by Jack Bowie
“Anyone else affected?”
“Not that we know of. The CBW experts looked at the video and think the spray was designed to limit collateral exposure. Likely to protect the assassin. One of the local teams even found the damn inhaler in a dumpster outside the museum. They’re sharing all the details with Interpol. There’s not much doubt about the connection to Samar.” Markovsky’s bravado washed away. He placed his glasses on his desk and dropped his head in his hands. “Dammit, Roger. There’s been no chatter about assassinations. Al-Jafar had formed a reasonably solid coalition. No one would have guessed he’d be assassinated in his own museum.”
“By a child,” Slattery added.
Markovsky glared at his friend. “The damnable thing is the treaty is such a sham. Iraq signed because we forced them to; Iran was tired of funding Shiite terrorists like Hamas and Hezbolah that were mostly giving them bad press, and the Saudis had spent fortunes on Wahhabi insurgents that weren’t taking care of Iran. And everybody’s afraid of ISIS. But the treaty isn’t going to stop the funding. It’s just a bunch of self-serving political crap.”
“But Matthews was right,” Slattery replied. “It was a symbol. Something that got all the signators in the world’s eye. Have you heard anything new from our friends overseas?”
“Not a thing. If we didn’t see it coming who would? I’m afraid I have to agree with Mossad’s assessment. A rogue actor is behind it. With a very different kind of assassination team. This is bad, Roger. Not only for the treaty, of course, but as a dangerous trajectory. There are two signators left and one of them is our President.”
“Has Matthews been updated?”
“Of course. Dean updated him after the first assassination. The Secret Service is working up a new threat assessment. Baghdad isn’t going to make their job any easier.”
“Can we keep Matthews home?”
“Unfortunately not. He’s committed to attending the G20 summit next week and refuses to back out. As I hear it, he expects us to have the threat neutralized by then.” Markovsky began rubbing the bridge of his nose. “I don’t want to go out this way, Roger. Have we got anything at all?”
Slattery hesitated, then took a deep breath. He hadn’t mentioned his suspicions to anyone else as yet, but it was time to get another opinion. And he trusted Markovsky to keep it private. “As a matter of fact, I might know who is behind this.” Markovsky’s jaw dropped. “But you’re not going to like who it is.”
* * *
When Slattery had told Markovsky about his suspicions, the man had gone ballistic. He had ordered Slattery back to his office to get some real evidence. And until then keep his damn mouth shut.
At least his boss hadn’t asked any more about Braxton. That would have likely ended Slattery’s career on the spot.
“Mr. Slattery?”
He looked up and saw Lewis standing hesitantly in the doorway.
“Yes, Cassie?” Slattery asked, hoping for some good news.
“There’s a Detective Martin Graves on the phone for you. He says he’s from Cambridge. Massachusetts. He wants to talk with you about a murder?”
So much for good news.
Slattery had spoken with Fowler earlier in the morning and had expected the call from CPD. He pulled a folder from the stack on his desk and spread it open.
“That’s fine, Cassie. Put him through. You didn’t need to get up, though. You could have used the intercom.”
“No trouble, sir. I didn’t want to disturb you.” Slattery shook his head.
His phone rang. “Roger Slattery.”
“Mr. Slattery. This is Detective Martin Graves. Cambridge Police Department.”
“Detective Graves. How can the CIA be of assistance to your department?”
“I’m calling in regard to the death of Colleen O’Connor, a resident of Cambridge and an employee of Omega Genomics. I believe you are familiar with the company?”
“Yes.”
“One of your employees, a Mr. Adam Braxton, is a person of interest in our investigation. We have tried to contact him but it appears he has left the area. We would like to know where he is.”
Well, the detective certainly is blunt.
“Before we proceed, Detective, I would like to clarify some of your facts so that I can answer accurately. How do you know I am acquainted with Mr. Braxton?”
“Ah, we learned this from Omega Genomics.”
“Omega Genomics is a company, Detective. Who at Omega provided this information?”
“Mr. Slattery. I am under no obligation to discuss aspects of the case with you. Please answer my question.”
“Detective. I am under no obligation to discuss what may or may not be activities between the CIA and Omega Genomics with you. In fact, there are confidentiality agreements in place that restrict what I can and cannot say. If you wish to proceed in this manner, I will be happy to give you the name of the CIA’s counsel and your district attorney can take that up with him.”
The pause was about as long as Slattery had expected.
“We were told by Dr. Kerry McAllister that Mr. Braxton was working for you. Now answer the question.”
The daughter. It figures.
Even over the phone, Slattery could hear the signs of stress in Graves’ voice—labored breathing, increased pacing. So far so good.
“I see. Thank you. First, Detective Graves, Mr. Braxton is not an employee of the CIA. The investment firm In-Q-Tel contracted with Mr. Braxton, an independent consultant, to perform a security audit of Omega Genomics. I will assume you understand what that means. I am affiliated with In-Q-Tel and acted as the placement officer for this audit. I believe Mr. Braxton began work at Omega on Tuesday.”
Slattery stopped and waited for Graves. It didn’t take long.
“So where is he, Slattery? Where is Braxton?”
“Is there a warrant for Mr. Braxton’s arrest, Detective? Was he informed not to leave the area?”
“He is a person of interest. We haven’t been able to talk to him.” Graves’ voice suddenly burst over the line. “Dammit, Slattery, he killed O’Connor. We know he did it. We have blood evidence. Where the hell is he?”
Slattery counted slowly to five and began. “Detective Graves. I do not know where Mr. Braxton is. It’s possible he simply left Boston for a long weekend.”
“Look, Slattery, nobody here in Cambridge likes the CIA. If you insist on impeding this investigation I’ll have your job.”
Slattery lowered his voice. It was almost too easy. “You look, Detective. I happen to know two rather prestigious universities that would disagree with your characterization. Do you know how many millions of dollars we pour into the Cambridge economy? You can’t begin to imagine the pressure we can put on you and your department.
“I do not know where Mr. Braxton is. As one law enforcement officer to another, let me suggest you spend less time threatening me and more time on running an adequate investigation. Get some real evidence. Something that can’t be easily planted. If you don’t, I’m afraid your dismal twenty-four percent closure rate will continue to plummet. Goodbye, Detective.” He set the handset in the cradle.
Slattery sat back in his chair and let his heart rate drop below the red zone. He had probably bought a few days, but it was time to get some help. He hated to call in the favor, but he needed these domestic ripples to die out. There were bigger waves to deal with.
“Cassie,” he yelled. “Get me Mary Ellen Flynn.”
* * *
It had taken Lewis half an hour to locate Flynn. During that time, Slattery had sat at his desk, quietly going over the facts, enumerating his options, evaluating the likely results. That was how he had survived his time in the field. “Thoughtful action” he called it.
But this situation was different. There were actors in play he didn’t know. With objectives he didn’t understand. He needed time to unravel the threads and for that, he needed to call in some favors. Fowler had been his first. This one would be harde
r.
He picked up the phone.
“Good afternoon, Mary Ellen.” Mary Ellen Flynn, Special Assistant to the Director, was his counterpart in the FBI. Flynn was a hot-blooded redhead who had clawed her way to the top of the FBI’s good-old-boys’ network. She currently led the FBI’s team at the National Counterterrorism Center in McLean, Virginia. Either respected or hated within her agency, depending on who you asked, she was Slattery’s kind of agent.
“Roger, how good to hear from you. How’s life in Langley?”
“Same as always. Probably just like McLean. I have a favor to ask.”
Slattery heard a deep breath on the other end of the secure line.
“And what can the FBI do that the CIA can’t?”
“I’m following a murder investigation in Boston. My gut says there may be international involvement, but I can’t prove it. Could I get a little time from Quantico to review some evidence?”
There was another pause on the line. Flynn was evaluating the proposition. The pros and cons, the opportunities and risks. Slattery could feel the wheels spinning.
“So you want me to stick the FBI’s nose into a local LEO investigation to calm your queasy stomach and keep you out of the picture?” she finally replied. “That sound about right?”
Not subtle, this lady. But that’s why I like her.
“This is important, Mary Ellen. Can you do it?”
“What’s the case?”
Slattery had worried about this question. If he told her the truth, she would be pulled into his little conspiracy. If he lied to protect her, she’d undoubtedly eventually find out and he’d lose one of his few friends in the FBI.
“It’s about Braxton.” He said it as calmly as he could.
“Jesus. He’s not dead is he?”
“No. He’s not the victim. He’s the subject of the investigation.”
Slattery could see Flynn’s head shaking, her fiery hair waving around her face.
“Christ, Roger. Why do you keep helping this nut-case civilian? Walk away.”
“He was on an assignment for In-Q-Tel. I sent him to Boston.”
Another sigh from the other side of the line. “Shit. Now I see why you need the help. You’re sure he’s innocent?”
“Absolutely. And the possible international connection is true. There’s more going on here than I can explain right now. Can you help?”
“Okay. I’ll play the national security card. How about you give the details to Manny? I’ll let him run it down.”
Manny Ikedo was the CIA’s liaison to the FBI’s counterterrorism team. Ikedo had been an analyst for Slattery during the hunt for a rogue ex-CIA agent and received the new position as a result of his contributions. And a few other considerations.
But Slattery knew this wasn’t all cooperation. Mediating through Ikedo gave Flynn at least initial plausible deniability.
“Thanks, Mary Ellen. I owe you. How is Manny doing by the way?”
“Just great, as I’m sure you know. Sometimes I think you posted him here just so you could spy on me.”
Slattery smiled. “You were the one that requested him, Mary Ellen.”
“Oh? Really? Who remembers?”
Right.
“Take care, Mary Ellen. We’re not paranoid you know.”
“You got that right, Roger. Later.”
Slattery ended the call. Now all he had to do was find Manny Ikedo.
Chapter 18
The Italian Alps
Friday, 6:15 p.m.
Braxton awoke as he was thrown against the passenger door. Darkness had fallen and the rolling hills of central Italy had given way to a harsh rocky landscape lined with tall pine trees.
They were rising quickly and Gina was negotiating the switchbacks like a Grand-Prix driver.
“Feeling better?” she asked.
“Yes, thank you. Where are we?”
“Well, you’ve been asleep for about six hours. We’ve passed Milano and have entered the Alps.”
The Alps? Gina had said they were going to Switzerland. Were they taking him to some mountain safe house? The car slowed and Braxton saw a line of cars ahead.
“We’re coming to the border check,” Gina reported. “Your passport, per favore. And let me do the talking.”
Braxton reached back, pulled his passport from the backpack and passed it to his driver. He was happy to let her take the lead. His Italian was non-existent.
As they inched toward the checkpoint, a light snow began to fall. All around him, the white-cloaked mountains climbed into the clouds like a Disney castle. It was truly a winter wonderland. Braxton wondered how long the reverie would last.
Gina snaked between the zig-zag barriers and negotiated the border checkpoints without problem. In fact, from the greetings she received, it appeared she knew all the guards personally. With a final wave to the authorities, she passed the last barrier and sped toward a tiny concrete hole in a wall of rock that rose into the clouds.
“Where are we going?” Braxton asked as she handed his passport back.
“This is the Mont Blanc Tunnel,” she replied. “It will take us into France, then Switzerland. You’re not claustrophobic I hope?”
“No. Why?”
“The Mont Blanc Tunnel is almost twelve kilometers long. That’s …”
This time, Braxton was able to perform the calculation. “Seven miles?”
“Yes. When it was completed in 1965 it was the longest, and deepest, highway tunnel in the world. It will only take us about ten minutes.”
“Okay.” Braxton was beginning to sweat. “It’s only two lanes. What happens if there’s an accident?”
“That hardly ever happens,” Gina replied with an impish grin. “Of course there was the accident in 1999. A Belgian tanker filled with vegetable oil caught fire. It was quite awful. Thirty-eight people died from the smoke and heat. The tunnel was closed for a week.
Braxton gasped.
“But many safety changes have been made. Now accidents only take a few hours to clear. I am glad you’re not claustrophobic. I had a guest last year who just, how do you say …” She suddenly took her hands off the wheel and shook them violently in the air.
“Freaked out?”
Like I’m doing?
“Ah. Yes. Grazie. He freaked out. I had to knock him unconscious.”
Gina still had on the sly smile, but Braxton didn’t think she was kidding.
* * *
They emerged from the tunnel at the French town of Chamonix—where Braxton breathed a small sigh of relief—and followed the A40 in a slow descent through small villages and farms. After about half an hour, Braxton saw the glow of a city in the distance.
“That’s Geneva,” Gina explained. “It lies at the southern tip of Lac Leman, a long eyebrow of water that connects Geneva, Lausanne and Montreux. The Rhone exits Leman there and flows through the center of the city. Geneva is quite beautiful, surrounded by the Alps and Jura mountains, although a bit too French for my taste. I’m sure you will enjoy it.”
Switching to the A411, Gina crossed into Switzerland and continued on the Route de Malignou. It was nearly ten o’clock and most buildings were dark, but the streets were still filled with traffic. Entering Geneva, she turned right on Rue d’Italie and left onto Rue du Rhone. He was studying the quaint storefronts and classic European architecture when Gina suddenly pulled the Ferrari to the side of the street and screeched to a halt.
“Where are we?” Braxton asked. He glanced around and didn’t see a hotel or similar place of rest anywhere.
“This is Place du Molard,” Gina replied, pointing out Braxton’s window. “Saint Anthony will meet you here. Just stay in the plaza until you are approached.”
He heard the door unlock. “Saint Anthony? How will I know him? What am I supposed to say?”
“Say you are looking for the American greeting.”
“American greeting? What does that mean?”
“You will understand. Please
, we are already late.”
Braxton took one last look at his lovely chauffeur, grabbed his backpack and stepped out onto the plaza. “Thank you, Gina,” he said with not a little trepidation.
“Arrivederci, Mr. Greystone,” she called back. “Good luck.”
He closed the door and the Ferrari sped away into the evening traffic.
Braxton walked slowly into the dark plaza. It was more a pedestrian walkway than a broad plaza, only about fifty feet wide. Far ahead he saw the lights of another street, but moving deeper ahead he left the light of the Rue du Rhone and into the darkness. On his left was a string of restaurants, now dark and closed. On his right were storefronts, also now dark. But there was some light; it was coming from the pavement itself. The plaza was covered in small dark cobblestones, but every few feet, in every direction, one of the pavers glowed with an eerie light. He could see no regular pattern; it was like a black ocean with whitecaps illuminating the surface.
He walked over to one of the lights and stared into it. This paver was not made of stone, but glass. Inside the glowing paver he saw engraved lettering, but the alphabet was odd. It looked Arabic. He wondered what it said. He turned to his right and stepped to another tile. This lettering was Cyrillic, perhaps Russian. Again, nothing he recognized. He moved forward. Gazing down he saw “BUENOS DIAS.” That he knew! It was “good day.” Now back to his left. The new tile said “BIEN VENUE.” It took him three more tiles but he finally found one in English: “GOOD MORNING.” Now he knew the meaning of his challenge phrase.
After five more minutes of studying the various languages on the tiles, he had still seen no one. Then a couple appeared walking directly toward him. She was dressed formally, in a long white fur coat and matching cap. A deep maroon silk scarf was knotted carefully around her neck. Her companion was older than she but dressed no less elegantly—dark suit with an even darker wool overcoat. A paisley scarf wrapped his neck.
As they approached, he didn’t know what to do. Should he speak first, or wait for them? Gina hadn’t said. He suddenly realized he was cold and tired. It had been over twenty-four hours since he had received the call from Slattery and the nap in the Ferrari hardly counted as rest. He had been dropped in the middle of a foreign city with a fake passport and no cell phone. What was he supposed to do?