“Green-light every faction we have in America. When they’re in place, make sure they call me first, for the go-ahead. I want to time this a certain way.” Saajid made sure his sister was looking at him. “No one moves without hearing from me first.”
“Glad you’re finally on board, Saajid. Let’s show them what more than a decade of pragmatic planning can do, and use it all to strike at once!”
Saajid nodded. “Let’s bring them to their knees.”
35
Lexington, Kentucky
The gates opened and Dbie Johnson pulled the car through. Bobby and Beth Gibbons had gotten to know her pretty well during the eight-hour drive they’d shared from Washington, DC, to Lexington, Kentucky. The grounds of Alexander King’s home were spectacular. Just through the gate, the driveway stretched out straight ahead as far as the eye could see. On both sides of the road, massive trees arched and met overhead, forming a canopy for the long drive to the house. White wooden fencing ran along the property lines on both sides, just beyond the trees.
“Oh look,” Beth said. “Is that a Thoroughbred pony and its mother running along the fence?”
Bobby watched the two black majestic-looking animals frolicking in the pasture. “I believe so. Gorgeous, aren’t they?”
“Such beautiful animals,” Beth said.
“Yeah,” Dbie said from the front seat. “Even though Mr. King is gone, Sam still makes sure the place runs the same as if he weren’t. His sister and his niece visit pretty often.”
Bobby didn’t tell Dbie that he knew Alexander King was still alive. He kept that between himself and Sam. After a minute or so, a house appeared in front of them. Dbie followed the circular driveway that curved around in front of a neoclassical Southern mansion. It looked as if there was a main portion of the house, shaped like a box, with two shorter yet wider wings that stretched out on either side. The mansion was white with four gigantic white pillars that supported the entryway. Four white chimneys protruded from the gray pyramid-like roof. Both second-story sets of windows had balconies that extended outward from the front of the house, and there was an oversized gray front door with a large semicircular window above it.
“Why would a man who inherited all of this give it up to join the military?”
Dbie got out of the car. Bobby and Beth followed.
“If you would have asked him, he would have told you he never had a choice. After his parents were killed, all he ever wanted to do was make people pay for doing good people wrong.”
“Who could blame him,” Bobby said. They walked toward the front door. “The story you told us about the nanobots that you and King helped keep out of the White House was something else. You’re a real hero too, you know.”
Dbie shrugged it off and opened the door. Even if she hadn’t told Bobby that she was a tech person, he would’ve guessed something like that from her appearance. She was a cute girl, but her overall look—short dark hair and dark glasses—had I work with computers written all over it.
“Well, like Alexander would tell you if he were here,” Dbie said, “make yourself at home. I have work to do for Sam, but if you need anything, just call me. Sam is having someone cook dinner for you, but if you get hungry before then, just raid the fridge. Oh, and I’ll see to it you have some clothes as well.”
Bobby and Beth were still in their pajamas. He felt ridiculous being out during the day in them, but it was better than sitting in some interrogation room, explaining why he was in Mary’s office so late and why he wasn’t responsible for her ending up dead shortly thereafter.
“Thank you, Dbie,” Bobby said. “You’ve been more than kind.”
Dbie walked them inside. The interior of the home was as grand as the exterior, but Bobby didn’t get the chance to take it all in before his phone began to ring. He didn’t recognize the number, but he just knew it was Doug Chapman. He looked at his wife; she could tell Bobby didn’t like who was calling.
“I have to answer it.”
“Bobby, don’t. If you think he killed Mary, all you will do is make things worse.”
Beth was probably right, but he also didn’t want Doug to come looking for him. “I have to.” Then he asked Dbie, “Is there somewhere private I can take this call?”
“Alexander’s office is right through there.”
She pointed to the right, and he walked straight for the door, then shut it behind him.
“Hello?” Bobby tried to sound normal, but he felt like his voice came out in a squeak.
“What the hell’s going on, Bobby?” Doug went right in on him. “You canceled your rally tonight in Virginia.”
“Yeah, I don’t feel well. Per the press release.” Bobby had rehearsed this conversation several times in his head. But when he rehearsed it, he wasn’t short of breath and worried how it was coming out. “I lost a dear friend last night, Doug. Calling you was about the last thing on my mind.”
“Yeah, I get it, but we have to stay in close contact. Where are you? We need to meet.”
Bobby knew this would be one of the first questions Doug would ask.
“I’m in mourning, Doug. You said to let you do what I hired you to do. And that is what I am doing.”
“Mourning? Bullshit, Bobby,” Doug said. “Look, I need to know if you are the one who killed Mary Hartsfield. I can get out in front of this thing if—”
“If I’m the one who killed her? She was a friend, Doug! I would never—”
“Spare me,” Doug interrupted. “I know you were the last one to see her. I’ve got eyes everywhere, Bobby. This is what I do. Been tracking down killers and liars for decades now. And I’m telling you, you are a marked man. I’m surprised the CIA or FBI hasn’t already been beating down your door.”
It was that sentence that let Bobby know everything he needed to know. Doug was talking out of both sides of his mouth. One second he has eyes everywhere, the next he doesn’t know that Bobby isn’t at home? That was the real bullshit. He believed with everything inside him that Doug killed Mary. Now, Bobby just had to make sure Doug didn’t get to him and his wife before Bobby could expose him. He had to go back to thinking like a Marine.
“Doug, cut the shit. You keep acting like I’m some sort of lost puppy. I assure you, I’m not. You know good and well that I am not at my home. Whatever it is you’re doing, it’s not going to work. You aren’t going to sabotage my run for presidency. I made a mistake the day that I got desperate and hired a wild card like you. Doug, you’re fired.”
“I agree, Bobby. It was a mistake to hire me. Probably the biggest you’ve ever made.”
“Spare me, you scumbag.” Bobby knew he should have ended the call, but he just couldn’t hold his tongue.
“Now you’re just a loose end. People in my line of work don’t like loose ends.”
“Is that a threat, Doug? You think I’m afraid of you?”
Doug answered by ending the call. Bobby couldn’t have been happier that he was nowhere near Washington just then. The separation from an apparent lunatic helped him feel safe. But he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t worried. He’d heard the stories of the kind of ruthless agent Doug was before he left the agency. Men and women like him, when their skills were pointed in the wrong direction, were all kinds of dangerous.
Bobby peeked out the office door. No one was around. On the desk across from him he noticed an unmistakable trophy. The Kentucky Derby gold cup. But what was just beyond the trophy really caught his attention. He walked over to the gun case with a silent prayer that it would be open and supplied. His prayer was answered, as he was faced with a Glock 19 alongside a full magazine. He picked up the gun, locked in the magazine, and tucked it down his pajama pants.
Bobby wasn’t about to underestimate Doug anymore. He said himself that he had eyes everywhere. If that were true, Doug may already know where Bobby and his wife had gone. He didn’t think that was the case, but Bobby wasn’t going to take any chances. Not anymore, anyway.
With
that mentality, he picked up his phone again and dialed the last lifeline he had. A woman he’d never met. He knew Sam Harrison had connections to a dead man who Bobby hoped could turn out to be his secret weapon.
36
Athens, Greece
King didn’t like being back in the Athens city center so soon after all the madness of the afternoon. Normally after something so public, especially when such a high-value target like Husaam Hammoud was taken out, an agent, or team, would leave the area immediately. And stay away. But King and Sam both knew that there would absolutely be retaliation for Husaam’s death. Even if Sam was right that Saajid’s preposterous yet ultimate goal was to rig the presidency, he was still a terrorist, and terrorists can’t help but react. At least that had always been King’s experience in the decade or more he’d been fighting them.
The cab pulled up to the back side of an apartment complex in a neighborhood called Gazi. They’d driven around the neighborhood four times, checking for anything suspicious or anyone who might be keeping an eye on the place. They both thought it looked clean enough to go on in, though they knew it wasn’t a thorough search.
“I thought you said it was busy down here,” King asked as he looked at the fairly empty street.
“It’s only ten p.m. Another hour and this entire area will be crawling with barflies.”
“Then let’s get after it.”
King and Sam exited the vehicle. The street behind the apartments was dark, but the neon glow of bar signs was blaring just on the other side. The cab pulled away and left them with the few pedestrians who were making their way to the popular side of the street.
“After you,” King said, extending his arm in the direction of the apartments.
Sam moved ahead. “His name is Fred Johnson. He’s been here for two years.”
“Long enough to get bought by the bad guys?”
“I hope not,” Sam said as she headed up the stairs. “But I don’t know how else anyone could have known about me being here.”
The stairwell was pretty well lit. Fred was staying on the fourth floor. King’s biggest concern about the visit to the agent’s place wasn’t that he might be waiting with a gun, it was that if he had been turned by Hammoud, Hammoud’s people would most likely be watching. Sam had tried several times to contact Fred so they could meet at a different location, but in the end both Sam and King knew it wouldn’t have mattered. If they were watching Fred, they would have just followed him. At least here, in a private location, fewer people could get caught in the cross fire.
Sam walked away from the stairs and straight over to Fred’s door. The play was to act like she didn’t suspect anything, and hopefully extract at least some little helpful nugget of information from him. After Sam’s third attempt at knocking on the door, King had lost all hope that this would happen.
“Kick it in,” Sam said, motioning toward the door.
“It’s 2020, Sam. You kick it in,” King said with a wink.
As usual, she didn’t find him funny. But she did kick in the door. King moved right around her, his gun drawn. The room was pitch black, but he didn’t need the gift of sight to know what they had walked in to. The stench told both of them all they needed to know.
Fred was dead.
“Ugh.” King covered his nose and mouth with his T-shirt. “When was the last time you met with him? ’Cause it smells like he’s been dead a while.”
King felt along the wall for a light switch.
“Impossible. I just met with him yesterday.”
“Well, something is sure as hell dead in here—”
King’s hand found the light switch, and the source of the smell was sitting in a chair just a few feet from them. There was blood everywhere.
“That Fred?” King said.
Sam moved around him, checked the room behind the chair, then inspected the dead man with her shirt over her mouth as well. King took in the room around them. It was in total disarray. It looked like someone had ransacked it without actually taking anything.
“Not sure. His head has a couple of holes in it,” she said. Then she reached for Fred’s pant pocket. He was turned a little to his side, giving her access to his back pocket. Fortunately for her, it was about the only part on him that wasn’t covered in blood.
While she checked for identification, King walked back out into the outside hallway. He walked all the way to both sides of the building, making sure no one was coming. It looked clear.
“X,” Sam called.
As he headed back toward the front door, the smell was making its way outside now.
“I don’t believe it,” Sam said. “The ID says Gerald Parsons.”
“So?”
“That was the cover Fred Johnson was using here in Athens.”
“But you said you met with him yesterday,” King said. “Bodies don’t start smelling like this for something like a week.”
“I met with someone claiming to be Fred Johnson. But I’d never seen him before.”
King took a few steps closer. His eyes were watering from the smell, but like all intense smells, it had begun to fade the longer he was in the room.
“You’re telling me that whoever killed Fred here had all the check-in codes and all of that? Enough to pass protocol when you reached out to meet?”
“What do you want me to say, X? You know I always follow protocol. The man I met with passed every single one of them. Whoever did this must have tortured him for that information.” Sam pointed to several blood stains and puddles in the small living room. “Hence all the bloody mess here. We have to go. Now.”
Sam began walking toward him. King held up his hand. “Not until we search the place.”
“For what? If he had any information that would be of any use to us, they would have taken it with them.”
“Maybe, if it was out in the open. But we’re agents. We think like him. We know the places to hide things that a bunch of terrorist thugs may not think of.”
“You know they’re watching this apartment.”
“You knew they were when we pulled up. What’s the difference, Sam? They aren’t here now, and I don’t want to leave here without gaining something.”
“We have gained something,” Sam said. “We know our agent wasn’t turned after all.”
“No, he was tortured and killed. Way worse.” King moved to his right into the kitchen. “Just watch the door. I’ll only be a minute. I have to look.”
Sam didn’t answer, she just walked out of the apartment to look out for any trouble.
King immediately pulled the refrigerator out of its nook between the cabinets. He found nothing but a lifetime of dirt and grime. Next he moved into the bedroom—the only bedroom in the apartment. He flipped on the light and walked into the bathroom, lifted the lid on the back of the toilet, but there was nothing.
“Any luck, Sherlock?” Sam shouted.
The quip only added to King’s growing frustration. He needed to find something. If Fred was indeed a good agent, and hadn’t flipped, then he had two years of research on the terrorist game in Athens stowed somewhere. This was their only chance to uncover any clue as to Saajid’s whereabouts. There was no way King and Sam could find out in a day what Fred had been hunting down for two years. And twenty-four hours is all King felt like they had before the retaliation came for Husaam’s death.
King exited the bathroom and gave the bedroom a once-over. It was ransacked just like the living room. The television was on the floor, paintings ripped off the walls, and the bed tossed upside down. He went back out into the living room. There was a large painting facedown on the floor at the foot of the mantle. The only reason it caught his eye enough for a second look was because the light was hitting the bottom corner of the painting in such a way that he swore he saw it shimmer. When he moved to his left, it disappeared.
“X, we have got to go.” Sam ducked her head back inside the room. “Right now. You know they’re coming.”
“One mo
re second.”
King moved around the couch and crouched down by the painting.
“What is it?” Sam said.
“Not sure, but it looked like . . .” King picked up the painting, and sure enough, he had seen a slight shimmer. “Tape.” King lifted the tape on the brown paper backing of the painting.
“Seriously?” Sam said, with a look of bemusement.
King lifted the paper and found a thin four-by-six-inch notebook tucked underneath. He pulled it out and lifted it up. “Bingo.”
“All right, now let’s go. We can look through it once we get the hell out of here.”
King briefly flipped through it and noticed that all but the last few pages were covered in notes. Sam was right. They couldn’t take the time to scour the thirty-plus pages of scribbles. King tucked it in his pocket and headed for the door.
“All right,” Sam said, moving for the stairs, “if we don’t encounter anyone, let’s just walk up the street and pop into a bar. We can spot anyone coming in after us that way.”
King agreed. “We can buy some time inside to skim the notebook.”
“Put your arm around me. Let’s at least look the part of a date night out.”
“You’ll use any excuse to get close to me, won’t you?” King was feeling good after finding the notebook. And he was happy to be doing it with Sam. A little of his old personality was coming out. It was a breath of fresh air to feel some normalcy finally. But he knew what was at stake, and his focus was 100 percent.
Just before they stepped out of the light, he got the classic eye roll. But it also came with a hug around the waist. “Good to have you back, mate.”
The Secret Weapon Page 17