Trap the Devil

by Ben Coes

  “I read Tindall’s obituary, death records, and the after-action report,” said Bruckheimer. “We even spoke to his father. Tindall’s dead—or at least everyone thinks he is.”

  Calibrisi moved back to his desk, rubbing the bridge of his nose, deep in thought. He looked at Polk. They appeared equally confused.

  “There’s a first for everything, and this could be the first time LayerX screws up,” said Bruckheimer. “But I doubt it.”

  Calibrisi looked at Poole. “Get a FISA warrant prepared,” he told him. “I want to run all Consular Operations employees against PRISM, Stellar Wind, and DS-300.”

  “That’s going to be a tough warrant,” said Poole. “Judge Wetherbee doesn’t like it when NSA technology is aimed at Americans.”

  “You know Wetherbee, Bill,” Calibrisi said to Polk. “Hand-deliver the warrant request yourself. Let’s get it over there immediately.”

  “Roger.”

  “There’s one other thing, chief,” said Bruckheimer. “Take me off speaker.”

  Calibrisi picked up the phone. “What is it?”

  “It’s about Toronto.”

  “Jim, Toronto’s going to have to wait.”

  “Just listen.”

  “Fine. Make it quick.”

  “We picked up unusual activity leading up to the attack on the mosque. Electronic signals activity in the immediate vicinity of the mosque. It was running through an unknown frequency.”

  “What the hell does that mean?”

  “Someone was making phone calls on a SAT phone with its own satellite,” said Bruckheimer. “A military-grade Lockheed Martin device with a heretofore unknown frequency.”

  “What does that have to do with the CIA?” said Calibrisi.

  “It’s your satellite,” said Bruckheimer. “Launched in 1994 under a 1981 joint State Department–CIA program called ‘Order Six.’”

  “So access the files.”

  “They’re gone. Purged, sanitized, including metadata. Level with me, Hector: Have you heard of it?”

  “No,” said Calibrisi, “and right now, trying to find some file on an ancient interagency program is about the last thing I’m going to do, Jim. We have a dead secretary of state—”

  “Earlier tonight,” interrupted Bruckheimer, “we triangulated another call that was made through the satellite. The call originated from the Hotel George Cinq approximately five minutes after Lindsay was gunned down.”

  40

  DGSI BRANCH FOUR

  PARIS

  Dewey was led to a cell by two prison guards. The front of his shirt was spattered in blood. His left eye was black and blue. His lower lip was puffed up and cut down the middle. It hurt to close his mouth, and so blood continued to seep over the damaged lip and down his chin. They closed the cell door behind him. He went to the concrete slab that stuck out from the wall, the cell’s bed. Dewey lay down and fell asleep.

  He didn’t know how long he’d been asleep when he was awakened. It was a bucket of cold water that stirred him, thrown by a guard. Dewey didn’t move, not until a second bucket was thrown. Beauxchamps was standing behind the guard.

  “Glacé,” Beauxchamps said.

  A guard left the cell and returned a few minutes later with a plastic bag filled with ice. Beauxchamps handed it to Dewey. Dewey put it up against his lip.

  “Water,” said Dewey.

  “De l’eau,” said the agent.

  The guard left again. He returned with a large plastic jug full of water. Dewey sat up and started chugging, losing much of it down his chin. He drank—or spilled—the entire jug. He threw it down and looked up at Beauxchamps.

  “Whiskey,” said Dewey.

  “Do you think I have whiskey in here?” said Beauxchamps, shaking his head in disbelief. “Do you think this is a hotel?”

  Dewey skewed his head sideways so that he could see better.

  “What do you want?” asked Dewey.

  Beauxchamps closed the cell door most of the way. He leaned against the wall.

  “What happened?” asked Beauxchamps sincerely. “What did you see?”

  Dewey stared at Beauxchamps for several moments.

  “I got an alert from Lindsay,” said Dewey. “I left the restaurant. It was raining and there weren’t any taxis so I got on the Métro and took it back to the hotel. I saw a woman on the train at the station near the hotel. It was the same woman I saw in Lindsay’s suite before I left. I tried to follow her. That’s why I ran. It’s why I tried to pry open the doors. I would’ve smashed the glass if I could’ve, but she got away. When I got back to the hotel, you dumbasses arrested me.”

  “Then how did your gun end up on the floor of the suite?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t have an explanation.”

  “Who do you think it could’ve been?”

  “You figure it out,” said Dewey. “Why don’t you get off your ass and do some work? How the fuck do you expect me to figure who put it there? I can barely see, thanks to you dickheads. I’m locked in a cell. Stop being so fucking lazy and incompetent.”

  Dewey clutched the ice against his head. “What time is it?” he asked.

  “Why?”

  “I want to know how long you fuckheads have had me in this place.”

  “It’s a little after one in the morning.”

  “Has anyone attempted to get me out of here?”

  “Calibrisi has phoned my boss several times.”

  “So why can’t I speak with him?”

  “You’d have to ask my boss.”

  Beauxchamps reached for the door but didn’t open it. He turned to Dewey.

  “I began my career at DGSI back when it had another name,” he said. “I started in the code bureau. I learned how to write codes, break codes, that sort of thing. It’s now called the bureau of cryptographic activity.”

  “What’s your point?” asked Dewey.

  “We were able to decrypt the recording of your phone call,” said Beauxchamps. “Trust me, there will be no ‘slip of paper’ in your eggs tomorrow morning.”

  Dewey paused for a half second, long enough to create a lull in the conversation, then moved with ferocious speed, dropping the bag of ice as his right hand swept behind his back. He tore a gun from between his belt and back and swung it toward Beauxchamps, stopping when the muzzle was aimed at his head.

  “Don’t move,” said Dewey quietly. “Do exactly as I say and I won’t kill you.”

  Beauxchamps had a surprised look on his face as his arms went up in the air.

  “How the hell did you get that—”

  “Shut up,” said Dewey, standing up, holding Beauxchamps in the crosshairs, moving closer. “Put your arms directly out in front of you, take two steps to your right, face the wall, and get down on your knees.”

  Dewey went to the cell door, shutting it most of the way but leaving a small crack. He stepped behind Beauxchamps.

  “Remove your belt and your shirt, now.”

  Beauxchamps unbuttoned his shirt and tossed it toward Dewey. He did the same thing with his belt.

  “How did you get the gun?” said Beauxchamps.

  “Your partner. In addition to being an asshole, he’s sloppy. Put your hands behind your back.”

  Dewey put the gun on the ground and took Beauxchamps’s hands, looping the belt around them at the wrists. He forced them down behind Beauxchamps and looped the belt around his ankles as well. It was a struggle, and Beauxchamps groaned in pain as Dewey tightened the belt. Once the belt was very tight, Dewey pushed Beauxchamps down on his side. He tumbled over, grimacing at the awkward position, arms behind his back, tied tight to his ankles. He couldn’t move.

  “Has anyone ever escaped from here?” asked Dewey.

  “Yes,” Beauxchamps said, coughing. “Two years ago in a garbage truck.”

  Dewey patted him down, removing a cell phone.

  “What floor are we on?”

  “Five.”

  “Where’s the abandoned stairw
ell?”

  Beauxchamps was silent.

  “Tell me,” said Dewey. “Right now.”

  “I don’t know.”

  Dewey slammed his fist into Beauxchamps’s stomach. Beauxchamps grunted in pain.

  “Where?”

  “The end of the hall. Behind the guard station.”

  “How many guards are there on the floor?”

  “One man.”

  Dewey tore Beauxchamps’s shirt in half. He twisted one half together and wrapped it around Beauxchamps’s head, pulling it through his mouth, tying it tight, gagging him.

  Dewey leaned down and looked into Beauxchamps’s eyes.

  “Totally unnecessary,” said Dewey, shaking his head in disdain. “Totally unfucking necessary. It’s your own dumbass fault. I didn’t shoot Lindsay. I’m breaking out of here to find out who did.”

  Dewey opened the cell door. He took Beauxchamps’s cell and turned on the camera, making sure the flash was off. He knelt down and stuck the phone on the ground, inching it out into the hallway, aiming it left. He snapped a photo, then flipped it over, taking one of the hallway to the right. He pulled the phone back inside, moved the door almost shut, and examined the two photos.

  The hallway was empty to the right. To the left, a uniformed guard stood behind some sort of counter.

  Dewey went back and knelt beside Beauxchamps.

  “I’m going to give you an opportunity to save a man’s life,” he said. He showed Beauxchamps the photo of the guard.

  “Do you know him?”

  Beauxchamps nodded.

  “I can either go out there and shoot him,” said Dewey, “or you can ask him to come down here, in which case I’m simply going to knock him out and leave him with you.”

  Beauxchamps didn’t move.

  “Well?”

  Slowly, Beauxchamps nodded. Dewey untied the gag.

  “I know what you’re thinking,” said Dewey.

  “How much I hate Americans?” muttered Beauxchamps.

  Dewey grinned.

  “I’m sure you have protocols,” he said. “You can get him down here, like I asked, or you can warn him somehow, some code word. I’ll know if that happens. Sirens will go off, a bunch of other people will come running. I want to be very clear. If that happens, you’re a dead man. Do you understand?”

  “Yes.”

  “Tell him you need a bandage, some more ice, whatever.”

  Beauxchamps nodded.

  “How do you communicate?”

  “Turn on the phone,” said Beauxchamps. “The code is one-one-four-three.”

  Dewey entered the code and brought up the main screen.

  “Speed-dial six.”

  Dewey hit the speed dial, then held it to Beauxchamps’s ear. With his other hand, Dewey stuck the muzzle of the gun against the Frenchman’s temple.

  “Norman,” said Beauxchamps. “The first-aid kit. Do you have one at the station?”

  “Oui, Jean.”

  “Can you bring it down here?”

  “Bien sûr.”

  Dewey hung up the phone and retied the gag. He grabbed a section of the restraining belt and dragged Beauxchamps across the floor so that he was behind the door, out of sight. Dewey pulled the door slightly ajar, as Beauxchamps had had it. He stood behind the door, listening. He heard footsteps coming down the hallway. The door suddenly pushed open and the guard stepped inside, holding a white box. He looked around and was met by the sight of Dewey’s gun, aimed at his head.

  Dewey slammed the pistol into the guard’s chin, knocking him sideways and down, then kicked him hard in the stomach, knocking the wind out of him. Dewey pushed the door almost closed, then pounced on the guard and turned him onto his stomach, pressed his face into the concrete, and put his knee onto the back of the guard’s neck. He reached down with both hands and choked the guard until he lost consciousness.

  Dewey stripped the man’s gun, walkie-talkie, and cell phone, tossing them out of reach. He took the other strip of material and tied it around his head, gagging him, then removed his belt and tied him up like Beauxchamps.

  Dewey pocketed both cell phones and picked up the two guns. He stepped to the door and moved it slightly ajar.

  He felt warmth now, a feeling he knew well, the rush of adrenaline. He took several deep breaths, and all pain was pushed away. He glanced back, making sure Beauxchamps and the guard couldn’t move so much as an inch.

  He raised the muzzles of the two firearms into the air, clutching them, not too tight, index fingers on the triggers. He knew he would have only a short period of time before the guard would be discovered missing.

  Then he moved.

  He stepped into the hallway, shutting the cell door behind him. He charged down the hall to the guard station and leapt over it. Behind the desk was a large cabinet. Dewey pushed it aside. Behind it was a door. If Borchardt was correct, it led to an abandoned stairwell.

  A warning sign in bright yellow read NE PAS ENTRER!

  Dewey kicked the latch and the door went flying in at the same moment a loud alarm bell started ringing and a bright red emergency light began flashing on and off, dousing the corridor in chaos. He heard shouting from somewhere behind him.

  The shouting grew louder, then he heard boots, running. He looked, but still, no one had entered the hallway.

  Dewey stepped to the abandoned stairwell. It was pitch-black. He took one of the cell phones and turned on the flashlight, shining it down. It was empty. Whatever stairs had been there were now gone.

  He heard shouting, in French, along with the tapping of steel-toed boots on linoleum.

  He peered down into the stairwell. All that was left was a dark shaft, windowless and black.

  Dewey swept the light across the air again, quickly. The guards would be in range in a matter of seconds. He searched desperately. Below, attached to the wall, he saw a fire extinguisher, covered in rust.

  Dewey turned and saw gunmen. The boot steps were like thunder on the hard floor. He tucked both guns into the small of his back, beneath his belt, then charged toward the dark stairwell. He took two big steps as automatic weapon fire erupted, his right boot striking the ledge just as bullets ripped the air above his head. He leapt out into the air, legs kicking, aiming for the wall below. Dewey shut his eyes, feeling with his hands and feet. He braced for the impact.

  Above, more gunfire.

  He slammed into the wall, right foot first, followed by his outstretched right hand, forearm, shoulder, like being checked without padding into the boards, trying not to let out a grunt as the full force of his two-hundred-and-twenty-five-pound frame at full speed struck the prison wall. Bullets ripped closer, several submachine guns, weaving slugs into the wall as Dewey clawed along the concrete, scratching his hand in total darkness, desperately searching for the fire extinguisher. He dropped the instant after he hit the wall, feeling weightlessness in his spine, then pure terror. A half second later, his boot hit the fire extinguisher.

  Dewey shot his hands out, reaching frantically for it as he plunged faster and faster toward the ground.

  His right hand found the hard steel of the old fire extinguisher, grabbing the top. It immediately bent down, creaking, yet somehow held.

  Dewey looked up at the opening. He registered the flash of muzzles through the dark, clotted air. With his left hand, Dewey removed one of the guns and swung it toward the opening above, firing. His first slug hit a gunman in the stomach; he groaned and fell forward, into the shaft, screaming as he dropped. Then the fire extinguisher broke from the wall.

  Dewey was now in free fall. He felt nothing but air, rushing up at him, and a sense of weightlessness. He kicked against the wall as he plunged, pushing out, launching into the middle of the shaft, then simply dropped until, a second and a half later, his legs struck, landing atop the guard, who groaned as Dewey fell on him, then rolled off.

  Dewey crawled toward the wall as bullets rained down. He held his fire, knowing the flash of his muzzle would
alert them to his location. He found the wall. He moved along the cold concrete, feeling with his hands for something, anything, in the musty, damp darkness. He found a doorknob and turned it. The door creaked open. He pushed it forward. He was in an alley. He heard the alarm bells screeching from inside the prison, then, in the distance, sirens.

  Across the alleyway, a bright green Lamborghini Aventador was parked. He ran to it and pulled at the door handle. The door moved up into the air, like a razor. He climbed in, searching for the keys as the door slid back down. He saw a small bright red plastic object between the two seats and lifted it. Beneath was the Power button. Dewey pushed it and the Aventador roared to life, its engine grumbling like an angry beast. He slammed the gas pedal and the Lamborghini broke into a wild sprint down the alley.

  41

  INDIAN PURCHASE FARM

  POOLESVILLE, MARYLAND

  Bruner had to bend over in order to descend the rickety wooden stairs that led to the basement. He went past the furnace and then beneath a single lightbulb, glaring brightly beneath the musty beams. He opened a door at the back, into what looked like a closet, unlit, with clothes hanging. He pushed the clothing aside. A touchpad screen was incongruously attached to the wall. He pressed his thumb to the screen. After a series of low beeps, the back of the closet opened.

  Bruner entered the small, cold room. A cheap floor lamp cast a foggy, greenish light across the room. The floor was concrete, the room windowless. Lying on a single bed in the corner was a shirtless man. He was out of shape, slightly obese, and his hair was disheveled. One of his wrists was shackled to the bed with a chain. The other was in a cast and tied down with rope to the bed. He was scrunched up in a fetal position, trying to stay warm.

  Bruner walked across the room and stopped when he was next to the bed.

  “Harry,” said Bruner.

  There was no response.

  “Harry!” Bruner barked.

  Harry Black’s eyes opened. It took him awhile to focus. Finally, he registered Bruner. His face flushed and he lurched toward Bruner, but the chain and the rope held him back. He yelped in pain, looking at his wrist in the cast.

  “You son of a bitch, let me out!” he screamed. “Who the fuck do you think you are?”