Back Blast: A Gray Man Novel

by Mark Greaney

  —

  Ohlhauser’s office was on the corner of 12th and K streets, but due to the crosswalk signals not cooperating with his shortest route, Max walked east on G all the way to 12th before turning north. He was just about to pass the entrance to the Metro Center station when a man in a suit wearing a raincoat walking along next to him bumped him slightly on his left side. This jostled him closer to the escalators down into the Metro.

  Ohlhauser felt a slight but unmistakable sharpness on his hip as he walked, and he looked quickly to the man, who was still almost shoulder to shoulder with him.

  “Watch out,” Ohlhauser growled.

  The man pushed him forward with his shoulder, but he kept walking in stride, and he didn’t even look his way. Softly the clean-shaven man said, “Hello, Max. In my right hand is a knife with a seven-inch blade. Keep moving along quietly or I’ll drive it through your back and into your lung.”

  Ohlhauser’s eyes went wide, and instinctively he slowed, but the man in the raincoat kept moving, nudging him onward through the lunchtime crowd with another bump of his shoulder. Ohlhauser started walking again, complying even if he did not yet comprehend, and he looked down at the man’s right hand. It was mostly hidden by the cuff of his raincoat, but the glint of steel protruded just an inch between the man’s bent fingers.

  Ohlhauser said softly, “What . . . What do you want?”

  “I just want to talk. Keep looking straight ahead. Not at me.”

  “Who are you?” Max’s own voice had lowered several decibels, to match that of the man talking to him.

  The man in the raincoat smiled a little. He seemed surprisingly calm as far as Max was concerned, especially considering the man was, apparently, executing some sort of an armed confrontation in broad daylight. Raincoat man said, “Tomorrow morning you’ll be the biggest talking head on all the news shows, and this time you’ll actually have something to talk about.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “You’re a smart guy, Max. You’ll figure it out.”

  Ohlhauser walked on a moment, still in the middle of the crowd, still with the raincoat man less than a foot away. After a wheezing gasp he said, “Violator?”

  “Keep moving. There are four men following you. If they see me, I’m fucked, which means you’re fucked, because I’ll gut you like a fat fish. Got it?”

  “Please. I want you to understand, I didn’t have anything to do with—”

  “Not now, Max. We’re going to take the escalator down into the Metro. You go first, I’m right behind you.”

  Max Ohlhauser did as he was told, veering off the sidewalk and towards one of the entrances to the Metro Center station. Together the two men took the escalator down.

  —

  JSOC unit commander Dakota drove a black Suburban while his teammate, call sign Harley, sat in the front passenger’s seat, hunched over a laptop displaying navigational information, as well as a constant array of images of the streets around them.

  The twelve-man JSOC team was split up into two-man teams today. The two pairs who’d spent the evening watching over Hanley’s house were sleeping off their long night’s shift, which left four teams of two, each in a different vehicle, each in a different sector of the District.

  Jordan Mayes had called Dakota two hours earlier and asked him to vector one of the teams closer to Max Ohlhauser’s office, and to hold position in the neighborhood. Mayes didn’t want anyone to actually tail the former CIA attorney. The head of the JSOC special mission unit cell immediately tasked himself to Ohlhauser’s area, along with a teammate. It was a low probability callout because no one expected Gentry to be just idly wandering the streets outside of Ohlhauser’s office, but until Suzanne Brewer and her people at the TOC got some better lead, Dakota figured he might as well give it a shot.

  There were thousands of people walking and driving around the heart of D.C. near the White House, so it was a good thing Dakota and Harley didn’t have to use their own eyeballs to hunt for the target. Instead they had mounted a state-of-the-art digital camera on the front grill of the GMC Yukon XL, and the camera scanned the entire street in a 120-degree arc, taking in all the facial recognition data it could pull from passersby, and feeding it into the computer.

  While Dakota drove a crisscrossing pattern in a three-block radius of Ohlhauser’s place of business, Harley’s job was to sit in the passenger’s seat and watch the laptop. Every second new faces were analyzed by the software as the computer searched the streets.

  It was good technology under the care of hardworking and well-trained men, but even though they’d been at it for a half hour so far, they’d come up empty. They’d not had a single hit—not even a false alarm.

  Dakota was frustrated, but he was committed to the search, so he kept his patrol up. He planned on making a right at the next intersection, then heading back in the direction of the center of his surveillance zone. Dakota and Harley both assumed Ohlhauser was sitting in his office in the center of their search pattern, and they had no clue he was, instead, walking down the street just in front of them as they headed west on G approaching the 12th Street NW intersection.

  Harley had barely said a word in the past fifteen minutes, but he called out in a loud voice just as Dakota flipped his turn signal lever.

  “Got a hit, boss!”

  Dakota turned off the signal as he looked towards his partner in surprise. “Where?”

  “Wait one.” Harley looked away from the screen and out through the front windshield. After a few seconds to orient himself, to find a correlation between the frozen picture on the monitor showing Violator’s image highlighted with a red square and the real world outside, he pointed towards the escalators ahead on his right. They descended down into the Metro. “Right there.”

  “I don’t see him.”

  Harley checked the image again. A running digital timer in the upper right corner of the software told him how long ago the image was taken. It had just hit the ten-second mark. In the picture Violator was stepping onto the escalator. Harley said, “He’s gone down into the Metro.”

  “Shit!” Dakota shouted, then he grabbed the walkie-talkie on the center console between the two men. “All elements, Dakota. Target acquired! He’s heading into the metro station at Metro Center Square. Stand by.” He sped the Yukon through the intersection and whipped into a parking space left vacant a second before by an Audi sedan. Looking again to Harley, he asked, “What’s he wearing?”

  “Black raincoat. Umbrella in his hand.” Harley looked closer at the image in front of him. “Aw, hell! He’s with that Agency guy, Ohlhauser!”

  “Are you sure?”

  Harley could see the right side of both men’s faces in the image, because they had been moving perpendicular to the camera. “Fat dude with a red bow tie is right in front of him on the escalator. Looks scared shitless. Gentry’s in contact distance to Ohlhauser. Might have a weapon in his hand.”

  Dakota spoke again into the walkie-talkie. “Consult your Metro maps and GPSs, and route yourself to nearby stations. Be advised. Subject has one hostage.”

  Dakota knew he didn’t have enough men to conduct running surveillance in the Metro, so he pressed a button on his Bluetooth earpiece. Seconds later he relayed all the information regarding the facial recognition hit to Jordan Mayes. He expected this would get him more bodies to help with his hunt; either CIA contractors or regular D.C. police, whom the CIA could simply ask to be on the lookout for a man fitting Court’s description.

  And his call did bring out these forces, because Mayes immediately relayed his info to Suzanne Brewer in the Violator TOC, but Dakota had no way of knowing that Denny Carmichael would also receive word of the sighting within moments. Denny immediately contacted Saudi intelligence chief Murquin al-Kazaz. In minutes another force would be descending on the immediate area and conducting a hunt of its own, and
if Dakota had only known what an absolute tragedy this would create, he no doubt would have kept word of the Violator sighting to himself.

  42

  Even though he’d had less than three hours to prepare, Gentry had planned this operation against Max Ohlhauser well, even to the point of buying two Metro Smart Cards, one for himself and the other for his hostage. He slipped the card into the older man’s hand and together they went through the turnstiles. Feet away a pair of Metro Transit Police stood, the female officer holding the leash of a Belgian Malinois who looked only somewhat less bored than her handler.

  The two men waited in silence on the platform, standing shoulder to shoulder, as per Gentry’s instructions. Max’s breathing was labored and sweat drenched his brow, but Court just stood there, his face placid and his eyes scanning the area around him calmly, not flitting back and forth.

  They took a Red Line train heading to the northwestern outskirts of the metro area, but that was just because it had been the first train to arrive at the platform. Court wanted to interrogate Max while onboard the Metro, thinking it would make it tougher for the followers to catch up. Of course he knew at each stop he’d have a new crowd to look over, and it was possible the four CIA contractors up at street level had radioed to other units with instructions to be ready at every stop, but by making himself a moving target in a transitional area with spotty comms, Court was reasonably certain he’d bought himself at least ten or fifteen minutes in which he could squeeze Ohlhauser of intel free of danger.

  Court led Ohlhauser to the back row of a car that was only about a quarter full and, as the train began to move, Court sat with his back to the wall and pushed Ohlhauser down into a seat where he faced Court and his back was to the car.

  Court still carried an air of calm, and Ohlhauser remained petrified.

  Court said, “Relax, Max. You and I are going to chat for a few minutes. If you don’t scream like a bitch, and if you don’t try to make a run for it, I’m not going to hurt you.”

  Ohlhauser nodded. He didn’t believe. But he nodded.

  Court kept looking beyond Ohlhauser’s right shoulder and down the length of the entire car. He’d slipped his knife back in its sheath inside his pants pocket, and formed a grip on the pistol inside the waistband on his right hip, shielded from view of the other passengers by his body. He said, “First things first: I did not kill Leland Babbitt. I was there. I planned on questioning him, but I didn’t shoot him.”

  Ohlhauser gave another compliant nod that looked to Court like a man trying desperately to stall for a few moments until he could think of something to say that would get him out of this situation.

  Court said, “I can see you don’t believe me. If I let you go today, will that help convince you I didn’t smoke Babbitt?”

  Court saw a hint of optimism on his face. Then Ohlhauser nodded with conviction.

  Court said, “Cool. Now, next item of business. The shoot on sight. You give me the truth, and you live. You bullshit me, and you die. What did Denny tell you that got you to sign the term order?”

  Ohlhauser looked down at the floor of the train car for several seconds.

  Court kicked his foot gently. “Talk. Don’t think. Talk.”

  “Denny said you assassinated the wrong man on an operation in Italy. You did it intentionally, in violation of clear and unmistakable orders.”

  Court did not react to this; he just kept scanning the car. A couple of days ago hearing this lie from Travers left him gobsmacked, but now he expected it. He simply replied, “Not true. Denny wants me terminated because of what I know about AAP.”

  Court glanced again at Ohlhauser and watched the man furrow his brow. Confusion on his face. Ohlhauser kept looking down at the floor.

  Court said, “It’s an old program I used to be involved in. Called the Autonomous Asset—”

  Ohlhauser looked up and interrupted him. “I know what AAP is. Hell, I drafted the finding that sanctioned the program.”

  “What?” Court said. “You looked surprised when I mentioned AAP. Why?”

  “I was only surprised that you think the shoot on sight against you has anything to do with that program. Why on earth would Denny term you for your old job?”

  “I don’t know why. All I know is that all the other operators from AAP are dead.”

  “Is that right?”

  “Yes. I’m the last one. Denny needs to silence me. To remove the compromise.”

  Max rubbed his face. His eyes under his glasses. A nervous affectation. “Look, Violator, I hate to break this to you, but your theory doesn’t make a bit of sense.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  Another rub of the face. The skin of his thick cheeks reddened. “Because AAP is still up and running. Under another name. I mean . . . I’ve been out of the Agency for just two years, and it was going strong when I left.”

  Court sat back in his seat. The train came to a stop at the Farragut North station. Several people got on. Court scanned them perfunctorily, but his mind was on Ohlhauser’s assertion. When it started rolling again, Court said, “I don’t believe you.”

  Max shrugged. “Why would I lie about that?”

  “But—”

  “BACK BLAST, Violator. Denny came to me because of BACK BLAST.”

  Court shook his head violently. “Forget BACK BLAST, it’s just a cover story Denny is using. I did nothing wrong.”

  Max sighed. “I just know what I was told, and I was told you took a payoff from the Serbs to kill the wrong man.”

  Court stared at Max. “The Serbs?”

  “That’s what Denny said.”

  “Then Denny is a goddamned liar. When I worked for the U.S. government I never took a cent from anyone other than the U.S. government.”

  Ohlhauser shrugged. “I guess Denny is the man you need to see.”

  Court’s jaw flexed. “Don’t worry. I’ll be seeing Denny.” Court took his eyes off the other passengers in the car now, just as it began to slow before the next station, and he looked at the man in the red bow tie. He got the impression the man wanted to say something, but was holding back. “What is it?”

  “You say you did what you thought was right on BACK BLAST. If that’s true, then the shoot on sight wasn’t justified. But I did what I thought was right when I signed the shoot on sight, so you kidnapping me or . . . or worse. That’s not any more justified.”

  “Spoken like a lawyer facing an armed man.”

  Ohlhauser shook his head. “Maybe you killed the wrong guy. Maybe by me signing that paper, I signed the death warrant for the wrong guy.” He heaved his shoulders. “I’m truly sorry if I acted with bad information, but I did not act in bad faith. I did what Denny asked me to do. That is all.”

  “You were a rubber stamp for Denny Carmichael.”

  Max leaned forward. “You’re damn right I was. And you were the tip of Denny’s spear. We’re the same, you and me.”

  Court just switched gears. He didn’t want to hear anything more about Denny Carmichael and Operation BACK BLAST. He said, “This new iteration of the Autonomous Asset Program. Where is it located?”

  Ohlhauser answered immediately. “How would I know that? I am out of the Agency, and even when I was in the Agency, I wasn’t operational side.”

  “Did they move it? It used to be in a compound at Harvey Point.”

  “I’m telling you, Violator. I don’t have a clue.”

  The train stopped at the Dupont Circle station. Court fought his anger and frustration at reaching another dead end, and he stood quickly. He just wanted to get back to his room, to regroup, and to come up with some other options.

  He pulled Ohlhauser to his feet, turned him around, then pushed him towards the door.

  They walked together in the station, just as they had ten minutes earlier before boarding the train at Metro Ce
nter. Court leaned in to Max’s ear and said, “Go up the escalator to the mezzanine, then head to the escalator for the opposite platform. Take the train back to your office. We’re done here.” Max nodded without looking back, and Court leaned close one more time. “How ’bout that? You aren’t dead. You’re going to have to tell your friends on CNN that I’m not the monster they’re making me out to be.” Court immediately began lagging back a few feet. His plan was to separate from Ohlhauser here in the bowels of the crowded station and get up to street level, where he knew he could quickly melt into the busy neighborhood.

  The crowd thickened on the mezzanine level at the top of the escalator, and Court drifted even farther back. He slipped off his raincoat, revealing his new black suit, and then he pulled off his suit coat and walked on in his shirtsleeves. He wadded the coats up into a tight ball as he exited the turnstiles to leave the station, and he crammed them both in a garbage can at the bottom of the five-story-high escalator that led up to Connecticut Avenue.

  But as soon as he got on the escalator he saw them. Two D.C. Metro cops heading down the opposite escalator. They were checking faces, clearly looking for someone.

  Court looked ahead and above him now. He could just barely make out the pale blue uniforms of two more cops at the top of the escalator, four stories up.

  He turned quickly and began heading back down the escalator, pushing to the right of others on the stairs in hopes of covering his retreat. As soon as he got to the bottom of the stairs he hurried back along the mezzanine, planning on getting down one of the escalators to the platform level. From here he could jump on the first ride out of here in either direction.