End Game

by David Baldacci

  7

  TICK-TOCK OF the clock.

  Robie and Reel sat on opposite sides of the table in the small conference room at Langley. It was a room they had sat in many times before.

  Only this time was different. For a variety of reasons, and none of them good.

  Robie glanced down at Reel’s oblique. In Mississippi, a bullet had struck her there.

  “Healed?” he asked.

  “Apparently” was her reply.

  She glanced at his right arm, which had been torn apart and then surgically repaired. “How about your arm?”

  “Apparently good enough.”

  Robie fiddled with something in his pocket. It was the note that he had found on his bed. He wanted to pull it out and ask her what the hell it meant.

  Then the door opened and they both sat up straighter.

  The woman entering the room was Blue Man’s boss, the director of Central Intelligence. Blue Man’s new boss. The old one had resigned due to stress and an inability to manage it as one professional crisis after another slammed into his Agency.

  The new DCI was Rachel Cassidy. She was in her late forties. She’d been an intelligence officer in the Army, then in politics for a short while. She’d worked a few years in the financial world on Wall Street, then returned to her roots where she’d held positions in the Defense Department and the NSC before being named deputy director of the CIA.

  Now she held the top spot, and she looked up to the task.

  She was petite and wiry with shoulder-length brown hair. She was dressed in a dark pantsuit with a white blouse. She wore no jewelry and only the barest of makeup. Her eyes were wide and hazel and held on you like a laser. By her demeanor the term wasting time did not appear to be in her lexicon.

  Cassidy was regarded as a thorough professional who saw no obstacles, only solutions, and whose bullshit meter was among the best in the business. That last attribute was an absolute necessity in this field, mainly because she had to deal with elected officials, who could spew crap like an untended fire hose did water.

  She sat down and looked first at Robie and then at Reel.

  “You’ve had a preliminary briefing.”

  It was not really a question, yet both of them nodded.

  Cassidy leaned forward and looked at Robie. “London.”

  Robie glanced at her.

  “Are you fully recovered?” asked Cassidy.

  “Nothing to recover from,” replied Robie.

  Cassidy looked at Reel. “And you?”

  Now Reel looked directly at Robie. “Same answer, Director.”

  “Good. Roger left here six days ago on vacation.”

  “I didn’t think Blue Man took vacations,” said Robie.

  “Everyone takes vacations, Robie, even Blue Man,” Cassidy said briskly. “He flew to Denver and then drove to his final destination. He did this every year about this time. He was going fly-fishing for a week.”

  Both Robie and Reel looked surprised by this. Neither knew much if anything about Blue Man’s personal life. That was just the way their world worked. Need to know extended to all corners, both professional and personal.

  “Why there?” asked Reel.

  “He was from the area. Born there, raised there. And he went back there pretty much every year.”

  Again, the pair registered surprise at this.

  “Did he go alone?” asked Robie.

  “Yes. Sometimes he went with some old friends, but not this year. He went alone and a few days ago he vanished.”

  “The place is called Grand,” noted Robie. “Was it a mining town or something?”

  “They thought it was, apparently, until they realized the gold and silver were mostly on the other side of the state.”

  “I assume the police have been called in,” said Reel.

  “The local police force, as you can imagine, is quite small. The state police were called in, but they’ve found no trace. They’ve officially departed the situation.”

  “What were they told?” asked Reel.

  “That a man was missing. They know nothing of his background. And that won’t change.”

  “We’re not investigators, Director,” said Robie.

  She swiveled her laser gaze around to him. “That’s not what Blue Man told me after your trip to Mississippi. He said you were actually quite good at it.”

  “We made mistakes along the way,” said Reel.

  “Just don’t repeat them here.”

  “Wouldn’t it be more prudent to enlist the FBI on something like this?” asked Robie. “We’re not a law enforcement agency. We have no arresting authority.”

  “The Bureau has been notified and is monitoring the situation. But we like to look after our own, Robie.” She stared hard at him as she said this. “I think you got a dose of that in Mississippi, didn’t you?”

  Robie glanced away. “Yes.”

  “Blue Man’s disappearance may be unrelated to who he is and what he does. But I still consider this a national security issue, and I have asked for and received backing on this position from the highest levels. That brings it directly into our jurisdiction. And the last thing we need to reveal is that a high-ranking intelligence officer has gone missing. The world is a tinderbox right now. This would add enough fuel to that fire that I’m not sure any of us can accurately predict the downside. You will have the assistance and cooperation of all relevant federal agencies, but you and Reel know him best. That’s why you’re here. He covered your backs many a time. Now you can return the favor.” She rose. “So find him. And bring him back safely, if at all possible. You’ll receive fuller particulars and all logistical details before you leave here.”

  Then she was gone.

  On to the next crisis, no doubt.

  Robie looked at Reel. “I guess we’re working together again.”

  She nodded curtly.

  “Whether we want to or not,” he added.

  She didn’t nod at this comment.

  He said, “We need to put aside any personal issues and get this job done.”

  Reel glanced over at him. Her gaze was reminiscent of Cassidy’s, and it was not the first time that Robie had felt the burn of it.

  “I have no personal issues about anything, Robie,” said Reel.

  “Good, glad we got that straightened out.”

  “We find Blue Man,” she said. “Then we go our separate ways.” She rose and walked out.

  Robie took out the note that she’d left him, balled it up, and tossed it into the trash can.

  Chapter

  8

  ROBIE AND REEL rode government wings to Denver, landed, and retrieved a large, hard-sided case that was waiting for them at the airport. They had reserved a big Yukon, and they loaded in their stuff and set off heading northeast.

  They had not spoken on the three-hour flight and had passed the town of Fort Morgan on Interstate 76 before Robie broke the silence.

  “Eastern Plains. Westernmost section of the Great Plains where it notches into Nebraska. Not much out here. Pawnee Buttes, Comanche National Grassland. Rolling hills, flat farmland, one-room schoolhouses, forests, canyons, rivers, and lakes. Not much rain. Small towns. Yuma and Sterling are big cities out here. Dwindling populations. People heading to somewhere else. Never really recovered from the Dust Bowl in the thirties.”

  Reel glanced at him. “Thanks for the guided tour,” she said drily.

  “Just making small talk.”

  “Since when?”

  “Since now, apparently. You know, to fill in the gaps that appeared out of nowhere.”

  She made no reply to this, but stared back out the window at the stark, rugged landscape as they got off the interstate and kept going more east than north. As they drove on, the conditions of the roads deteriorated from paved to gravel, and Reel saw some roads that were only dirt.

  They’d passed one farmhouse in the last four miles. The rest of the land was just empty.

  “I guess Blue Man lik
ed his privacy,” she said.

  “Didn’t know he was from here. Or that he was a fly fisherman.”

  “It wasn’t that sort of a relationship,” replied Reel. “It was just work.”

  “Maybe for you.”

  She shot him a glance. “I want to find him too, Robie.”

  “Never doubted it.”

  The “town” of Grand seemed a misnomer, as there were only about sixty structures total on the macadam street that constituted the main downtown area. A few streets bled off the main one on either side. The buildings there were a mixture of businesses and private residences. It seemed that most people did not live in town, preferring the wide-open spaces that surrounded Grand.

  Robie pulled the Yukon to a stop in front of one of the buildings with a sign proclaiming it to be the Town of Grand’s sheriff’s office. A dusty cop cruiser, a Ford Mustang, was parked out front.

  Robie and Reel got out of the Yukon and stood in front of the station.

  “What were their names again?” asked Reel.

  “Valerie Malloy and Derrick Bender. Sheriffs and detectives all rolled into one.”

  “Which one is the boss?”

  “She is. He’s the deputy sheriff.”

  “Well at least they got that right,” noted Reel.

  She stepped forward and opened the door, while Robie shot her a glance.

  The front room was small and warm, and the glare of sunlight coming through the single window made it hard on the eyes.

  The door of an interior room opened, and a woman in her midthirties appeared there. She was in uniform, which rode well on her lanky, athletic frame. Her hair was dark and hung straight to her shoulders. Her face held sharp angles, and the overall effect was quite pretty. However, these features were flexed into a scowl, which was not attractive at all. The dark hair was paired with icy blue eyes. Her gun belt encircled her narrow waist. She placed one hand on top of her service pistol as she looked across the width of the room at them.

  “Sheriff Malloy?” said Reel.

  “Yes?”

  “We’re here about Roger Walton? I assume you got a call?”

  Malloy stepped forward after giving first Reel and then Robie a long, scrutinizing look.

  “I did. They said someone would be coming. You have ID? I like to know who I’m dealing with.”

  Reel and Robie pulled their IDs and held them up. They weren’t their real creds, but these would pass any check that Malloy could run.

  “Who exactly is this Walton guy that two Feds show up here?”

  “He exactly is someone we want to find,” said Robie crisply.

  “So he’s important to the Feds or something?”

  “Or something.”

  “He’s not a criminal you’re looking for?”

  “What makes you say that?” asked Reel.

  “I like to cover my bases. Is he?”

  “No. He’s one of the good guys.”

  “Were those your real creds?” she asked.

  “Why wouldn’t they be?” asked Reel.

  “I haven’t always worked out here. I used to be a cop back in New York. We dealt a lot with the Feds back there. They weren’t always straight with us. I doubt things have changed.”

  “I doubt they have, too” was all Robie would volunteer.

  “What made you trade New York for…this?” asked Reel.

  “Life.” She turned and motioned for them to follow her into her office.

  She closed the door behind them and indicated two straight-backed wooden chairs fronting a gunmetal-gray desk with two large dents and what looked to be a bullet hole in the right side.

  Perched on a wooden file cabinet was a fan that looked about sixty years old. It halfheartedly moved warm air from one side of the room to the other.

  There was a wall air conditioner unit, but its unplugged power cord dangled against the wall like a limp snake.

  On another wall was a large duty roster with only two names on it, hers and Bender’s. His status was shown as “on patrol.”

  Her chair squeaking, Malloy sat down and looked at them over the neatly arranged items on her desk.

  “Roger Walton.”

  “That’s the man,” said Reel.

  “I Googled him. Didn’t find anything other than some distant Walmart heirs that had nothing to do with your guy.”

  “Our guy’s not in retail.”

  “State cops were here for a bit. Then they left. I wonder if they were called off?”

  “I wonder,” said Reel curtly.

  “And then you guys show up. I thought it would be more than two. I thought maybe some private jet would wing it in here and a whole team of people dressed in black with MP5s might ride a motorcade into our humble town.”

  “Nope, just us,” said Robie.

  Reel said, “You have a file on this? We’d like to see it.”

  “I have a file and I’ve been told to share it.”

  “Okay,” said Reel expectantly.

  “But I’m not looking to get pushed off an investigation on my turf. We work this, we work it together.”

  Robie glanced at Reel. She kept her eyes on Malloy.

  “Where in New York?”

  “NYPD, first the Bronx, then Queens. Then I moved out to Westchester.”

  “Tired of getting shot at?”

  “No, my boyfriend at the time thought it would improve my mood at home. It didn’t.”

  “You ever work any cases beyond uniform?”

  “I had my papers in for detective before I left. I’ve got my forensics certifications. I notice stuff. I sweat the details. And this is my town,” she added. “I know everybody here. And I mean everybody, because there aren’t that many of us.”

  “I can see that,” said Reel. “What do you say, Robie? In or out?”

  “If she can help us, I don’t have a problem.”

  Reel turned back to Malloy. “The file?”

  The door opened.

  Standing there was a tall, uniformed man in his thirties with wide shoulders and hips so narrow his pants seemed in danger of sliding off him. His blond hair was short on top and longish in back, as though the hair was sliding off his head. He held a sweat-stained Stetson in his hand. His face looked like it had been out in the sun and wind since his birth. His facial features were long and slender, like narrow gullies cut through hard rock by water.

  “Thought you were on patrol,” said Malloy, frowning slightly.

  The man took a long step forward. “I was. Finished. And heard they were in town.”

  “And how’d you hear that?” asked Reel.

  The man glanced at her. “Folks saw your Yukon.”