by Flynn Vince
“So, no hard evidence unless we catch him coming back to retrieve the equipment?”
Coleman considered it for moment and said, “If we brought in the feds, we could start rounding people up and find out who tells the biggest lie. We could probably even put some heat on the S and T guys to find out who gave Johnson the equipment, but…” Coleman’s voice trailed off. He didn’t even like the idea.
“We can’t bring in the feds, because we can’t tell them how we know the shit even exists.”
“Exactly.”
“Plus,” Rapp checked his side mirror and changed lanes, “I don’t feel like airing the CIA’s dirty laundry with some overzealous federal prosecutor.”
“I thought that’s what you’d say.”
“So why are we going downtown?”
“Because that’s where Johnson is.”
Rapp glanced sideways at Coleman. “And why would I want to see him right now?”
“Because he’s running with a crowd that should make you nervous.”
“Who?”
“Russians. Lots of them.”
“Is he working for them?” Rapp asked, more than a little surprised.
“I couldn’t prove it in a court of law, at least not yet, but these aren’t the kind of guys who hang out with fat, fiftysomething retired CIA security officers because they have a good sense of humor.”
“What kind of Russians?”
“The kind with lots of money.”
“Shit.” Rapp was pissed off. “The worst kind. Former KGB guys?”
Coleman shrugged. “Maybe in his entourage, but the main guy is too young. He’s a thirty-six-year-old whiz kid. Peter Sidorov, you ever heard of him?”
“The name rings a bell.”
“He’s got a Ph.D. in physics from Cambridge.”
“What does he do?”
“Uses all that brain power to run a hedge fund. He’s made billions the last couple of years. Mostly, and this could be a lot of jealousy talking, by manipulating commodity prices.”
“A Russian hedge fund manager, manipulating commodity prices,” Rapp said with feigned surprise. “I’m shocked.”
“I know… but you know how people are with success. Especially with this new crowd out of Russia. Everyone wants to believe they’re in bed with either the FSB or the mob.”
“Or both.”
“Yeah.”
“There’s also a few of them who play it up so they can act like tough guys.”
Rapp was familiar with both types. His preference was clearly for the ones who were acting. “So which is it with this guy?”
“I don’t know. This isn’t my area. I never operated in that part of the world.”
“Well, I have, and I happen to know someone who is probably our top expert on the subject.”
“Irene?” Coleman asked, referring to Kennedy. “Yep, but I think I already know the answer.”
“How?”
“If there’s one thing I’ve learned about the Russians over the years it’s that rules and laws are nothing more than obstacles. For them, hiring a guy like Max Johnson to rig the game in their favor would be like us hiring an accountant to do our taxes.”
“So how does that tell you who they are?”
“If it was the Russian Mafia they’d try to hire someone like you or me. Besides, none of our intel says they’re in D.C. Los Angeles, Chicago… most of the big cities on the East Coast and a few in the Rust Belt, but not the capital. Irene says Putin doesn’t want them screwing things up things for the SVR.”
“So what… you think this is straight industrial espionage?”
“I don’t know, but whatever it is, Max Johnson has decided to hang out with the wrong crowd.”
CHAPTER 38
MISSOURI, ARKANSAS BORDER
THEY agreed it was better to travel eleven more miles and cross into Arkansas rather than backtrack north from Branson to a less-populated area. It seemed to them that the more state lines they could put between themselves and the farmhouse, the better off they’d be. Hakim was not in disagreement that it was a good idea to get off the road for the night. He did, however, fear the unknown, and by unknown, he meant what Karim would do to the unfortunate occupants of the house they happened to choose.
Not far across the border, they found a few interesting prospects just off Highway 65 on Old Cricket Road. Karim carried the computer over to Hakim and showed him the two homes he’d zoomed in on. Hakim knew instantly which house they would be visiting. They were adjacent to each other, but more than a quarter mile of woods and pasture separated them. They shared a gravel driveway for several hundred feet and then it split off. To the left the drive led to a series of buildings that, even from space, did not look well cared for, and then a house. Hakim stared closely and identified eight vehicles that were parked randomly in clusters around the main portion of the property. A couple of them could have been farm equipment but it was too difficult to discern. The place had a disorganized feel to it. Hakim imagined a large extended family living on the property, people of all ages coming and going. Lots of dogs. Too many variables at play to go wandering into at this late hour, or any time, for that matter.
The other property was uncannily similar in layout and geography to the farm in Iowa. The gravel road ran for a thousand feet up the side of a gentle rise and then hooked around the top to dump into a gravel courtyard that was situated between the house and a large barn. A thick picket of trees encircled the house on three sides, and then beyond, as the hill fell away, there was pasture. It was precise, immaculately maintained, and by far the better choice.
Karim pointed at the screen and asked, “Does that remind you of anything?”
“The house in Iowa.”
“Yes. It is almost the exact same.”
Hakim kept his eyes on the screen searching for other clues. “I don’t know how old this image is, but there are no livestock trails in the pasture.”
“What does that mean?”
“If they had cows or sheep,” Hakim pointed at the screen, “you would see lines in the pasture. Like a goat trail in the mountains. The cattle use them to get from the barn to the pasture and back.”
“Is this good?”
“Yes. If they have cattle, they have to be taken care of. Especially if it’s a dairy operation. The milk has to be picked up daily. That would mean someone showing up tomorrow morning.”
“We might be gone by then.”
Hakim said, “If we are lucky this might even be what they call a hobby farm.”
“What is that?”
“It is no longer used as a farm. People live there and that is it. Some people use them as vacation homes. They live in a bigger city and spend their weekends at a place like this.”
“So it might be empty?”
“It’s possible.” Hakim hoped so.
Karim conferred with Ahmed briefly and explained what they would do. He laid out a precise plan in less than sixty seconds. Hakim had to admit this was where his friend shone. He had a mind for such things. From the moment they had arrived in Afghanistan all those years ago, he proved almost immediately that he was a battlefield commander.
Karim climbed behind the wheel of the RV and pulled back onto the highway. They drove the exact speed limit through Branson and took some comfort in the increased traffic. A few miles later they crossed the border into Arkansas. Two miles after that, they turned onto Old Cricket Road. Karim saw the driveway on the left a short while later and slowed to get a better look. There were two mailboxes, one in perfect shape, the other tilting and looking as if a strong wind might push it over. Karim took note of the name on the nicer box. Ten feet back there was a private driveway sign and a no trespassing sign. Karim checked the odometer and continued. Six-tenths of a mile later he slowed to a near crawl and gave the signal.
Ahmed had changed into black coveralls, a tactical vest, and black floppy hat. Holding a silenced M-4 rifle, he stepped from the RV at a trot and then disappea
red into the night. Karim picked up speed and continued down the road at a leisurely pace. Four miles later he pulled into a driveway with a gate. He backed up and went in the direction he’d just come from. The Motorola radio sitting in the cup holder crackled to life with Ahmed’s voice.
“No sign of people. One faint light.”
Karim picked up the radio and pressed the transmit button. “Any animals?”
“Not that I can see.”
“Security system?”
“Not that I can see.”
Karim paused. “Dogs?”
“No.”
“Are you in position?”
“Yes.”
“I will be there in a minute.” He placed the radio back in the cup holder and began looking for the turn. A short distance later he found it. Karim wrestled with the big wheel as he made a near 150-degree turn. He stayed to the right and a hundred feet later cruised past the turnoff for the other house at a respectful twenty miles an hour. As they began the slow, steady climb up the driveway, Ahmed announced that he could see the RV and that the situation in the house hadn’t changed. Karim was feeling more confident by the minute that they had found the perfect place.
Then, as they swung around the rise and pulled into the courtyard, the place lit up like a shopping mall parking lot. Two floodlights on the barn flickered to life as well as the entire front porch of the house. Karim slowed and grabbed the radio. “What is happening?”
“No movement.” Ahmed’s voice came back steady. “I think they are motion lights.”
Karim slowed to a stop, directing the RV headlight at the front door of the house. He put the vehicle in park and climbed out of the chair. With the radio in one hand and his silenced 9mm Glock in the other, he exited the RV and began to walk across the gravel toward the house. He glanced to his left and right and was careful to keep his gun close to his right thigh. He was forty feet away when the front door opened.
CHAPTER 39
WASHINGTON, D.C.
RAPP turned off H Street and parked the car at a yellow curb. He threw a plastic police placard on the dash and looked down the length of the block at the old warehouse. People were lined up from one end of the street all the way to the near corner, a flock of mostly twenty- and thirtysomethings moving and bobbing to the heavy bass that was rattling the grimy windows of the club. The guys trended a little older, the women probably six years younger. The guys all wore their urban chic uniform; two-hundred-dollar designer jeans, splashy shirts, and snappy shoes. The hair was either really short or really long and there was a lot of stubble on the faces. To Rapp’s eye they looked as if they were all going after the eurotrash look that had been all the rage on the French Riviera some ten year earlier.
The women were pure eye candy. Three-inch platform shoes and skimpy dresses of every cut and fabric and lots of heavy makeup and wild hair. They looked more as if they were in line to audition porno than for a night on the town. Every thirty feet or so, a couple of buttoned-up preppy kids from the Hill could be seen trying to fit in. Their efforts consisted of losing their ties and unbuttoning their dress shirts two whole buttons. This had never been Rapp’s scene and it sure as hell was no place for a fifty-six-year-old former Agency employee.
Coleman could tell by the way his jaw was set that Rapp was looking for a fight. His brow was slightly knotted and he was looking at the group with a disapproving frown. “I know what you’re thinking,” Coleman said in an easy tone, “and I don’t think it’s a good idea.”
Rapp kept his eyes on the front door. “What am I thinking?”
“You’re thinking of jump-starting this thing. You have other shit you need to take care of and you’re really not in the mood to sit around in a car all night doing surveillance.”
Rapp’s gaze didn’t waver. “Anything else?”
“Yeah… you’re frustrated. You’re thinking this Max Johnson should know better and the fact that he doesn’t means he deserves a good ass kicking.”
“And the Russians?” Rapp asked.
“You don’t like that they come over here and break all of our rules.”
“Anything else?”
“Yeah… I see the way you’ve been eyeballing those four bouncers at the door.”
Rapp grinned.
“You’re itching,” Coleman said in a not-so-happy voice.
“Sometimes,” Rapp said as he unbuckled his seat belt, “the best way to handle these situations is to force the issue.”
“These Russians are nasty people, Mitch. They don’t play by the rules.”
Rapp turned to Coleman and arched his left eye. “And we do?”
“No… not exactly,” Coleman stammered for a second, “but we’re not crazy like they are.”
“Well maybe it’s time we get a little crazy. Make them feel a little uncomfortable about coming into our backyard and recruiting some jackass like Johnson.”
“They don’t scare easy.”
“We’ll see about that.”
Coleman sighed. He knew there was no changing Rapp’s mind when he got like this. “So what are you going to do?”
“Improvise.”
“And if the locals show up?”
Rapp dug into his suit coat pocket and asked, “You said Marcus is monitoring the club’s network?”
“Yes.”
Rapp pulled out a leather ID case. He opened it, reached behind his CIA ID and pulled out a second laminated piece of paper. This one said
HOMELAND SECURITY in dark blue block letters. He slid it between the CIA ID and the clear plastic window. He showed Coleman. “Works like a charm. Who’s not for Homeland Security?”
Coleman shook his head. “If the cops show up I’m out of here and I’m taking my guys with me.”
“Understood. Tell Marcus that in about two minutes I want him to crash their security cameras and their phone lines and kill the mobile phone traffic.”
“Who’s going in?”
Rapp thought about it for a second, looked at the four big guys at the door, and assumed there were at least another six or eight inside. “I think you and I can handle it.”
Coleman half laughed and said, “Fine, but I’m telling Mick to stay close.”
Mick Reavers was Coleman’s one-man wrecking crew. He was built like an NFL linebacker, only meaner. “Fine by me.” Rapp got out and popped the trunk while Coleman issued instructions to the rest of the team. He dialed in the two three-digit codes on a large black rectangular case and then slid the buttons out. Both hasps popped up with the thud of an old-fashioned briefcase. The inside of the case consisted of a large gray block of foam. Sections of the foam had been cut out in the silhouette of a variety of weapons. Rapp already had his 9mm Glock on his hip. As was almost always the case it was loaded with subsonic hollow-point ammunition. Rapp took his wallet out of his left pocket and set it next to the case. He grabbed the shorter of two silencers and put it where the wallet had been.
Rapp never went anywhere without a gun, and he had all the proper paperwork to carry the thing anywhere he wanted, but even so, the quickest way to land yourself in hot water was to fire your weapon in the District. Whether the action was warranted or not, the District was very sensitive to gunplay. Rapp looked toward the door and considered the crowd. He wasn’t going to go in without a gun, but he would have to be in big trouble before he used it. The Glock would be for defensive purposes only. He stared at the cutouts, trying to decide between several other less-than-lethal options. There was the pepper spray, but it wasn’t exactly his favorite, especially in a crowded place like a club. If you used enough of it, the next thing you knew, it got sucked into the ventilation system and the entire place would empty as if there were a fire, people coughing and spitting, emergency crews showing up to give medical aid. That was the type of thing that might attract a local TV station.
Rapp didn’t want to cause that kind of stir if he could avoid it. He decided on an expandable tactical baton, an ASP F21 in a small belt holster.
It was a heavy black piece of steel about eight inches in length with a foam grip. With the proper flick of the wrist the eight inches extended to twenty-one. It was a nasty little weapon that was great to use against bigger people with long reaches. It also worked well if you needed to clear a path through a crowd of people. A couple of flicks and people would start moving like spooked cattle.
Rapp hooked the ASP onto his belt on his right side and then decided on one more thing. He grabbed a Taser X26 and two extra cartridges. It looked pretty much like a gun except parts of it were yellow. He put the two extra cartridges in his front right pocket and stuffed the taser between the small of his back and his pants. Coleman joined him at the back of the car and Rapp asked, “Do you need anything?”
Coleman looked at the case as if he were shopping for watches. “Is that your new M-4 rifle?”
“Yep.”
“I’ll take it.”
“Funny.” Rapp handed him the pepper spray and said, “Don’t use it unless you really think we need it.”
“Got it.” Coleman hooked the bottle to his belt and buttoned his suit coat. “So what’s your plan?
Rapp shrugged and closed the trunk. “We go in like we own the place… which we do. This is Washington, not Moscow.”
“And then what?”
“We grab the little prick by the scruff of his neck and we pull him out of there.”
Coleman had a worried expression on his face. “And if they try to stop us?”
Rapp thought about it for a second and then said, “A few of them will probably end up in the hospital.”
Coleman moaned, “I’ve got a bad feeling about this.”
Rapp shook it off and started walking toward the club and its four massive gatekeepers. “You always say that.”
Coleman fell in a half step behind and under his breath mumbled, “And I’m usually right.”
CHAPTER 40
NORTHERN ARKANSAS
OTHER than the four years he’d spent in the army, Dan Stewart had worked his entire adult life for the same employer. A Lowell, Arkansas, native, he’d practically fallen into the job when he returned from his second tour of duty in Vietnam. A new low-price retail chain just up the road was hiring. Stewart took a job as an assistant manager and moved to Eureka Springs a few hours east. Within a year he was rewarded for his strong work ethic by being promoted to manager and moved to Branson, Missouri, to open one of the company’s new stores.