TOBIN STALKED OUT OF the bullpen and began to jog the perimeter of the gym, trying to calm his mounting anxiety. It was after seven in the morning now, and Jaz had not reacquired Bella’s cell signal.
Settle down, Quincy, before you blow a gasket.
Jaz was beginning to really worry, too—as evidenced by the number of Black Jack gum wrappers scattered on the floor around her workstation. She hadn’t even tried to toss them in the trash can.
Tobin broke from a jog to a trot. How long should her meeting with Cossack have taken? An hour? Two hours? Surely not four hours!
After forty minutes of running, he moved to the free weights, making himself count off reps aloud in an attempt to distract his thoughts.
BO OPENED THE GYM DOOR. He noted Tobin’s punishing workout and Jaz’s slumped shoulders. He took one look at Jaz’s stormy countenance and backed out of the doorway. He went looking for Richard and found him in the kitchen drinking his own morning coffee before starting breakfast.
“Something amiss, Bo?”
“If I had to guess from Jaz and Tobin’s behaviors, I’d say something’s up.”
Richard picked up a phone and called the landline on Jaz’s desk in the gym.
Her answer was more of a snarl than a greeting. “What?”
“Sitrep, please, Miss Jessup.”
Jaz was slow to answer. “We . . . we lost Bella’s cell signal around three this morning.”
“And haven’t reacquired it?”
Jaz kinda liked the old man and really didn’t want to curse at him. She sighed and curbed her acid tongue. “If I had reacquired her signal, I would have said so.”
“Noted. I’ll apprise Seraphim of the situation.”
COSSACK WAS READY. He waited until an hour after midnight before mounting his motorbike and riding off in the direction of the US embassy.
The embassy was located north of the city, off Georgian-American Friendship Ave. Many of the embassy employees lived in this upscale area of the city, including a certain cultural attaché.
NATHAN COLLIER WOKE from sleep and was immediately alert. What had awakened him? He reached for the Ruger semiauto he kept in the bedside table’s drawer. Slithered from his mattress to the carpet. Froze in place, his senses alert.
There. That’s what had awakened him. The soft strains of music rising from somewhere in his house. The attaché—known to the ambassador and a select few of the embassy staff to be the resident CIA station chief—should have been alone in his home. He had secured the doors and windows himself before he retired for the evening—and he had very good locks.
The music was coming from downstairs . . . from his study?
What? That’s one of my CDs, Schubert’s “Serenade.”
The haunting violin solo and piano accompaniment were unmistakable.
With the Ruger held out in front of him, Collier crept down the stairs. He took his time, and reached the bottom floor after three minutes of careful stop-and-go movement.
The house’s first floor was dark except for the pale splash of light coming from the open doorway to his study. Collier crossed the entryway then crept along the wall until he reached his study’s door. The open doorway offered him an angled view inside. The lamp sitting on his desk was on, its dimmer switch dialed low, the articulating lampshade canted toward the door, leaving the remainder of the room in the dark.
Collier glimpsed a figure standing in the shadows beyond his desk. The window next to him was open. A cool breeze rustled the curtains.
“Please come in, Mr. Collier,” his visitor invited quietly. “I mean you no harm.”
The man’s English held the edge of a slight accent.
“Who are you?”
“Not an enemy, I assure you. Quite the opposite. Please—time is of the essence, as they say. I have urgent business to attend to and require your assistance.”
Against his better judgment, Collier felt drawn to trust the intruder’s invitation. To a degree. With the Ruger half-raised and ready, he walked into the study. His right hand reached for the light switch on the wall.
“Please don’t. I need to preserve my cover, and we already have sufficient light to conduct our business.”
“Which is what, exactly?”
“I left a piece of paper next to the phone. I would ask you to dial the number written on the paper—and, oh—feel free to lower your weapon. I’m unarmed.”
Collier lowered the Ruger a few inches. “The number. Whose is it?”
The man in the shadows chuckled. “It’s an unlisted number possessed by very few people, but you’ll recognize the man when he answers.”
“You could have made the call yourself. Cut out the middleman. And all this drama.”
“Ah, but I’m not altogether convinced that the call will be unmonitored and unrecorded. I’d rather not have my voice on tape, you see. The consequences of blowing my cover could be unpleasant. And permanent.”
“You’re not CIA. I’d know you if you were operating in Georgia.”
“Consider me a cousin of the kissing variety.”
“That’s not enough to convince me to help you.”
A pause. Then, “Did you, by chance, assist an American woman into the city quite recently? In the past day or two?”
Collier had received orders to put a man on the woman, a passive observer. The man he’d assigned had followed her from the airport to her hotel when she arrived and, the following morning, from her hotel to the unfinished Holy Trinity Cathedral.
Not many hours later, he’d called Collier. “Sir, after walking the cathedral grounds, she went into a restroom outside the cathedral.”
“And?”
“And she never came out, sir.”
“You lost her?”
“Yes, sir.”
Collier had cursed the man up one side and down the other, but he said nothing of it to his visitor.
“I assist many US citizens when they visit this country. It’s my job.”
“Well, this citizen is dead, and you need to tell her handler what happened.”
Collier’s head snapped up. He broke into a cold sweat.
“Explain, please.”
“She kept an appointment at noon. I suppose that’s noon yesterday, since it’s now past midnight. Shortly after the rendezvous, the car she was riding in was hit by a large vehicle. I estimate it was a commercial truck, although the driver didn’t stick around. It was . . . a terrible accident. The front of the car was badly crushed. Then the vehicle burned.
“I watched her keep the appointment, you see. Four individuals left the bazaar in that car including the woman of whom I speak. I personally witnessed four burned corpses in the vehicle after the fire was put out. No one escaped.”
“You’re sure it was an accident?”
“I didn’t see it happen, so I cannot say one way or another. I came upon the scene perhaps twenty minutes after.”
Collier moved toward the desk and picked up the piece of paper with the number on it. The country code was US. The area code, 202.
Washington, DC.
“Stay on that side of the desk, in the light, if you please.”
Collier reached across his desk for the phone and dialed the number. The call on the other end rang six times. “No one’s picking up.”
“Be patient. The call is being forwarded. It’s just past four in the afternoon there. He’ll answer.”
Collier listened to the phone ring another six times. He was getting ready to hang up when the call connected.
“Wolfe here.”
Collier’s mouth fell open. “Director Wolfe?” Collier certainly knew who Jack Wolfe was, even if Wolfe had never heard of him.
“Who’s this?”
“Nathan Collier, sir. Tbilisi embassy.”
Wolfe did not reply, and Collier heard the faint sounds of traffic on Wolfe’s end of the call. When Wolfe remained unresponsive, Collier sensed the man was steeling himself to receive the grave news Collier was
to deliver.
“Sir?”
“Yes. I’m . . . here.”
Collier made himself continue. “Sir, it is half past one in the morning in the Republic of Georgia. I was asleep in my house until I heard music coming from downstairs. When I investigated, I found a man standing in my study. In the dark. He has asked me to convey to you that . . . a woman of your acquaintance was involved in a fatal car crash yesterday—that is, about twelve hours ago.”
The silence deepened. Then, “Can you put your visitor on the line?”
“Sir, he’s concerned that this call may be monitored. His voice recognized.”
“Yes, I see.”
Collier waited several seconds. “Sir?”
“Give me as much detail as you are able to, please.”
Collier repeated the few details his “guest” had given him. “He is certain the burned car had four bodies in it.”
“Accident or intentional?”
“My visitor did not witness the actual crash, sir.”
“I understand.” He paused a moment, then said, “Listen up, Collier. I need you to do several things for me. First, locate the body. Find out where it was taken and claim it. Arrange for it to be shipped to the States ASAP. Do whatever is necessary to expedite the process. Then I need you to interview the police and fire department personnel who were on scene and as many witnesses as you can locate. I want firsthand interviews. I want you to determine who caused the crash.”
“Begging your pardon, sir, but my chain of command will expect—”
“Leave your superiors to me. Just do as I’ve asked of you. It’s important.”
“Yes, sir.”
Collier’s visitor stirred from his place in the shadows and spoke softly. “Turn your back to me, please, Mr. Collier.”
“What?”
“Turn around. I’m going to place a small package on your desk. Count to five very slowly then retrieve it. I’ve written instructions on its back. Follow them to the letter.”
Reluctantly, Collier turned away from his desk. He heard the whisper of the manila envelope as it landed on his blotter. He counted to five before facing his desk.
In his ear he heard, “Collier? What’s going on?”
“Sir, my ‘guest’ has just . . .”
Collier peered into the shadows. He could no longer make out the dark profile of his visitor.
“Hey, you. Are you still here?”
When his visitor did not answer, he twisted the lampshade toward the shadow. No one there. He pointed the lamp at the open window. The end of the curtain now hung outside the window casing.
“One moment, sir.” Collier picked up the package and scanned the instructions on it.
“Sir, my guest has departed. Out the window. I will collect the body as you’ve requested and . . . and make all the appropriate arrangements and investigations. I’ll require shipping instructions for the body. Should I look for an encrypted email?”
“No. I can’t trust that it won’t be intercepted . . . even before it leaves my end.”
Collier was taken aback. “Your end?”
Wolfe ignored Collier’s comment. “I’ll send sealed instructions via diplomatic courier.” He emphasized his next words. “I want you to examine the seal on my instructions carefully when you receive them.”
“I will, sir. Ah, Director Wolfe?”
“What is it, Collier?”
“I won’t presume to ask your business, sir. However, I am wondering, why me? You don’t really know me, but you are placing . . . a great deal of trust in me. I am wondering why, sir.”
“You’re right. I don’t know if I can trust you. But your visitor picked you, Collier, and I trust him. Whatever he’s asked of you? Do it.”
“I understand. Thank you, Director.”
“Goodbye, Collier.”
“Goodbye, sir.”
Collier hung up slowly. He dropped the Ruger on his desk and stepped to his bar. He poured himself two fingers of bourbon and drank it down, neat. After closing and relocking his study window, he sat down at his desk to consider one of the strangest encounters of his intelligence career. He read the instructions on the sealed package a second time.
Collier,
Once you retrieve the woman’s remains, have them placed in a metal casket then have the casket sealed and prepared for shipping. You are to assign a two-person unit to guard her body, 24/7, from the moment you retrieve the body until it is delivered. Mind my words—the remains are not to be left unattended, not even for a moment. Ship them to Wolfe personally with unalterable instructions that the casket is not to be released to anyone but him. The assigned guards are to stay with the body until Wolfe dismisses them.
The envelope had one last line of instruction. Collier reread the concluding line, stared at the package, and shook his head.
Whatever vital information was enclosed in the package he held? The Director would not receive it until he, personally, opened the casket.
Chapter 3
DIRECTOR WOLFE SHUT his mobile phone and stared at it in his hands for a long moment. Then he looked out his car’s window and fixed his eyes on the scenery flashing by.
He perceived none of it. Instead, he saw only the appalling image Collier’s description had painted in his imagination. The tall, blond form of the fearless woman he admired and respected . . . charred and twisted beyond all recognition.
Accident or intentional? The crushing weight inside Wolfe’s chest insisted it was no accident.
I failed you, Bella. No, I failed you, Laynie! I sent you into danger, and my efforts to protect you were woefully inadequate. Somehow, despite our precautions, the enemy knew you were coming . . . and was waiting for you.
It occurred to him that the fake email he’d sent to smoke out the mole in his upper organization had yielded nothing. The “canary trap,” as it was called, had been ignored. Why?
He could think of only one answer—because the mole had already obtained the details of the actual op. Despite the silo he’d built around Bella’s mission, the mole within the task force had obtained and communicated the operational particulars to his or her superiors—and had done so right under their noses.
But who? Who could it be? Was it Seraphim? Richard? Tobin? Jaz? Wolfe shook his head. They were Bella’s closest friends! But they were also the only people within Broadsword’s perimeter who were privy to the operation’s particulars.
I don’t believe it. I know these people—and I didn’t rise to this position by not being able to spot a liar when I hear one. There has to be another answer, another explanation.
He pushed the distressing thoughts of Bella’s last moments aside and focused on the conundrum he faced.
The mole can’t be one of Richard’s people either. It became obvious to us that the team harbored a second mole before I relocated the task force to Broadsword. So, if it isn’t Seraphim, Tobin, or Jaz, that leaves just the remaining six members of the task force.
Wolfe ground his teeth together. This leak is like a cancerous arm. The only certain means of excising the cancer is to cut it off—amputate the whole limb.
Disband the task force.
He shook his head. But I can’t do that. Not with the certainty of a New Year’s attack only weeks away and the progress we have made toward figuring it out. No, we have to flush out the mole—and soon—so we can stop the attacks.
Wolfe focused on his short conversation with Collier. He made himself slow down and run through it multiple times. Collier’s visitor could have been no one but Cossack. At least he believes himself still safe—and I trust the man. I know he will find a way to convey the details of the upcoming attacks to us.
Sighing, Wolfe turned his attention back to the matter at hand. Bella’s death. He had to break the news to the team. Her team. He had to rehearse the awful details while the traitor within its ranks gloated behind a façade of grief.
I will be watching their reactions. I will personally interview eve
ry member of the task force. We cannot let up until we have uncovered the leak.
Wolfe felt suddenly sick inside—he would have to notify Bella’s family. No, not Bella’s family. Laynie’s family.
I’m sorry, Laynie. You deserved better from me.
I pray that the God you so recently found has received your soul and granted you peace. I pray, too, that he will forgive me for vowing that I will never rest until every snake hiding in my organization is hunted down and destroyed.
He cleared the lump from his throat. Still, his voice rasped when he spoke to his driver. “Parker?”
“Sir?”
“You have a go bag with you?”
“Always, sir. In the trunk.”
“Good. Back to my condo, pronto. I need to grab mine. We’ll be gone overnight.”
“Yes, sir. Where are we headed, sir?”
“Broadsword.”
IT WAS DARK WHEN WOLFE’S car arrived at the Broadsword checkpoint and the guards waved it through. Richard was waiting on the front porch when Wolfe’s driver pulled up to the cabin.
Wolfe clenched his jaws and climbed from the back seat.
“Good evening, Director.”
Wolfe shook his head. There was nothing good about this evening. “Would you please ask Seraphim to join me in the conference room? And I would like you to join us.”
“Is it bad news, then? About Miss Bella?”
“Yes, I’m sorry to say it is.”
Richard had difficulty speaking. He finally managed, “I’ll find Seraphim, sir.” He would have stumbled had Wolfe not caught his elbow and steadied him.
Pulling himself upright, Richard lifted his chin. “Thank you, Director. I can manage now.”
Minutes later, Seraphim and Richard entered the conference room. Richard closed the door behind them. Perhaps sensing the purpose for Wolfe’s unannounced visit, Seraphim had set her face in stone. While Wolfe spoke, neither she nor Richard said anything other than to ask a few clarifying questions.
“I’d like you to assemble the task force, Patrice,” Wolfe said, “so I can break the news to them.”
Laynie Portland, Spy Resurrected Page 3