Blowback, p.24
Blowback, page 24
But not her office.
Liam likes the contrast to the other “look at me” offices he’s been in. Three chairs are near her desk with three phone systems on it. Her security officer Bruce is holding a handset out to Liam. The director picks up another handset to listen in.
Bruce steps back and Noa stands beside him.
It’s reassuring to have Noa next to him, he realizes.
He takes the handset. “This is Grey.”
“Hello,” says a woman’s voice. “How are you doing this morning, Liam? If I may call you Liam.”
“Who is this, and how did you find me?”
A quick laugh. “Are there really any secrets left in this world, Liam? A request is made and various technical avenues are searched, until there you are, at the home of Hannah Abrams, director of the Central Intelligence Agency.”
“Yes, here I am. And where are you? And again, who are you?”
“South Africa, in Johannesburg,” she says. “My name is Chin Lin, and I bring you best wishes from Benjamin Lucas.”
The director’s eyes widen and she grabs a legal pad, pen, and waits.
Liam says, “I’m not sure I know what you’re talking about, Lin.”
She sighs. “Let’s not play these games, Liam. You and Benjamin work for the CIA. You have been on a team conducting paramilitary operations overseas. Benjamin left your team to come to Johannesburg to exfil a defector from China’s Ministry of State Security. That defector is me.”
The director slides over the legal pad.
Get her to the point.
“Then what happened to the exfil?”
“I was forced by my superiors to betray Benjamin. He’s currently in our custody in Joburg. We only have a short window before he gets transferred to one of our black sites.”
A laugh. “We learned that from you, after your Iraq war. Funny world, isn’t it?”
“What do you mean, ‘we only have a short window’?”
“Oh, haven’t you figured it out? Ben and I had a romantic relationship when we went to Stanford. We still love each other. And I want to free him, and you’re going to help me do it.”
Another scribble from the director.
The word is straight and to the point.
No.
CHAPTER 84
LIAM LOOKS AT the single word.
No.
As if.
“Why should I do that?” Liam asks, as the CIA director glares at him.
“Because he’s gettable at the moment. In a couple of days, he’ll be unreachable.”
“Tell me more,” Liam says.
The director’s face reddens. The pad goes back to her and then back to Liam.
NO!
Chin says, “He’s your teammate. I hope that gives you incentive enough to come here and help me rescue him.”
“Hope is not a strategy,” Liam says. “I can’t go on a one-man crusade to rescue him, as much as I admire him for his service and expertise. You have him, and your government will eventually work out a deal with my government to free him. Don’t bring me into this.”
Lin says, “Are you not listening to me? That’s not an option. He needs to be rescued. And by you only. I can’t have one of your Special Activities Division teams roaring in with their black gear and weapons. It has to be done quietly. With only you.”
Noa is looking at him, Bruce’s face is blank, and the director looks at him with the expectation that he will follow her orders to a T.
“I admire what you’re doing,” he says. “But it can’t be done. I can’t pop overseas like this. Especially if this is a trap and you’re trying to capture me.”
A slight laugh. “You’re a field operative, Liam. Not a director. Don’t puff yourself up like that.”
A pause.
Liam still feels like he’s onstage, making it up as he goes along.
“All right,” Lin says. “I’ll sweeten the offer.”
“I’m listening.”
Lin says, “You come to South Africa, help me free Benjamin, and I’ll tell you how your vice president fell into a coma, and how to safely and quickly revive her.”
Another scribble on the legal pad from the director, but Liam doesn’t have to look at her note.
“Lin, you’ve got yourself a deal,” he says.
CHAPTER 85
DIRECTOR HANNAH ABRAMS feels like she’s on a treadmill that keeps speeding up, and she can’t get off. All she can do is keep upright and make it work, no matter how much the speed dangerously increases.
Listening in, she hears the Chinese intelligence operative say, “Very well. Contact me at this number”—and she recites a series of numerals—“once you’re in-country. We’ll meet and go over how we’re going to get Benjamin Lucas out. Once the three of us are in a safe place, that’s when I’ll tell you about the vice president.”
Abrams captures Liam’s eye, writes a quick question on the pad, and pushes it over.
“Did you and your agency do it?”
Lin says, “No. But we know how it was done, where it was done, and how to make her well. I’ve been on this call too long. Call me when you’re in South Africa.”
Click.
The call is disconnected.
Hannah replaces the phone receiver, as does Liam.
Noa says, “I just caught part of the conversation, but is Liam going to South Africa?”
Hannah says, “It appears so. Not to sound cold and callous but rescuing one operative is too dangerous. But if we can help the vice president, well, it’ll be worth it. Especially if she’s well and in place in the days and weeks ahead.”
“Ma’am,” Noa says. “You’ve said time is of the essence. Even if Liam was to leave right now, it’s at least a twenty- or twenty-one-hour flight to Johannesburg. That’s nearly a day, ma’am.”
“If he flies commercial, you’re right,” she says, reaching for a different phone that has a secure line for sensitive communications. “But he won’t be flying commercial.”
Hannah picks up the receiver from her secure phone bank, strikes a button that rings a prerecorded phone number.
It’s picked up after just one ring.
“Two-eight-three-one.”
“I need to speak to General Pease.”
“He’s unavailable,” the male voice says. “He’s on the flight line.”
“This is CIA Director Hannah Abrams,” she says. “Make him available. Now.”
“Hold one, ma’am.”
The phone line goes quiet.
It’s also quiet in her office.
Liam and Noa look at her. Bruce is doing his job, which is looking around the room, at the open doorway, and the two windows looking out to the rear yard.
A faint click and a male voice says, “Pease here.”
“Harlan, this is Hannah Abrams.”
“Good morning, Director. To what do I owe this pleasure?”
“How goes the A-22 project?”
No answer.
“Harlan, this is a secure line. Don’t worry.”
The general says, “We’re a bit behind, but nothing we can’t make up later on.”
“When’s the next test flight scheduled?”
“In two days,” he says. “Director, what’s this all about?”
“Don’t hate me because I’m asking, because I’m asking,” Hannah says. “I need you to bump up that test flight to today, preferably in a few hours.”
“Director…”
“And to make it worse, I need to have an observer on board, and your destination is whatever facility we might be able to use in South Africa, as close as possible to Johannesburg.”
She senses the general isn’t talking right now because he’s building up to an explosion of anger and arguments. She quickly says, “Harlan, you and your team have done incredible work with minimal funding and technical support, and this isn’t a request. I hope I don’t have to go into the details of how the Agency owns two-thirds of your black budget for this project, and if I decide to cancel our share before Congress finds out and gets pissed at being kept in the dark, well, what can you do with one-third of an aircraft?”
His voice sounds like he’s being strangled by someone. “It won’t be much of a flight test.”
“If you can get my man in South Africa soonest, then I’ll consider it a successful test, Harlan,” she says. “His name is Liam Grey and he works directly for me.”
The air is dead on the other side. She feels sorry for the general, who has done a lot with minimal budgeting and not enough staff. He says, “All right. Tell him where to go.”
“I won’t forget this, Harlan,” she says. “In the meantime, I’m going through the Agency’s budget next week, and I’m going to try to squeeze out another ten million dollars in additional funding for the A-22. How does that sound?”
“Director,” he says, “that sounds great,” but Hannah still feels like she’s defeated an honorable man, and it wasn’t a fair fight, since the Agency does own two-thirds of this highly classified, black aircraft.
She’s about to say thank you once more, when she hears him hanging up on his end.
Fine.
Hannah replaces the handset and says, “It’s done. I’ll give you directions to the base, Liam, and we’ll arrange transport.”
Liam says, “Do I have time to pack? Arrange some gear?”
The director shakes her head. “Only what we can scrounge from my closets. You see, Liam, if you haul ass from here in the next few minutes, you’ll be in South Africa in just over two hours.”
CHAPTER 86
THIS MORNING MICHAEL Balantic is tracking Liam Grey, the rogue CIA operative, and the search isn’t going well. His vehicle of choice today is a burgundy Mercedes-Benz SL with Maryland license plates, and he’s temporarily parked in a lot next to the Coppa Enoteca restaurant on Prospect Street NW in the District of Columbia.
It’s busy, with lots of foot traffic, and he only has five minutes or so before he has to move his surveillance to another tracking location, back to Liam’s condo. After that, to a Starbucks barista he dated six months ago.
Not that Liam is in this restaurant or any other restaurant within walking distance, but from the comfort of this Mercedes, Michael is keeping watch on the Georgetown home of CIA Director Hannah Abrams. On the dashboard of his luxury vehicle is a video display that looks like it’s showing a GPS-sourced map of the District of Columbia to anyone passing by and peeking in.
But the eyeglasses he’s wearing have special lenses, so Michael sees something entirely different: a drone-eyed view of the CIA director’s home on O Street NW in Georgetown, a two-story brick house with black shutters, gated driveway, and a two-car garage with a breezeway connecting it to the house.
The feed from the drone is holding steady. It’s one of the latest black budget drones from General Atomics designed to look like a sparrow. At the moment it’s resting on the branch of a maple tree across the street from the director’s home. There’s not too many bells and whistles packed into the tiny package, but the thermal imaging tells him there are five people inside.
What are they saying?
He can’t tell.
The drone is passive, meaning it’s designed to observe and record. Anything more intrusive could be detected by whatever surveillance systems are hidden in the CIA director’s house. He also knows that some high-tech detection devices could sense the sparrow drone if it got any closer to the residence.
He waits.
Shadows move across the bay window at the front yard.
Using a control system in his lap, he lifts the drone and brings it closer.
Through the window, he sees Director Abrams.
She passes by.
A male comes into view, putting on a brown farmer’s coat and a Baltimore Orioles cap.
It’s Liam Grey.
Michael starts up the Mercedes and gets back into traffic.
He drives as fast as he can without breaking any traffic laws, keeping one eye on the display screen set into the dashboard. Liam moves away from the window. The drone pulls back some.
A shadow passes through the breezeway leading to the garage.
Move, move, he thinks, cursing a Range Rover dawdling in front of him.
The door to the garage swings up.
A black Audi Q7 SUV pulls out, one person in the driver’s seat.
Wearing an Orioles cap.
He types in a command to the drone, which will lock on to the Audi.
The Range Rover finally turns and gets out of the way.
He picks up a burner phone, punches in a programmed number.
“Pope,” comes the voice.
“I’ve got Grey,” he says. “He’s moving. Looks like he’s taking the Francis Scott Key Bridge, heading into Virginia.”
Pope says, “Good. First chance you get, end it.”
“On it,” Michael says, disconnecting the call.
Within twenty minutes he catches up with the Audi, heading north on the George Washington Memorial Parkway. He keeps at least two other vehicles between him and the Audi. A few times he drops back, letting the sparrow drone keep the tail going, just in case Liam is being paranoid, which would be the smart move on his part.
He has no idea where Liam Grey is heading and doesn’t really care.
All he needs are the few seconds to finish the job.
The Audi starts slowing down, moving to the right-hand lane.
Michael smiles.
Those seconds he needs seem to be coming right into his lap.
The Audi turns into a combination convenience store and service station, the Langley Mart, and pulls up to a set of pumps.
Talk about luck, he thinks, pulling out his 9mm Beretta pistol. Just like the job against that Army officer, this one was going to be quick and to the point.
The Audi stops.
The driver’s-side door opens.
Liam steps out.
No time for fancy maneuvers, just get the job done.
Michael turns and stops the Mercedes at an adjacent series of pumps, gets out, leaves the door open, and quickly takes three steps before opening fire, the man crumpling and falling, the gas hose and pump handle dropping to the ground.
Two more steps, put a kill shot in the skull, and the job is done.
CHAPTER 87
SWEATING AND HOT underneath a black wool blanket in the rear seat of the Audi, Liam hears gunfire break out and tosses the blanket aside. Grabbing his pistol, Liam throws open the rear passenger door opposite the gunman, giving himself cover.
He hits the pavement, rolls and comes up, sees a man in a leather jacket and jeans approaching the Audi, pistol in both hands. Liam doesn’t hesitate, puts two rounds into his chest.
The man drops and hunches down. Liam goes around the rear of the Audi, spots the gunman writhing on the ground, pistol still in hand, and shoots once more.
Bruce, the director’s security officer, is sitting up against the near gas pump, hand over his left arm, breathing hard, blood soaking through his fingers. The Baltimore Orioles cap is on the cement next to him.
“Shit,” he says.
“How bad?” Liam asks.
“Took two rounds in the back,” he says. “Vest saved me, but I’ve got cracked ribs for sure. Third round went through my arm. Burning and hurting like a son of a bitch. The shooter?”
“He’s dead.”
“You sure?”
Liam says, “He was wearing a vest, too. But my last shot went into his left eye.”
Bruce grimaces and says, “There’s a first-aid kit in the rear of the Audi. Get it.”
Liam moves quickly, retrieves the hard plastic white case with the red cross symbol on it, and, going back to Bruce, opens it. The security officer shakes his head. “I’ll bandage myself. We need to trade weapons. What are you carrying?”
“Glock, ten millimeter.”
“Good,” Bruce says. “Same here. I can’t reach it. It’s under my right arm. Take it, leave yours, and get the hell out of here. Any later forensics will show the pistol in my possession was the one that did the shooting.”
“Bruce, let me work on you first.”
“Shit, there’s no time. Get out of here before the EMTs and cops show up.”
Liam slowly stands up. “What are you going to tell them?”
“Self-defense, what else? Move, Liam, move.”
He gets into the Audi, starts the engine, roars out of the store parking lot, gets back on the highway, and speeds away.
Time.
Bruce is right, as much as Liam hates to admit it. Leaving a wounded comrade in the field is a huge violation of what passes for a warrior’s code, but Liam has no choice. If all goes well, the EMTs will get there in time and get him stable, and then to a hospital.
As to what Bruce is going to say to the cops, at the moment it isn’t Liam’s problem.
Getting to his meeting place is.
He speeds up the Audi.
Nearly an hour later, bumping down a potholed and cracked single-lane country road, Liam comes to a waypoint: a rusting metal gate, spanning a dirt and gravel road.
He parks the car, gets out, and goes to the gate. It’s fastened to a rusty, wide metal pipe stuck into the ground, and a Yale combination lock holds a thick chain around the post.
He dials the combination—15, 1, 15—and the lock snaps free. He opens the gate, keeping a sharp eye on the surroundings, drives the Audi in several yards, stops, and closes and locks the gate behind him.
The dirt road is rough and bumpy, and he’s thinking about what might be waiting for him up ahead. Something highly classified, black budget, and deeply guarded.
The trees and brush thin out. He sees buildings coming into view. He gets his ID ready from his wallet, curious as to how deep the security is going to be in this rural part of Virginia.
The dirt road comes to an end against an open access road.
He’s expecting triple-fencing with razor-wire curling on top, armed guards and warning signs saying photography and trespassing are forbidden, and that use of deadly force is authorized.
But the way ahead of him is empty.
