Taggart jabbed himself in the chest with a finger. “We run the show. We always have. Elections are a dog and pony show. The power structure in Washington decides who gets to be president. We just let the people think they have a choice.”
“How do you explain an independent in the election?” Sam asked.
“A fluke,” Taggart said. “People rallied behind him because he talks tough and doesn’t play by the rules, but don’t be fooled. He hasn’t got the backing of anybody on the Hill.”
“So the Washington machine calls the shots,” Sam said. “Is that it?”
Taggart inclined his head.
“So much for democracy,” Sam muttered.
“Democracy is overrated,” Taggart told her. “People need a ruling class, whether they realize it or not. Provide them with fast food, football and cable television, and they’ll keep forking over tax money and voting us into power.”
“The illusion of freedom,” Sam said.
“That’s right.”
“To be clear,” Sam said. “You’re asking me to help plant false evidence against the Director of the FBI?”
“Think of this as an opportunity,” Taggart told her. “What you have here is a chance to collect a few chips in the big game—to ingratiate yourself with the real power in Washington.”
“I’m listening,” Sam said.
Chapter Seventeen
Burke arrived at the office exhausted, feeling like he hadn’t slept. He had been up most of the night arguing with his wife. They did that a lot lately. Kowalski handed him a cable out of Southeast Asia as he passed by the sea of cubicles. The front of the manila folder was stamped urgent—eyes only.
Burke’s secretary, Dana, was at her desk. Carefully manicured nails flew over the keys and her breasts strained against blue silk. Her blonde hair was up in a ponytail this morning. Burke caught a whiff of warm vanilla and imagined Dana in tub full of soapy water.
She glanced up as he entered. A playful smile twitched the corners of her red lips. “You look like hell, boss.”
“Good morning to you too.” He dropped Kowalski’s file on her desk and passed through into his own office. There were no accolades on the walls, no pictures, and nothing personal. His desk was utilitarian: a computer and a phone. A safe was built into the wall behind the desk. Cardboard boxes were stacked in one corner, next to a rubber plant that Burke had inherited along with the office. The only excess he allowed himself was a top-of-the-line swivel chair with memory foam. If he was going to be sitting all day, he might as well be comfortable.
Dana poured coffee, mixed in just the right amount of cream and sugar, and followed Burke into his office. “Boy Wonder had a meeting with Foster first thing this morning,” she informed him.
Burke dropped into his chair and rocked a few times. “Hunt on his way to Mexico?”
“Not yet.” She handed him the coffee.
Burke accepted the mug with a nod. “Only a matter of time,” he said. “Before the end of the day, would be my guess.”
Dana spotted a wadded-up bag of potato chips half-buried under paperwork. She pulled it out and gave him a stern look.
He hitched his shoulders.
She tossed the crumpled bag, overhand, into the wastebasket. The movement strained her blouse. Burke caught a tantalizing glimpse of black lace between the buttons. The potato chip bag hit the rim and went in.
“Two points,” Burke said.
She perched on the corner of his desk and crossed her legs. Her skirt rode up, revealing a pair of tan thighs. “Think Noble will go to Mexico?”
Burke woke up his computer with a nudge of the mouse and logged in using his passcode. “He’s probably there already.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“I been playing this game a lot longer than you, kid.”
“Hope you’ve thought this through,” Dana said. “A lot is riding on it.”
“Noble is our best bet.”
“You put a lot of faith in this guy.”
“He’s one of the best I ever trained,” Burke said. “You’d like him. He’s about your age.”
“Is that right?”
He inclined his head. “You could do worse.”
She arched one sculpted brow. “Maybe I like my men a little older.”
Their eyes met. Burke felt a stirring deep in his gut. He said, “Find out what Kowalski thinks is so urgent, will you?”
She slipped off his desk and adjusted her skirt. “Anything else?”
“See if the vending machine has any cheddar cheese chips.”
“I’ll get you a fruit salad from the cafeteria,” Dana told him.
He watched her walk to the door.
Chapter Eighteen
Delta flight 7202 touched down at Mexico City International Airport just after 2pm. Tires screamed on the tarmac, jerking Noble from a fitful sleep. A yawn nearly dislocated his jaw. He rubbed his eyes while the jet taxied to the gate, then collected his carry-on from the overhead, and shuffled for the exit along with the rest of the passengers.
At customs, he handed over his real passport. He was hoping the CIA had flagged his fake IDs and forgotten to flag his real name. It was a good bet. Hunt had, in fact, overlooked Noble’s real name when he alerted Mexican authorities to a potential terrorist threat.
The agent scrutinized Noble’s passport and recognized his face from the pictures tacked to a board in the break room. His eyes went to Noble and back to the passport. His hand slipped under the desk and Noble knew he was blown. A knot formed in his gut. From the corner of his eye, he spotted a pair of airport cops moving in his direction.
The customs agent said, “Would you follow these men, please? They have a few questions they would like to ask.”
“Is there a problem?”
“No problem, sir.” The agent hitched a smile onto his face. “Routine questions. That’s all.”
Airport security officers flanked him. One took his bag. The other gripped his elbow. It was all done in a very polite but firm manner. They steered him away from customs, past whispering crowds, and ushered him through a side door marked sólo el personal del aeropuerto.
Noble found himself in an uncarpeted hallway with bare walls and stark lighting. The smell reminded him of a FedEx store, the scent of cardboard boxes and fresh printer paper permeating the air. A door on his right had a sign marked portero. To the left was twenty meters of blank hall that ended with a right turn. The officers, still flanking him, steered Noble down the hallway.
He hadn’t committed any crimes in Mexico—that they knew of—so they couldn’t arrest him, but they could deny him entry and put him on the first flight back to America where Hunt would be waiting to pick him up. Noble couldn’t let that happen.
The heavy door clomped shut behind them, sealing out the noise from the terminal. The guard on Noble’s right had his arm in a vice grip. The guard on his left held Noble’s carry-on, leaving his holstered weapon unguarded. Noble grabbed the gun on the guard’s hip using his left hand and swung it in an arc, catching the other guard a blow to the face. The man’s nose broke with a snap. Blood spurted from his nostrils. He covered his face with both hands and staggered backwards.
The other guard tried to wrap Noble up in a bear hug. Noble reached over his shoulder, grabbed the officer’s uniform collar and used a judo throw, sprawling the officer out on the concrete floor in a semi-conscious daze.
The first officer recovered and tried to draw his weapon.
Noble swept his legs out from under him with a kick. The officer sat down hard and lost his grip on his gun. Noble kicked at the pistol. The Berretta skittered across the floor.
The officer put his hands up, bloody palms out. Droplets of blood flew when he spoke. “Please don’t kill me. I have a wife.”
“Ever want to see her again?” Noble asked in Spanish.
The officer nodded.
“Take your radio off your belt and toss it,” Noble ordered.
He hurried to comply.
“Now his,” Noble said, pointing to the semiconscious partner.
The cop scrambled over on his hands and knees, pulled the radio off his partner’s belt with trembling fingers, and tossed it.
“You’re doing good,” Noble reassured him. “Now, carry him into the closet.”
The officer got both hands under his partner’s armpits and hauled him to the janitor’s closet. He used his elbow to operate the latch. It was full of mops and cleaning agents, but the guard managed to squeeze into the space next to his partner, who was starting to come around.
A quick inspection of the door handle showed it only opened from the outside. Noble trapped both officers in the broom closet, took a moment to re-tuck his shirt and then retrieved his carry-on bag. He stuffed both firearms and radios inside before hurrying to the end of the hall. He followed the access corridor, navigating by instinct and hoping he didn’t run into any airport personnel, until he found a stairwell.
He took the steps two at a time, reached the ground floor and cracked the door for a peek. He was facing the luggage carousels and the exit. No one was watching the Employees Only door. Noble slipped out and strolled past the travelers waiting on their luggage.
He was halfway to the exit when alarm bells started. A pair of airport security people, milling around the luggage carousels, turned and hurried toward the nearest escalator. A few people looked up in surprise, but the alarm was too distant to cause panic.
Noble ignored it and kept moving.
A concrete overhang shaded the unloading zone where cars jockeyed for position at the curb. A balding man got out of a Nissan Tsuru to hug his wife and four-year-old daughter, leaving the driver’s side door open. The Tsuru is the Mexican equivalent of a 1992 Sentra. They are still manufactured in Mexico and, other than a transmission upgrade, built with all the original parts. For Noble that meant no modern bells and whistles, like On Star. He didn’t have to worry about the vehicle being shut down remotely.
While the man was busy making funny faces for his daughter, Noble slid into the driver’s seat and put the Nissan in gear. The sedan leapt forward. Noble cramped the wheel hard to miss the bumper of a parked SUV and then he straightened out as he merged into the passing lane. The father shouted and ran after the car. Noble put the accelerator down, swerving around slower vehicles, following signs for the freeway.
Chapter Nineteen
Hunt and his team of junior analysts had set up shop in one of the Situation Rooms on the second floor. Unlike the dimly lit rooms made popular by Hollywood, this one was bathed in bright fluorescent light. The carpet was gray and worn through in places. The coffee maker was crusted with hard water and computer fans gave off the smell of warm circuit boards. The Op had been designated Task Force Gringo, a name Gwen had come up with.
Ezra and Gwen were in their element, hunched over their terminals like a pair of nearsighted turtles. The rattle of keyboards broke the steady hum of the computers. Hunt paced while the tech nerds worked their magic.
Foster was the only other person with access to the temporary Op Center. There was a lot of scuttlebutt on the second floor about what Hunt was working on; several people speculated that he was running down a rogue officer, but no one knew for sure. Hunt liked it that way. Let them wonder. Cryptic rumors about black on black missions would bolster his reputation inside the Company.
So far, they had located Noble’s boat on the opposite side of Tampa Bay, docked and paid through the month. A thorough search of the vessel had failed to turn up anything useful. They had put out BOLOs in all the major airports and transit stations in Central and South America. They had even flagged his fake passports in Texas and Nevada on the off chance he would fly into Dallas and drive south.
At 3:55 p.m., just when Hunt was thinking about finding a couch to sneak a nap, Gwen pulled off her headphones and said, “An American matching Noble’s description just beat up two cops and escaped from Mexico City International Airport.”
Hunt swore. “Get me on the phone with airport security.”
Gwen rapped the keys and then handed the headset to Hunt. He put one headphone against his ear, adjusted the mic and waited for someone to answer.
“Hola…”
Before the phone operator could go any further, Hunt said, “This is officer Chuck Dixon with the United States Federal Bureau of Investigations. I’m calling about the American that just escaped custody.”
The operator transferred him to security. Hunt listened while an airport cop explained how Noble had disarmed a pair of officers and escaped. The suspect had been travelling under the name Jacob Noble. Hunt bit back another curse. “He’s wanted for questioning in connection to terrorism inside the United States. He should be considered armed and dangerous. You need to put out an A.P.B.”
“Qué?” the airport cop asked. “What is A.P.B., señor?”
Hunt covered the microphone with one hand. “What’s Spanish for ‘all points bulletin?’”
Ezra shrugged.
Gwen shook her head.
“Find out!”
Ezra opened a web browser. Gwen reached for an operations binder. Ezra was faster.
Hunt relayed the unfamiliar Spanish and waited.
The guy on the other end still didn’t understand what Hunt wanted. He threw the headphones down on the console and leaned over Gwen’s chair. “Get on the horn with Mexican law enforcement. Release Noble’s real name and photos. Make sure they know he’s armed and extremely dangerous. And one of you, for the love of God, find out how to say ‘all points bulletin.’”
Deputy Director Foster chose that moment to sweep into the Situation Room, demanding an update. He had a knack for catching employees at the worst possible moments.
“Airport security tried to apprehend him, but he got away,” Hunt said.
A vein throbbed in the center of Foster’s pale forehead. “How did he manage that?”
“He disarmed two cops.”
“Is anyone dead?”
Hunt shook his head.
“That’s a lucky break,” Foster said.
“He’s been in Mexico less than an hour and two cops are in the hospital,” Hunt said, exaggerating the seriousness of the officers’ injuries. “Imagine what he’ll do before the day is out. Put me on a plane to Mexico. I’ll nail this guy.”
Foster shook his head. “Track him from here. Alert the authorities in Mexico. I want Noble neutralized before sundown.”
“We are trying to put out an A.P.B.,” Hunt said. “If we can figure out how to say it in Spanish.”
He gave Ezra a significant look.
Ezra pointed to the screen in front of him. “That’s what it says right here.”
“Find Noble,” Foster said. “Before he does any more damage.”
“Um, pardon me, sir…” Gwen pushed her glasses up her nose. “Any idea what he’s up to? It would make it easier for us to track him.”
“You aren’t paid to ask questions,” Foster told her. “Noble’s a loose cannon. Always has been. He needs to be found. Find him.”
Gwen turned back to her computer with her shoulders up around her ears and her head down, like a scolded puppy.
“We are doing everything we can from here,” Hunt said.
Foster disappeared through the door.
Hunt went back to pacing.
Chapter Twenty
Noble ditched the stolen car in a crowded lot. Even without OnStar, the local police would have a bulletin out on the stolen Tsuru. He left the keys in the ignition and walked west on Andrade Avenue with the afternoon sun beating down. The mercury was topping one hundred degrees. People walked with their eyes narrowed against the heat. At least Saint Petersburg got a breeze off the Gulf. Mexico City is landlocked. Noble could feel the asphalt burning through the soles of his shoes.
It had been seven years since he had been in Mexico City. His team had pulled a successful sneak and peak in Chile and then spent three days in Mexico dr
inking cheap booze and chasing skirts. The capital hadn’t changed much. It was still a sun-drenched metropolis surrounded by slums in the middle of a desert—an urban nerve center working hard to make a place for itself on the world stage, struggling somewhere between the first world and the third.
Noble hailed a motorcycle cab. Enterprising young Mexicans in need of work used cheap motorbikes as unlicensed taxi services. The kid driving looked fifteen or sixteen. Noble asked if he was familiar with the Santa Ana Mission.
“Sí, señor.”
Noble threw a leg over the seat. The kid eased off the clutch, twisted the throttle and zig-zagged through the ever-present traffic that jammed up the city center. Noble leaned back, gripping the chrome luggage rack, and enjoyed the wind in his hair. The air was a chemical soup that had to be swallowed instead of inhaled. Noble shuddered to think what it was doing to his lungs.
The Santa Ana Mission occupied a corner lot. It was two stories, built from sandstone with red clay shingles. A massive wooden cross was nailed to the front of the building. Pigeons roosted in the bell tower.
The kid charged twice the going rate and then roared off in search of another sucker. Noble pushed through a pair of large oak doors into a candle-lit cloister. The thick stink of incense sucker punched his sinuses. He felt like an interloper here. Noble was on the fence when it came to the whole “hereafter” business. If there was a God, He and Noble weren’t on speaking terms.
Noble made his way into the nave. His steps echoed. Rows of wooden pews marched toward a simple pulpit. Light struggled in through stained glass windows. A sculpture of Christ was nailed to a cross. Blood dribbled from his wrists and feet. His eyes were turned up to heaven.
Hell of a way to go out, Noble thought to himself.
A young priest threaded his way between the pews. He had thinning hair and delicate features. In perfect English he said, “Have you come for confession?”
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