Act of Betrayal

by Matthew Dunn

“Then get a job in your local twenty-four/seven.” Painter looked at Kopański. “You okay, Joe?”

  The huge detective wasn’t going to get emotional. “I’ll go to bed tonight. Tomorrow, everything will be different.”

  “It will.” Painter stared at Gage. “You picked a bad day.”

  Gage was struck by the bond between the two detectives. “You both executed two perps. You’re suspended. I thought that was as bad as it got.”

  “Then you know shit.” Kopański stood.

  Painter pulled him back down. “We’re under investigation by internal affairs. We’re on half pay while that investigation is ongoing. Joe’s daughter was violated by a butcher. She’s never recovered and won’t speak to Joe, for the simple reason she’s confused and can’t stand the sight of men. She blames Joe for letting her go to the prom ten years ago. I’ve been trying to talk her around and I’m making progress. But meanwhile, Joe has been living in purgatory. He wants his daughter back. He’s the greatest father and man on this planet.” She took no heed that her words might be embarrassing Kopański. “I confronted the butcher’s accomplice. What do the Feds want with us?”

  Gage was unperturbed. “The evidence against you looks bad. The butcher was immobile when Joe met him. And he had bruising on his back and neck that suggested he’d been severely beaten.” She looked at Kopański. “Or thrown against a wall.” She returned her attention to Painter. “The woman was unlikely to pull a piece at the Fulton Fish Market. Statistically, female shooters are so rare that the probability of your account is crap.”

  “I’m a female shooter. So are you.”

  Gage took a sip of her coffee. “I’m not investigating either of you.”

  Painter and Kopański exchanged glances.

  Gage continued: “You cannot practice law enforcement in the NYPD while under investigation. Correct?”

  “Fucking correct.” Kopański looked at his partner. “My daughter gets raped. I meet the guy who did it. I’m suspended.”

  Gage turned her attention on Painter. “You were special forces.”

  “I was a helicopter pilot.”

  “But a Night Stalker. That’s almost impossible to become. A major. Lost your leg in combat.”

  Painter didn’t respond to that. Instead she stood and hobbled across the room. Picking up a picture, she said, “To my knowledge, this is the only picture in the house of Joe without his wife and daughter. The guy on the left you know—former commissioner of the NYPD. The guy on the right looks like shit.” She winked at Joe. “He was in uniform because he was receiving the Medal of Valor. Now he’s at home looking after stray cats. Times change.”

  Gage agreed. “Are you both happy to be sitting on your asses?”

  Kopański snapped, “What do you think?”

  “I think you’d prefer to be working.” Gage studied the two detectives. “The issue I have is whether you’re able to work on a team.”

  Painter asked, “A team of what?”

  Gage replied, “Me, an HRT specialist called Pete Duggan, you, and Kopański.”

  “We’re suspended!”

  “Not anymore.” Gage pulled out two leather wallets. “I’ve ensured that the deaths of the butcher and his enabler can’t be pinned on you. I’ve told the chief of the NYPD that you’ve resigned and can never be tried in court. And now I’m employing you.” She tossed the wallets to the cops.

  They flipped them open. They were FBI shields.

  Gage smiled. “You’re now officially FBI agents.”

  Painter frowned. “You must have some major-league clout to pull this off. But for what reason?”

  Gage walked to the door and turned. “Duggan and I once met a man who scared the daylights out of us. A year ago, you and Kopański met the same guy. The four of us are uniquely placed to track him.”

  Kopański couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “Cochrane’s alive?”

  Gage nodded. “Report to my office in the morning. We capture Cochrane if he’s innocent. We kill him if he’s not.”

  Chapter 11

  Kay Ash took an elevator to the fifth floor of the CIA headquarters, walked down a corridor, and entered a room without knocking.

  Most rooms in the CIA HQ were functional, with very few personal effects on display because officers couldn’t be bothered at the end of each day to clear their desks and store items in secure cabinets. It was one extra chore they didn’t need, and to have left a room unattended with even just a framed photo of loved ones would have constituted a security breach.

  But the room she was now in was different. It was big—way too big for one man and yet that’s all it housed. It had paintings, bonsai plants, a shoe rack containing expensive loafers bought on Fifth Avenue, a humidifier that changed color every five seconds and puffed out the scent of lime, books adorning shelves (all the volumes eclectic and in foreign languages), a chalkboard containing handwritten algorithms, and a framed photo of a man receiving the CIA’s highest award from the president of America—the über-rare Intelligence Star.

  But what was most striking about the room was the number of wall-mounted TV monitors. There were thirty of them, all active.

  Hessian Bell had his back to Ash, standing with his arms folded, in suit pants but barefoot, watching one of the monitors. “Miss Ash. You didn’t knock before entering.” His Bostonian accent was clipped and precise.

  The deep-cover CIA officer responded, “No, sir. I didn’t.”

  Bell still had his back to her. “Because to have done so would have made you feel deferential. And you don’t do that, do you?”

  “That’s not strictly true.” She moved to his side and studied the monitor. “What’s happening?”

  Bell pointed at the monitor. “I’ve got a gang down there. Boys aged ten to thirteen. They live on the streets and survive however they can. They’re my eyes and ears.”

  “Syria?”

  Bell nodded. “Aleppo. They’re tailing a bomb maker.”

  “Why don’t you neutralize the target?”

  “A dead terrorist’s of no use to me. Plus my boys think the target has developed a conscience. I’d like to talk to a man like that. Walk with me.”

  He guided her to a leather armchair and sat in the lotus position opposite her on what looked like a shrink’s couch. “Now I can examine you.”

  This was the first time Ash and Bell had met. He was to be her new controller, her previous one having retired.

  He stared at her. “I’ve only glanced at your file.”

  “Why not read it properly?”

  “Because it will be filled with anodyne lies.” He smiled. “What do you make of me?”

  Ash thought fast. “You’re single. No, your wife died. You”—she looked at the monitors—“you use your mind to grab the world.”

  Bell’s eyes twinkled. “More please.”

  Ash frowned. “There’s something in here. An aura.” She couldn’t put her finger on the ambience.

  “You’ll work it out. I don’t ever leave this room when working.”

  “You have others do the running while you’re thinking?”

  Bell gestured to the photo of him and the president. “I once did the running. Big time. But you know, there are barbarians out there. When they capture someone, they feast on him.”

  Ash frowned.

  “I was shot four times. Every shot was from a military-grade assault rifle. The bullets entered and exited without disturbing vital organs. It was deliberate and precise. The idea was agony, not death.” Bell smiled as he put his fingertips together, his gaze penetrating. “Kay Ash. Kay Ash. What to make of you.”

  Ash sat still in front of the diminutive fifty-eight-year-old whose body was as subtle as his mind.

  Bell’s head, covered with cropped black-and-silver hair, was motionless. “You too are single. Highly educated. Dysfunctional family I’d hazard to guess. You’ve killed people. You don’t know how that makes you feel. You were engaged once. He . . . no, you broke it
off. You were once a smoker but no more. And you have no idea why you ended up in the Agency.”

  All of this was true, but Ash wasn’t going to give Bell the satisfaction of knowing he was right. “What about you, sir? Where do you fit in here?”

  “I don’t fit in. And that is precisely the point.”

  “You must have a boss.”

  “If I do and you find out, please let me know.”

  Ash was puzzled. “You have no chain of command?”

  Bell laughed. “Below me, yes. Above me?” He left the question unanswered. “Management has deliberately forgotten about me. Perhaps they find it uncomfortable that—”

  “You’re the only living Agency officer who has the Star.”

  “Maybe. Are you in awe of that?”

  “No.”

  “Nor am I.” Bell chuckled. “It’s just a piece of metal. I suspect you’ve done braver things than me.”

  “I doubt that, sir.”

  “Kay Ash, if we are to get along, you will stop calling me ‘sir.’”

  “What do I call you?”

  “Hessian’s not a bad start.” Bell uncrossed his legs. “Everything is different for you now. I’m your controller. That means I’m going to give you access to my mind.”

  Ash’s IQ was measured at a whopping 180 during her last assessment. But she was struggling with Bell. “What’s your job . . . Hessian?”

  Bell grinned. “I collect waifs and strays.” His smile vanished. “Why did you request that I become your new controller?”

  Ash pondered her next words. “I asked for you because you’re the smartest man in the Agency. And you don’t give a shit about that.”

  “So you seek a rebel?”

  “I . . . seek someone who thinks like me.”

  “A contrarian soul?”

  “A person who doesn’t conform.” Ash wondered how Bell worked here undisturbed. “What do you have over them?”

  Bell examined his fingernails. “In grade, I’m equivalent to the director of the CIA. Yet I have never sat in on a board meeting. Never want to. Instead, I sit here. I have nine hundred and sixty-three assets who work for me. They’re spread across the globe. I’m their father. We get along just fine without interference.”

  “Your private army.”

  Bell waved a hand dismissively. “I serve the American people. There’s nothing private about that. But I concede I have a different modus operandi from most.” He smiled. “What do I have over senior management? Knowledge. I know them inside out. Everything. Their professional lives. Their private lives. They know I know. And they dare not touch me as a result.”

  “So you’re a blackmailer as well?”

  Bell’s hand was still as he held it outstretched toward Ash. “Jettison all of the labels you’ve hurled at me. I’m someone who worries about his street urchins in Aleppo.”

  “I’m sorry, sir, I—”

  “You can’t be sorry for something you can’t compute. I don’t blackmail. To do so would be crass. But I do retain information in case of need. The people at the top need checks and balances. They must be held to account.”

  Ash looked around. “Your output is exponentially outstripping all other departments in the Agency. The president takes a personal interest in everything that comes out of this room. Without leaving this space, you spy better than anyone.”

  “And you want to be part of that road show?”

  Ash considered the question. “No. You and I don’t like glory. We want privacy.”

  “Yes.” Bell’s expression softened. “Privacy is the nub of it all. Without it, we achieve nothing. You don’t want adoration.”

  “I don’t.”

  “That’s a good thing. You’d be out the door if you did.”

  “Sir . . . Hessian—what do you want me to do? I have no cases at present.”

  Bell placed the tips of his fingers back together. “Unwin Fox. Do you remember him?”

  “Vaguely. About three years ago I handed him intel about a terrorist financier in Germany. That’s the only contact I’ve had with Fox.”

  “You were deep cover in Berlin at the time.”

  “I couldn’t break cover. So I handed what I knew up the Agency food chain.”

  “And then you were pulled out and placed on another assignment in Moscow.”

  “I thought you hadn’t read my file.”

  “Only the bullet points about your work. Nothing about you as a person. It’s for me to decide who you really are.” Bell gestured to the door. “There are many people in this building who think I’m a renegade. You must decide if you’re comfortable with that before you agree to work for me.”

  Ash shrugged. “I’ve never had a problem with breaking rules.”

  “Good.” Bell nodded in understanding. “Unwin Fox was recently murdered. We don’t know how or why. The FBI has jurisdiction and is being very tight-lipped about events. Of course, I’ve made inquiries, but even within the Bureau very little is known. I suspect they’ve set up a tiny task force and are restricting all information about the killing to that force.”

  “Who’s in charge of the investigation?”

  “Agent Marsha Gage.”

  “Haven’t heard of her.”

  “You’re not a cop—no reason you would have. But if you worked in law enforcement anywhere in the States, her name would mean a great deal to you.”

  “She’s good at her job?”

  “Impeccable.”

  “How old is she?”

  Bell grinned. “You want to get the measure of her, woman to woman?”

  “Partly, yes. But I also want a mental image of her.”

  “Forty-one. Married, two kids. Slim, brunette. Yale educated. Four-point-oh GPA in law. Top of her class. In fact, top grades in the university for decades. She’s a star. But she has no political aspirations. She just wants to solve crimes. She’s like you.”

  “I’m not domesticated.”

  “Despite having a family, neither is she. Don’t underestimate her.”

  “Then what should I do to her?”

  Bell picked up a pen and scrawled something on the white cuff of his shirt. “I want to know why Unwin Fox was murdered.”

  Anger welled in Ash. “I can’t put the squeeze on Gage. That would be fundamentally illegal, dammit. Nor can I work the margins to get data. The Bureau’s in lockdown. And even within the Bureau most people know nothing about Fox. I’m good at my job but this is a fool’s errand!”

  Bell stood and stared at his monitors. “I don’t want you to spy on the Bureau. Sometimes all we can do is watch and wait.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  Bell spun around. “Consider this. Three years ago you gave Fox intelligence about a financier in Germany who was planning to courier his money to Munich. Since then, Fox has done nothing. Nothing! Or so we think. Let’s use our imagination. What if Fox spent the last three years being busy? It all has to do with Germany. What if there are skeletons in the closet? What if Fox was murdered because of them?”

  “What if Fox was killed by a mugger?”

  “And the Bureau is involved in that because . . . ?”

  Ash said nothing.

  “No. Agent Gage is involved because this is a hot potato. The Feds wouldn’t waste such valuable talent otherwise.” Bell sounded like he was addressing a class of new CIA recruits. “But there is a problem. What is it?”

  Ash thought fast. “Unwin Fox was a senior CIA officer. If it was a state-sponsored murder, details of the investigation would have to be shared with the Agency. But they’re not being shared.”

  “Ergo?”

  “Ergo it’s a criminal matter, not a spy matter.”

  “Of course. In their eyes at least. But do we trust the Bureau to make that judgment?”

  “Yes. The Bureau is world-class when it comes to solving issues. If it thinks this is a criminal matter, it is. Plus, they’ve put their best bloodhound on the case.”

  “I concur
.” Bell wondered if Ash was thinking what he was thinking. “There are, however, blurred lines. What are the odds of a senior Agency official being murdered for petty crime reasons?”

  “Slim to dim.”

  “Slim to dim.” Bell liked that phrase. “I think there is more afoot here than meets the eye.”

  “But I can’t go deep cover into the Bureau. That’s an impossible task.”

  “I’m not asking you to go deep cover. If I’m correct and this has to do with Germany, all I need you to do is stay still.”

  “Still?”

  Bell didn’t elaborate. “Just keep me informed if anything Fox-related rears its head. Aside from that, I have no tasks for you. Protocol dictates a minimum of three weeks’ decompression after deep cover. I’m adhering to that. I want you to rest and lead your daily normal existence. When I have something substantial for you to work on, I’ll give you a call. Meanwhile, you can come and go in this building as you choose.” Bell walked right up to her. “You’ve just completed a rather dangerous assignment in Seoul. You need to rest. Three weeks. Theater, cinema, bars, men, gym—whatever floats your boat. Decompress. You’ll know when you need to find me.”

  “Know?”

  “Know.” Bell’s demeanor changed to one of absolute calm. “Something or nothing always happens. If I’m right and it’s something, run here as fast as you can.”

  Chapter 12

  Kay Ash entered the digital key code to access the communal hallway of the apartment block she lived in within Bethesda. The residential district was popular among CIA officers due to its proximity to Langley. As a result, the Agency ensured that the buildings housing its best officers had top-notch security. It had to be that way. Operatives like Ash were away for long periods of time. When they came home they needed a secure refuge where the troubles of the outside world didn’t intrude on their rare downtime.

  Ash walked up four flights of stairs and unlocked three state-of-the-art dead bolts in her apartment front door. It was seven p.m. and she could hear her neighbors’ voices and the chink of dinner plates. Outside was pitch-dark. Inside, there was the dim glow of the hallway lamps and the occasional flashing of a red light in a smoke detector. Ash was the only Agency officer living in the twelve-apartment building. Single CIA officers were never housed together in case of acts of crime, fire, or terror attacks.