by Russ Snyder
25
T-Minus 26 Hours
CIA team leader Martin Larrow, known as Marty, was on the phone to Langley. Holding for Bernard Backersley, he was conversing quietly with Sandi Davis, the female agent stationed poolside.
"So you never saw anyone? Anything? How in the hell can that be? For Christ's sake, Sandi, he was killed right under your damn nose! Look at the fucking mess we have. Everybody but Santa's elves is nosing around. I have no idea how to explain this. Backersley is going to throw a shit fit." He held up a hand to stop her response as his cell phone rang.
"Yes, sir," he addressed Backersley. He gave Backersley a quick rundown on what had happened at the motel. Davis could hear Backersley over the cell phone, which was not on speaker, from five feet away. The look on Larrow's face was painful.
"No, sir, the second agent saw nothing. The video system was compromised, but we do have footage on the computer. No, sir, I have not seen it. The FBI is in charge. They got here about ten minutes ago. They chased everyone out, including me. I know one of the agents here, so as soon as I can, I'll speak to him. No, sir, I told them I was in the area visiting family. No one is aware of Davis's status." He paused listening to Backersley. "I will call you immediately, sir." He closed the phone.
"Sir, Claude had me watch the back. I had no view at all of the front or sides of the building. I didn't like my positioning, but he wasn't up to debating it," Davis told her boss.
Marty Larrow knew he couldn't doubt her on that fact. Claude Dole was a prick who really despised working field operations with female agents. He might have excelled during the fifties, but in the current world, despite his young age, he was a dinosaur.
"Go to the safe house and wait for me." He turned to see an old friend waving him over. FBI special agent Paul Hedges greeted him.
"Tough day. Marty, what was the CIA doing here?"
"Paul, I honestly don't know, and if I did, you know I couldn't comment on it. Like I said, I just happened to be in the area and got a call to stop in and lend a hand if I could."
Marty, we go way back, and we'll always be friends, but we both know you're feeding me a line. The CIA never just happens to be anywhere." He stepped around a corner, motioning for Larrow to follow. "I don't know what's going on, but here's what I do know. The security discs and backup were taken, but they didn't know about the backup in the computer. The footage shows a man of Middle Eastern ethnicity attacking your agent. I watched it three times, your man looked like he could handle himself, but he was no match for this guy."
"You say he was Middle Eastern?"
"Yeah, we're running him through facial recognition right now. If he's anywhere in the system, we'll find him."
"Any chance you got him in a vehicle?"
"No, he withdrew right through the front door and walked toward the street. That's the last we have of him."
"Where is the employee who was supposed to be on duty?"
"She was sent home by your man. He wouldn't allow her to call her manager. There was a second employee scheduled to come on duty within a half hour but was called to stay out. Marty, this is going to get messy. My boss is going nuts about the CIA being here."
"Trust me, he's not half as pissed as my boss. My next posting might damn well be the Arctic Circle."
"Between you and me, is there anything you can tell me?"
"Between you and me, Paul, I'll tell you this: it has something to do with a rumor of a possible terrorist action. Not necessarily here, but something was intercepted, and it was believed that a meeting might take place here. This was an observation-only mission, nothing more. The last thing we need is a CIA agent turning up dead, much less here."
Paul Hedges knew his friend was being up front with him. Their friendship went back to high school football. Hedges was an usher at his friend's wedding. "I'll call you later. Now get out of here before my boss gets hold of you."
Nodding, CIA agent Marty Larrow turned and left.
Walking back inside, Hedges heard, "Where the fuck is that CIA asshole?" This is not going to be fun.
"Was that the guy in the black suit?"
"No, Hedges, he was the guy in the Easter Bunny outfit."
"I believe I saw him leave, sir. I did not know that's who he was."
"Why were you outside?"
"A quick smoke, sir."
"Well, if you're not too busy feeding that disgusting habit, do you suppose you could bother yourself to try to help out?"
Hedges was struggling to stay professional. Agent in charge Dan Gare was a boisterous jerk. He had ten months until retirement, and it seemed like he was trying to make life as miserable as possible for everyone around him with the time he had left.
"What do you need, sir?"
"I need answers, preferably before they boot me to the curb." Gare was not taking retirement well. In reality, everyone who knew him thought it couldn't come soon enough.
"Our forensics team is on the way. They should be here in fifteen, maybe twenty minutes. I've been keeping everyone away like you instructed, sir. The local PD is having a fit."
"Like I give a shit. I don't want to see a single face I don't recognize. If I do, it'll be your ass where they'll find my boot."
"Understood, sir." Hedges walked out.
Bernard Backersley had no intention of mentioning the incident in Portland, Oregon, to President Lamar unless directly asked, and even then, Backersley would brush it off as a mere unfortunate circumstance. Backersley would press they had much more important items to address. In truth, he was seething over having had an agent killed, particularly because it happened inside American borders. Nothing caused him more grief than explaining any actions inside the country when they were discovered. Four times he had been summoned up to the Hill to explain such incidents. Four times he had left intact but presently had some very powerful senators as sworn enemies. He didn't care. He had a job to do, and if they could find someone better, that was their choice. As long as he was in charge, he would do things his way, and damn them if they didn't like it.
He had talked to his own AIC, Martin Larrow, and had a suspicion of what might have happened. At that moment, his phone rang.
"Yes, Martin."
"Sir, I spoke to that friend of mine. He saw the video footage personally. A man of Middle Eastern descent attacked and killed Agent Dole. There was no doubt on that point. They are running him through facial recognition as we speak, along, of course, with us. If his group should ID the man first, I'll know immediately."
"Are you trying to tell me that some religious fanatic knew we were running an operation at that particular motel? We were on station what, less than an hour?"
"Approximately forty-five minutes, sir."
"So they knew we were there inside of forty-five minutes? Martin, I did not know that, and I run this agency."
"Yes, sir. I can't explain it. When I have answers, you will have answers. I simply cannot tell you what I don't know. I am not foolish enough to guess."
Backersley sighed heavily. "All right, Martin. Keep me posted in real time."
Special Agent Larrow knew that meant 24-7. He called the leader of his response team and filled him in on what had happened. Agent Robert Randall listened and only replied one word: "Shit." Next he called the leader of his intelligence team, Special Agent Toni Latell, and informed her. She had already found out. Not surprising.
"Is that crotchety old bastard Gare AIC?"
"Yes." Larrow knew that Latell and Gare had a history, and not a good one. Latell had quit after working under Gare for only four months. She had made quite a stink when she left, strongly accusing him of inappropriate conduct. It was her computer skills that got her a probationary position at the CIA, which now was six years ago. She had quickly worked her way up the ranks and was now the cyber team leader for the West Coast surveillance unit, whi
ch of itself was somewhat of an oxymoron. Larrow found her to be professional and quite competent. She also didn't question the aspect of sometimes working within national boundaries. That was a plus.
"You want me to widen the scope of the assignment?"
"Do as you see fit."
"Yes, sir."
Larrow knew he could trust Latell to be discreet. She routinely found out items of particular interest by her own initiative.
US Marine captain Richard Starr, retired, sat by himself in the cockpit of one very expensive jet aircraft. He was sweating. While he had countless hours sitting beside his assigned pilot, J. C. Christman, learning the plane, this was his first time alone. Calm down, Starr. You know how to do this. He keyed the radio microphone and contacted the airport tower. He gave the plane's identification numbers and requested instructions for takeoff. As Christman instructed, he kept it short and sweet. Christman had filed the flight plan for him, written up a quick set of notes that he'd taped to the copilot's seat, and slapped him on the shoulder when he left. "Read you loud and clear," he replied.
The hangar crew had positioned the jet on the tarmac. He started the engines, went through his cockpit takeoff checklist, and then eased the throttles forward. He wiped his brow. Very deliberately, he followed his instructions, got in line behind a Delta commercial jet, and waited. The big Delta's engines roared, and it started down the runway. As it reached the halfway point, Starr heard his radio crackle with his instructions to proceed. He opened the throttles on the modified aircraft. With engines producing more than twice the thrust as the original the plane had been built with, it gained speed with authority. As he saw the big commercial craft in front of him ease into the air, he couldn't help but notice he'd already closed the distance behind it considerably. "This isn't a race," he heard over the radio with a hint of laughter. He gently began the rotation of his craft by pulling back on the wheel.
Suddenly, Starr felt the powerful bird smoothly leave the runway, and he was free of gravity. He was no longer nervous, feeling like a kid who had just mastered riding a bicycle. He could feel the grin on his face.
He was instructed to begin a long, winding turn to his right. He complied. He was now lined up for his flight straight to New Mexico. As he passed four thousand feet, he decided to open up the jet engines even more. Effortlessly climbing at four thousand feet per minute, he reached his thirty-five-thousand-foot flight plan altitude in less than ten minutes. He leveled off, cruising at six hundred miles per hour.
Christman, after returning to the motel with Phillips, was concentrating on the laptop that Starr had previously been watching, which contained a real-time transcript of any conversation taking place in either cabin that Styles had previously bugged.
"Besides sounds I'd really rather not describe, Ellhad told his girlfriend that he had to leave for a bit and would return later."
Phillips acknowledged the information with a wave of her hand, her eyes transfixed on three laptop screens.
Suddenly, a sequenced knock on the door was heard. Christman got up and let Styles in.
"No reports of any plane crashes so far?" Styles asked, only half joking.
"No. Don't worry, he'll be fine. Soon as he gets up in the air, he'll be like a kid in a candy store. He can handle it."
Phillips spoke up. "Langley has been informed that our plane has departed. They've even got the flight plan. There will be an observation team waiting for him in New Mexico. Should we call him?"
"Why not?" Christman suggested. "We'll have him fuel the plane and then come back home. That ought to mess with their heads a bit."
Styles couldn't help but chuckle. He had noticed that even during tense times, the group had become so comfortable working with each other that there was an overall change in the emotional attitude of everyone, including himself.
"Not bad, J. C., not bad."
"What's going on over at that motel?"
Styles turned serious. "Place is crawling with everybody. I didn't see that much, but it looked like the locals were just observing from the parking lot."
"Ouch. That's gotta be pissing them off."
"No doubt about that. The FBI gets pretty damned bossy."
"I'm surprised you've had so many run-ins with them."
"Just a couple of times, mostly just watching. It's their method of operation. They look at the country as their personal sandbox, and they don't like to share. Hell, the only time I've been involved with them was in Iraq---some kind of murder that they thought had been the result of a bombing, so they were investigating; they were total jerks." Styles started chuckling.
"What's so funny?"
"About ten, maybe twelve years ago, I was watching three locals who had been zeroed for me to take out. They were gathering intel on some plan they were hatching. I think they were going to bomb the same place twice. The FBI had sent a team over there to help with forensics, and there was this one guy in charge that was just a total ass wipe. That night, there were about six of them over at a lounge on base. They stayed in civilian quarters there, although they had full access to this particular bar. Well, I happened to catch this jerk in the men's room. I guess I happened to comment about his, uh, lack of professionalism. He started chewing on me, so I stuffed his head in a toilet, one that someone had conveniently forgotten to flush, and no, it wasn't me."
Christman laughed out loud. "I'd have paid money to see that."
"He had it coming. Think his name was Gary or Gore or something like that."
26
T-Minus 25 Hours
Styles decided he should go for a quick run. He hadn't exercised much over the last two days and was getting edgy. Christman had moved over and joined Styles, bunking with him. Phillips had moved into J. C.'s room, leaving Starr to join the two of them when he got back from New Mexico, having to take the couch. The decision had been made for Starr to return around ten that evening. Christman had shown Starr how to change the transponder numbers on the jet so that it wouldn't be immediately identified as the plane that had just previously arrived, the theory being that since it was probably being watched, the changing numbers might cause confusion.
"We'll at least see if the CIA is on their toes," commented Christman. "I think this misdirection was a good idea if it draws just a bit of attention away from us."
Phillips had sat down with the two of them to share what she'd found, causing Styles to hold up.
"I have no doubt that Ryyaki Ali is connected with President Williams. I don't have the proverbial smoking gun, but I've got spent shell casings. I think we need to have a conversation before you kill him," she said to Styles.
"We need to get a time line down. Day after tomorrow is Labor Day. Ellhad is more than likely leaving at some point tomorrow afternoon. He's going to want to travel with people on the road, trying to blend in. I need to catch up to him by the time he reaches Lake Mead; earlier would be better. J. C., you're on standby with the chopper. I'm thinking of having Starr follow Ellhad just in case we have to switch gears. What's the most popular color car on the road?"
"Silver sedan? Maybe white?" offered Phillips.
"I'd go with silver," agreed Christman.
"Get Starr a full-size silver sedan to pick up when he gets back. Hell, might be cheaper to buy a damn car dealership," Styles grumbled.
"Consider it done," assured Phillips.
"How are you going to talk to Ali?" inquired Christman. "It's not like we're going to have all the time in the world."
"I might have to just get medieval on him," replied Styles.
"Up for a suggestion?" asked Phillips.
"Sure."
"Chemicals."
Styles thought about that. "Yeah, I remember your work on Andrew Ladd."
"That was just an example. I'm quite familiar with them, and they can work quickly."
Styles looked
out the window. He wanted to get running, but knew this aspect needed to be established. Turning to Phillips, he asked quietly, "You ready?"
Neither Christman nor Phillips was used to hearing Styles using such a soft tone.
"Ready?" she asked.
"Yeah. It's time for you to become a field agent; you up for that? We don't have the time for you to teach me about drugs. I use a different approach, but for this, I think your way is best."
She stared him right in his eyes. "Yes."
Styles looked right back at her and grinned. "Of that, I had no doubt. One condition: we can't have you get hurt---or worse. I'll do the heavy work, but I'm sure you'll get a little dirty. Besides, since this will be a daylight raid on their compound, two shooters are better than one. I know you can shoot."
"What about me?" questioned Christman firmly.
"J. C., you're on chopper duty. Unless you can rent one with an M60 machine gun mounted, it's gonna be hard for you to fly and shoot."
"I'll buy that, but why don't I bring a little something with me so when I'm waiting on you, I can bring something to the party if I get the invite or if I have to crash it?"
Styles thought quickly. "All right, but you don't attend unless I invite you. Understand? No buts about it. Bring one of the suppressed ARs and a suppressed pistol. However, if someone crashes your party, feel free. Just use good judgment."
"Got it, loud and clear."
"Okay, Phillips, I want you to---"
"Taken care of," she interrupted. "I've been practicing on my own. I took a clue from what you like and pretty much copied it. I had an AR built, along with a Beretta. A .40. I've put about two thousand rounds through the AR and maybe three hundred with the pistol. I'm competent."
Styles face showed surprise. "You've got them with you?"
"Of course."
J. C., exclaimed, "What the hell? Where? I didn't see them."
"J. C., a girl has to have some secrets."
"My kind of girl."
"I will not disagree," voiced Styles.