by TJ O'Connor
This time was different, though. This time, he held his hand inside an overcoat strategically draped over his arm. He would be holding a weapon. My guess was a silenced .22 in case anything untoward happened.
“Well, Shepard. I’ve been expecting you.”
“Hello, Hunter.” Shepard gestured to the rear door. “He wants to chat.”
“I know he’s pissed at me,” I said and gestured to the coat draped over his arm. “He’s not that pissed at me, is he?”
Shepard allowed a thin smile. “You’ve made enemies around here, Hunter. I’m not taking chances.”
Did I mention he was a smart guy?
As Shepard returned to the driver’s seat, I climbed into the rear seat of the Mercedes and came face-to-face with a short, thin man with thinning gray hair and a round, friendly Germanic face. This was, of course, my friend, mentor, and omnipotent master, Oscar LaRue.
LaRue hid his physique inside khakis and a starched white dress shirt without a tie. His aging blue eyes considered me through his round bifocals that were in constant need of cleaning. Don’t let his slight appearance fool you. LaRue was a hardened intelligence operative as lethal as they come. Though he rarely pulled the trigger or threw the switch. That’s what Shepard and I did. No, he gave the orders.
That required more than guts. It required strength. But in his day, decades before, of course, he was a machine. A deadly, brilliant machine.
“Well, Hunter, you have made quite an impression around town. This is Winchester, not Doha. You cannot go around shooting and fighting and getting into trouble.”
“I’ll make a note.” I settled into the leather seat and turned to face him. “You owe me $879,928.66.”
“I know.” He grinned and removed his eyeglasses for a cleaning. “Now, however, I require an update.”
LaRue and I had known each other forever. We met at Fort Bragg when I was young, brave, and stupid. I was toughing through the Army’s elite Special Forces training to earn the long tab and a Green Beret. LaRue had been recruiting for his CIA operations and trolling for new cannon fodder. Somehow, I was on a shortlist and had volunteered—unknowingly. For years, I’d followed him on one wild ride after another, in and out of the Middle East, Northern Africa, and even a few testy episodes inside the former Soviet Union. Our years and adventures formed a bond. He was my CIA mentor and my greatest benefactor for paying jobs—good paying jobs.
I liked to think he lived vicariously through me. Or, I was expendable.
“How about you get my money before I update you, Oscar?” I said. “You know, in good faith.”
“Good faith?” He gave me a curious smile. “You left Doha without even discussing it with me. Where was your good faith then?”
Touché. “Look, Oscar, my brother—”
“Yes, yes, of course. I am sorry.” He flipped on a small interior reading light that wasn’t bright enough to penetrate the tinted windows. “You have gotten crossways with the authorities and riled some very dangerous people. Is there anyone who does not want you killed? No, of course not.”
I said nothing.
“Considering your brother’s murder, I will overlook all that.”
“Thanks.”
“However, there is one thing.” A steel finger stabbed the air and the lashing began. “One of my people does not disappear without my notice. I was at Dulles airport when you arrived from Frankfurt.” He looked away dismissively. “Your passports are compromised.”
“I’ll look into it.”
“You disappointed me, Hunter.”
“It’s a curse.”
LaRue folded his hands on his lap and looked out the side window away from me. “So, you’re through? Retired? Or shall we simply call it what it is—unemployed?”
Here we go. “You’re here, so I guess I’m not unemployed.”
“No, not yet. But you will have to pay for your error in Doha.” He turned to face me now. “Leaving the theater abruptly, without authorization, caused me issues. I am responsible for your performance and your income.”
“Yes, missing income.” I hate it when he’s right. I explained to him about receiving Kevin’s letter and returning home late just in time for his murder. “I’m sorry, Oscar. I expected to be back before my R & R was up. Things spun out of control. But the moment I realized what was happening, I called you.”
“Yes, you did. I have been concerned you would embarrass me.”
Embarrass him? “Well, I nearly got killed at the river. I was blown up at the mall. I tangled with a Russian thug, and got into a brawl with two Arabs just now. Did any of that embarrass you?”
“Not yet.” He removed his eyeglasses for a polishing. “Begin at the river. Leave nothing out. But do not be redundant. You know I hate that.”
“You reminding me is redundant.”
He frowned. “Begin.”
I did. It took me nearly thirty minutes to go through the details of the past twenty-four hours. I started with Kevin’s murder and the events at the river. Then we discussed the mall bombing, my discovery at Christian Run in Manassas, and my message to him. In all, the two things that made his eyes widen were the Russian who took Noor captive earlier and the FEMA biohazard crew at the river.
When I was through, he sat silent with his hands folded and his eyes seeing nothing out the window. After several moments, he turned back to me, and his face was grim.
“It is worse than I feared. Much worse.”
Huh? “Which part?”
“Tell me again what Kevin said to you at the river.”
I thought about that and told him. “He mentioned Khalifah and gave me the partial address to Christian Run. He also said something about finding G and that ‘it’s not them.’ Oh, and he repeated ‘Maya in Baltimore.’”
He turned away from me again. “You are certain of these words?”
“As much as I can be. He was dying, Oscar.”
He lifted his chin and removed his eyeglasses to rub his eyes. “You are sure the intruder at Noor Mallory’s home was Russian?”
I remembered LaRue spoke Russian. “He said otyebis.”
“Understandable.” He allowed a thin smile. “I would not worry about him any longer. He has been removed from the game.”
The game? “Ah, what’s that mean?”
“We have him.”
“What? How’d you get him? You just got into town …”
He gazed out the window again. “Some of us move a bit faster than others, no?”
“Oh, come on, Oscar. Give me a break. I’ve done pretty well for only being on the ground a day or so.”
“Bravo for you. Imagine what you could do with patience and polish.” LaRue narrowed his eyes on me. “Now, let’s be clear on your situation.”
Situation? “How about a few answers first? Then my money.”
“Of course. But first, you must earn your place back on my team.” He faced me again. “One must pay penance first. There is a cost for you leaving Doha.”
“Let me guess, the cost is $879,928.66.”
“You can earn it back.”
“I already earned it.”
He looked at me with his chin up and his eyes locked onto me.
I was had. “Okay, Oscar, but if your assignment entails deserts or routing out former Arab dictators, count me out. I gotta stay here for a while. I’m officially retired from overseas skullduggery. I’m going to find Kevin’s killer.”
LaRue signaled Shepard to drive. “Kevin identified ‘Khalifah.’ Extraordinary coincidence.”
CHAPTER 21
Day 2: May 16, 2330 Hours, Daylight Saving Time
The George Washington Hotel, Winchester, Virginia
EXTRAORDINARY COINCIDENCE? IF Oscar LaRue said something was an “extraordinary coincidence,” then it was not an extraordinary coincidence.
“Come on, Oscar,” I said, sipping the drink Shepard made me from the suite’s bar. “You know a lot more than you’re saying.”
H
e continued to pace the room. When LaRue paced, world-changing events loomed. He paced for days when the Berlin Wall was built and when it fell. Actually, I think he pushed it over. “Khalifah is precisely why I am here.”
“Khalifah? A terrorist in Winchester? Why?”
He frowned as though I should know already. “Perhaps this Maya.”
I already thought of that. “I think Maya is someone in Baltimore.”
“Perhaps. Khalifah is a dangerous operative from the Middle East. He is here to undertake some extraordinary attacks against us. Maya must be part of it.”
I leaned against the counter in the kitchenette and stared at him. I knew why I returned to Winchester. My brother summoned me to fix old wounds. It was totally coincidental. But LaRue? He was here for business, and if I knew one thing about working with him, his being here at the same time as me was no extraordinary coincidence. The question was, was my being here one?
I said, “Tell me about Khalifah.”
“Yes, yes, of course.” LaRue leaned back and folded his hands on his lap. He thought deeply for a long time before beginning. When he did, a chill ran through me like the north wind.
“Khalifah is an unknown, but a dangerous, lethal one. He first appeared in Middle Eastern intelligence connected to splinter terror cells. Hits in Istanbul, Athens, Kabul, and even the Saudi Kingdom. Always American targets. Always successful. His presence here, if true, is troubling. He is a master at deception and has eluded all attempts to identify and stop him.”
“You know nothing more? Why haven’t I heard of him if he’s such a big shot?”
Shepard was sitting across the room and stood. “Don’t feel bad, Hunter. He just read me in today.”
“Neither of you had a need to know.” LaRue returned to a cup of tea he’d been nursing for fifteen minutes. “It is troubling that Khalifah and Caine have taken interest in this area. Troubling indeed. But, perhaps Maya is the answer.”
Caine? “Who’s Caine?”
LaRue looked at me as though he were deciding to answer. With a sigh, he continued. “Caine—presuming it’s the same man who disappeared from Syria two years ago—is connected to more terror plots than Bin Laden ever was.”
Oh, that made everything clearer. “What’s his role in this? He’s obviously not an Arab.”
“Caine is a mercenary. An assassin for hire.” LaRue thrust a finger into the air to make his point. “Two years ago, he met with key ISIS leaders in Germany and then appeared in Pakistan. We tracked him into Karachi before we lost him. He reappeared in Syria. After several months in and out of Damascus, he vanished again. Our sources tell us he came here to the States.”
I know I’ve been gone awhile, but how had Winchester become a terrorist hot spot? I asked LaRue that very thing.
“I do not know.” He removed his eyeglasses. “We will find out. We must learn how many cells there are and about their targets. It is the where and how that is most significant.”
Oh hell, I’ll have that by tomorrow. Not. “How is it you know Khalifah is here but nothing about him?”
“He is a double agent, almost assuredly. Since his emergence several years ago, we have been unable to identify him. For a long time we believed it was a cover name for one of the al-Qaeda operatives or perhaps a double agent within one of our allies’ intelligence agencies. I believe he infiltrated the Saudi services, but I cannot prove that. He and Caine are, for all intents and purposes, phantoms.”
Delightful. I wasn’t chasing Kevin’s murderer, I was chasing ghosts.
Shepard walked over. “Mossad confirmed that Caine was dispatched from Damascus to join a domestic US operation involving Khalifah.”
Mossad was Israeli intelligence. They didn’t get it wrong very often. “Did they say what they were up to? Or where?”
“No. The attack at Fair Oaks confirms, at least to me, their presence.” He abruptly left the room and returned with a file. From inside, he produced a single grainy photograph that looked like a copy of a poorly taken passport photo. He handed it to me. “This is Caine. We have nothing to show you on Khalifah. Not even a photograph.”
Caine was a narrow-jawed man, perhaps German or central European, with hair pulled back tight on his head. He had dark, dangerous eyes, and a distant, empty stare.
“He’s an evil-looking bastard,” I said. “He wasn’t one of those I saw on Christian Run, though, or the guy who attacked Noor, either. What did your team find at Christian Run, Oscar?”
LaRue lifted his chin again. “The mall was a suicide attack. The victims in the home were his parents and sister. They were dead before the bombing took place, we believe. It is also possible the young bomber had no idea what he was doing.”
“That’s an ISIS and an al-Qaeda tactic,” I said. “Take a man’s family hostage and force them to act.”
“True. But that terror cell is not the only concern.” LaRue looked solemn. “Khalifah’s presence suggests there are more attacks coming. More significant ones, too. More cells. You must find him, Hunter. That is precisely your mission.”
LaRue’s use of “precisely” meant he was not telling me everything. There was a lot more to my mission than what he precisely said. “Precisely” and “extraordinary coincidence” were his tells.
“Sure, but CIA doesn’t operate domestically. So, what if—”
“There is no ‘what if.’” He frowned. “It’s complicated.”
By complicated, he meant illegal. The National Security Act of 1947 created the CIA, among other things. Part of its birthright was a prohibition from operating in the United States. After all, no one wanted our government spying on its own people, right? Ha.
“Ah, no. If I’m going to break the law, I’d like to be in on why and know that you won’t get amnesia when I call you from prison.”
For a moment, he glared at me as though I’d just taken his lunch money. Then, he waved dismissively. “You will not be operating under Langley. The rules are therefore murky.”
Murky? I’d say as clear as chili. With LaRue, things were never simple and precise. This one had murky and ugly written all over it. Chances were I’d end up shot.
I said, “Why me? You have assets already here that can do this.”
“Think about it, Hunter. It should be crystal clear.”
I did and it wasn’t. “Because Caine and Khalifah are involved in Kevin’s murder.”
“Precisely.”
Oh, I got it now. “I can chase after Kevin’s murderer and not raise eyebrows as a CIA consultant.”
“Former consultant.” LaRue raised a finger to stab that point into my forehead. “Caine’s an assassin trained by Mossad before the Syrians turned him. His arrival in Winchester and Kevin Mallory’s murder is no coincidence. Neither is the mall attack. Neither is Khalifah’s presence here. You can have your revenge and we can have Khalifah.”
I thought long and hard on that. It worked for me. “Okay, Oscar. That’s easy enough.”
“Ah, it will not be easy. There are many more factors to consider.” He stood and walked to the window to gaze out at nothing. More melodrama. “For now, I don’t want to burden you with too many details. We both know you don’t do well with details.”
Ouch. “Got it. I’m to find Khalifah and identify his targets.”
“Correct,” LaRue said without turning.
“You and Shepard are all the backup I have.”
He nodded.
“I can’t tell anyone because we’re operating off the grid and we’re not sanctioned by the Agency.”
Another nod, this one slower and disconcerting.
“What about my $879,928.66?”
He held up a hand. “You will receive an allotment from your retirement account with each successful assignment.”
Wait, what? “You stole my money and I have to earn it back in allotments?”
“The Patriot Act, my boy.” He folded his arms. “When you disappeared, they considered you a possible threat.”
LaRue said nothing.
“I have no choice, do I?” I knew the answer, yet his silence was still irritating. “Any last advice?”
He turned and looked at me with solemn eyes. “Don’t get killed.”
Better advice was never spoken.
CHAPTER 22
Day 3: May 16, 0130 Hours, Daylight Saving Time
Fool’s Lake, 21 Miles West of Winchester, Virginia
FOOL’S LAKE WAS not truly named Fool’s Lake, but as a boy, it was my retreat. Before my parents died, it had been a hideaway for Dad, Kevin, and me. I don’t recall Mom venturing there more than once. The stark conditions kept her away. I often thought Dad kept it stark for that reason. After their deaths, it was the place where Kevin and I found comfort. It was the place we made peace. No matter what we fought about or for how long. Fool’s Lake was neutral ground.
After the day’s events—hospital, the river, and my introduction to Russian housebreakers—Fool’s Lake was the solace I needed.
Before I was born, Dad had found the old log and pine board cabin in the Shenandoah Mountains twenty miles west of town that sat on top of the Virginia–West Virginia line. I had no idea what Fool’s Lake’s name truly was, but my father had called it that after an entire summer trout fishing the secluded waters. Needless to say, we had very few fish fries. It dawned on him that in the many years there, he caught more fish from the small town market at the foot of the mountain than the lake. Regardless, winter was for hunting and campfires and stories. Summer for fishing and hiking—and more campfires and stories.
Always the stories. Passed down from my grandfather to my father, then to Kevin and me. Now, who was I going to pass them down to? Sam?
I made the trip out on Route 50 until I’d reached the township road I knew only from memory. Then I bumped along the mountain for five miles until I found the correct turns that led to the cabin.
Our place was the only one on Fool’s Lake. While it was about twenty-one miles as the crow flies from town, it’s closer to forty as the rental car drives. It took me over an hour. When I pulled through the pines and stopped in front of the small, four-room cabin, the memories overwhelmed me. I couldn’t get out of the car. It was after one thirty a.m. and there were only my car lights shining on the cabin. In front of me, I saw my life unfold with an eerie clarity. Inside, Kevin and I sat at the small kitchen table playing cards with Dad. Laughter and loud voices. It was difficult to recall that I’d had a normal childhood—for a while. Until it was snatched away by a late-night driver filled with whiskey and beer.