Relentless Pursuit: A Kelly Maclean Novel

by Hawk, Nate

  Kelly was in a small bluish room with white trim and interior windows on two sides. There was an open feeling coming from the glass that revealed the warren of hallways running through the hospital. He was seated as he changed his shoes and socks. Painted on the wall were eight letters with a pithy line underneath.

  P-R-O-G-R-E-S-S

  The only time that you should ever look back is to see how far you’ve come.

  Kelly was sitting there with Jen and Brady on his mind, thinking about the irony of the statement. How could he not look back? How could he not think of them? Interrupting Kelly’s thoughts, ASAC Lynch glanced through the windows, satisfied after finally locating his friend.

  “Kelly, you’re looking better. How are you?” He asked not just as a formality but actually hoping for an inspiring answer.

  With Kelly, he could usually count on a positive response.

  “Well, they say my blood pressure is 120/80… respiration is 16… and my Chemical and CBC Panels seem to be normal,” he said with a sarcastic tone and an expression that was telling of more to come. Then he added, “Living the dream, Steven,” as he removed the sock that covered his left foot.

  Steven recoiled in disgust.

  “That looks like bloody hell, Kelly.”

  Kelly had grown accustomed to living in his new circumstances. He wasn’t thinking much about the condition of his foot. As he was reminded of his missing toes, he looked down.

  “Yeah, it acts up when I walk on it,” he admitted, stuffing his swollen foot into a clean sock.

  It wasn’t a big deal to Kelly at that point though. He finished up the task and looked towards Steven.

  “Did you get that information that I requested?”

  Steven was all business.

  “Of course,” he said, as if he’d never opposed the idea. “I wrote the VIN down on a scrap piece of paper that is paper clipped to a dossier of Niko. I included some other dossiers that we had on the group and three nearby Jamaat Al Fuqra locations where he may have run to. I would bet 75:1 odds that this guy went to the Virginia compound. That is their epicenter of action. I told you that it’s the same place that helped earn my recent promotion to ASAC. Here is what you requested,” Steven said, handing Kelly the manila envelope.

  “Great,” Kelly said with the first real satisfaction that he’d experienced for a while. “That’s a good start.”

  “Like I said, make sure nobody else knows about this. And,” he stressed, “burn it when you are done with it.”

  He paused, wanting the words to sink in.

  “Oh. There’s more, too. Our Intel indicates that a man named John Lambert just booked a flight to Hamburg, Germany that leaves in three weeks. After a lot of careful analysis, I’m sure this is our guy. Look, you know that you won’t get Niko here in Virginia. You haven’t healed enough, yet.”

  Kelly thought about it as his disappointment burned inside. Was there a way to increase his rehabilitation and get a plan together in time?

  Understanding the impossibility, he sighed and said, “You’re right. It’s definitely too soon.”

  Kelly felt his mind reeling towards disappointment. If he didn’t get Niko in Virginia, how would Kelly locate the man? Once Niko was in Germany, where would he go? Kelly searched for the answers that again seemed to evade him. There was silence for a few moments but Kelly found his determination.

  He said, “Listen: I’ve just started working out again. Just calisthenics. My head feels OK now,” he exaggerated. “I’m getting stronger.”

  Steven made his own assessment. It was obvious that Kelly wasn’t in as good of shape as he would need to be to penetrate the compound and gather Intel. Steven kept his mouth shut. No sense getting Kelly more worked up than he already was.

  “They’ve got me seeing a psychologist too. They refuse to listen when I tell them that I have been trained to deal with combat loss. It’s never easy but I’ve learned how to deal with it,” he said with naïve sincerity. “Other than that, it just seems to be my foot that they are keeping me here for. It’s looking better every day.

  Steven just looked at Kelly. Damn that man and his determination. Did Kelly have enough grit to get into the Virginia compound and back out with some answers? Could he do it alone? Would it cost Kelly his life? Steven wasn’t sure. He knew if anybody could go pull it off, Kelly Maclean could.

  ***

  Chapter 28

  Rick Quinn’s strategical transfer request had been granted in record time for the Agency. Quinn needed Owen Tucker’s boots on the ground, as he had put it. He wasn’t going to wait around for some candy-assed, high-ranking REMF to take his time giving the go-ahead. Within the transfer request was a citation of “extremely sensitive matters of national security”. He’d added some creative drivel about hastening the process due to “immediate and multiple global threats in the European theatre of counterterrorism”. Damned if Rick Quinn had any information as to the “when” or exactly “where”, though, and he knew it. He knew it all too well. He was still going off of shared Intel from a Jamaat Al Fuqra bust the prior year combined now with the new information coming out of Boston that led to Niko. In both cases the CIA had worked domestically with an FBI liaison due to overlapping interests.

  Then there was complementary information coming in from other theaters of operation. It wasn’t enough to put it all together yet but Rick Quinn felt that a large-scale attack was coming. In fact, he was very familiar with the feeling that Owen had described to him. To state it more accurately, Rick Quinn knew an attack was coming. He realized that he had to get a team positioned to eliminate the terrorist elements before the attack took place. The problem was, his own superiors did not want to back him up on the Plotnikov angle, either. Since most of the details on the German terror cell were vague, there wasn’t much to go on. Rick Quinn knew all actions regarding Niko Plotnikov must be done surreptitiously, by himself and a handful of experienced agents that were capable of working within the discreet boundaries that he established. The budget would be low and the risk would be high. Damned if another attack would be perpetrated while he was told to stand down. Quinn’s career was a secondary consideration at that point but he knew he would be fine if he delivered results.

  Quinn was sure his team had a handle on the FBI and the details of this case though. He knew his actions to move Agent Tucker to the field so quickly would be criticized. Especially once the Agency realized that both men were going against direct orders by engaging in the pursuit of Plotnikov. From experience Rick understood it was not the minute details that would be challenged. Rather, his career depended on the results or lack thereof, that he would subsequently provide over the coming weeks and months in his own theater of operation. If his group was successful, any minor discrepancies in procedure would certainly be overlooked. Ultimately, both men’s careers were in the crosshairs. Maybe even their lives.

  Quinn and his team weren’t helped by the recent revelations of the United States’ electronic spying. None of the agents had any desire to be caught up in the next scandal. Special Agent Owen “Tiny” Tucker had been given embassy credentials to mask his actual work abroad with the Agency. That was OK with him because he knew with the credentials would come diplomatic immunity. He had a get-out-of-jail-free card for just about anything but he sure hoped it wouldn’t come down to that.

  The day that was just beginning would be full of surprises for the newly transferred Special Agent Tucker. His life had been moving quickly ever since Rick Quinn assigned him to work on his team within the PAG. The ironic consideration, at least to Owen, was that he had put his career into Rick Quinn’s hands; a spy whom he had just met. The arrangement seemed to be leading him in the direction that his gut was insisting he go. Still, there was something cavalier about Rick Quinn that Owen couldn’t quite articulate. He wanted to stay on the fast track so Owen kept his mouth shut about any reservations that he may have had. He found it best to just show up, do as he was instructed and give every
thing that he had to the PAG’s efforts. He had a feeling that Rick Quinn preferred it that way.

  So he wasn’t surprised with the lack of details that day in Berlin. He had been instructed to take no less than a combination of three buses or trains to Solmssstrasse 44. Make sure you aren’t being followed, Quinn had insisted, with some level of corniness that the junior agent couldn’t pin down. Special Agent Tucker thought that he had heard a snicker coming from Quinn, but he did as he was told and arrived at the inconspicuous building promptly at 0930 local time.

  Ten minutes later, Owen found himself literally locked into a small room. There was a countdown clock on the wall, at that point, displaying fifty-nine minutes. He had been instructed that if he wanted to “get out alive”, he would have to solve the unfolding mystery of a plot to assassinate the president. The room was decorated as a 1960’s era office, replete with the appropriate era photos and decor. Two walls were encased in wooden paneling and the others looked like well-weathered sheet rock that had been painted a soft red sometime before. Owen’s eyes were immediately directed to the volumes of books on the walls. He wondered what type of information adorned the pages of the well-fingered books. Chances were that he had already read many of the titles. Maybe not though.

  Accompanying the books was a large world map and two mounted lights that cast long shadows across the walls. In the center of the room was a banal wooden desk with a codebook and a typewriter placed on it. The only other pieces of furniture in the room were a securely locked wardrobe and a matching chest that was pushed against a far wall. A couple of knickknacks were discreetly staged to make the room look like it was occupied by someone with a pulse, perhaps even someone with a private life that might include a family. The only modern looking element of the room was the digital lock on the exit door.

  Three other people that Owen didn’t know, and that he had initially assumed had never met before, had been locked into the room with him. They were told they had one hour to figure out how to foil the assassination attempt. They had been promised that everything they needed to complete their unfolding mission was located somewhere within the room. When they figured it out they would find a code to exit the room. Owen was the biggest and the most intimidating of the four. He was a unique man and his dark complexion stood out in Northern Europe more than it did back home. In a matter-of-fact way, he figured the aforementioned qualities made him the de facto Alpha-male. Taking that into consideration, and also the apparent quiet intellectual aura that each one of the other people exuded, he took it upon himself to quickly begin the introductions. That was swell with the other three because they seemed curious what type of man Owen was.

  “Owen Tucker,” he said first to the woman, as he extended his hand in greeting.

  He was surprised to see that she looked him straight in the eye and held the gaze without wavering.

  “Laura Banks, nice to meet you,” she replied, matter-of-factly.

  He attempted to gather whatever Intel he could from her eyes, but the only realization that Owen had was that she was wearing contacts. She was a brunette, mostly plain. She would have been unforgettable if not for her stern expression. Stumped, he winked at the woman and then directed his attention to the next person.

  “Owen Tucker,” he said for a second time but now directed at the plump man in suspenders standing before him.

  Owen noted the man’s comb-over, in addition to his over-all appearance and pictured him as a college professor.

  “Stan Lubensky,” the man replied. He was unable to hide the analytical nature of his eyes.

  Stan’s mind tried to categorize the black man with one of the many familiar personality types he had previously organized in his mind. Owen wasn’t sure that Stan had such an image in his mind so perhaps Owen would be a sort of prototype for Stan. Stan looked like a man that preferred the comfort of his own home to going out on the town. Also, was that an East Coast accent that Owen was picking up on? Owen figured the man was the type that had a wife and family to go home to. There seemed to be something gentle about him.

  “Pleasure,” Owen said after their dual first assessment had concluded.

  Before he could introduce himself for a third time, a Hispanic looking man with the great looks of Don Juan introduced himself.

  “Angelo Young,” he said.

  He reached out for Owen’s hand. When the two shook, Owen thought Angelo was putting a little extra burn into the squeeze. Owen smiled, his bright white teeth contrasting his face. He squeezed back a little harder.

  “My friends call me Tiny,” Owen said, now organizing the three together in his head.

  None of the people in the room appeared to be German born. Probably all Americans, Owen had thought. All three of those whom he had just met seemed to have something additional to their American accents. It was something that could only be acquired after years of living abroad. He doubted any of them were German born but Berlin was an international city so that fact wasn’t strange in itself. He remained silent on that topic for the time being.

  “Owen’s fine too,” he said, offering them a choice.

  “OK, we’re two minutes down,” Owen began as he walked to the desk and cabinet, trying to open the locked drawers. “I think we should tear this place apart and find the keys. They probably expect us to mull around and waste the first thirty minutes getting to know each other. Let’s get busy now so we get the objective completed in time.”

  “Hear, hear,” Stan said with a half oafish smile etched on his face.

  The four newly acquainted people began looking everywhere for the keys to unlock the desk, wardrobe or chest.

  “Just a guess, here,” Laura began, taking a breath. “There is probably one key hidden in plain sight to unlock a drawer. Once the first one is opened, it is a daisy chain of locked drawers with keys hidden somewhere in them. Keep an eye out for any codes or numbers,” she offered.

  Stan went down to one knee, now peering under a floor heater. He ran his hand underneath and located a key.

  “Got one,” Stan said as he pushed himself up, thrusting the key into the air like a trophy.

  Owen was closest to the desk where there was a locked box with a combination safe built into it. It required a four-digit code. He eyed the key in Stan’s hand and assessed what it might fit.

  “Stan, try the desk,” Owen said, not wanting to take away Stan’s satisfaction by snatching the key away from him.

  It didn’t turn the lock to the middle drawer.

  Stan took another knee and tried the right side double drawer, which the key did open.

  “Got it,” Stan said as he began pulling out the contents of the drawer.

  He paused for half a second to push his unwieldy comb-over out of his eyes and back into its usual position. There were various office supplies in the drawer; a stapler, appropriate era typewriter paper and other items that had become antiquated and even obsolete. As the three other people were scouring the contents of the desk drawer, Angelo Young was the next person to speak up.

  “Hey, lemme see that drawer.”

  “Do you want it removed from the desk?” Laura asked.

  Her ponytail trailed her head as she spun around to see Angelo’s response. Owen realized that his initial opinion of the woman had been off. In fact, she was a fairly attractive woman. Older, yes, but there was something about her. He could smell her shampoo as her hair had released the hidden scent. Owen also picked up on something else. There was some chemistry between Angelo and Laura. He figured Angelo had noticed the scent, too. Owen got the distinct impression from their stare that Angelo was, in fact, very familiar with Laura’s scents. His suspicions that the others knew each other seemed to be proving true.

  “Yes, hand me the whole thing,” Angelo said.

  She did. The three others watched Angelo as he carefully inspected the joints of the drawer. He tapped on the sides and bottom of it, hoping to find a false compartment. No dice. He walked over to the desk and stuc
k his hand in the void that the removed drawer had left. He felt the left side. Nothing. Then he tried the right side. Nothing was there, either. He leaned down further and simultaneously pulled out an expensive flashlight. He was holding a high-end light that was like a mini spotlight. He sprayed the light into the void searching for anything that might indicate a hidden key. He found one taped to the underside of the drawer directly above the one that had been removed.

  Then Angelo said, “So far your theory holds, Laura”.

  Angelo quickly theorized which lock would work with the key. He surmised that it would probably open the wardrobe or the chest. He took the few steps and tried the lock to the wardrobe. It worked. The wardrobe was a different animal. It had drawers and compartments and nooks all throughout it. It was made the way furniture was made before fireproof safes existed for home use. The type of antique furniture that older generations had inherited from their parents. It was the type of furniture with hidden areas for valuables.

  Figuring out how to acquire the goods in the hidden areas took time and patience. The four had the latter but not near enough of the former. Laura started checking the pockets of the items that were hanging on one half side of the wardrobe. On a built-in wooden rack that housed several types and colors of belts, Laura found exactly what she was looking for. One of the belts had a zippered compartment running the length of the accessory that housed the third key.

  “How many keys can they possibly have?” Laura asked rhetorically.

  She had a slightly frustrated look on her face like she was reconsidering her strategy.

  Then she continued, “I reserve the right to revise my theory. I’m getting the distinct impression that we aren’t getting anywhere with the keys. Maybe it’s a trick to make us burn-up our hour.”

  “You could be right,” Owen began. “Keep working that angle though. If we are going to save John F. Kennedy, we’re going to have to push every angle hard. Fifteen minutes down.”