d kept off the main roads as far as possible since leaving the centre of Washington D.C., Hunter giving Reilly directions from a tourist map he’d found in the glove compartment of the Lincoln, because the car had no satnav fitted. They’d headed up towards Tacoma Park, then turned west through Chevy Chase and Bethesda, then north-west through Rockville, their route running more or less parallel to Interstate 70.

  They’d seen only three police cars since they’d turned off Pennsylvania Avenue, and they’d all been going in the opposite direction, lights flashing and sirens blaring.

  ‘Lots of roads,’ Reilly had said, ‘only so many cops, and they’ve got a bunch of other things on their minds right now.’

  At Gaithersburg Hunter had directed Reilly right, towards Laytonsville, and after about another eight miles left for Goshen.

  ‘I hope you know where the hell we’re goin’,’ Reilly said, ‘’cause I sure don’t.’

  Hunter grunted, his brows furrowed in concentration as he studied the map. Finally he folded it and sat up. He knew they were in the right area. It was just a question of recognizing landmarks.

  FBI Headquarters, J. Edgar Hoover Building, Pennsylvania Avenue, Washington, D.C.

  Myers nodded at the Communications staff officer, who had straightened noticeably when William McGrath walked through the soundproof door of the Centre.

  ‘Which one?’ Myers asked.

  ‘Booth Five, sir.’

  ‘What’s the origin of the call – Nevada again?’

  The staff officer nodded.

  ‘OK,’ McGrath said. ‘Get me an extra headset. We’re both taking this call.’

  Thirty seconds later the red light came on outside the closed door of the booth as the call was patched through.

  ‘This is Myers.’

  ‘About time. Where’s Donahue?’

  ‘Director Donahue’s dead,’ McGrath said.

  Roger Ketch immediately noted the new voice on the line. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘William McGrath. I’m acting Director for the time being. Who are you?’

  This should be good, Myers thought.

  ‘You don’t need to know,’ Ketch grated. ‘Jesus, all you suits seem to want is names and numbers.’

  ‘I need to know who you are,’ McGrath repeated.

  ‘You don’t need anything from me. I’m running this operation, which means you do what I tell you. Donahue didn’t have a problem with that, so why should you? By the way, how’d he die?’

  Myers, sensing McGrath’s increasing irritation, explained what had happened.

  ‘We don’t know,’ he finished, ‘if Hunter and Reilly died in the explosion as well as the Director.’

  Ketch laughed – a short, unpleasant bark. ‘Take my word for it,’ he said, ‘they didn’t. But they’re probably still in your area, which means we’ve still got a chance. OK, Mr. Acting Director McGrath, here’s what I need you to do. You listening?’

  ‘Yes,’ McGrath said, shortly.

  ‘There should already be an APB out for these two bastards. Reinforce it by saying that they’re now wanted in connection with the assassination o
f the Director of the FBI – which has the useful bonus of actually being true. You should have got the background on Reilly by now –’ McGrath looked at Myers, who nodded ‘– so go through it with a fine tooth-comb. Look for anything that we could use against him – family, friends, weaknesses of any sort. Do the same for Hunter, though I don’t think there’s a lot of data available.’

  ‘Is that it?’

  ‘No,’ Ketch replied. ‘That’s what you do when you’ve done everything else. First, I want a watch kept at all seaports, airports, railroad and bus stations. I want all roads – that’s every road, not just the Interstates – watched, plus all navigable rivers. I want a blanket of FBI agents to smother D.C. You start in Washington and work your way outwards. We have to find these guys, and then we have to kill them. Failure is not an option.’

  There was a brief silence as McGrath digested what he’d heard. ‘Do you realize how many men an operation like that will take? Do you have the slightest idea what you’re asking?’

  ‘Two things, McGrath. First, I’m not asking, I’m telling. Second, I don’t care. This operation has the highest possible priority. Whatever it takes to achieve, you do it. Whatever other tasks you have to shed to get it done, you dump. If you have to recruit, fire, cripple or kill anybody, from the Vice-President of the United States downwards, you just do it. All other considerations – and I do mean absolutely all other considerations – are secondary. Do I make myself clear?’

  Myers stayed silent. It was a real good time, in his opinion, to be just a fly on the wall.

  ‘You make yourself clear,’ McGrath said, ‘but –’

  ‘There are no buts, McGrath, and in an hour or so you’ll know why.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘Donahue showed you a sealed file, right? Marked “Omega Procedures”?’

  McGrath nodded. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I got it out for him as soon as news of that Beaver Creek killing reached us. Why?’