The Blacklist--The Dead Ring No. 166

by Jon McGoran

  “Play it,” Cooper said.

  “This is just the first five minutes and just one channel,” Wall explained as he set up the video.

  The screen came to life, looking out onto the empty desert. The camera lifted into the sky, slowly spinning as it did, gradually revealing more and more of the tableau: the buses and the people gathered around them, including Keen, the dirt road, the double-wides, an RV with a satellite antenna, and something like a military transport.

  The video captured the first few minutes of the onslaught. It showed Keen, paused atop one of the surrounding hills and bent sideways as if stretching out a muscle cramp in her side. It ended just as she ran down toward the rear of the double-wides, into the fray.

  Chapter 54

  In the moment of quiet following Red’s departure, the ding coming from Aram’s computer sounded ten times as loud as the identical one that had come from Wall’s machine just a few minutes earlier.

  Reddington was gone, Cooper was back in his office, and Wall was deeply engrossed in the process of using his back-door vulnerability to decrypt the rest of the satellite feed they had recorded. Aram had been staring at the motionless tracker dot, trying to picture Agent Keen, visualizing her being unharmed and ready to activate the transmitter as soon as the uplink resumed, hopefully soon.

  He jumped at the sound, and was surprised that Wall didn’t even flinch.

  Aram clicked on the notification and read it several times.

  He’d finally gotten a hit on the fingerprint, but it didn’t make any sense. According to the database, the fingerprint belonged to Michael Hoagland.

  According to Reddington’s story about Hoagland and G78, Michael Hoagland had been killed in Peru.

  Reddington was clearly upset, and Aram was reluctant to call him so soon after his tumultuous exit, but he had to make sure he had the story right before he went any further.

  He also didn’t want Wall to hear his conversation. The room formed a slight “L” shape, so he got up from his desk and crossed to the far side of the room, around the corner.

  As always, Dembe answered, polite but in no way chatty.

  “Hi, Dembe, it’s Aram. Can I talk to Mr. Reddington? It’s kind of important.”

  After a moment of silence, Reddington came on the phone, his voice infused with a forced pleasantry. “Hello, Aram.”

  “Hi, Mr. Reddington. I’m sorry to bother you, but I just wanted to confirm something. When you were telling us earlier about Hoagland Services and G78, didn’t you say that Hoagland was killed along with his board of directors and top management team?”

  “Yes, that’s right. Why?”

  “Well…” He felt funny telling Reddington before telling Director Cooper, but then again, Reddington was sharing information with him, and he’d feel funny holding out on him.

  But before he could decide what to do, the main door swung open.

  He expected it to be Ressler or Navabi, or perhaps both.

  But it wasn’t.

  There were three of them, two men and a woman. With the sunlight streaming in around them, Aram couldn’t get a good look at their faces, but he could see that they each had a badge in one hand and a gun in the other.

  “CIA,” said the one in the middle, the tallest by far. “Where’s Director Cooper?”

  Aram whispered into the phone, “It’s the CIA.”

  “What?”

  Wall stood up from his computer and looked around. “What?” he asked, disoriented, like he didn’t know what was going on or where everybody else was.

  “Three CIA agents just came in, with badges and guns,” Aram whispered, embarrassed at the level of panic in his voice. “They’re looking for Director Cooper.”

  One of the agents walked right up to Wall. “Where’s Director Cooper?” The agent was black, with a shaved head and a neatly trimmed goatee.

  “Have they identified themselves individually?” Reddington asked.

  “No,” Aram said. “They don’t know I’m here.”

  “Okay, put the phone on speaker so I can hear what’s going on, then put it down and respectfully ask them to identify themselves.”

  “What?… Why?”

  “Just do it. I’ll be there shortly.”

  Aram gulped loudly enough that he hoped Reddington hadn’t heard it. Then he put the phone on speaker and stepped out from around the corner with his hands in the air.

  The female agent swung her gun in his direction. “Who are you?”

  Wall slumped down in his chair, like he was trying to shrink away to nothing.

  “I’m Aram Mojtabai. I need you to identify yourselves.”

  “We’re with the CIA,” she said.

  “I need to know your names.”

  Before she could reply, Cooper came out of his office. “What is the meaning of this?” he demanded.

  “Hello, Director Cooper,” said the tall one. “CIA. We’re here to take over.”

  “This is an FBI operation,” Cooper said, “so you’d better put those goddamn guns away.”

  The tall one shook his head and smiled. “No can do.” He had blond hair, tousled, like a prep school kid who didn’t care and knew he didn’t have to, but graying, like he had outgrown the tousled prep school look but didn’t know another one. He had a slightly stooped posture, like he had been living with a little more height than his body knew how to handle. “We’re asserting jurisdiction here. National security.”

  “What are your names?” Aram asked again.

  The tall one laughed. “I’m Agent Ronald Percival,” he said in a patronizing tone. “This is Agent Dwayne Thomas and Agent Lorissa Beckoff.”

  “I don’t care who the hell you are,” Cooper thundered. “You can’t come in here and interfere with a domestic operation.”

  Percival walked over to Cooper, casually pointing his gun at Cooper’s midsection. “I’ve got two words for you,” he said. “National. Security.”

  Wall looked like he was trying to wink out of existence and reappear in a less stressful universe. Aram half wanted to ask him how he was attempting to do it, just in case he succeeded.

  “I’m sorry, but I’m going to have to ask you to hand over your weapon,” Percival said, not looking sorry at all. “Two fingers.”

  Cooper paused, like he was thinking hard about it.

  Thomas and Beckoff both aimed their guns at him. A few long seconds dragged by, then he slowly unsnapped his holster and pulled his gun out, pinched between his thumb and forefinger.

  Percival raised his own gun so it was pointed directly at Cooper’s forehead.

  Cooper held out his gun, still between his thumb and forefinger, but as he did, he pivoted to the side, so that Percival was between him and the other two agents.

  As Percival took Cooper’s gun, his gun hand wavered and his eyes came off Cooper, just for an instant. But in that instant, everything changed.

  Cooper’s left hand came up, blindingly fast, and snatched Percival’s gun. He had it turned around and pointed at Percival’s head before the other man’s fingers could come close to the trigger of Cooper’s gun. At the same time Ressler and Navabi exploded through the door behind Thomas and Beckoff, hitting the floor rolling. The two CIA agents tried to turn, but not fast enough, and Ressler and Navabi were back on their feet, guns two-handed and solidly aimed while Thomas and Beckoff were still between targets.

  “I’ve got two words for you,” Cooper said, as he took his gun back from Percival. “And they’re not ‘National security.’”

  Chapter 55

  Red smiled as he walked into the task force’s temporary field office. He could tell immediately that a whole lot of something had gone down. Wall was sitting at his desk, looking more shell shocked than when Red had first brought him in. Cooper was in his office with the door closed, his voice tense and terse with barely concealed anger and frustration. Obviously on the phone with Washington. As if that wasn’t enough to make you turn to a life of international crime.
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  Aram appeared out of nowhere. “Mr. Reddington, thank God you’re here,” he said, his eyes filled with relief and gratitude, followed by confusion as he spotted the picnic basket tucked under Dembe’s arm.

  “You did good, Aram,” Red told him, patting him on the shoulder as he and Dembe moved on toward the north wing of classrooms.

  Ressler was standing guard outside one of the classrooms. He stiffened as Red and Dembe approached, as if anticipating some kind of trouble.

  “Donald,” Reddington said by way of greeting.

  “Reddington,” Ressler said, vaguely suspicious.

  “Percival and his friends in there?”

  “That’s right.”

  “I’d like to talk to them.”

  “Cooper left strict orders, they are to remain inside this room.”

  “I just want to talk to them,” he said, then, whispering, “I won’t let them out.”

  Ressler eyed the picnic basket as well, but he sighed and stepped out of the way.

  As he opened the door, Reddington whispered, “And if you could give us a few minutes of privacy, that would be terrific.”

  The room was empty except for a teacher’s desk in the front and facing it, three student desks occupied by three bashful-looking spies, sitting awkwardly with their wrists zip-tied together and their ankles zip-tied to the desks.

  “Good lord, Percival, it is you,” Reddington said, laughing. “Amazing the places we run into each other, isn’t it?”

  Percival blanched gratifyingly. “Reddington?” he said. “Jesus, what are you doing here?” He actually tested his restraints.

  The other two picked up on it right away, eyeing Dembe’s picnic basket and looking suddenly alarmed.

  Dembe put the basket on the teacher’s desk and Red took out his knife. Percival again struggled against his restraints. Thomas’s and Beckoff’s eyes grew wider.

  “Jesus, Reddington,” Percival said, trying to inject some laughter into his voice even as his eyes stayed solemnly riveted to Red’s knife. “Karachi was seven years ago. You can’t still be holding a grudge about that.”

  Thomas and Beckoff both stared at him with an intensity that looked like it would have burned. But apparently not, because Percival seemed oblivious to anything other than Red’s knife. His eyes were practically skewered on it.

  “For Christ’s sake, my orders came from the Secretary of State. You know how that works. You can’t blame me for that.”

  Red laughed. “Percival,” he said in a scolding tone, pointing the knife at him playfully. “You know that’s not true. The Secretary of State had no idea you were there or what you were up to. I know this for a fact, because I asked him about it over a feast of Mongolian boondog at the embassy in Ulaanbaatar.”

  He turned to address the other two agents, Thomas and Beckoff. “Fascinating dish, boondog,” he explained. “They debone a goat and fill it with red-hot rocks from the fire and basically cook it from the inside out. Truth be told, I found it more intriguing than delectable, but cooking goat can be tricky. Still, it was a fascinating chat with the secretary. He’s a brilliant man— knowledgeable about an amazing array of topics. But what I found even more interesting were the things he didn’t know about.” Reddington smiled. “It turns out he knows nothing about the Mongolian copper export deals you brokered as part of your front corporation. Don’t get me wrong, I fully appreciate that making tens of millions of dollars in export fees is a very solid cover for a working spy. And I can see how it might make a certain amount of sense to maintain those business relationships long after you’ve moved on to a different post and a different theater of operations, because you never know, right? Could come in handy some day. And I’ve never been a big fan of accurate financial disclosures, either. But then again, I’m not on the government payroll anymore. Of course, the fact that your partners in the deal are Chinese agents might make reporting it a little tricky, too. So I get it, why you decided for the good of all involved it makes sense to just stay quiet about it.”

  Percival looked suddenly ill—pale and sweaty with dark rings under his eyes. On the upside he no longer seemed quite so concerned about Red’s knife.

  The other two were staring at him with disappointment and disgust.

  “You two didn’t know either?” Red asked them. “Well, try not to be too judgmental. Thomas, I’m sure Percival knew that you were trading Malaysian police information to traffickers in Myanmar in exchange for intelligence about Islamists in Indonesia, and I’m sure that he understood that you continued to do so in exchange for money when there was no intel to be traded. I’m sure he understood that you were just keeping the lines of communication open, and that your daughter’s private school isn’t cheap. Or your boat.”

  Percival and Thomas looked appropriately defeated, their heads hung low. Now, Beckoff stared at them both with disgust.

  “Agent Beckoff,” Red said, turning to her. “Don’t judge too harshly. You haven’t been in the game quite as long as they have, or had the same opportunities for moral equivocation. But here’s the thing: you are plugged into an old boy network. Boy and girl network, I guess. And after today, you are going to be faced with the dilemma of whether to ruin the careers of these two old boys, at the risk of ruining your own as well. Or to let things go, and move forward in your career knowing what you know about them, knowing they know you know, and knowing that they owe you big favors and are in a position to repay you.”

  She stared blankly up at him as his words sunk in. Percival and Thomas looked over at her with a strange and identical mixture of hatred and love, hope and despair.

  “You might not know yet how you are going to choose,” Red told her. “But I know. So I’m going to proceed.” Brandishing his knife, he moved toward Percival with an abruptness that made them all flinch. “As much as I like reminiscing about old times, I’m much more concerned with the here and now.”

  With that he flicked out the knife and severed the plastic zip tie binding Percival’s wrists. In a flash, he whipped the knife through the air and slit through Thomas’s and Beckoff’s wrist ties as well.

  The move was unnecessarily grandiose, but theater counts in situations like this. He could easily have cut one of them, but that was a risk he was willing to accept.

  The three of them looked down at their newly freed wrists in astonishment, and then up, with even greater astonishment, as Red opened the picnic basket and unpacked a picnic: red checkered cloth, fresh baguette, pate, brie de champignon, grapes, olives, and a 2009 Beaujolais.

  “I figured you’d be hungry. And these school lunches can be just awful.”

  Chapter 56

  Wall was a mess. Mumbling to himself, rocking back and forth. Aram didn’t understand why at first, but when he tried to calm him down, Wall snapped at him.

  “No one told me the CIA was going to be here. The goddamned CIA!”

  “We didn’t know,” Aram said. “We weren’t expecting them. But we’ve got the upper hand, and we’re running this operation. We have jurisdiction over them.”

  Wall glared at him condescendingly. “No one has jurisdiction over them. They always end up running the show, and the people around them always end up getting hurt. That’s how it works. And right now, I’m one of the people around them. So are you, if you haven’t noticed.”

  Cooper was in his office, on the phone to Washington. He didn’t sound like he was having fun.

  Aram was trying to think of something reassuring to say to Wall, when he remembered that in all the excitement, he’d forgotten about the fingerprint. Hoagland. He needed to tell Cooper.

  “Excuse me,” he said. He glanced at the tracker monitor, which wasn’t moving, then he got up and went over to Cooper’s office. The closer he got, the louder and angrier Cooper’s voice sounded. He knocked lightly on the door, but he didn’t think Cooper could hear him over the sound of his own voice, and whoever was probably barking just as loudly on the other end of the phone.

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bsp; He opened the door and stuck in his head.

  Cooper was saying, “I don’t give a goddamn about that, this is a sensitive operation and I have an agent embedded—”

  He saw Aram and waved him away.

  Aram held up a finger, but then Cooper started furiously snapping his fingers and pointing at the door with such vigor that Aram felt like he was being physically ejected from the room. Suddenly, he was out in the hallway, with his back against the door.

  Reddington was with the CIA people, but Aram thought maybe he could talk to him. He walked around the corner and down the hallway to the classroom where they were being held. Ressler was standing outside the room with an assault rifle.

  “Hey, Aram,” he said.

  “Hi, Agent Ressler. Is Mr. Reddington in there?”

  Ressler snorted. “He sure is.”

  They could hear voices coming from inside the room, but it was impossible to tell from their tone what was going on. It sounded friendly enough.

  “Can I go in and talk to him?”

  Ressler sighed, for some reason annoyed at the question. “I think now is not the best time.”

  Aram nodded. “Okay. Do you know where Agent Navabi is?”

  “Personal quarters. I think she’s trying to catch a couple winks.”

  The implication was clear: So don’t bother her. But this was important, and Aram needed to tell someone. Somehow, he didn’t think Ressler was the one.

  Instead, he walked back through the command center and into the southeast wing, where the sleeping quarters were.

  The hallway was darkened, but there was a light on in the third classroom down. Aram walked up to it and tapped lightly on the door.

  “Agent Navabi?”

  “Come on in,” came her voice from the other side. Aram wondered what state of dress he would find her in. Luckily, she was fully clothed, wearing camo pants and a T-shirt, stretched out on one of the cots. She smiled when he walked in. “Hello, Aram.”

  “Hi, Agent Navabi.”

  “What’s up?”

  “I found something, and I need to tell someone, but Director Cooper is on the phone with Washington, and Mr. Reddington is talking with the CIA people.”