The Silent Places

by James Patrick Hunt

  “But why?”

  “Why has he asked to keep this discreet?”

  “Not so much that. I mean, why use metropolitan police officers when you’ve got federal agents at your disposal. Probably better trained for this sort of thing than we are.”

  Captain Anthony sighed. “Again, this is not for publication. But the chief implied that Preston may run for president. He doesn’t want national media attention focused on this.”

  “Or attention from Washington?”

  “Yeah, maybe that, too.” Anthony frowned at Hastings. A suggestion, perhaps, not to push it too far.

  Hastings thought about asking what sort of federal appointment Chief Grassino hoped to land in an Alan Preston administration, but he didn’t.

  Instead, Hastings said, “So he’s asked the chief for a favor?”

  “In a manner of speaking, yes.”

  Hastings shook his head.

  “You disapprove?” Anthony said.

  “No, sir, I don’t disapprove. I just find it unusual, that’s all.”

  “Perhaps it is unorthodox. I agree. But the senator has asked this of the chief and the chief’s given it to me to handle.”

  “If you don’t mind my asking, was it your idea to assign me?”

  “No. You were recommended by Wulf.”

  Wulf, Hastings thought. Was he trying to help or hurt? Probably help. … Well, what difference does it make now?

  Hastings said, “Do you have a file on John Reese?”

  “Yes. But it’s not much. They didn’t give us the criminal file, only a summary of it. Interesting reading, though, for what it is. He was an army Ranger and then he became one of their top sharpshooters. A sniper. Sometime in the eighties, the CIA recruited him. The record gets murky after that. He may or may not have been in El Salvador, Nicaragua, Central Europe, the Balkans, China, and Russia. Sometime in the nineties, he retired from the CIA and started his own arms business. He got rich. They say he sold weapons all over Africa and Europe and the Middle East.”

  “Ronnie said he sold arms to the Syrians. That’s what they arrested him for.”

  “Yes, that’s right. Thank God he was caught. They set up a sting operation, I think, and caught him in Belgium. Flew him back here in chains to stand trial. Here.”

  Captain Anthony slid a photograph across the desk to Hastings.

  Hastings looked at it and said, “This is dated.”

  “Yeah. He’d be about fifty now.”

  Hastings said, “A Cold Warrior.”

  “Yeah,” Anthony said, “but the Cold War is over. And this guy lost his bearings. Those weapons he sold the Syrians could have been used on our allies or our soldiers. For all we know, they were.”

  Hastings said, “Preston prosecuted him?”

  “Yeah. He was an assistant U.S. attorney.”

  “When did Reese threaten to kill him?”

  “Supposedly, in Washington, while he was on trial, he told someone in jail that he knew mercenaries all over the world and that if he wanted, he could have Preston killed.”

  “He said this while the trial was ongoing?”

  “That’s what I’m told.”

  “Was it discussed at trial? I mean, anytime a threat like that is made against one of our witnesses or prosecutors, we always bring it to the court’s attention.”

  “I don’t know if it was.”

  “It would seem like a dumb thing to do. For a spy anyway.”

  “Well, it was a long time ago,” Anthony said. “The guy’s a traitor, George. And like most of his kind, he did it for money.”

  “Okay,” Hastings said. “We have no idea where he is now?”

  “None.”

  TWELVE

  The speck on the horizon grew as it approached and then there was the sound of a helicopter buzzing. The helicopter came into view. A Bell, new and pretty, painted in the blue and white of the company’s trademark, contrasting with the green-and-brown forests of the surrounding Tennessee hills. Painted on the helicopter’s side was a silvery hawk, the logo of Ghosthawk, Incorporated.

  The helicopter landed on a pad near a large western-style ranch house. The blades began winding down and a fit-looking man in his forties came out of the helicopter. His name was Kyle Anders and he was met on the landing pad by Dexter Troy, his chief of security.

  With the noise of the helicopter, their conversation was difficult to hear beyond a few feet. But one standing at a distance would have been able to see the anger on Kyle Anders’s face. He stopped and said something in response to Troy. Troy made a sort of shrugging gesture but then motioned to the house, where he could explain it better.

  In 1996, Clay Anders, owner and CEO of Anders Drilling, died and left his entire estate to his son, Kyle, who was then thirty-five years old. At the time, Kyle Anders was working for a real estate developer in Florida. After his father died, Kyle resigned from that job and returned to his father’s home in Houston, Texas. A year later, Kyle Anders sold Anders Drilling to an oil company for $1.4 billion. A year after that, he founded Ghosthawk, Incorporated.

  It began as a straightforward security service. Kyle, a graduate of West Point and a former Delta Force soldier, wanted to provide bodyguards to dignitaries and celebrities. He also wanted to give some of his friends from the army and Delta Force in particular a place to work. Kyle Anders had the good luck to be a billionaire’s son. But other soldiers less fortunate often found the transition to civilian life more difficult. Kyle helped them find work suited to their training and skills. He also made sure they were well paid.

  Kyle opened offices in New York, Los Angeles, and Washington. But his real base of operations was a seven-thousand-acre spread in the hills of East Tennessee. Sergeant York country. Here, he built a sort of private military university. There were shooting ranges, plenty of woods in which to practice war games and combat, barracks, and classrooms.

  In the early stages of Ghosthawk, there were those who did not take Kyle Anders very seriously. Some thought he seemed like a rich kid trying to play soldier. But these skeptics overlooked the fact that he had been a soldier himself. And not just a soldier but a member of the elite Delta Force. He had left the army four years after he graduated West Point and, to the understanding of most, had never seen actual combat. Was he someone to keep an eye on? A madman building his own private army? Or was he just spending his inheritance fulfilling an adolescent fantasy?

  In either event, his skeptics started to take him more seriously after 9/11. That was when Ghosthawk began its exponential growth. Long before American troops left for Iraq, Kyle Anders began working Washington for contracts worth hundreds of millions of dollars. He had competitors in this process—Dyncorp, Blackwater, and, to some degree, even Halliburton. But he got the lion’s share of the contracts for security work in Iraq. Within a year of the invasion, he had several hundred security contractors in Iraq and Afghanistan. A year after that, Ghosthawk became a billion-dollar operation.

  Unlike his contemporaries in Britain, Kyle Anders did not like the term mercenary. To him, the word had negative connotations. Mercenaries were soldiers for hire, working strictly for money, indifferent to the mission or patriotism. Anders told all his employees they were not to even use the term mercenary. They were “security contractors.” And though they were being paid by Ghosthawk, Anders reminded them they were fighting for their country.

  The men employed by Anders included retired cops, ex–federal agents, former marines, army Rangers, Delta Force commandos, Special Forces soldiers, and Navy SEALs. There were also a few ex-members of the British Special Air Service (SAS), the French Foreign Legion, and Chilean soldiers who had enforced martial law under Augusto Pinochet. Anders’s goal was to build a five-thousand-man army.

  The media often sought out Anders for interviews. He rarely granted them. He did not like or trust reporters, even the so-called conservative ones. He believed most of them were defeatists or anti-American. His refusals to be interviewed sometime
s led reporters to say things about him that he didn’t think were true. One journalist surmised that he was “trying to build the world’s most powerful mercenary army.” Another charged him with wanting to make Ghosthawk the “fifth column” of the United States armed forces—that is, army, navy, air force, Marine Corps, and Ghosthawk.

  They don’t understand, Anders thought. He was no more a threat to the United States than UPS was to the U.S. Postal Service. His venture was capitalist, not imperialist. And he believed he would be the last person ever to betray his country.

  Now he sat behind his desk in his house at his Tennessee compound and regarded his number two.

  Anders said, “I just saw A. Lloyd two days ago.”

  “I know,” Troy said. “But it’s been confirmed.”

  “What happened?”

  “According to the police, he went to see his girlfriend at an apartment. Before he got there, a man broke in and tied her up and locked her in the bathroom. Gelmers showed up about a half hour later. They had words. Gelmers went to the bathroom, ostensibly to check on the girl. She said he went back out and she heard a scuffle, then a shot. A muffled shot.”

  “Which means the killer was probably using a silencer.”

  “Yeah.”

  “You think it was Reese?”

  “Yes, sir, I do.”

  Kyle Anders sighed. He didn’t like to be called “sir.” He requested that Troy call him Kyle. He was funny about things like that. Anders didn’t like the word sir or the use of military ranks or even harsh language. He had no reservations about having lobbyists like A. Lloyd line up prostitutes for men as gifts of persuasion. Yet he personally disapproved of adultery and what he considered to be the coarsening of American culture.

  “Don’t call me ‘sir,’” Anders said, “please. I think it was Reese, too. I wonder what A. Lloyd told him.”

  “We can only guess. Kyle, I think this is my fault.”

  “It’s not your fault. It’s the fault of the men who let him escape. They obviously underestimated him.”

  “Do you blame them?” Troy said, “The man is fifty years old. We’ve got men in their mid-thirties trying to pass our physical-endurance tests and failing. And these are former Green Berets, not rent-a-cops.”

  “You’re talking about physical endurance. But there are more important factors. Like the ability to read a situation. Adaptability. Resourcefulness.”

  “You’re saying you’d take him on here?”

  “No. I’m saying we underestimated our quarry. That’s why it’s more important than ever that he be eliminated.”

  Troy said, “He doesn’t know about you. You weren’t on the screen when he went in.”

  Anders was briefly taken aback. He was always sensitive to any suggestion that he had not been in combat, or a soldier of consequence. After a moment, he decided no offense had been intended and that the remark had been inadvertently directed to his youth.

  Anders said, “But he will know about me in time. He’ll find out about our ties to Gelmers. And to Preston. So we’re presented with a difficult situation. We have to find him before he finds us.”

  Troy said, “Maybe he won’t even try. Maybe he’s left the country by now.”

  “No,” Anders said. “He’ll go after Preston. And when he does, we’ll be waiting for him.”

  Later that evening, Anders placed a call to one of his contacts in the CIA. Over the past few years, Anders had paid this contact almost $200,000 for his loyalty. After the preliminary affable falsehoods were exchanged, Anders asked the contact about John Reese. The contact told Anders that Reese had no family left. His wife had died of cancer while he was in prison. The contact said that Reese had never made close friends with anyone outside the Agency and very few inside.

  Anders said, “I understand he did some E and E work. Smuggled some dissidents into the United States.”

  The contact said he understood that, too.

  “Start with that,” Anders said. “I want to hear from you tomorrow. Is that clear?”

  The contact said it was.

  THIRTEEN

  Senator Preston’s St. Louis home was in a leafy neighborhood between Ladue and Clayton. The neighborhood subdivision was in a hilly area, surrounded by woods and twisty roads. There was a gate at the entrance to the subdivision.

  It was Captain Anthony who introduced Hastings to Senator Preston and his chief of staff, whose name was Martin Keough.

  Martin Keough was in his late twenties, thin, dark haired, and small of stature. He was a graduate of Harvard Law School and he did not make eye contact with Hastings when they met.

  Senator Preston shook hands and led them into a small office.

  There were photos in Preston’s office, mostly of him with famous, powerful guys. One of them was of Preston and President Bush. Another one was of Preston and Vernon Jordan, both of them laughing at something Bill Clinton had said. They appeared to be on a golf course somewhere. Preston photographed well.

  Also on the office wall was a framed clipping of an op-ed piece from the New York Times. The headline read why we cannot let al qaeda prevail in iraq, and it was written by Alan Preston, junior senator from the state of Missouri.

  Senator Preston took a seat behind his desk and gestured for the police officers to take seats. Martin Keough remained standing.

  Dan Anthony told them that Hastings would be leading the team of officers that would be watching the Preston home and local senatorial offices.

  Keough gave them a rough outline of the senator’s schedule for the next few days. Keough said, “Now, we want you around, but we don’t want you too close. Do you understand that?”

  Keough had been looking at Captain Anthony when he spoke. But it was Hastings who responded.

  “No,” Hastings said, “I’m not sure I do.”

  Keough looked at Hastings, as if noticing his existence for the first time.

  “Sorry?” Keough said, his tone patronizing.

  Hastings said, “I understand you wanting us to be discreet, but are you requesting that we stay a certain distance away?”

  “Yes.”

  The senator said, “Is there a problem, Lieutenant?”

  “No, sir,” Hastings said. “I’m just not sure what you want us to do.”

  Keough said, “Protect the senator. Hasn’t that been clear?”

  “To a point,” Hastings said, “yes. But are you actually expecting, for lack of a better term, an assassination attempt?”

  Keough sighed, muttered, “Christ.”

  Senator Preston said, “‘Assassination attempt’ is a little strong. But if you’re asking if this man may be a danger to me and to my family, the answer is yes.”

  “Of course,” Captain Anthony said, giving Hastings a look of warning.

  Hastings ignored the look and said, “I understand that, sort of. But if there’s a bona fide threat, why not call in federal officers?”

  Keough spoke as if to a child. “What is the problem?”

  Senator Preston raised a hand to his aide and said, “Hold on, Martin. Let the lieutenant have his say.”

  Hastings said, “Thank you. I just want you to understand, Senator, that me and my men, we’re homicide detectives. We’re not trained for security work. A Secret Service agent is trained to look through crowds and spot a possible assassin. But I’m not trained for that. Nor are my men.”

  “You’re a police officer,” Keough said. “Aren’t you?”

  Hastings kept his attention on the senator. “Of course,” Hastings said. “But, with respect, that’s not the point.”

  Senator Preston said, “I know what I’m getting. I’ve discussed this with your chief. As you’ve probably been told, it’s very important that this thing be handled discreetly. Very discreetly. Lieutenant Hastings, this may surprise you, but, like most politicians, I have enemies in Washington. People who would like to embarrass me. To see me compromised. They would like nothing better than to see me make a fool of
myself by requesting federal security I don’t need. I don’t care to be accused of seeking special privileges or of being paranoid.”

  Hastings said, “But this John Reese is dangerous. The file says the military trained him as a sniper. Given that, I don’t think there should be any shame in taking official measures to protect yourself against him. If it were me he was after, I’d call in the Secret Service.”

  “But it’s not you,” Keough said. “Is it?”

  Preston said, “Your point is perhaps valid. But I’ve given this some thought. It’s my personal belief that John Reese is either dead or has fled the country. If he’s alive, he’s not going to risk getting caught by coming after me.”

  Hastings saw that Preston had just contradicted himself. Reese was a threat. Then he wasn’t. Hastings said, “You say he won’t risk coming after you. Why not?”

  “Because he’s a loser. John Reese cares about the well-being of John Reese, nothing else. However, my wife isn’t as dispassionate about this as I am. She worries about me more than I do myself. Besides me, she worries about our daughter, who’s a college student here. So. This is the solution I’ve come up with. A political solution for a family issue. Can you understand the position I’m in?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “We’ll return to Washington in a few days. And then this task, which you seem to find distasteful, will be over for you.”

  Hastings mentally sighed to himself but otherwise did not respond.

  Captain Anthony said, “We’re glad to be of service to you, Senator.”

  Hastings stomached that and then saw Martin Keough raise his eyes as another person came into the room.

  “Hello,” the senator said, and Hastings turned around to see a regal blond woman in the doorway. She was in her forties. Slim and narrow at the waist, she was wearing a black-and-white dress with a belt in the middle. Hastings stood up.

  “My wife, Sylvia Preston.”