Blowback, p.18
Blowback, page 18
“Surveillance videos?”
“The store has them, but only for the interior and the door leading in. Nothing for the parking lot.”
Liam thinks of what he’s just heard.
Captain Spencer Webster.
Doctor Webster, ambushed in a CVS parking lot, after surviving three tours in the ’stan.
He remembers.
Up in the Korengal Valley in eastern Afghanistan, one very cold night at FOB Eversmann. He was with Gus Lumberg and Doc was treating Gus’s feet by a red-lens flashlight that Liam held, so their night vision wouldn’t be spoiled. Doc was trimming away dead skin from the pale feet, and then powdering it up.
“There,” the doc said. “Got a pair of clean socks?”
“Nope,” Gus said.
“Clown,” Spencer said, going into his bag, pulling out a pair. “I know it’s a chore, but try to keep your feet dry, best you can.”
Gus started tugging on the socks, wincing. He said, “I’ll do what I can, Doc, but Jesus, humping up and down these trails all day, crossing streams…”
“Yeah, well, do your best,” he said, packing up his gear. The three of them are in a fire hole, covered with sandbags and heavy logs, overseeing one of the trails leading up to the FOB. A fully automatic SAW—also known as the M249 light machine gun—was fastened to the rock wall, pointing out and down to the trail, with full magazines of 200 rounds of 5.56mm ammunition nearby.
“Thanks, Doc,” Liam said.
“House calls are what we do,” Spencer said. “Which reminds me. The Taliban are coming by for a raid later tonight.”
Gus said, “What, the ell-tee told you?”
“Nope,” Spencer said.
“First sergeant?” Liam asked.
“Nope.”
Gus said, “C’mon, who told you?”
Finished with his packing, Spencer sat up against one of the walls. “I’ll tell you, but don’t think I’m crazy.”
Liam said, “We won’t.”
Spencer sighed. “Well, it happened during medical school, and when I did residency. I always had this…feeling, or sense, that something was about to happen. A patient coding on my floor. The ER being swamped with victims from a multi-car crash. Some person sitting calm in the waiting area suddenly going berserk and taking down two security guards.”
Liam said, “That’s what you’re feeling now?”
“Oh, yeah,” Spencer said, his smile barely visible in the red light. “The T-man is coming here tonight. I can just feel it. So eyes open and don’t rack out. Call it extreme situational awareness or a seventh sense, I just know they’re coming.”
As Doc started to leave, Liam said, “Crap, Doc, why the hell are you out here anyway? You could be back in Chicago, working nine-to-five, sleeping in a nice safe bed every night.”
One last smile from Spencer, who said with an exaggerated drawl, “Cuz I love Amurrica, boys. Don’t you?”
As predicted, the Taliban struck an hour later.
Liam thinks, Situational awareness.
Possible seventh sense.
There’s no way on earth that an experienced soldier like Doc would allow himself to be ambushed.
Detective Mazzaglia says, “I’ve already asked Mrs. Webster, but do you know if Captain Webster has any enemies? We’re still regarding this as a robbery gone bad, but we have to consider all possibilities.”
Liam thinks, Sure, President Keegan Barrett, wanting to keep his mental state secret.
He says, “No, I can’t think of anyone.”
Liam goes to Miriam, holds both her hands, and says, “Is there anyone coming here to keep you and the kids company?”
A shaky nod. “My sisters are coming over, and Spencer’s parents…they’re trying to catch a flight out of Chicago tonight.”
He kisses the top of her head. “Miriam, I’m sorry, but I have to go…urgent business. But I promise I’ll come back as soon as possible.”
Her teary-eyed face looks hopeful. “Something to do with Spenny?”
With Detective Mazzaglia and the uniformed officer looking on, Liam needs to lie, as much as it hurts him.
“No, I’m sorry,” he says, “but I’ll be in touch. Honest.”
He turns away and gets out of the house, running to his Jeep Wrangler, hurrying to get away from here and the District of Columbia.
He gets in, starts it up, and backs onto the street without even looking. At the first stop sign, Liam reaches up to the windshield, tears down the transponder for toll roads in the state of Virginia, and at the first service station he comes to, pulls over, parks, and tosses it into the rear of a Chevy pickup truck bearing Maryland plates.
Then he continues going north, driving with one hand while working hard to take out the SIM card from his powered-off phone.
There are hunters out there in the darkness, and he knows they’re now coming after him.
CHAPTER 60
IN THE SENSITIVE compartmented information facility in the subbasement of the Chinese Embassy on International Place Northwest, Xi Dejiang of the Chinese Ministry of State Security looks to his assistant, Sun Zheng, and says, “That’s one hell of an escalation from the Americans.”
Zheng says, “The investigation isn’t completed yet, but what is known is that the city of Jieyang, in Guangdong Province, suffered a major utility blackout about twelve hours ago, and it looks like sabotage.”
Dejiang says, “Really?”
His assistant passes over a red folder. “Without a doubt. There’s a substance, graphite fibers—looks like fine silk or thread—that if deposited over a sensitive area of a switchyard or electrical substation, causes a system-wide short circuit, blacking out a portion of the city. This portion, sir, included our Building 14.”
“From Unit 212, conducting cyberspace operations.”
“Correct.”
“Was the building or its equipment damaged?”
“No, but it’ll be out of service for a few days, at least.”
“How did the graphite fibers get there? Hand grenades or something similar?”
His assistant shakes his head as Dejiang opens the folder, reads the first few sentences and says, “A cruise missile?”
Zheng says, “No doubt, sir. Witnesses saw it fly over the area, and saw it eject objects, which were the bomb canisters carrying the graphite fibers. Then the missile self-destructed over the Rangjiang River in the middle of the city. The local harbor police and a boat from the PLA Navy are dragging the area now.”
He continues to read the dispatch, then closes the folder.
“A cruise missile,” he says. “This isn’t one of their ‘freedom of the seas’ ship passage. It’s an escalation.”
What to do?
Despite publicly following the aggressive Party line and doing his intelligence job to the best of his abilities, Dejiang has come to admire the way these people live, learn, and work.
His son is at Harvard Business School, and he enjoys the brief moments he’s been allowed to visit him up in Boston, seeing how his boy has thrived without being under the heavy thumb of the Party.
Secretly, Dejiang also sees his role in DC as being an unofficial intermediary, preventing these two Colossi from stumbling into a confrontation.
Or worse, a war.
He glances at the framed photo of old Admiral Zheng He. His had been a powerful military fleet back then, charting new lands, but it was also a fleet filled with trade goods. The fist and the open hand.
What would you do here, Admiral? he thinks.
“It’s a provocation,” Dejiang says. “But what is the point? They’ve rolled up some of our networks here in the United States, understandable. But to strike at our homeland like this? Unheard of.”
His assistant says, “The generals in the Joint Staff Department of the Central Military Commission are probably howling for retaliation at this moment.”
He takes a moment to think, lighting up a Marlboro. He knows he should be seen smoking the semi-official cigarette of the Party—Chunghwa—but despite their many faults, the Americans do know their tobacco.
Dejiang says, “Let’s get ahead of the military. We’ll send an emissary to President Barrett. See if we can learn what is driving him. A cruise missile attack like this would only come from his direction. No underling in their military would dare do such a thing.”
“The ambassador?”
“That simpleton? Of course not…it will have to be someone the president knows and respects. An American. A friend of ours.”
Another satisfying drag as he thinks through the options. “Dale Loomis. From Boston. The former congressman who set up those software companies and trading firms. He does a lot of business with us, and elsewhere in the Pacific. He was also an early supporter of President Barrett, did a lot of fundraising for him. Just the man to talk to the president and quietly ask him what the hell is going on. Before our generals get permission to sink an American warship near the Spratly Islands in retaliation.”
“Do you think he’ll do it?”
Dejiang says, “The Industrial & Commercial Bank of China and the China Construction Bank both have him by the balls. He’s overextended in China and elsewhere. He’ll do it or we’ll bankrupt him by this time tomorrow. Make it happen.”
Zheng stands up. “Absolutely, sir. But the matter in South Africa…”
Dejiang waves a hand. “That’s a powerful instrument, only to be used at the right time. Now’s not that time.”
CHAPTER 61
LIAM GREY IS walking to his condo in the Southwest Waterfront section of DC, near where he grew up, having taken nearly an hour to get here after driving a circuitous route to get to a near lot and taking several stops on the Metro, finally getting off at the aptly named Waterfront Station. The night is pleasant and lots of residents are out and about, going to the bars, bistros, and restaurants in this up-and-coming neighborhood.
Yet Liam feels more exposed, more at risk, than at any time in his military or CIA career. During those dangerous times, at least he had support, backup, from fellow soldiers or operators in the field, or the full might and fury of any nearby Air Force or Army assets.
Not tonight.
He is utterly alone.
He sits on a park bench that’s up against the concrete wall of a building next to his, spending a few minutes surveilling the sidewalk traffic.
A line from a great movie about CIA operatives comes to mind:
“Whenever there is any doubt, there is no doubt.”
In other words, trust your gut.
Maybe the DC detective was right.
Maybe Doc was caught up in a robbery gone bad, ending with a bullet to the head.
This is the unfortunate way of life in the District of Columbia.
But Liam’s gut tells him otherwise.
Doc being shot down in the street right after his phone call to Liam, saying he was ready to come forward about what he knows about the president’s mental state?
No.
Either the president or someone in his employ ordered the hit.
And are he and Noa the only ones POTUS selected for illegal activities?
Stupid assumption.
Barrett has lots of allies still working in the DoD and the CIA.
Who else is out there, working in the shadows?
He gets up and quickly walks to the entrance of his condo unit. He flashes his keycard to the electronic lock and after the satisfying buzz, opens the door and walks into the small lobby.
It has a tile floor, two chairs, a short hallway to the left and two elevator banks, and, most important, a semicircular desk where there’s a doorperson, 24/7.
On duty at this hour is Belinda Roper, a Black woman who’s a retired Navy chief petty officer with a ready smile, a sharp tongue, and a sawed-off baseball bat under the counter. She’s wearing black trousers and a light-tan uniform shirt.
Liam goes up to her and says, “How’s it going tonight?”
“Just fine, Liam,” she says. “How about you? Traveling again anytime soon?”
Near Belinda is a bank of CCTV monitors, covering the front door, alleyways on each side, and the rear door for maintenance workers and deliveries. There’s no one visible on the screens.
“No travel for a while, I hope,” he says. “Hey, has anybody come by looking for me? Or calling for me at the front desk?”
Belinda shakes her head. “I’ve been here two hours, Liam, and no one’s looking for you.” Her smile broadens. “You got some woman pissed off, stalking you for not returning her texts?”
“I wish,” he says. “Have a good night.”
He goes to the elevator banks, punches the Up button, and waits.
A buzz at the door and he turns.
Mrs. Lucianne from upstairs, and her two young boys. The two boys start fussing about something and when the elevator door opens, he quickly steps in and hits the Close button, and waits.
Rude to his neighbors, but he has to keep moving.
In his unit on the third floor, he makes a quick sweep of the place. He doesn’t have a house cleaner, and he always leaves little telltales around the unit to see if any unauthorized visitors have come in, from the arrangement of magazines on the coffee table to a piece of thread tied across the bedroom doorway.
Nothing.
Finding a lockbox in the main closet, he dials the combination, opens it, and takes out a 10mm Glock semiautomatic pistol with three spare magazines. Also coming out is a waist holster and a thousand dollars in one-hundred-dollar bills, and a passport that marks him as a citizen of Canada with the name Lee Grayson.
Last out are two burner phones, placed in each jacket pocket, and then he leaves the unit, not knowing when he’s coming back.
Liam goes back to the elevator bank and keeps on walking, taking the fire stairs down to the lobby, peering over at every landing as he descends to make sure the stairwell is empty.
It is.
At the lobby floor Liam quietly opens the door, walks the few short yards to the lobby, and stops, taking a quick glance at Belinda.
She’s not alone.
He slides back into the hallway.
Recalls what he’s just seen.
Two large men with matching dark suits and sensible shoes, talking quietly and forcefully to Belinda, trying to intimidate her by leaning over the counter.
Liam knows that’s not going to work, but he’s not sticking around to find out.
He walks quietly down the hallway, to the outside door marked EXIT, pushes the bar and gently closes the door behind him, then starts moving quick, just in case one of the men back there saw him leave via the CCTV system at Belinda’s station.
Liam returns to his pace of walking, backtracking, and taking the Metro and getting off to make sure he’s not being followed.
But what now?
With Doc’s death, does that mean he’s next?
Or is he still a useful enough tool for POTUS and his people to be kept alive?
He steps out of the Union Station stop—the busiest in the Metro system—and backs up against a concrete wall, takes one of his burner phones out.
He could call his former supervisor at the Directorate of Operations, but then what?
His old boss would tell him to come into Langley for Liam’s own safety, and a debrief.
But that assumes Liam would get there alive.
There’ve been a few rumors and stories—just a few, but enough—of operators being recalled back to Langley after some dark development, and having a car accident, a drowning, or having their head struck by a steel pipe fall on a construction site before getting to safety.
That’s not happening to Liam.
But he will make a call.
It rings once and is picked up.
He nearly sags from relief. Maybe he is ahead of the game for once.
“Hello, who is this?” the woman’s voice says.
“It’s your partner in crime,” he says. “Need to make it quick. We have to meet…in two hours. At the place we had drinks after delivering the PDB. Understand?”
“Yes.”
“Get there as a ghost, and for God’s sake, be on time.”
“Two hours?”
“That’s right.”
“All right,” Noa Himel says, and she disconnects the call.
CHAPTER 62
Somewhere in South Africa
BENJAMIN LUCAS DISCOVERS that if he doesn’t move—no matter the temptation—the aches and pains along his ribs, arms, legs, and head don’t hurt as much, but no position eases the pain and shame inside of him.
With his training he should have made quick work of that Chinese intelligence officer with the heavy wooden cricket bat, but that son of a bitch—Chang Wanquan—was equally strong and well trained. Liam had gotten in a few good shots, splitting the shit’s lip, for one, but the Chinese intelligence officer had gotten the best of him.
Bastard.
He has to ease his breathing because of the pain in his ribs. He thinks through the past couple of days, especially that cryptic comment the other intelligence officer had made before leaving.
Why should we deal with Langley?
What the hell did that mean?
Even when an officer is “off the books,” like he was back in Johannesburg, there is an understanding that while the State Department wouldn’t lift a finger to help in the event of a capture, it was in recovery that Langley would do what it could.
Either the quiet diplomatic way of making back-channel deals for a prisoner swap, or a more aggressive approach involving helicopters, black-clad men, and lots of firepower.
What’s it going to be, then, if the Chinese refuse to deal with Langley?
Does the Agency even know where he is?
As grim as it sounds, it seems like Benjamin is on his own.
In the years he’s served in the Agency, there’ve been tales told around drinks about contract agents and other operators “left behind,” in places ranging from Tibet to Vietnam to countries in Africa, when the higher-ups decided it would take too much political capital and trouble to get them free.
Is he now on that list?
