Black List

by Brad Thor

  Assuming his former mentor had been surrounded with digital tripwires, Carlton had chosen to e-mail Banks. He’d been careful, though. He wanted to pique the other side’s interest, but he had to do so without appearing obvious. He was, after all, setting a trap of his own. The last thing he wanted to do was to scare them off. He needed them to believe that they had the upper hand and were outsmarting him.

  He also needed to make sure that Banks understood the message. As it turned out, he had nothing to worry about. Banks remembered the Budapest operation like it was yesterday.

  Carlton found the two men near a homeless shelter in Baltimore. Both men were interested in making a couple hundred bucks, especially such easy money. After getting them cleaned up, Carlton bought them a meal, a new set of clothes, and drove them into D.C. to run them through what they were expected to do.

  He then used them to load a dead drop for Banks with final instructions. After that, Carlton took them for coffee, controlling the amount of “flavoring” each would be allowed from a bottle of whiskey they had picked up on the way in from Baltimore. He wanted them to eat once more before the operation, but neither man was interested. Carlton figured he was lucky enough to have made it this far and worked on keeping the men sober enough to function.

  At the appointed hour, wearing a false beard, a hat, glasses, and clothing that made him appear much heavier than he was, Reed Carlton entered Union Station, took up his perch, and waited.

  The two homeless men proved to be more reliable than he had hoped and followed shortly after. No doubt, the men were eager for the rest of their money, and the only way they’d get it was to finish the job properly.

  From where he sat, Carlton had a commanding view of what was about to go down. The thing he worried about the most was the cameras. If the two homeless men didn’t walk exactly as he had shown them, and someone panned in and got a good enough look at one of their faces, it would be over before any of it got started. So far, though, the men seemed to be doing everything exactly as they’d rehearsed. All they were waiting for now was for their star to arrive.

  Banks would have spent most of the afternoon conducting elaborate SDRs. If he hadn’t lost his touch, which Carlton had every reason to believe he hadn’t, he might have even lost his surveillance team once or twice. If he did, the plan was to allow them to reacquire his trail, but to do so in a manner that appeared as if it was entirely of their doing. When Banks did make for Union Station, it was to be at the very last minute. They couldn’t afford to give the other side any time to set up a trap. The only way the con worked was to keep it moving and never give the other guys a chance to catch their breath. It would be a physically and mentally grueling day for everyone involved but especially for a man Banks’ age.

  The station was teaming with commuters when the old spymaster entered wearing a wide-brimmed Orvis hat, his old Barbour Beaufort jacket, and carrying a battered leather satchel. According to plan, he purchased a ticket on the high-speed Acela line to New York City and then milled with the crowds and made his way toward the restrooms.

  Carlton was able to pick up two men tailing him. They wore dark suits and tan raincoats. Their hair was cut short, military-style. They were broad-chested and fit. They wore shoes that laced up and had comfortable soles. These were men who spent a majority of each day standing. Each was right-handed and he could tell they carried a concealed weapon somewhere at or behind their right hip. They moved deliberately; their heads on a swivel, alternately taking turns focusing on their prey as well as their surroundings. These were dangerous men, and Carlton had no illusions as to what they were capable of. All this he was able to discern in a matter of seconds. He’d been at the game long enough to assimilate and analyze data in an instant. It was the only way he had lived as long as he had.

  Satisfied with his assessment, Carlton scanned the crowds for additional operatives. If there were two, there had to be more. What he didn’t know was how many. Was there another team waiting in a car outside? Were there more men combing the station? Were they using women? Had they enlisted local law enforcement? The list of unknowns was a mile long. It was time to start getting some answers.

  Checking his watch, Carlton stood and began moving toward the exit. Twenty seconds later, he spotted Banks’ hat and green Barbour coat coming out of the men’s room. Another man, also in a Barbour jacket and now carrying Banks’ leather satchel, joined him. The two broad-chested men in trench coats were right on their tail. Carlton had yet to see anyone else following.

  Outside, the men made a beeline for the cab stand while Carlton hung back. They were the third party in line. When the trench coated men emerged from the station, they didn’t seem to know what to do. Carlton noted one of them raising his shirt cuff to his mouth and speaking into a concealed microphone. He hadn’t thought they were working alone, but now he had confirmation. What he needed to know was who was on the other end of their radio.

  He watched as the trench coats stood together on the sidewalk and pretended to make small talk, keeping their eyes glued to the two men working their way forward in the cab stand. Finally, a blue-and-white D.C. cab drove forward and the two men in Barbour jackets climbed in.

  As the cab pulled away, the trench coats ran for the street and a black Chevy Suburban screeched to a stop. It stopped only long enough for them to hop in, but as the dome light came on, he saw there were two additional men inside, one with very gray, nearly white hair and very pale skin. No sooner had the men jumped in than the Suburban took off after the cab.

  Carlton, who now had a much better grasp of how many players were on the other side of the net, stepped out into the street and watched as the Suburban rocketed into traffic. There didn’t appear to be any other cars along with it. This was a four-man team driving a single vehicle. Carlton liked those odds and set off walking.

  Two blocks away, at F and 2nd Streets, he entered Ebenezers Coffeehouse. There was an old man in a gray windbreaker and a USS Ronald Reagan ball cap who had just paid for his coffee. “Did they buy it?” he asked as Carlton walked up to him.

  “So far, so good.”

  “Good,” Tommy Banks replied as he placed a heat band around his cup and patted the weapon hidden beneath his own jacket. “Now we get to the fun part.”

  CHAPTER 57

  Finding parking anywhere near Washington’s major parks or monuments could be an absolute nightmare. For that reason, it was decided that Banks would stay with the car and Carlton would go on foot into West Potomac Park, near the Reflecting Pool and the National World War II Memorial.

  The two homeless men had been given a sheet with specific instructions to hand to their driver. It was a circuitous route that made it appear the vehicle’s occupants were running SDRs before arriving at their ultimate destination. If Carlton and Banks had really been in the cab, they would have gotten out and changed cabs and/or modes of transport several more times, but Carlton wanted the assignment to be as idiot-proof as possible for their stand-ins. Besides, Banks had spent all afternoon running them around. They knew something big was in the works and that’s all they’d be focused on at this point.

  By the time the two men arrived in the park, Carlton had already taped the last half of their money in an envelope beneath one of the many benches and around the arm of which he had tied a white plastic convenience store bag. All he had to do now was wait.

  The homeless men climbed out of the taxi and talked quietly to each other as they walked along the footpath. Night was quickly falling, and Carlton, who had lost the beard and changed his hat and jacket, watched from a safe distance. His challenge at this point was deciding who and what to handle first. As fate would have it, the surveillance team helped make up his mind for him.

  This time, instead of sending two men, they had sent three. All were middle-aged men in trench coats. The white-haired man was nowhere to be seen and Carlton assumed he was somewhere nearby, double-parked with their vehicle. He would have to move fast.

&
nbsp; Removing one of his clean cell phones, he flipped it open, called Tommy Banks, and rattled off a list of instructions before hanging up and returning the phone to his pocket. For this to work, it was going to have to be executed perfectly. His only concern was whether or not Tommy could handle his end.

  Carlton had already written off the three men in trench coats. They were going to die. There was no other way. He hadn’t asked for this war, but someone had chosen to bring it right to his doorstep. They had killed his people. They had tried to kill him. Tonight he would begin to take his revenge.

  As the darkness thickened, the air was cold and damp. The smattering of tourists who were out seemed intent on taking their photos and getting back to the warmth of their hotels. They moved quickly and didn’t linger. As the last set hurried past, Carlton removed his 1911, screwed the suppressor onto its threaded barrel, and secreted the weapon beneath a folded copy of the Washington Post. It was old school, indeed, but it was effective and that’s what mattered.

  He would have to withdraw the weapon from its hiding place in order to prevent the spent shell casings from failing to eject properly, but by the time his weapon was out, that would be the end of the three men in trench coats up ahead. Action beat reaction every time.

  Carlton watched as the trench coats cautiously approached the two men sitting on the bench in their Barbour jackets. It didn’t take long for them to realize they had been duped.

  While two of the trench coats jerked the homeless men to their feet, the third removed what appeared to be photographs from inside his jacket and compared them to the faces of each of the men. The jig was up.

  Raising his shirt cuff to his mouth, he relayed into his microphone what had happened as his eyes scanned the area. Carlton had positioned himself so that he couldn’t be seen and began watching as they roughed up the two homeless men. Both received vicious blows to the stomach, doubling them over, and then they were kicked and struck repeatedly about the head and face. Carlton wanted to step in and help them, but he couldn’t, not yet.

  Finally, the homeless men were jerked to their feet once more and the trench coats began dragging them off toward 17th Street. Carlton was going to have to move very quickly if he was going to make this work.

  As he sprinted away, he removed his cell phone and called Banks, letting him know the direction the men were headed. He had no idea if he’d even disconnected the call when he jammed the phone back in his pocket and picked up the pace.

  Rounding the World War II Memorial, he slowed himself to a brisk walk as he headed north up the sidewalk. He stared into the glaring headlights of oncoming traffic, trying to make out the Chevy Suburban. It would be here any second.

  A large group of tourists, having visited their last site of the day, was exiting the memorial and making their way toward two motor coaches that were double-parked along 17th Street. Carlton mixed himself into their group and kept his eyes peeled toward where the trench coats and the two homeless men would emerge from the park.

  There was a sidewalk ahead that emptied out of the park, and unless the trench coats were cutting across the grass, this was where they would exit. It also meant that the fourth man, the one with white hair, would bring the Suburban up somewhere behind the buses, and that was exactly what happened.

  As the crowd of tourists neared their coaches and began to board, Carlton spotted the trench coats. The bloodied homeless men were being spirited toward the street. He had no idea where the Suburban was. Any moment, he was going to lose his cover, as he’d already passed the first bus and the remaining tourists he was with had begun to slow down in order to queue up to board the second coach.

  Suddenly the Suburban came racing up behind the second bus and stopped. Seeing the vehicle, the trench coats hurried their prisoners. That was when Carlton kicked into gear.

  Stepping from behind the group of tourists, he bent forward and pulled his head down toward his shoulders. The newspaper and 1911 were tucked under his left arm. As far as he wanted them to know, he was just another disinterested nobody on his way someplace warmer.

  The trench coats weren’t amateurs. Their heads were on swivels as they continually scanned the area around them for any sign of a threat. Transitioning into a vehicle could often be one of the most dangerous parts of an assignment, and they appeared to know that. Fifty feet more, though, and this would all be over. At least, that was what they were thinking. But at twenty-five feet away, all hell broke loose.

  Either because of his worn appearance, his age, or his stooped posture, Carlton hadn’t registered as a threat. That was the first mistake the trench coats had made. The second was not having their weapons more easily accessible.

  With his right hand, Carlton drew his suppressed 1911 from inside the paper clutched beneath his left arm, brought it up, and depressed the trigger.

  The first shot went high and to the right.

  “Gun!” yelled one of the trench coats as he let go of the arm of the homeless man he was muscling to the street and fished beneath his jacket for his weapon. The other two men spun and went for their weapons as well.

  Carlton brought his weapon back under control and hit the man he’d been aiming at in the shoulder. He then turned his .45 on trench coat two and three.

  Number two took a round right to the base of his throat. He fired at number three and missed, but as number three loosed his weapon, Carlton lined up his sights and succeeded in hitting him in the head, killing him instantly.

  Running forward, he arrived at trench coat number one, who had lost all use of his right arm and was trying to draw his weapon with his left hand. Carlton aimed his weapon and shot him in the head as well.

  The two homeless men were in shock. “Get the hell out of here,” Carlton said, shoving them back toward the park. “Go! Run!”

  The tourists waiting to board their buses had fled, screaming as they ran. Carlton looked up to see the Suburban, and its white-haired driver slumped over the wheel. Standing on the other side of the door in a puddle of broken glass was Tommy Banks. In one hand was his .357 revolver, the butt of which he’d used to smash the driver’s side window. In the other hand was the dual-shot Taser X2 that Carlton had given him. Its twin wires were attached to two barbed probes that had been embedded in the white-haired man’s chest.

  “Get everything else out of our car and throw it in the back of this one,” Carlton said as he took the Taser from Banks, depressed its trigger, and let the white-haired man “ride the bull” again, as it was known.

  Carlton figured they had less than a minute. Yanking the driver out of the Suburban, he Flex-Cuffed the man’s wrists behind his back and dragged him to the rear of the SUV. Opening the hatch, he half lifted, half pushed the man into the cargo area, where he Flex-Cuffed his ankles and then bound them to his wrists, leaving him facedown.

  When Tommy had finished transferring their gear, he had the older man sit in the backseat with the Taser to keep an eye on their prisoner. Carlton hopped in the front seat, put the Suburban in gear, and took off toward the Tidal Basin and Independence Avenue, praying to God they’d make it out of the city without being captured.

  CHAPTER 58

  As they drove past the bright brick house in the Capitol Hill neighborhood, it appeared that Chuck Bremmer had kept his word. There was no sign of the surveillance team that he had following Kurt Schroeder. At the end of the next block they found his vehicle parked exactly where the Colonel had told them it would be.

  Harvath checked his watch. “Ten minutes,” he said to Rhodes and Casey as he looped around the block, getting a feel for the neighborhood before settling on a place to park. Both of the ladies wanted to go in with him, but he needed someone to stay with the truck, especially if Schroeder tried to run. Harvath decided to take Rhodes and have Casey stand by outside.

  Bremmer had given them everything he could remember about Schroeder and where he was going to be this evening. Without having the file in front of him, there was only so much he c
ould bring to mind. It would have to be good enough.

  The row houses looked like neighbors had taken turns throwing darts at a paint wheel at Home Depot. There were red, blue, orange, aqua, white, and then their target—a bright yellow house with white mullioned windows. If someone told Harvath he’d just been transported to Old San Juan or somewhere else in the Caribbean, he might have believed it.

  The homes all had fenced patios in back that abutted the fenced patios of the homes behind them. Had Harvath wanted to come in the back door, he would have had to start at the top of the block and jump numerous fences until he got to theirs, halfway down. The chances of being spotted or running across a dog were too great to risk it, and so he’d decided to go right in through the front door. If he was right, no one was going to notice.

  Harvath knew that Casey didn’t want to sit outside in the SUV. She wanted to be inside, where the action was. He couldn’t blame her. The two were very much alike. Nevertheless, he had no idea how big Schroeder was or the size of the person he was meeting with inside. If it got rough, he had no doubt Casey could hold her own, but Rhodes was taller, with more upper body strength, and could handle a larger opponent if need be. To her credit, Casey didn’t complain. But she didn’t have to; Harvath could tell she was unhappy with him.

  There was something odd about the way she was acting toward him that he couldn’t put his finger on. He didn’t know if it had to do with letting Bremmer live, whether she held him responsible for Riley’s death, or what it was. Frankly, he didn’t care. They had a high-value target inside that building, and all that mattered was getting him out alive.