by Brian Drake
Lukavina, his face twisted in thought, fired up his computer. “I can access the headquarters server,” he said, “so we should be able to find something. But the agency doesn’t necessarily keep track of retired staff. Royce and DeRocca could be anywhere.”
Dane started pacing again, ignoring a concerned glance from Nina. A few minutes later Lukavina said, “Got it.”
Dane moved behind the desk and leaned over Lukavina’s chair.
“The file’s locked up tighter than a nun’s you-know-what,” the CIA man said.
“That’s gross, Len,” Nina said.
“What it means is that I can’t access the file remotely.”
Dane moved around the desk again. “Can you try in the morning?”
“During lunch, sure. This is huge though, Steve. Royce and DeRocca and Gallagher are legends. And they may still have friends keeping an eye on this. We have to be careful.”
“We need to find them.”
“Your shooting Gallagher will get the cops involved, you realize.”
“And the cops can work for us, too.”
“What do you mean?” Lukavina said.
“Talk to them and suggest it might be a Mafia killing. Get them sniffing around. It’ll spook Royce and make him send somebody after us.”
“You can’t be serious.”
“If you can’t find Royce directly, the mob connection is our next best bet.”
“I’m going to need some time, Steve. And I think you need some sleep.”
“Preach it,” Nina said.
“What I need is action, Len, not stalling.”
“Who’s stalling? I want to help. But I need time. You have to remember the agency has rules. The law says we can’t work domestically. If anybody gets any hint that I’m snooping around in what is not in any way agency business—”
“All right,” Dane snapped.
Lukavina fell silent.
Dane moved around the room, his hands behind his back.
“Where are you staying?” Lukavina said.
“The Watergate,” Nina said.
Lukavina showed Dane and Nina to the door and saw them out. Dane stopped on the front step and turned around.
“I appreciate everything, Len.”
“I know you do. This is my fight, too. Don’t forget that.”
“I won’t.”
DANE SHUT the door of their hotel room, and Nina made a beeline for the dresser, where a bottle of wine sat. She started working out the cork.
Dane stopped her, took the bottle and popped the cork. Then he pivoted to the bathroom and poured the bottle out in the sink.
“Hey!” Nina stopped in the doorway as the bottle went glug glug glug. “You’re wasting my vitamins!”
“I need you sober for this one.”
“You what?”
“Sober,” Dane said, shaking out the last drops. “As in, not drunk.”
“Why are you suddenly no fun?”
“Just this once, hon. Seriously.”
He dropped the bottle in the trash, where it hit so hard that the small wastebasket fell over and the bottle rolled across the tiled floor. Dane squatted down to put it right. Nina moved out of the doorway and let him pass. Dane removed his suit jacket and draped it across a chair, removed his tie and his shoes.
“That means me, too,” he said, digging out a pint of Jack Daniel’s from a shoulder bag under the writing table. He tossed it to her. She twisted off the top and poured it down the drain. Returning from the bathroom, she said:
“Somehow I don’t think I’m even.”
“This is the big one, babe. Our usual shenanigans have no place here. We need to stay focused.”
“What aren’t you saying in all this?” Nina said, folding her arms.
Dane looked at her. She hadn’t said much since Gallagher’s. He figured there was a lot she wanted to say, but it was simmering beneath the surface.
“I almost killed the wrong man a long time ago.”
“What do you mean?”
“My father was part of a joint FBI and agency team that found a Russian sleeper cell in the U.S. Dad worked the overseas angle. He’s the one who found them, and the bureau made the arrests. I always thought it was them—one in particular named Rosov. It made sense. Get revenge against the man who found you by making him look like a traitor. I was about to go to Russia and shoot him, but Peter Cross stopped me.”
“Before or after he became president?”
“Before. He was still at CIA and so was I. He convinced me I didn’t have enough evidence, but I didn’t believe him at the time. I agreed to wait until more proof was available. It drove me nuts. Crazy with rage, Nina. I couldn’t get control of myself. So I hit the road. Quit CIA, quit everything. There isn’t any room for mistakes this time.”
“Yet you just blasted Gallagher like swatting a fly.”
“He’d served his purpose.”
“Let’s just say I saw some of the rage you refer to.”
“You did?”
“And you’re not trying to excuse it?” Nina said.
“Why do you think I’m getting rid of the booze?” he said. “I wouldn’t undo shooting Gallagher, but I might prefer a different frame of mind when I shoot the next one.”
She moved closer to him, and in a soft voice said, “Do you think Cross knew something you didn’t? Otherwise why tell you Rosov wasn’t guilty?”
Dane froze a moment, then took a deep breath. “I never asked myself that,” he said. “I didn’t even stop to think. I just took off with my tail between my legs.”
“Sounds like you and him need to talk.”
“You bet we will.”
“First we need to follow Len’s advice and get some rest.” She closed the distance between them and started undoing the buttons on his shirt. “I mean it, Steve. It will wait until morning.”
Dane pulled her close and rested his face in her neck as she continued undressing him. What he wanted to say was that she was the one who had finally pulled him out of the personal hell he’d been living in, finally made it okay for him to live again and find a new purpose.
When he left the CIA, there was nothing to do except find a way to make a living using his unique skill set. The 30-30 mercenary unit had filled that role for a while. He took charge of his life as best as he could and tried to forge a new destiny despite the cloud of anger hanging over him. A skirmish in South Africa netted several million dollars’ worth of diamonds, and he disbanded the unit. After that, he was a knight errant in the service of those who needed a champion, bringing the fight to the predators who sought to exploit the defenseless. Somewhere along the way, the beautiful creature in his arms entered his life and made him feel again.
And now he realized he had been, the whole time, fighting for himself.
Someday he’d find the right words and tell her.
Or maybe she already knew.
GINO MOLIGONI lived in a white mansion on the southern side of D.C., a stone’s throw from Fort Washington. It was the largest home in the area, surrounded by a wrought iron fence, and in the middle of a lush green field. Cameras, armed security guards, warning signs—the works. The blue sky and green hills made it an ideal place.
Hal Miller steered the Cadillac onto the short driveway approaching the main entrance. A guard stepped out of a shack. His shirt strained against a pot belly, and a revolver hung below his left arm. He held out a hand. Miller stopped the car and rolled down the window.
“Tell Gino that Miller is here.”
“He’s not seeing anybody.”
“He’ll see me.”
“I got my orders. Beat it.”
“Don’t make me get out of this car.”
The guard stepped back and yanked his radio and took out the revolver. Miller bolted from the car. The guard started talking into the radio and swung the gun up at the same time. Miller grabbed the gun, twisted, forcing the guard’s body to turn with the twist, and socked him in the mouth with his
free hand. The guard dropped onto his rear. The radio clattered beside him. Miller was ejecting the shells from the revolver as more guards ran toward him.
Each of them held a weapon on Miller from the other side of the fence. The man in charge, a trim fellow this time, stepped forward. “What’s the idea, Miller? Gino ain’t seeing anybody.”
“Will you ask him already? Tell him Royce sent me.”
“You can tell me.”
“Get your boss down here or we’re going to piss off the neighbors with a lot of shooting.” Miller opened his coat and took out his Glock-21 automatic. He kept it beside his leg as he scanned each face of the men before him. One or two started looking nervous and tightened the grips on their own weapons.
The shack guard moaned a little.
“Everybody take it easy,” the trim guard said. He took out his radio and spoke to somebody about Miller. After a short wait and a positive response, he told his guys to scoot, opened the gate and told Miller to drive up to the front of the house.
Miller put his gun away and followed directions.
An escort met him at the front and took him to a terrace on the side of the house, where Moligoni waited. The marble terrace with its Romanesque railing overlooked the capo’s large, blooming garden. Unseen birds chirped. The capo was going gray at the temples, but the rest of him looked like he could go a few rounds in the ring. He had started as a boxer, gotten in with the so-called bad crowd and worked his way up through the organization. He sat in the seat of power because Perry Royce had cleared the way with the bullets of more than one assassin. He owed the man.
“I would have liked watching you try to gun down my men, Hal.”
“Maybe next time,” Miller said with a cocky grin.
Moligoni took a seat at a table. Before Miller sat, he wiped the chair with a handkerchief. Folding the cloth, he returned it to his back pocket and joined the older man. Moligoni told Miller’s escort to bring them a couple of beers. When the beers arrived and the escort departed, Moligoni took a long drink.
Miller examined his bottle. It was a little early to start drinking, but what the heck. He swallowed a mouthful.
“So what does Perry need?” Moligoni said.
“We have a problem, some unknown shooters,” and Miller filled in the capo on the details surrounding Gallagher’s murder. “We’re stumped,” he said in conclusion.
“Wasn’t one of my people,” the capo said.
“We aren’t suggesting it was,” Miller said. “Whoever did it, we need help tracking them down. I can’t cover the territory alone.”
“But you have nothing to go on.”
“Right.”
“I’m not sending men out on a wild-goose chase. Find me a target and I’ll give you all the guys you need.”
“I just said—”
“I’m not in the mood to repeat myself, Hal.”
Miller was not about to give up so easily. “Whoever killed Gallagher, whatever they want, they may find a connection to you.”
“Good. We’ll take them out when they try to hit me. What’s the problem?”
Miller glared at the capo. “It’s not a sound strategy.”
“You government spooks got your ways; I got mine.”
Miller rose from the table. “I didn’t come here for an argument.”
“I’m just telling you my position. Tell me you have a lead and I may change my mind.”
“I don’t.”
“Then my decision stands until new information comes in.”
“I understand.”
“If Royce has any questions—”
“He’ll call you.” Miller started for the exit. “I’ll find my own way out.”
“Don’t kill any of my guys,” Moligoni said.
5
Keep It Quiet
IT WASN’T the first time an early-morning call had woken him up.
Perry Royce rolled over in the empty bed and picked up the phone.
“Yes?”
“It’s Swindol.”
“What is it?”
Andy Swindol was Royce’s only remaining contact at CIA headquarters, who specifically kept Royce up-to-date on just about everything.
“Somebody tried to access the Eagle files last night.”
“Who?”
“Leonard Lukavina, head of the counter-terrorist unit.”
Royce swung his legs over the side of the bed, sitting up sharply. His ankle flared and he bit off a grunt. “Why?”
“No idea. It was a quick query, he was denied, and he logged off.”
Lukavina would have no business looking at those files. Nobody had any business looking at those files, but considering what had happened to Gallagher, Royce knew the query was no coincidence.
And if they were looking for the official file, maybe they hadn’t found anything at Gallagher’s after all.
“I’ll take care of it,” Royce said. “Thanks for calling.”
“Anytime, sir.”
Royce set the phone down and rubbed his face. He picked up the phone again and called Hal Miller. After the assassin updated Royce on his visit with Moligoni, Royce told him about the new lead. “Stay with Lukavina until we know who he’s working with. I guarantee you that’s our connection.”
“On it,” Miller said.
THE ELEVATOR doors dinged open, and Len Lukavina stepped into the outer office of the CIA’s director.
It wasn’t his first summons to the office on the seventh floor, but it wasn’t scheduled, and Lukavina wondered if his attempt at accessing a classified file had anything to do with the sudden request to see the director.
While he might have to explain what he was doing, Lukavina knew he had a sympathetic ear in Carlton Figg. The DCI would listen fairly.
Pumped up with three cups of coffee, Lukavina crossed the carpet to the desk of the DCI’s secretary, who said good morning and announced his arrival. Lukavina shut the inner-office door behind him.
Figg, in a dark suit, his full head of hair a light gray, stood by the panoramic window overlooking the Virginia hills in the distance.
“Good morning, Len.”
“Hello, sir.” Lukavina stood and waited to be invited to sit.
Figg turned and approached his desk, which sat in front of a wall bearing the CIA seal bookended by American flags. Figg gestured to a seat. Lukavina sat.
“I hear you were snooping around last night,” Figg said. “Looking into Operation Eagle. You don’t have any reason for doing that, Len. What’s going on?”
“I was doing a favor for a friend.”
Figg raised an eyebrow. “I don’t like where this is going.”
“The friend is Steve Dane.”
“Now I really don’t like where this is going. Steve Dane left this agency long ago and should not be a concern of yours.”
“What if I told you he had information that the people in charge of Operation Eagle used it for illegal purposes?”
Figg placed his elbows on the armrests of his chair and made a tent with his fingers. “Tell me more.”
Lukavina explained about Gallagher’s information, and left out nothing that Dane had confided, including the murders on U.S. soil. That information sobered Figg greatly, it seemed.
“As I recall, sir, you knew Dane’s father.”
Figg nodded. “I did.”
“I think we should give Dane whatever aid he needs.”
“Do you realize what you’re suggesting?”
“Yes, sir. But look at it this way. If we let Dane investigate for us, we’re in a better position to keep it quiet. The last thing we need is any friends Royce and DeRocca still have here, and we know they do, tipping them off.”
“Why haven’t the police been in touch about Gallagher’s body?”
“Excuse me, sir?”
“If the police had found Gallagher’s body, we would have been called. We haven’t been.”
Lukavina frowned. “I’d have to check the house myself, sir. Maybe
the neighbors haven’t noticed anything untoward.”
“Either that or our friends are cleaning up the trail. That means Steve is in danger. That means you are vulnerable, too. You mentioned Royce’s friends. I’m not the only one who may know you tried to access that file.”
“It’s your decision, sir. Do we help Dane or not?”
“It’s hard to believe that story, but I don’t think Gallagher would make it up, either.”
Lukavina nodded.
“Let’s go with it for now,” Figg said. “We’ll re-evaluate as more information comes to light. If Dane is right, we have a serious problem. If he’s wrong, we need to cut him off right away.”
“If he’s wrong, I don’t think he’ll make trouble, sir.”
“Steve Dane has been making trouble ever since he left this agency.”
“Sometimes that trouble has helped us, sir.”
Figg smiled. “Which is why I’m not upset about it. Carry on, Len. Go see what happened at Gallagher’s and keep me posted.”
LUKAVINA HELD his morning staff meeting and listened to the updates on various assignments while, silently, he plotted out his own activities. After the meeting ended, he announced to his secretary that the director had some tasks for him and he’d be out of the office the rest of the day but always accessible via cell.
Lukavina made his way to Gallagher’s home but wasn’t taking anything for granted. He didn’t drive a direct route, and made U-turns to backtrack several times. No sign of any surveillance. When he reached Gallagher’s neighborhood, he made a circle in the quiet cul-de-sac and parked the car in front of Gallagher’s yard. Nothing at the front of the house seemed disturbed. Lukavina went up to the front door to find it locked. Lukavina crossed the driveway to the side of the house and took a deep breath as he examined the fence blocking his way to the back of the house. He could step on the water meter, hop over and land on the other side. But could he do it without ruining his suit? This was the kind of covert stuff he’d been forced to give up. He smiled at the opportunity.
He planted one foot on the water meter, planted both hands on the top of the fence and boosted his body up and over. He landed hard on the other side, a sharp pain flashing up each leg. He leaned against the outer wall of the house a moment. Ouch indeed. He didn’t have the shoes for this either. Or, more likely, he wasn’t in shape for this. You’re just getting old. He brushed off his suit. No rips or tears. Good.