by Brad Thor
Because of the angle of the tail section, the wind here wasn’t blowing straight through, but that was a small blessing at best. Outside, the temperature continued to plunge. Harvath needed to figure out some way to help better wall them off from the cold. He also needed to find blankets and a way to get IV fluids into the loadmaster. There had to be some sort of medical kit on the plane. Whether it had survived the crash was another question entirely.
In addition, he still needed a lever and fulcrum to raise the container off the man’s crushed legs, to gather up any food and water he could find, and come up with some sort of a pack in which he could carry as many supplies as possible that would aid in his escape.
It was a long list. The sooner he got started on it, the better—for both of them. He had no idea how soon a rescue team would arrive.
“I return,” he said, in his limited Russian.
The loadmaster didn’t respond.
It was a bad sign. Even so, Harvath had promised the man that he would help him.
Further back, near the cargo ramp, he opened a series of metal cabinets. Each contained a range of equipment, but none that he needed. If there was a med kit on board, it wasn’t in this part of the plane. Maybe it was kept up near the cockpit. And if so, it was a lost cause.
Harvath did, though, find what resembled some kind of moving blanket. His luck, at least in part, was holding out.
Removing it, he turned to hurry back to the loadmaster. But as he did, he came face-to-face with the remaining Spetsnaz soldier. The man was bleeding from a gash above his left eye and had a suppressed ASM-Val rifle pointed right at him.
“Zamerzat!” the man ordered, blood dripping down his face. Don’t move.
CHAPTER 6
* * *
* * *
GOVERNORS ISLAND
GILFORD, NEW HAMPSHIRE
“Whoever the killer was,” said Chief Tullis, “he or she knew what they were doing.”
“You think this was done by one person?” asked McGee.
“Not necessarily. Based on the footprints outside, there were likely multiple assailants. The victims, though, were all lined up, on their knees, and shot execution-style. Judging by the wounds, we believe it was done by the same shooter with the same weapon.”
Pointing at the bodies, he continued, “Based on the shot placement, specifically rounds being directed to the head, the chest, or both—the killer appears to have training. None of the shots went wide. We didn’t dig anything out of the walls, the ceiling, or the floorboards. No rounds went through any of the windows. Cool, calm, and collected. If I had to guess, I’d say the killer had probably done this sort of thing before.
“Then there are the cameras. Most of the seasonal properties up here have them in case of burglary or vandalism. This house has four and should have showed us anyone coming or going.”
“But?”
“We can’t review any of the footage.”
“Why not?”
“It was recorded to a DVR in a crawl space above the front hall closet. It has been smashed, and the hard drive is missing.”
Before he had even landed, there was no doubt in McGee’s mind that this was a professional hit. His two most pressing questions at this point were Who was the hitter? and Where was Harvath?
“How about the adjoining properties?” he asked. “How many of them have cameras?”
“Several,” the Chief answered. “I already have officers working on accessing the footage.”
“How soon will your team start in on hair, prints, and fibers?” asked Militante.
“All of that gets handled by the AG and the State Police. Our job is to secure the crime scene and preserve all possible evidence.”
“If there’s any assistance the FBI can give, all you have to do is ask.”
“Thank you,” Tullis responded. “I’m sure the Major Crime Unit will appreciate that.”
While McGee knew that forensics were often key in solving homicides, they didn’t have that kind of time. Whoever did this already had a big head start. In fact, if it was a professional, he or she was probably already out of the country. Time and distance were two of their biggest impediments—and those would only grow.
“What else have you found?” he asked.
“The shooter,” the Chief stated as he held up another evidence bag, “appears to have policed up all of the brass, except for one.”
McGee accepted the bag from him and, along with Militante, studied the shell casing.
“Nine millimeter,” the FBI Director concluded. “Popular round. Likely consistent with the gunshot wounds of the victims.”
The CIA Director nodded and handed the bag back to Tullis, who set it back on the table.
“Now it’s your turn,” replied the Chief.
Militante knew the police officer wasn’t speaking to him. He glanced at McGee, who had turned away and was staring out the window at the flat, gray lake.
“This was supposed to be a safe house,” the DCI revealed.
Tullis wasn’t surprised. With what he knew of the CIA, anything was possible. “Who were you keeping safe?”
“The man in the hospital bed.”
“Who was he?”
“One of the best our business ever saw.”
It was evident from his voice that the DCI held the man in high esteem. Out of respect, the Chief allowed a moment of silence to pass before continuing. “What was his name?”
McGee turned to face the den, and with it, the hospital bed. “Reed Carlton.”
“Was he CIA?”
“He was. Served decades as a case officer, ran stations around the world, and helped establish the Counter Terrorism Center. They broke the mold with him. No mission was ever too tough or too dangerous.”
Tullis looked at the body lying in the hospital bed. “Whom were you protecting him from?”
The DCI grinned. “Everyone.”
The Chief raised an eyebrow. “So he had enemies.”
“Lots of them.”
“Why the hospital bed? What was wrong with him?”
“He had Alzheimer’s.”
“My mother had Alzheimer’s,” Tullis responded. “It’s a terrible disease. Why wasn’t he in a hospital or an assisted living situation?”
“Part of the disease,” the CIA Director explained, “can involve the brakes coming off. Patients can say things they shouldn’t.”
Remembering his own ordeal, the Chief mused, “Tell me about it.”
“Reed had a lot of very sensitive information stored in his head. Some of those things, if they fell into the wrong hands, could have been harmful to the United States.”
“The CIA could have hidden him anywhere in the world, though. Why Governors Island?”
It was a reasonable question, but it hadn’t been the CIA’s call. It had been Harvath’s. He had been not only Reed Carlton’s protégé but also his heir apparent and in charge of all of his affairs.
“Reed summered here as a boy,” the DCI recounted. “His grandparents had a cottage on the island. The hope was that he’d be comfortable here—maybe even relive some of his oldest memories.”
“I wish you had let us know,” said Tullis, the compassion evident in his voice. “We could have looked in on him. Added extra patrols. My officers would have taken a lot of pride in helping to protect a man like Mr. Carlton.”
The DCI turned to face him. “I don’t doubt it. Thank you. In the end, we felt the fewer people that knew he was here, the better. It’s how we do things.”
“In secret.”
McGee nodded.
Chief Tullis regretted causing more pain, but he needed additional information. “I know it’s difficult, but what can you tell me about the other victims?”
The knot in McGee’s stomach hadn’t gone. In fact, it had only tightened. “Lydia Ryan worked for me at the CIA. She was one of the best field operatives I have ever known.”
“Any idea what was she was doing here?”
/> “She worked for Reed.”
“As in used to work for him? Back at the CIA?” Tullis asked.
McGee shook his head. “When the time came, Reed retired from the CIA. He gave it a good try. He played golf, took a couple of cruises, even joined a group of ex–case officers who got together weekly for lunch, but the lifestyle didn’t agree with him. He missed being in the game.
“By the time he tried to come back, though, the things he disliked about the Agency—particularly the bureaucracy—had only gotten worse. So, he decided to see what he could do from the outside and started his own company, The Carlton Group.
“Things went well for several years until he was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s. When that happened, he recruited Lydia to become the company’s new director.”
“What kind of company was it?”
“It’s a private intelligence agency.”
The Chief looked at him. “Is that like private contracting?”
“Kind of,” the DCI acknowledged. “They hire ex-intelligence and ex–special operations people to assist CIA missions.”
Tullis was intrigued. “What kind of missions?”
“I’m not able to discuss that.”
“Why not?”
“The operations that The Carlton Group were involved with are classified.”
That didn’t surprise the Chief. “What can you tell me about the other two victims?”
Gesturing toward the male corpse, McGee said, “Navy Corpsman. He was part of a rotating team. There was always someone in the house with medical expertise, keeping an eye on Reed.”
“Were they always armed?”
“Just in case.”
Tullis made a mental note of that and then, gesturing toward the final victim, inquired, “Do you recognize her?”
“I do. Her name was Lara Cordero.”
“She was carrying credentials identifying her as ex–Boston PD. Did she also work for The Carlton Group?”
The DCI shook his head. “No.”
“Any idea what she was doing here?”
“She was friends with Reed. And with Lydia.”
Tullis hadn’t handled a lot of murders, but he had conducted a lot of interrogations. He could tell when someone wasn’t being fully truthful.
“So, just up for a visit, then?”
“I guess so,” replied the CIA Director.
“Huh,” said Tullis as he removed a spiral notebook from his pocket. Flipping several pages in, he scanned his notes. “Based on the suitcase and clothing in the guest room, we assumed the Corpsman was staying here in the house. Lydia Ryan and Lara Cordero, though, had key cards for rooms at a nearby hotel.
“Ryan’s room was single occupancy, but Lara Cordero checked in with a man, a man whose clothes are still in their room and who hasn’t been seen for at least the last two days. Any idea who that might be?”
The knot in McGee’s stomach ratcheted ten degrees tighter. Pointing at the evidence bag containing the cell phone, he asked, “Is it on?”
The Chief nodded. “It is. It even has some battery left, but it’s locked.”
The CIA Director didn’t care. He had people who could open it. Though he had recognized the case, he just wanted to be certain it was Harvath’s.
Taking out his own cell phone, he pulled up his call log and redialed the number he had been calling and texting before leaving Langley.
It took only a moment for the call to connect.
As the phone inside the evidence bag began to vibrate, one of McGee’s worst fears was confirmed.
CHAPTER 7
* * *
* * *
The CIA Director was no stranger to death, but identifying the bodies of three close friends had taken a toll. He needed to get some air and clear his head. Until he did, he wasn’t going to be able to think straight.
Tullis could sense the DCI needed a break and suggested they all step outside. One of his officers had just made a run into town for coffee.
“Hope black is okay,” he said as he handed him a cup.
McGee, who was leaning against one of the patrol vehicles and studying the house, thanked him.
The pair stood in silence for several moments as the steam rose from their cups.
“What can you tell me about this Scot Harvath?” Tullis finally asked.
McGee chose his words carefully. Harvath was one of the country’s most valuable intelligence assets. “He’s one of the good guys. And tough as hell. He reminds me a lot of Carlton.”
The Chief let that sit for a moment. He didn’t want to ask his next question, but he had to. “Is Harvath capable of what happened inside?”
“Absolutely not.”
“You sound pretty certain.”
“I’m positive,” McGee declared. “And if you knew him, you’d be positive, too.”
“Then help me out. Who is he? Tell me about him.”
The only reason McGee was here was that Tullis had extended him a professional courtesy. The CIA had no jurisdiction. And short of some as-yet-undiscovered federal nexus or an official request for help, neither did the FBI. The least McGee could do was cooperate. “Where do you want to start?” he asked.
“How about we start with his full name?”
“Scot Thomas Harvath.”
Tullis had his spiral notebook back out, along with his pen. “And what was his relationship to the victims?”
“He worked for Reed Carlton.”
“At The Carlton Group?” the Chief asked.
“Yes.”
“In what capacity?”
McGee raised his cup and took a sip of coffee. “I believe he was Director of Operations.”
“You don’t know for certain?”
“It’s complicated. Harvath wasn’t big on titles. All I know is that Lydia carried out the day-to-day business, while Harvath took care of the ops side of the house.”
“Which entailed what?”
“He dealt with the assignments. Staffing them. Executing them. That sort of thing.”
Tullis took a few notes and then asked, “Tell me about his background.”
“He was a Navy SEAL for many years.”
“Which team?”
“If I remember correctly, he started out at Team Two—the cold-weather specialists—and ended up at SEAL Team Six. He caught the eye of the Secret Service and did some work for them, then ended up at the CIA doing contract work before joining Reed’s operation.”
“What kind of contract work?”
“I can’t discuss that.”
The Chief made several more notes. “Any PTSD?”
McGee shook his head. “The joke in our industry is that guys like Harvath don’t get PTSD, they give it.”
“So no issues that you are aware of.”
“Zero.”
“Any medications?”
“None that I know of.”
“What was his relationship with Cordero?” asked Tullis. “Were they romantically involved?”
“Yes.”
“Married?”
McGee shook his head once again.
“Engaged?”
“Not that I know of.”
“So were they boyfriend-girlfriend?” the cop probed. “Or was it more casual? A friends-with-benefits sort of thing?”
“They had been dating for a while. In fact, Lara had recently moved in with him.”
“Where was that?”
“Virginia, right on the Chesapeake. Just down from Mount Vernon.”
“Any problems? Any stress in their relationship that you knew of?”
McGee looked at him. “No.”
“How about at work? Any problems between him and Carlton?”
“No.”
“Any problems between him and Lydia Ryan?”
“No.”
“Was there anything beyond business going on between him and Lydia Ryan?”
“Absolutely not,” the CIA Director asserted, getting annoyed. “I’m telling you, Harvath’s
not the killer.”
Tullis looked up from his notebook. “I have to ask these questions. I’m just doing my job.”
McGee took another sip of his coffee. He needed to remain professional. “I know. I’m sorry.”
“You’ve lost people. I understand. But what I need you to understand is that until we’re able to rule him out, Harvath is going to remain a person of interest in this case. Based on everything you’ve told me, you must want his name cleared as soon as possible.”
“I do,” McGee replied. “Absolutely.”
“We have that in common, then.”
“What else can I do to help?”
The Chief trailed backward in his notes until he found what he was looking for. “When Harvath checked into the hotel with Cordero, he listed the make, model, color, and tag number of the car he was driving. It was a rental, picked up from Hertz at Manchester-Boston Regional Airport, about an hour and fifteen minutes south of here. It hasn’t been seen either.
“The AG’s people will likely issue a subpoena for the rental agreement. In the meantime, if you can provide a photo of Harvath, as well as his Social Security number, a copy of his driver’s license, as well as any credit card and banking information, you’d be giving the investigation a huge leg up.”
McGee’s mind, partially cleared, was already two steps ahead. “By law, I can’t give you anything from his file, not without a subpoena. But as a private citizen, concerned over his whereabouts, I might be able to get you a photograph.”
“That’d be very helpful.”
“In the meantime, how thoroughly have you searched the area?”
Tullis pointed to the K9 SUV parked halfway down the drive. “We secured a piece of his clothing from the hotel. So far, our canine unit hasn’t had any luck.”
McGee knew that detecting viable scent differed from dog to dog. It normally depended on the handler and how the animal had been trained. The longer the scent was in the wild, though, the harder it was for most dogs to pick up, much less track.
“Any blood or sign of a struggle outside?” he asked.
“None,” answered Tullis.
“Have you checked the shoreline?”