The Blowback Protocol: A Sam Jameson Thriller

by Emmerich, Lars

  Grange pulled a dark ball cap low over his brow and donned sunglasses. He zipped up his winter parka. It added twenty pounds to his silhouette. It wouldn’t fool anyone for long, but it might be good for half a second’s hesitation. An eternity, depending on the situation.

  He checked again on the cargo. Satisfied it wasn’t going anywhere, he opened the door and got out of the van. He walked to the elevator and pushed the button. When it arrived, he inserted a magnetic access card into a slot. The card contained electronic credentials that gave him access to the building above, but the credentials didn’t belong to him. The elevator doors closed and the car lurched upward. Grange looked at his watch. It wouldn’t be long now.

  60

  Sam walked into the pizzeria and paused while her eyes adjusted to the light. Hayward followed at her heels. “Ciao, bella,” boomed a voice that she’d heard a hundred times. It belonged to a fat, swarthy man in his sixties with an ebullient smile, a damp forehead, and the biggest heart on the block. His arms were stretched wide, and he moved in for a hug.

  Sam obliged. “Hi, Mario,” she said. It wasn’t his name, but Mario was what everyone called him. “How have you been?”

  “Bene, bene!” Mario gushed. “And you?” He eyed Hayward with a wary look. “Where is the luckiest man in the world tonight?”

  He was referring to Brock, and it caught Sam off guard. In the day’s chaos, she’d managed to keep the devastation of his note somewhat at bay. But it all came roaring back with the atmosphere of the pizza joint they frequented together, and especially with Mario’s query. She did her best to blink away the sudden tears, with limited success.

  Mario was quick on the uptake. His face contorted in sympathy, and he put his hand over his heart. He embraced her again, patted her back, and said, “A good meal, maybe, and it will all seem better.”

  Sam dabbed at her eyes. “Thank you, Mario, but we can’t stay. I really just came in to ask a favor.”

  “Anything for you,” Mario said.

  “I need you to call a friend of mine and tell him his order is ready.”

  * * *

  Sam and Hayward waited in the back room of the pizzeria. She nibbled on a piece of pizza crust, trying to soothe her nauseous stomach. She checked her watch. Just then, the door swung open and Sam looked up. A genuine smile filled her face, the first in a long time.

  “Oh my God,” Dan Gable said.

  Sam threw her arms around his neck and gave him a crushing bear hug. She and Dan had been through a lot together, but it felt different this time. Brock had been her anchor and Dan her eminently capable cohort, but Dan’s role in her life had suddenly become a bit more blurred after Brock’s devastating note. Dan felt much more like family than before.

  “You look like hell,” Dan said when he’d found his voice.

  “You really know how to flatter a girl,” Sam said. She gestured toward Hayward and introduced them. They shook hands, but Dan had a guarded look on his face. He was clearly concerned about Hayward’s presence inside the “inner circle.”

  Sam couldn’t fault Dan’s caution. Their situation was precarious to start with, and Hayward’s résumé wasn’t exactly sterling. It was a hell of a time to introduce a wild card into the mix. But what choice did she have? Hayward had proven agreeably steady and competent so far.

  They spent a few minutes catching up. Dan filled Sam in on his analysis of the US embassy phones in Tripoli. The investigation revealed a call from Oren Stanley’s cell phone on February 25 to the same embassy phone number they’d encountered while running down the Natan El Anwar lead. Perhaps Stanley was the source of the Doberman group’s inside knowledge of Ezzat’s compromise, Sam surmised, but it brought up another question: how the hell did Stanley know about the Ezzat situation in the first place? She didn’t expect to find any ready answers, given the senator’s current lack of a pulse.

  Dan also told her that Brock had been released from custody. Brock’s lawyer already had at least one countersuit filed and was rumored to be working on lawsuits against everyone within a ten-mile radius. Who said harassment wasn’t legal?

  “He went home yesterday,” Dan said.

  Sam nodded. Despite her best efforts, the lump appeared in her throat again and her eyes grew misty.

  “What’s wrong?” Dan asked.

  Sam didn’t trust her voice so she just handed him the note.

  Sadness settled on Dan’s face as he read it. “I don’t know what to say, Sam,” he said, shaking his head. “I always thought you two were perfect together.”

  “I guess things change,” Sam said. She cleared her throat and changed the subject. “It’s great to see you,” she said. “But I wouldn’t put you in jeopardy like this if we weren’t in deep shit.”

  Dan smiled. “When do you ever call me except when you’re in deep shit?”

  “Touché.” Dan knew about the Cagliari safe house fiasco. Sam told him about the message Hayward received from Artemis Grange’s camp containing the video that proved Katrin and Joao were still alive, but barely.

  She described the way they cracked the encrypted metadata to discover the location where the video was shot, which matched the address contained in the text of the message from Grange. She told him about their assault on the safe house, which held no signs that Katrin, Joao, or anyone else had been there in ages. She also brought him up to speed on their visit to the McCulleys and their grisly discovery in Senator Oren Stanley’s study.

  Dan whistled. “Geez, boss,” he said. “I don’t know where to start.”

  Sam nodded. “It’s a peach.”

  “But we have an idea,” Hayward said. He explained the protocol he had used to contact Grange in the past, taking care to describe the pauses and clicks and clunks he heard while the call was re-routed for security.

  Dan caught on quickly. “So you’re hoping that even if Grange doesn’t answer, we’ll be able to ferret out his location by following the call.”

  “That’s right,” Hayward said.

  Dan pursed his lips. “Depends on what they’re using to bounce the call around,” he said.

  “Don’t you have visibility into all of those tools?” Sam asked.

  “Yes,” Dan said, “but only the US government tools, plus a handful I’ve picked up in my travels. There’s no guarantee they’re using anything I can hack with what I’ve got.”

  Sam smiled. “Don’t sell yourself short,” she said. “My money’s on you.”

  “I’ll have to head into the vault,” Dan said, referring to the secure work area at Homeland that housed their most sensitive computer surveillance tools. “I suppose you need this done right away.”

  “If not sooner,” Sam said. “We have to assume the hostages are still alive.” She looked at Hayward. “But it was clear from the video that we don’t have much time.”

  “I’ll get on it,” Dan said.

  “I’d tell you to blame me for ruining your Saturday night,” Sam said, “but I’m afraid your blushing bride would turn me in to the police.”

  Dan smiled. “I’m afraid so, too,” he said.

  She handed him a disposable cell phone. “Don’t turn it on except to call me. My burner number is programmed under ‘pizza.’”

  Dan gave her a hug. “I’m glad you’re safe. Stay out of trouble, will you? I don’t want to have to rely on your deception skills to keep me out of jail.”

  Sam laughed. “Scout’s honor.”

  * * *

  Sam expected Dan to be hard at work solving the location problem for hours, but her burner buzzed after just forty-five minutes.

  “Piece of cake,” Dan said. “The number Hayward gave me rings to a call bridge. The bridge acts as a relay. It uses voice-over-Internet to dial a cell phone number. It also appears to encrypt the call, so it’s a high-end phone on the other end, capable of decryption.”

  “What does that mean?” Sam said.

  “Just that they’ve taken some pains to keep people from listening
in on Grange’s calls. But the cell phone still has to communicate with nearby cell towers.”

  “Which means you can triangulate its location,” Sam said.

  “Exactly, but it only reports its location when it’s powered on.”

  “Is it powered on right now?”

  “No,” Dan said. “It’s been off for the better part of twelve hours.”

  “Damn,” Sam said.

  “Grange isn’t stupid, but I was able to put together a location history. Got a pen?”

  61

  Hayward drove with abandon. It was only a matter of time before he picked up police interest, Sam thought, but she didn’t try to slow him down. She’d already mentioned the folly of a traffic stop to him twice since she’d handed him the address. A third time would have been a waste of breath.

  Hayward thought they were on a rescue mission, but Sam knew better. They were on a recovery mission. The difference was profound. Rescue operations retrieved living people from dire situations. Recovery operations found the remains of people who hadn’t survived. Sam had little hope that Joao and Katrin Ferdinand-Xavier would still be among the living this far into the game, especially after the opposition had murdered a US senator. It was the kind of move few would even ponder. The repercussions would be outrageous and long lasting, and it meant the gloves were off. If Grange had no qualms about killing a senator, what hope was there for two unknowns from a foreign country?

  Sam didn’t have high hopes for their current endeavor, but there was no stopping Hayward, and she felt she owed him her assistance.

  She didn’t know what kind of reception to expect at their destination. The address was the last known location of Artemis Grange’s encrypted cell phone. But if her assessment was correct, Grange hadn’t been there in half a day. He’d been miles away, at least for as long as was necessary to slice the good senator’s jugular.

  Hayward rounded a bend and slammed on the brakes. There was a police cruiser parked on the shoulder, nose perpendicular to the flow of traffic, its occupant leaning out the window with a radar gun.

  Sam held her breath and eyed the cop as they passed. He showed no interest. Hayward’s reflexes had evidently saved the day. “That was your mulligan,” Sam said. Hayward shot her a look and stomped on the gas.

  She was concerned about his state of mind. There was a heightened sense of urgency about him. He was watching the clock, doing his own math regarding Katrin’s survival odds and taking on extra risk to force an outcome that was rapidly slipping beyond their reach. He was becoming desperate.

  “Let’s be smart about this,” she said. “It won’t do Katrin any good if we get ourselves killed.”

  Hayward nodded, but he didn’t slow down.

  She tried to think a couple of moves ahead. Suppose they survived the next hour. Suppose they found a way to beat the odds, rescue the damsel in distress, and vanquish the bad guy and his posse. Then what?

  There would still be a warrant for her arrest. Even if the CIA admitted Tariq Ezzat was their man, which was about as likely as a giant meteor striking the earth within the hour, would it be enough to stop all the Justice Department momentum against her?

  Fat chance. The scapegoat phenomenon was just too powerful. The attorney general would look like a chump, pressing hard for an indictment and then dropping it as if nothing had ever happened.

  So what was her endgame? A new name, some plastic surgery, a new life in a sleepy Eastern European country? Might work for a while, but she’d seen surveillance technology grow in leaps and bounds in the US, and it was only a matter of time before governments of all shapes and sizes realized how useful it was to keep an eye on every breathing citizen. It would soon become impossible to hide anywhere that had electricity.

  That left an equally unsavory option: turning herself in and placing herself at the mercy of the judicial system. Her face had been on the news and high-level Justice Department bureaucrats had decried her as a danger to society. As a result, everyone on the government team had a vested interest in a conviction.

  The feds had unlimited resources, unlimited time, and plenty of resolve. Just getting to trial would cost her a million bucks in legal fees. She would spend that time incarcerated, because she was obviously a flight risk and no federal judge would dream of letting her out on bail.

  She would lose the trial, because the judicial system wasn’t organized around finding the truth or achieving justice, but rather around obtaining convictions, and they did a terrific job of stacking the deck in their favor. Then she would spend five more years and another million dollars on appeal, which she would probably lose.

  I’d rather eat a bullet.

  All of this led her back to her earlier premise: she had to change the game up. She had to hit them so hard, and on such a grand scale, that Homeland and Justice were forced to look at things from a different angle. That had been her intention in giving the story to William Nichols. May he rest in peace, goddammit.

  She gasped, and Hayward looked over at her for a second. She realized she had made a mistake, and a serious one. She had looked for the perfect journalist to tell her tale to the world, she had convinced him to do the story, and then she had left him alone and hoped for the best. She had turned William Nichols into the single critical point of failure for her entire strategy, which had also made him a target.

  She clenched her fists and cursed herself.

  Hayward sailed through a red light. Cars swerved and honked, but Hayward didn’t waver. Sam grabbed the door handle. “Jesus,” she said. “You’re going to get us killed!”

  He shook his head and barreled onward. “There’s no time to waste,” he said. “We’re still fifteen minutes away.”

  Fifteen minutes.

  Just enough time for a phone call, Sam figured, heart still racing from the near-death experience. Maybe it would be too little and too late, or maybe it would change everything. She dialed Dan’s number.

  * * *

  They didn’t park so far away this time. Grange had anticipated their movements so well thus far that a stealthy approach seemed silly.

  They’d given Dan the details of the secure server containing Joao Ferdinand-Xavier’s files in case by some miracle it still provided a modicum of leverage with Grange, but Sam doubted Grange had any interest whatsoever in the ChemEspaña data. He’d had plenty of opportunity to acquire the files and had so far demurred.

  Pavement gave way to gravel, which turned to dirt. They parked just beyond the porch. They drew their weapons and held them at the ready. No tactical entrance this time. What would have been the point? Instead, they simply rang the doorbell.

  No response.

  They tried the door. It was unlocked, and they walked in. Lights were on. There were fast food wrappers and empty soda cans strewn about. An unruly pile of men’s magazines sat on top of a coffee table.

  “Grange,” Hayward called out.

  No response. No motion.

  “Grange!” Louder this time.

  Still no response.

  They moved from room to room, calling out for Grange, leaving lights on as they cleared each space. There was nobody in the house.

  Sam was ready to leave, ready to admit that Grange had led them on yet another snipe hunt. She turned toward the front door, but Hayward spotted something outside in the backyard. “Some sort of building out there,” he said.

  Reluctantly, Sam agreed they should check it out. She expected to find nothing, but it would be foolish not to be sure.

  The door to the detached garage was locked. Hayward knocked, then pounded and hollered. No response.

  He backed up, raised his heel, and drove his boot into the door. It flexed and Sam heard the wood split. It absorbed two more kicks from Hayward’s boot before shattering.

  The smell hit them like a freight train. It was awful, like the monkey house at the zoo, only it wasn’t an animal smell. It was the kind of stench only humans could produce.

  It smelled of som
ething else, too. Sam’s stomach lurched. It was unmistakable. A moist, metallic smell, with notes of early decomposition. “Hayward, wait,” she said, wanting to spare him the sight she knew was in store, but he was already moving forward into the darkness.

  He found a light switch. They squinted as their eyes adjusted. The room contained a sofa, coffee table, television, and more soft-core porn magazines.

  And something else. On the floor was a small pile of clothes.

  “Katrin,” Hayward breathed.

  “You don’t know that. Those could be anyone’s clothes,” Sam said, but even she didn’t believe it.

  Hayward shook his head. “They’re hers. I recognize the blouse.”

  “Maybe you should wait in here,” Sam said, but Hayward shook his head and moved through the doorway leading deeper into the building.

  The smell of blood and death intensified, and Sam lifted her shirt collar over her nose to mask the odor. It still penetrated, cloying, turning her stomach.

  Dread wrapped itself around her, and she felt an ache in her heart for Hayward for what he was about to encounter. It would damage him irreparably. He would carry it to his grave. He would tell himself it was his fault. And, she surmised, he wouldn’t be too far from right.

  “You don’t have to do this,” she said.

  If he heard her, he gave no sign of it. He followed his nose to yet another door. It was slightly ajar, and the room beyond was dark. Hayward nudged the door with his foot. It opened, revealing pooled blood on the floor.

  Hayward took a breath and switched on the light.

  “Jesus,” he said.

  Sam steeled herself and peered inside the room. Shackles were fastened to the walls. Brain and skull fragments clung to the concrete. The floor was a mess of blood and fluid. Sam fought nausea.