by James Phelan
“Talking would go against some Agency papers I signed when I joined up.”
“You’ll be protected.”
“You keep saying that.”
“I mean it.”
“What, I’ll be another Bradley Manning or Edward Snowden? That’s hardly a comforting offer.”
“I protect people who deserve it, so you’ll have to prove to me that you do—because right now I’ve a mind to turn you over to the masses and give someone else the headache.”
“You really think you can protect me?”
“It depends what you’ve got that’s worth protecting.”
“Why don’t we pull over somewhere up here and talk?”
“Give me a reason to.”
“Or at least just drive around awhile.”
“So you can work out a way to escape?”
Walker was silent.
“That’s not it, is it?” She looked at him hard for a few long seconds. “Why don’t you want to go to the embassy?”
“I learned long ago that a dead man doesn’t have many rights,” Walker replied. “Give me that: give me an hour some place, and I’ll tell you what I know.”
Somerville looked down at the bag on her lap, and Walker could see that she was considering his offer.
“Fifty-six hours,” said Walker.
“What?”
Walker spoke clearly and firmly. “We’ve got fifty-six hours to stop an attack.”
“What attack?”
“A terrorist attack.”
“By you?”
“No.”
“Who?”
“Don’t take me to the embassy,” Walker said. “And I’ll answer your questions as best as I can. That’s all I can offer.”
Somerville nodded. “Okay.”
THUD.
Walker glanced out his side window. A Ducati rider in black leathers had just bumped against their car. There was plenty of room; it didn’t need to happen. He saw in the reflection of a shop window as they passed that their vehicle had a new addition—a dark object, about the size of a small shoebox, was attached to his door. It stayed there due to magnets, Walker knew. He had seen similar charges used in Iran. He had trained agents how to make them, and how to use them.
“Stop the car! Get out!” Walker shouted. “Bomb!”
34
Andrew Hutchinson had been to Langley plenty of times, and it never failed to impress him with just how normal the spook-land seemed, just across the Potomac River from DC. When he’d first come here as a fresh-faced Bureau agent, he’d expected to see all sorts of secretive behavior on display. He soon learned that the operations staff were segregated from those accessed by visitors. But that had changed some time ago, and now it was all very . . . governmental. Just a big ol’ office building, not unlike the Hoover building in that regard, where people turned up, did their job on paper and computers, and then went home to their families.
As a visitor he filled out the required paperwork and his vehicle was thoroughly examined. He was fingerprinted, his retina was scanned and his photograph was taken, all of them cross-checked to his previous visits. He stated an oral oath and agreed to wear a high-visibility ID badge at all times. Only then was he permitted inside the building.
The staff was young—more than half of the current Agency personnel had started after a hiring freeze that was unfrozen after 9/11. Waiting for his contact in the lobby made Hutchinson feel like a dinosaur.
“Andrew Hutchinson?” said the guy who approached him.
“Yes.”
“Joe Baer.” They shook hands. Baer had the look of a middle-aged guy who’d recently had lap-band to lose a lot of weight due to doctor’s orders, and hadn’t changed the style of his mop of gray hair since the early eighties. “Come with me.”
Hutchinson followed.
Baer said, “You’ve been here before?”
“Bunch of times,” Hutchinson said. “I worked counter-intel with the Bureau for a long while.”
“Ah, one of them,” Baer said, his tone good-humored. “Don’t get me wrong, counter-espionage is an incredibly serious threat to national security,” he continued as he led Hutchinson up a set of stairs. “I just always thought we’d be better at the role.”
“Yeah, you’re probably right.” Hutchinson had heard that argument many times before, and the intel community would forever be in-fighting to see who got what share of the budgetary pie. The role of CIA field operatives was to acquire intelligence, or as they described their job, “manipulating people for information.” Deception was the key, everything was off the record, and agents worked undercover using encrypted phones and false identities. The Cover Operations division provided cover for operatives by creating and supporting the illusion of false identities. Hutchinson’s role in the FBI had been to bust such operatives, albeit foreign nationals working in the US. Jed Walker was among the few Hutchinson had encountered who were possibly domestic-turned-foreign. A traitor. The worst of the worst.
“Here’s me,” Baer said, showing Hutchinson into a tiny office with no windows. “Take a seat.”
Hutchinson removed a pile of papers from the spare chair and put them on the floor, for the desk was full. “I see you haven’t heard of the notion of a paperless office.”
“Old habits,” Baer replied, leaning back in his chair and cracking his neck with a quick side-to-side movement, some kind of habitual settling action. “So, what’s what?”
“I need to know about a former intel officer,” Hutchinson said. “Everything you’ve got.”
“Officer got a name?”
“Jed Walker.”
“Wow,” Baer replied, genuinely surprised. “Up until twelve hours ago, that’s a name I hadn’t heard for near on a year. Now I’m hearing it all over the place. How long have you got?”
•
In the Alfa Romeo time stood still for a moment as Walker shouted again, “Out!”
Somerville’s eyes went wide at the same time as Hobbs stomped the brakes, the ABS ratcheting away. Walker pushed Somerville out her door as the car was slowing to a stop. They hit the road and rolled with the momentum until Walker had enough purchase to stop them both.
KLAPBOOM!
Walker heard bells ringing after the blast. He felt a wave of heat wash over him, and he closed his eyes against debris and was suddenly back at high school. The ringing in his ears reminded him of the pealing of the bell, of autumn leaves crunching underfoot, of ending lunch breaks and trudging back to class; of long, hot summers filled with laughs and shenanigans only a kid could get away with; of wet nights training with the football team—a carefree time, some of the sweetest memories of his life, the go-to moments he escaped to when in times of extreme duress, like his SERE training back at Fairchild AFB, Washington. The grueling weeks at Bragg. The time in the field. His time as a dead man, on the outer, looking for a way back in, for reasons why . . .
BRRRR!
Walker snapped out of his daze.
Daylight. Rome. The car bomb.
He was on his back on the road.
Somerville had rolled clear.
He looked across, at the direction of oncoming traffic—
BRRRR!
The incessant, deafening noise of a truck’s compression brakes locked on full. A semi, closing, jackknifing its trailer as the driver reacted to avoid running over the two figures on the road and smashing into the flaming wreckage of the Alfa twenty meters beyond.
Too little, too late.
Twenty tons of steel and glass and rubber and cargo were headed Walker’s way and little short of a main battle tank could halt it in time.
Walker spread out flat against the road, his arm brushing against Somerville’s.
She was next to him, semiconscious, her forehead grazed but her eyes blinking, watching him. Her mouth formed around words but no sound emanated, or maybe it did and Walker couldn’t hear it over the brakes and the eighteen wheels locked in a slide against the bitumen.
/> Walker’s grip clamped around Somerville’s forearm and he pulled her to him and flat to the ground.
The truck passed over them, Walker and Somerville pressed together in the void between the cab and the trailer, wheels either side. The sixteen-liter diesel engine roared overhead, its exhaust gas being compressed and used to brake the wheels.
Walker was momentarily deaf but that did not stop him moving. As soon as it coasted over them, he looked up. In the wake of the truck, traffic was inbound—slowing but still incoming, oblivious to the true scene of destruction ahead that had been shielded from view by the massive vehicle.
He kept Somerville close to him, wrapped his arms around her and rolled them to the curb.
Walker sat up, clutching at his side, where he was sure the stitches had pulled apart, ignoring his grazed hands and knees and elbows from the roll across the bitumen.
Somerville’s eyes were unsteady as he propped her up against a parked car.
The SUV chase car had pulled up ahead of the inferno, and both agents were out with hand-held extinguishers, dousing the flaming chassis with foam.
Walker could see a vague human form blended into the driver’s seat. Hobbs hadn’t made it out.
“Walker . . .” Somerville said.
“I have to go,” he replied, picking up his backpack from the street and shouldering it. He bent down to look at her. “You’ll be fine.”
He could see through the car’s windows that one of the officers was headed over, taking a route around the fire.
Walker fished in Somerville’s pockets and pulled out the handcuff keys, and freed himself. She grabbed hold of his hand, her grip surprisingly strong, but it faded quickly. A crowd was gathering. Walker melted into it, moved toward the back and then ran from the scene.
•
“So, now you know as much as I do about Walker,” Baer said. “Anything above that, you’ll need to speak to the Deputy Director of NCS.”
“Jack Heller,” Hutchinson said, making a note of it.
“Yep.”
“And you were Walker’s direct superior up until the moment he left?”
“Yes. I head up the Political Action Group within the Special Activities Division, and Walker worked for me for most of his time here. Before that, he was a Targeting Officer supporting the SAD recruiting APs. But he was too good for them, so I poached him.”
“Why’d he leave?”
“Personal reasons is what he said. The wife, I think. He’d just come off an op that didn’t work out, but it had nothing to do with his competence—and even if it did, the guy’s Teflon. He could have been sitting in this chair by now, what with his record, and his pedigree.”
“He doesn’t seem to me the office type.”
“You’re right there.”
“What do you think happened at the safe house in Rome?”
“Internal cameras were down, and there were no witnesses of interaction between Walker and the assaulting party,” Baer said. “Preliminary ballistics point to two of the assailants being taken down by Walker with the landlord’s Beretta. So I’d say there’s another group hunting him.”
“Walker did attack Durant.”
“SOB probably had it coming,” Baer said. “But he’s not my territory, never has been and never will be, so don’t ask me about him.”
“Not a fan of Durant?”
Baer was silent.
Hutchinson nodded as he looked over his notes. “There’s nothing that ever pointed to Walker as being suspect?”
Baer shook his head. “I’d trust him with my life. If you think he’s up to something, it ain’t sinister; he’s no threat to the US. You know his old man’s a legend around here?”
“Yeah.”
“I think that was another reason he left. His father’s shadow cast a long way. When Walker left, his father was stormin’ around here, wanting an explanation. His old man was pissed—saw our Walker as the future of this place. His mother’s pretty much lost it, but then, she lost it a while before that.”
“What do you mean?”
“Dementia. At least a decade. It was a real sticking point about her care, and Walker senior never could walk away from his work. The old fool had a heart attack during a sixteen-hour shift in the White House. Dropped dead in the stairwell heading up from the Sit Room. Not the way for a guy like that to go.”
Hutchinson noted that down, then asked, “What happened in Yemen with the blue-on-blue hit?”
“Like I told you, Walker ran into the kill box with our Agency guy. Best I can tell, it was to retrieve intel. It became a blue-on-blue incident, with the operators hitting the target again, unaware that we had a couple of our own in there. Maybe State knows more than me, but I doubt it.”
“No, they don’t. They pointed me here.”
“Yeah, well, Walker’s been a ghost for a while now.” Baer leaned back. “He served in the Air Force before us. Try them.”
“Yeah, I checked, but I couldn’t get much of a file.”
“It’s there, if you know where to look.”
“Where?”
“Pope would be my bet.”
Hutchinson knew that Pope meant Fort Bragg. And that meant Special Forces, home to Delta. But Baer said Pope: the Air Force contingent. That meant Air Force Special Ops. Which meant . . .
“The twenty-fourth?”
Baer smiled. “Look,” he said, “until yesterday we had him listed as KIA—and that was while he was on State’s dime. And from what I’m hearing from you, if he’s not dead yet, he soon will be—and that’s a damn shame.”
“There’s nothing he worked on that made you suspicious?”
Baer smiled again. “We’re done here. Whatever Walker’s got himself into, it’s no business of ours.”
“You’re sure?”
Baer didn’t answer.
There was a rap of knuckles on the door. Hutchinson turned to see a tall man, wearing an expensive suit and polished shoes.
“Speak of the devil,” Baer said.
“Are you the guy asking about Walker?” the guy in the doorway said.
Hutchinson nodded.
“Come with me.”
35
The tall man in the expensive suit was Jack Heller, Director of Clandestine Services, reporting to the Deputy Director of National Intelligence, and his boss answered directly to the President.
Hutchinson sat opposite him in a plush top-floor office. There was a quote from General William T. Sherman on the wall: “War is cruelty. There is no use trying to reform it. The crueler it is, the sooner it will be over.”
“You know my role?”
“Yeah,” Hutchinson said. “You’re kind of like Deputy God for all human intel. The spymaster.”
Heller chuckled.
Hutchinson was at the top of the tree in the CIA. He knew that as DCS Heller oversaw a smaller offshoot of the Special Activities Division, responsible for covert operations known as “special activities,” and Walker’s former employer.
“When Walker handed in his resignation, he cited family reasons,” Heller said, “so I offered him a role I thought he couldn’t turn down: heading up the Domestic Protection Division.”
“It was a slap in the face when he knocked you back?”
“No—the DNI wanted me to offer Walker the job. I knew he’d never go for it. Walker’s not a desk man. And certainly not one to be caged here at home. He’s an animal—a wild animal. Hell, he can barely be tamed, let alone caged.”
“So, he left the Agency and went to State. Then you guys led the drone strike that listed him as KIA.”
“He should never have been there. I didn’t feel bad about that for a second, except that he got one of our front-line guys killed. But who knows—maybe he’s still alive too. Hell, we get people all over the place saying that bin Laden’s still out there. And don’t get me started on Elvis or Kennedy.”
Hutchinson didn’t buy the easier banter but went along nonetheless to get what informa
tion he could.
“You were surprised by Walker’s reappearance?”
“Yes,” Heller said. “Completely.”
“What do you think Walker’s been doing all this time?”
“No idea. He was a Specialized Skills Officer, and as such he knew that if he was compromised during a mission, our government would deny all knowledge. He’s used to going solo. He could be up to all kinds of mischief.”
Hutchinson nodded. “So, no one ever went to Yemen to check the bodies?”
“No.”
“Why?”
Heller didn’t reply. Instead, he said, “We do not negotiate with terrorists, we put them out of business. That’s what was done that day. Walker fucked up and got himself killed. Or not, evidently.”
Hutchinson tried a different tack, asked, “Who did you get in that house in Yemen?”
“I can’t say.” Heller leaned back. “I looked into you.”
“Oh?”
“You were involved in a high-profile case involving an Agency double in New York City a few years back—the Patriot Act thing.”
Hutchinson knew that was classified but accessible to someone of Heller’s clearance.
“Then you went off the radar, but you’re still in the FBI. So, either you’ve turned family man and are driving a desk, or you’ve been tasked someplace else.”
“I’m at the UN.”
“Those guys? Damn. I could use a guy like you. That said, the best people are all leaving these days. Going private, mostly. You thought about that?”
“The private sector?”
Heller nodded.
“Maybe. Not really,” Hutchinson said, flicking back through the pages of notes he’d made while talking to Baer. “What about Pip Durant?”
Heller shifted in his seat, said, “What about him?”
“He trained with Walker, then they worked together in Afghanistan and Iraq for a few years. They were tight. Durant was the one who broke the news to Walker’s wife, Eve. If anyone had heard anything about Walker being alive, it’d be him. And he’s the one who went to debrief Walker at the safe house in Rome.”
“So?”
“So,” Hutchinson said, “he’s just returned home for a couple of weeks’ R-and-R following injuries sustained during the hit on the house.”