by Mark Greaney
“He was tracked from Babbitt’s house, and was cornered for a short time, until he blew up a McDonald’s.”
“He did what?”
“Yeah. Tossed nearly a hundred rounds of ammo into a fry cooker.”
Zack burst into laughter. “Holy shit. Kill anybody?”
“No, luckily. Two Townsend men are going to have some pretty bad sunburns for a while. Another security officer was shot in the legs.”
“And then Violator just vanished?”
“For ninety minutes. He then turned up on the Capital Beltway, where he first caused a traffic accident and then carjacked a taxi. The cab was discovered just twenty minutes ago in Bethesda. No sign of Gentry, though there was blood at the scene of the carjacking, and significant blood in the vehicle.”
Zack said, “So he’s hurt, but apparently not so badly he can’t ninja his way across the greater metro area.”
“Exactly. Since about three a.m. we have been monitoring hospitals, all-night pharmacies, and minor emergency clinics, expecting him to show up for supplies. Nothing so far.”
Zack shook his head. “He won’t go to a hospital or a clinic. He’ll treat himself. If he didn’t already have wound management supplies, he’ll get them at a grocery store or a corner market or a vet clinic because he’ll expect you to monitor video feeds at pharmacies. There can’t be more than a dozen that are open all night around here.”
Brewer nodded thoughtfully. “That makes sense. Any other suggestions?”
Just then, Jordan Mayes leaned into the TOC. “Sorry, Suzanne. I’ll need to borrow Zack for a few minutes. I’ll send him back down when I’m done.”
—
Zack followed Mayes up to seven, neither man speaking the entire way. The older man with the white hair looked exhausted, which Zack found hilarious, because he had been the one in the field the night before, not Jordan Mayes.
Zack was late forties, Mayes was just a few years older, but Mayes was a suit. Zack told himself he wouldn’t let himself go to pot like Mayes when he hit his fifties; hell, not even when he was eighty-five.
They entered a small private conference room, and Zack expected to see Carmichael waiting for him. But the room was empty. Mayes motioned for Zack to sit, and Mayes then took the chair next to him.
Hightower understood now. Denny was using Mayes as a cutout. Mayes would provide a barrier between the shooter and the man who gave the term order.
He’d expected instant and profuse gratitude from Mayes for killing Babbitt, but what he got was something quite different.
Mayes began, “You had eyes on the rear of Babbitt’s property. How is it you didn’t see Violator?”
Zack wasn’t ready to go on the defensive, so it took him a moment to answer. Finally he said, “I guess that’s why they call him the Gray Man. He probably got into position before I arrived. He had a secure hide site. I was focused on the target, and the target’s security.”
“And after? Babbitt’s men saw him. Why didn’t you?”
Hightower’s square jaw flexed. “After I smoked my target, I hit the bricks. Nobody said anything to me about Babbitt being a potential Gentry target.”
Mayes sighed. “Still, you knew Gentry was on the streets. A little vigilance on your part and you could have killed two birds with one stone last night. This op would be over.”
Hightower was no longer on the defensive—now he was pissed. No seventh-floor suit was going to tell him how to do wet work. “Look, if you’d integrated me into this op a little bit more, let me know about the connection between Gentry and Babbitt, whatever it was, I could have done your analysis for you.” Zack shrugged. “You just brought me into this to be a trigger puller, so I just pulled the fucking trigger.”
Mayes let it go. “Very well. Denny and I are satisfied with the Babbitt termination.”
Zack wanted to say, “I killed the motherfucker for you, why wouldn’t you be satisfied?” but instead he forced out a “Glad to hear it. Next time, send me after Gentry, and I’ll get Gentry. It’s as simple as that.”
33
Denny Carmichael stared at his computer monitor, the thick worry lines in his forehead tight with concentration. He was reading the website for the Washington Post, and on it an article filed at six fifteen a.m. by metro reporter Andrew R. Shoal. The story laid out the bare bones of the killing of Leland Babbitt, the escape of the killer, and a carjacking ninety minutes later that, police were saying, might have been related to the earlier crime.
There was no mention of Catherine King in the article, and she was not included in the byline, but Denny had heard all about her surprise appearance at the scene last night and her proclamation that she knew Brewer and Mayes had been in Washington Highlands at the site of Gentry’s first act in the area.
There was also no mention in the piece of the two CIA employees the Post reporters ran into at the carjacking scene, and while Carmichael was thankful for this, he presumed Catherine King would be working on that end of the story and he’d be forced to deal with her soon. Actually, he was certain of this, because shortly after eight a.m. the Washington Post investigative reporter herself had called Denny’s office, asking his secretary for a meeting on background with the director of NCS.
Denny didn’t know if King was just fishing or if she had some clearer picture of what was going on. The fact that she knew Mayes and Brewer had been in Washington Highlands Saturday night was a problem, because now there was no way he could claim the Agency’s appearance in Chevy Chase was only a curiosity about Babbitt’s killing and not part of something that they had known about for several days.
Carmichael’s secretary came over the intercom, breaking his train of thought. “Sir, Suzanne Brewer of Programs and Plans is asking for five minutes.”
He tapped the intercom button. “Send her in.”
Brewer stepped into the office, and Denny found himself impressed with just how good she looked, considering he knew she had been wandering around murder scenes at three thirty that morning.
As always, she was all business. “I just got the preliminary autopsy report on Babbitt. It doesn’t fit the witness statements at all.”
She handed the paper over the desk, and Carmichael took it. He adjusted his reading glasses and began skimming it. While doing so he asked, “What do you mean it doesn’t fit?”
“The coroner recovered fragments of a .308 round from Babbitt’s lung.”
“And?”
“That’s a rifle caliber.”
Carmichael looked over his glasses at the younger woman. “I am a marine, Suzanne. I know what kind of weapon fires a .308.”
“Of course you do. Forgive me, I’ve been talking to analysts all week. You know that’s a round commonly fired from a sniper rifle. Not always, but certainly it must be fired from a rifle. But the Townsend guards say they first encountered the masked subject in Babbitt’s backyard, less than forty yards away from where Babbitt was shot. Certainly not a sniper’s distance. Plus the subject was not carrying a rifle of any kind, nor was there a rifle found in Babbitt’s yard. It’s going to take a while to get ballistic results back, but when we do, I feel sure it is going to indicate the rifle was fired from somewhere else, meaning Gentry could not have been the shooter.”
Carmichael took another moment to skim the report. While he read, Jordan Mayes entered the office. He and Brewer chatted softly about the coroner’s finding.
Finally Carmichael looked up from the paper. “Apparently the security men were mistaken. They thought they saw someone on the property, but it wasn’t until they were out on the golf course that they actually came across the fleeing suspect. According to reports he was wearing a backpack. Perhaps he had time to break down his weapon. Remember, this is Violator. He could probably do that in two seconds.”
“I thought of that, but there is something else.”
&
nbsp; Carmichael’s eyes flitted to Mayes, but then they rested again on Brewer. “Go on.”
“Saturday night in Washington Highlands, our target risks life and limb to obtain a small-caliber pistol, killing two people in the process.”
“So?”
“So does it make sense that Monday night he assassinates a man with a sniper rifle? Where did he get the gun? Did he have it Saturday?”
Carmichael shrugged. “Maybe you’re overthinking it. We suspect he also took money from the Aryan Brotherhood dealers. Maybe he didn’t need the weapon, but finding the little pistol was just a happy accident, so he grabbed it. He could have a weapons cache the size of a Walmart and we just don’t know about it.”
Brewer thought it over a moment. “True. But one other thing worries me.”
Now Carmichael sighed audibly. “Let’s hear it.”
“The reporter from the Post pointed out all the blood on the Beltway and asked me if there was some other crime scene. He thought the shooter had been injured somewhere after the Babbitt killing, considering the fact he couldn’t have possibly bled like that for an hour and a half.”
“And what do you think that means?”
“I . . . I don’t know.”
“You have a lot of questions, but no conclusions.”
“Agreed. I just feel like we are missing an important piece of what is going on here.”
Denny said, “I don’t mind you speculating, but your job is not to solve a murder, it is to prevent Gentry from threatening Agency personnel.”
“I understand that, sir. But if there is more than one attacker, or if I am looking for the wrong man . . .”
“You are not looking for the wrong man. Gentry has killed Agency assets many times before. He has killed people here in D.C. this week, and I’m quite certain he killed Babbitt. Gentry, an assassin, arrives, and two days later the man formerly in charge of hunting him is assassinated. That’s proof enough as far as I’m concerned. And there is no one else involved, because Gentry works alone. Trust me, I’ve been chairing the Violator Working Group for five years. You’ve been with us for less than three days.”
Chastened, but clearly unconvinced, Brewer said, “Yes, sir. Of course you’re right.”
As soon as she left the office, Carmichael looked up to Mayes. In an accusatory tone he said, “You brought her into this operation.”
Mayes said, “I did, and for good reason. Look, Denny, we hit a patch of terrible luck when Hightower and Gentry both went for the same target at the same moment. That complicates things in the short term, but it’s nothing to worry about long term. Brewer will do her job. She knows she’s not here to investigate a murder.”
Denny let it go, rubbing his tired eyes. “Gentry has acted the last three nights in a row. Let’s plan on being ready for his next move this evening.”
Mayes nodded. “I’ve doubled the men watching Hanley’s home. Two sniper teams now. Violator’s other known associates are fully covered. He might be good, but he’s not going to reach out to anyone here without us seeing him.”
Carmichael said, “I hope you’re right. What about this other problem?”
“Catherine King?”
“Yes. Should I meet with her?”
Mayes shook his head. “Put her off for a day.”
“What will waiting one day accomplish?”
“Events are moving fast. If we bag Violator today quietly we’ll tell her we thought there was a threat to the Agency in the city, so we naturally looked into the Babbitt killing. Turns out we found nothing.”
“And if we don’t get Gentry today?”
“Then we put a lure in King’s article. Feed her something that will get back to Gentry, and make him think she knows what this is all about.”
Carmichael screwed his face up. “And Gentry reads the Post?”
“It’s Catherine King, Denny. Her articles get picked up all over. TV media will run with a story like the one we’ll give her. Everyone will be talking about it. Trust me, if you tell it to King, it will go in Gentry’s ears.”
Carmichael thought it over, then he nodded. “I like it.”
Mayes cautioned, “But give it a day before we go that route. We’re not looking for publicity in this. That’s a last resort.”
“Agreed.”
34
Court slept in his closet until nearly noon, and then he woke quickly, snatched up his pistol, and looked out into his little room. It was still and quiet; dust hung in the small shaft of light coming through the high window.
He lowered his gun and groaned with the fresh onset of pain in his side. He touched the bandages on his rib cage and found them sticky with blood. He needed to change them, but before he did he left his closet bunker and sat on his little bed. He grabbed the television remote just as the noon news began, and he flipped around until he found a local station.
The first images on the screen were of a helicopter sweeping its searchlight over a residential street lined with large homes. Court immediately recognized the property of Leland Babbitt. It was surrounded by two dozen vehicles; Maryland State Police patrol cars, Bethesda Police, ambulances, and fire trucks.
The news anchor’s voiceover gave context to the images, telling the viewers some things Court already knew, and telling them other things that surprised him.
“Maryland State Police released a statement this morning saying Babbitt had been shot to death, and the killer was then chased on foot by private security nearly half a mile before briefly holding hostages at a McDonald’s on Wisconsin Avenue. He then managed to elude law enforcement and escape, and his whereabouts are currently unknown.”
Court sighed. So much for accuracy in the news. There were two complete falsehoods in that one sentence, since he wasn’t the killer and he’d held no hostages.
Then came the images of the scene on the Capital Beltway, and this time the anchor relayed a passably accurate version of the events there, including the jackknifed semi and the armed carjacking.
But Court found it extremely odd the report made no mention of D.C. Metro police encountering the suspect at that scene as well. Hell, he’d been shot, so they must have suspected him of being the man involved in Babbitt’s murder.
This piece ended and a new story began, so Court flipped channels to CNN. After a few minutes he was surprised to see that they also ran a brief piece about the brazen assassination of a Maryland businessman and the audacious and violent escape of the assassin.
Court was national news.
He groaned aloud in anger and turned off the TV.
He stood and grabbed a beer from his little refrigerator. In the bathroom, he drank from the can while he changed the black and sticky dressing over his gunshot wound, tears of pain welling in his eyes.
—
Matthew Hanley had spent a large part of this Tuesday off-site, meeting with SAD Air Branch staff at Andrews to discuss the registering of some new aircraft with shell corporations so they could be used in an upcoming operation in Central America. Through a front company the CIA had recently purchased four very used and totally untraceable de Havilland DHC Twin Otters from an Indonesian air transport service that had gone bankrupt and then shipped the planes to the States for refitting and refurbishment. Once Hanley had the new paperwork complete, the aircraft would go to work in Central and South America, moving supplies and men to denied areas for the Special Activities Division.
They would be completely untraceable to CIA, but for now they sat at Andrews in a sealed hangar, and Hanley wanted to inspect them personally.
He didn’t return to his sixth-floor office at Langley until three thirty, and when he did he found Suzanne Brewer waiting on a sofa in an outer office, working quietly on an iPad while Hanley’s secretary talked on her phone behind her desk.
Hanley feigned a pleasant look upon seeing Bre
wer, but he had a ton of work to do and was in no mood to talk to Denny Carmichael’s newest foot soldier.
She stood with a charming smile. “Hi, Matt. Suzanne Brewer. It’s been a while.”
“Of course, Suzanne. How are you?”
“I’m good. I’ll be a lot better if you can give me ten minutes of your time.”
Hanley replied, “Can you make it five?”
“Five is great. Thanks so much.”
The two of them walked together into his office.
Hanley did not know Brewer well, but one couldn’t be a member of senior staff here without hearing her name on a regular basis. Her career had been skyrocketing straight up since she’d joined the Agency, just after getting her master’s at Villanova in International Studies. Hanley had seen her name tied to all sorts of successful programs, and she’d never spent more than two years at the same desk, instead working her way steadily up the ladder.
Hanley was still several rungs above her, but he felt sure he would top out long before Suzanne Brewer, who seemed to be just getting started. He could imagine her running the whole damn Agency someday, so he told himself he should go out of his way to curry favor with her on her way up, so hopefully she’d remember his actions later on when she had the power to make his life either a little more pleasant or a lot more difficult.
Hanley said, “So, I hear you are working on the Violator operation.”
“That’s correct. I was put in the Working Group when Violator showed up in D.C. I guess you could say this is my geography, considering I am in charge of domestic asset protection. So now I’m trying to guess Violator’s next move and, since I’m new to all this, I’m having some difficulty.”
“He’s a hard target, no question about that.”
“You heard about Babbitt, didn’t you?”
“Saw it on the news. You’re thinking that was Gentry?”