Recon

by David McCaleb

Red grabbed a Jolly Rancher from a crystal bowl on the counter, twisted, and popped the candy in his mouth. He shoved the wrapper in his jeans pocket. Sour Granny Smith apple, a favorite.

  Neither of their IDs would do any good here at Merkel Research in Fairfax, Virginia. The building warranted enough CCTVs and security guards to shame the Pentagon. Though it operated as a political think tank for select clients, the primary effort that occupied its employees was financial intelligence for the CIA. If you didn’t carry a Merkel ID, you didn’t get in without an invitation.

  Red shoved the candy into a cheek. “Lori Harmon and Stacy Giles. They’re expecting us.”

  Rusty Blade placed a black handset to his ear and punched a button. “Your guests are here.… Right.” He hung up and pointed down a hallway to a door with Mechanical Room stenciled in red. “Remove all metal objects, everything, and place them in the cabinets in there.”

  Both men stepped inside the closet, a narrow locker room. Damn tight spaces. How could anyone stand working in even smaller offices? Trapped like a fish in a bowl.

  He placed his Sig Sauer in the bottom of one cubby next to his five-inch Spyderco folding knife. Both seemed to whimper as he withdrew his hand, like a pair of puppies left at a pound. He glanced down and tugged up on his fly. Felt naked.

  Carter unclipped his shoulder holster and placed it in a locker next to his belt on the opposite side of the room, slamming the door. “Still can’t believe you beat that operative to an inch of his life.”

  Red and Lori had interrogated Sandals using limbs, stakes, and clubs. Brutal, but two days of running for their lives through Pikes Peak National Forest trying to keep their family from being shot had numbed any sympathy for the man. It had taken fifteen minutes of torture, but the mercenary didn’t know who had placed the contract on Lori. Typical among such teams. You can’t leak what you don’t know. Then Lori had torn open the man’s pants, placed his own blade on his scrotum, and threatened to castrate him if he didn’t provide the bank name and account where his advance pay for the hit had been deposited. Wet teams were usually paid half up front, half upon job completion. Though Red hadn’t understood at the time, she’d later explained she could follow the money back to its source and maybe figure out who was behind it.

  Red closed the cabinet door. That must’ve been what this meeting was about. Stacy Giles, Lori’s supervisor, had called Carter a few hours earlier, requesting a face-to-face.

  The walls of the closet leaned in, as if the lockers would crash down upon him. He stepped outside the door and drew a deep breath. Turning back to Carter, still fiddling with something in a locker, he said, “Maybe Stacy and Lori figured out who went after us in Colorado.”

  Carter had been right about one thing. Detective work was boring. And slow. In the two weeks following the event, the CIA and the FBI had been mute regarding any progress as to who was behind the incident. Red would ask Lori every day, and even she would only reply, “Nothing yet. My boss is still working on it.” How long did it take to lookup a few bank transactions in a computer?

  Carter stepped out, and a crew-cut blond man in jeans and red T-shirt waved them to follow. He walked with his neck hunched forward, the nape well tanned, rocking with the familiar packhorse swagger that evidenced his back was familiar with a rucksack. Carter stepped into a millimeter wave scanning stall, like the machines at an airport. Holding hands over his head, his pants dropped to his thighs.

  Rucksack motioned to Red next. Here goes. Never get through one of these things without a strip search.

  The scan complete, Rucksack stared at a monitor, scowling. “What the hell? You got more metal in you than a machine shop.” The man stepped close and patted Red’s elbow and thigh.

  He winced when fingers pressed the still-tender slice from Sandals’ blade. He’d learned to not offer an explanation for the titanium plates and screws unless asked.

  “I’ll bet TSA blows an aneurism every time you try to board a plane.” Rucksack escorted them to the fifth floor and, with a half smile, left them in a glass-walled conference room overlooking University Drive. Two blocks down, blue lights flashed in the middle of an intersection, blocking traffic. Every few minutes, Carter pulled up on his belt loops.

  A minute later, the door opened and a brunette with shoulder-length ebony-black hair, standing no taller than Red, stepped inside. Pink slacks and suit top looked to be designer threads that Carter would appreciate. Like the ones worn by braless models on the glossy magazine covers in the checkout racks at the grocery store. Her eyelids were brushed a cobalt blue and her fingernails matched, the exact same shade as the tips of armor-piercing rounds. Nice touch. Cherry lipstick drew into a creased smile. Her scent was of roses, the same perfume Red’s grandmother had worn. Must’ve come back in style. Overall, a well put together professional. But her expression hardened when she glanced his direction. She studied him with detached coldness. Like Carter every morning when he glanced at Red’s jeans and L. L. Bean commando sweater, or whatever other fashion faux pas he’d committed that day.

  Carter broke the silence. “Stacy, this is Red Harmon, Lori’s other half.”

  The lines in her face disappeared as she turned to Carter and grinned. How did that man get on every woman’s good side? He’d just smile and say something witty and they’d shove their tits into his face. “Thanks for coming, Detective. But I only invited you.”

  * * * *

  Carter caught Stacy’s gaze, willing himself to not gawk at the woman’s neon pantsuit. My goodness, have the nineties come back in style, or has she just never left them? And what the hell is up with the bright blue nails? Like she’d been finger painting and forgotten to wash her hands. She’d clearly expressed animosity for Red while shooting clay pigeons, but never given Carter a reason. Now, she’d not even tried to shade her scorn. “Red’s here at my request.”

  She squinted, but pulled out a chair at a cheap maple veneer conference table. Carter yanked up on his pants and did the same. Red sat across from her and leaned elbows on the table. Was he goading her? Carter had told him to keep his mouth shut. Hopefully he’d listen.

  Stacy brushed the table surface with her fingertips as if she were petting a cat, blue dots swirling on a sand-colored sea. It didn’t appear to be a nervous tell. She was considering her words. She’d been fair when he’d dropped in with Grind for questions at her home. She deserved the benefit of the doubt.

  Carter sat back and unbuttoned his jacket. He glanced at his watch. “You called me. You have information or need my help? Which is it?”

  Her fingers froze. She smirked. “I thought we’d be a team on this, Detective. I told you that investigating Senator Moses had been a pet project of mine for years now.” She glanced up at Red, as if trying to read his expression. To his credit, he gave nothing.

  “That’s not the way I remember it. I’m grateful for your advice, but we didn’t strike any deal.” He and Grind had been rather eager to leave her home that day. Had he missed an unspoken cue?

  Flashing blue and red lights reflected off her eyes. An ambulance must have arrived outside. “I thought it was clear enough. I help you. You help me. Who to allow in. Who to leave out.” Her gaze lifted to Red again with that last statement.

  Why’d this woman have such an ax to grind with his friend? “Red has just as much at stake as Lori. If we’ve got some sort of deal here, he’s a part of it.”

  Red opened his mouth for the first time. “Where’s Lori? Thought she’d be here.”

  Stacy turned her chair to Carter. “You discovered something about Senator Moses and didn’t let me know. Let’s hear it.”

  That answers one question. She wants to be on the receiving end. But how’d she hear he’d made progress in his investigation? Red must’ve mentioned something to Lori. “First, Red told me you validated the identity of one of the operatives chasing Red and Lori. One Agent Stump, I believ
e. As you know, he wasn’t with the FBI. Which raises the question of whose side you’re on.”

  Stacy pinched the bridge of her nose. “I never validated his identity. How the hell would I do that in such a short amount of time? The FBI had so many assets on-site, they didn’t even know which end was up. I simply told her there were several agencies engaged in search and rescue. She jumped to conclusions.”

  Plausible. But Lori wasn’t there to confirm. Still… “We received authorization to tap the senator’s phones and monitor his home network. His computers.”

  Stacy started to pet the cat again. “A formality. To legitimize your previously illegal eavesdropping.”

  He’d not even mentioned that to Red. If something had gone wrong with the unlawful taps, he wanted him to have plausible deniability. Where was this woman getting her information? She was taunting him, hanging it over his head, but to what end? “You can appreciate the need to protect an investigation’s integrity. We’ve recently gathered damning evidence.”

  White lights flashed in her eyes. “You’ve linked him to what happened on Pikes Peak?”

  That came out of nowhere. Was she making fun of him? “No. I’ve got lesser charges wrapped tight. I’ve got other evidence we’re still wading through of a more significant nature. National security type of accusations. If my hunch proves correct, it could get him a lethal injection, though I doubt he’d ever receive it.” He wasn’t going to elaborate on the list of operators and CIA assets he suspected Moses was peddling to the highest bidder. Her bottom lip seemed to stick out. Was she trying to pout? “I can give more, but this deal of yours looks one-sided at this point. Why should I share with you?”

  She stood and strode to the far end of the room, bell-bottoms brushing her ankles. That suit belonged in a museum. The cheap leather of her shoes creaked. But she didn’t rise to her position in the CIA by being a fashion expert. She was sharp as hell. Maybe the clothes were a distraction to cover something else. But what?

  Reaching into a mini fridge tucked inside a credenza, she pulled out a bottle of water, offering one to Carter as well. He lifted a hand in a no thank you. She twisted the cap. “When I was young, my grandma came to live with us. She set her watch by Lawrence Welk and Paul Harvey.” She tipped up the bottle. “Ever heard of him? He had a radio show where he told The Rest of the Story. That’s what I’ve got. The rest of your story.”

  She placed the half-empty bottle on the table. Red lipstick was smudged around the threads. She licked a droplet from the corner of her mouth. “Let’s cut the shit. You are now in possession of evidence that implicates Senator Moses with money laundering in support of his political campaigns. If you’re good as I think you are, it’ll stand up in court. Big deal. This lethal injection stuff?” She tapped her middle finger hard onto the table. “I want in on it. We need to know if it ties in with what I’ve discovered.”

  Whatever. Take, take, take. Carter was starting to feel sorry for Skinny, if that was in fact her significant other. He stared at her chin because her eyeshadow was too distracting, but clamped his lips shut. He’d wait her out.

  Finally, she said, “The rest of the story is that I’ve made significant strides into tracking who funded the wet team that came after Lori.”

  Red, covering his mouth in a yawn, stiffened and dropped his hand. He opened his lips, but Carter cut him off. “Go on.”

  Another swig. She was really playing this up. Teasing. Had this woman ever even consummated her marriage?

  Then: “Lori told me how she disclosed to you our ‘back door’ with Mossad, an unofficial exchange of financial intelligence, and how it had gone silent a while ago. Tracking that almost-dead operative’s bank transfer has proven to be a challenge, but we did it. With seventy-six percent certainty, it originated with an account controlled by Mossad.” She waved a hand in a rolling motion. “It’s covered by several layers of corporations, bureaucracy, and old-fashioned friendship, but it’s controlled by them nonetheless.”

  Red had done well staying quiet, Carter mused. But now his face was so flushed his beard appeared blond. With a clenched fist, he blurted, “Who? We can take care of him.”

  Another swig. “That’s just it. We don’t know. It certainly wasn’t an officially sanctioned event. We work too closely with them. We’re valuable. It was an individual. Someone working on their own.”

  “Then tell Mossad about it. They could find out who authorized the payment.”

  “Yes, but you’re assuming they’d take care of it and that we’ve got nothing to lose. By informing them, we’d be broadcasting we’ve been spying on their financials for decades. Not good form to tell your neighbor you’ve been gazing through their bedroom window.”

  Red stood and leaned over the table, as if he were going to crawl across it. “This is my family we’re talking about. I don’t care if—”

  Carter grabbed his arm, and Red froze, then sat back down. Stacy took another swig and said, “To hell with your family. This is bigger than you. Your peep sight view of the world doesn’t cut it when it comes to larger issues of national security.” She aimed the bottle at Carter. “This is why I don’t like operators. They’ve got one hammer, and everything’s a nail.”

  Carter had never seen Red angry, but now his eyes glowed bloodshot. He wanted to chew this woman’s face like Hannibal Lecter. “At least we get things done.” he growled.

  Stacy stood this time, planting fingers like roots onto the table. She leaned across it. Droplets of spittle sprayed the air as she spat, “Your organization getting things done has destroyed years’ worth of asset building! Have you ever considered that sometimes it’s better to leave your targets intact? That maybe other organizations have plants deep undercover? People we’ve been working half a decade to turn? Then they get thanked with your bullet through their skull. After that, you know how difficult it is to rebuild? Your op in North Korea accomplished nothing!”

  That’s what this was all about.

  Red gripped the armrests. “It wasn’t for nothing. We plugged a hole. One from inside your organization.”

  “My organization? The kind detective hasn’t informed you the list is back on the market?” She glanced at Carter.

  Red’s eyes narrowed. “Huh?”

  Stacy leaned back and crossed her arms, as if appraising a piece of art. “Yeah. All that work you went through. The insertion. The op. The exfil. All of it was a temporary fix. Your name and ugly mugshot, along with countless others like you, plus CIA agents, handlers, and informants. Worst intel breach in our history, back on the market. You accomplished nothing.”

  Red sank into his chair, eyes dashing back and forth, trying to absorb the blow. “Our op plugged the hole. We fixed all that.” Both glanced at Carter.

  Carter’s gut knotted. He stifled a grunt. How the hell did she know this? He’d kept a tight lid on his investigation. Only a few people even knew about it, and only two knew of his suspicions that Moses was about to sell the list. She’s bluffing. He scratched his nose. “And where are you getting this from?”

  Stacy’s blue-domed eyelids glittered in a beam of sunlight. “From you! Just now.” She stomped to the fridge and grabbed another bottle. “You play the cool detective, all poker faced. But your pupils just dilated like you were high on weed when I mentioned that. An involuntary response. If that hadn’t worked, I’m monitoring your heart rate through your seat. I’d only suspected it before, but thanks for the confirmation.” She tipped up the bottle. “See how fun interdepartmental sharing can be?” A coy smirk. “I’m getting goose bumps.”

  This woman was whacked. Either that, or she was one of the best interrogators Carter had ever seen.

  Red rubbed the back of his skull, his face curled in doubt. “Carter?”

  “We’ll talk later, Red.” He pointed to Stacy, taking another swig. The woman was going to have to pee soon. He needed to think. To re
group. But first: “So, how does this fit in with your Heavy Paul guy?”

  Stacy wagged a finger as she drank. More lights flashed across the back wall. A fire truck’s siren screamed. “Paul Harvey. It’s the rest of the story. You’ve got evidence Moses laundered money. I’ve got evidence someone in Mossad sent a wet team after Lori. The two have to be linked. I’m going to use Lori as bait to draw out who in Mossad is responsible.”

  Red was already shaking his head. “Over my dead body. Not gonna happen.”

  Stacy held up her bottle in a cheers. “Too late, little man.” She flipped her wrist, checking her watch. “She’s on a flight to Jerusalem. A thousand miles over the Atlantic as we speak.”

  Chapter 29

  Ben Gurion Airport

  Lori Harmon stepped from the hull of the Boeing 747-400 onto the gray-carpeted jet bridge. She dropped her small black carry-on and extended the handle, pulling the suitcase behind her. Her lower back and neck ached as she made her way into Terminal 3 of Ben Gurion Airport, Tel Aviv, Israel. She’d never mastered the ability to sleep on aircraft, and the eleven-hour flight from JFK had been no exception. Work sprang for a first-class ticket as part of her cover, but her seatmate had been a gregarious young Hasidic Jew who’d gabbed all night long about his thriving fabric trade in Manhattan’s garment district. Men in that sect were normally reserved, so at one point she’d suspected him of shaking her down. But his boring, tedious knowledge of fabric dyeing was thorough enough to convince her otherwise—though not quite boring enough to put her to sleep.

  The wheels of her carry-on clicked over the tile seams all the way down the terminal, beneath a blue sign in Hebrew and English reading Immigration with an arrow. Next to it was mounted a black hemisphere, a housing for one of the many CCTVs. The airport was medium sized by modern standards, maybe one-fifth the size of Atlanta’s. A stream of passengers spilled from another jet bridge and merged with her own, like salmon joining the stream. Wheels clicked, heels thumped, and chatter rose in Hebrew and English and French and—she cocked her head to listen—a young voice in Arabic with a Syrian accent whined, “Mommy, I’m hungry.” The statement was met with a sharp “Hush!”