State of Conspiracy (Titus Black Thriller series Book 8) Page 3

  “I played a hunch given that Ahmed enjoys his freedom here and flaunts it at times,” Ward said. “After he killed those three college kids, we knew Young would try to retaliate.”

  “As he should,” Black said.

  “Yes, but the president wasn’t aware of this top secret operation,” Ward said. “If he knew about it, he’d surely approve of what I’m doing to shut you down.”

  Black glanced over his shoulder at the stadium. A roar went up from the crowd and fireworks exploded above the field.

  “Guess it doesn’t matter now since the game’s over,” Black said with a sneer.

  Ward nodded. “Your game has been over for a while. I found out there was a satellite tasked over this specific spot and knew the precise location that anyone with agency training would perch for a kill shot on Ahmed.”

  “That’s why our satellite went out of range?”

  “Maybe, maybe not,” Ward said. “I can’t confirm or deny that. All I know is that I appreciate not having to escalate this situation with you. And while Young might be irate about you not completing this mission, he won’t care after the leadership of more than half of the African terrorist groups are snuffed out.”

  “I hope you’re right,” Black said. “Because if you fail, heads will roll at the agency.”

  “Won’t be the first time,” Ward said. “But maybe you’ll see just how political everything in Washington truly is.”

  Black knelt down and started packing up his gear.

  “So, why don’t we go get a drink after you put everything away?” Ward said. “We’ve got plenty to catch up on.”

  “I’m not exactly in the mood to celebrate anything, much less have a casual chit chat with you after you stuck a gun to my head.”

  “Come on, Titus. It’s me—Ethan. You know I’d never do anything to put you in jeopardy.”

  “Well, it’s not you that I don’t trust. It’s him,” Black said, pointing at Magan.

  Magan’s jaw dropped. “Me? I’m the one trying to help you! Without me, none of this would be possible.”

  “Magan, have you ever heard of the phrase, ‘There’s more than one way to skin a cat’?”

  Magan shook his head.

  “It’s a little phrase that means there are multiple ways to get a job done,” Black said. “Crude, I know. But it’s true. Having someone on the inside makes it easier, but that doesn’t mean it wasn’t possible before.”

  “Choosing the easier way is always better,” Magan said. “You won’t be disappointed.”

  Black latched his rifle case shut and then looked up at Magan. “You better be right because I promise you I’ll make sure you regret it if you’re wrong.”

  “Come on,” Ward said. “I bet you’re staying at one of those bug-infested hotels here. But I’ve got an extra bed and we’ve got several years to catch up on. What do you say?”

  “I could use a good night’s sleep,” Black said.

  Black followed Ward and Magan off the roof and into the stairwell. Failing to kill Ahmed gnawed at Black, but with the conditions the way they were, a clean shot wasn’t a given. It’d be a cover he could use in case Ward’s plan failed.

  Black hated making excuses.

  CHAPTER 5

  Laramie, Wyoming

  BLUNT WINCED AS THE officer pushed the Firestorm director’s head down and forced him into the back of the squad car, tossing his cane onto the floorboard. The past fifteen minutes had exhausted him as he attempted to talk his way out of an arrest. His failure meant that to avoid a charge, he’d have to get someone higher up the ladder in Washington to make the whole mess go away. There’d likely be plenty of questions, but that was momentary trouble. Elaine Gibbons was a more permanent one that needed to be dealt with.

  Blunt waited until the officer was finished talking with dispatch before speaking. “I bet this is some big city fun for you right now, taking in an alleged stalker like me.”

  “I’m just doing my job, sir,” the officer said, “and I take no distinct pleasure in bringing anyone in, no matter who they are.”

  “Not even a murderer?”

  “Depends on if I’m responsible for catching him or not.”

  “Fair enough,” Blunt said.

  A few moments of silence passed before he spoke again.

  “When we get to the precinct, do you think you’d mind letting me have a cigar? I don’t want to smoke it. I just chew on them. It relaxes me.”

  “We’ll see,” the officer said.

  The short drive to the precinct was just enough time to give Blunt time to consider who might be the best person to call for help. He’d settled on Robert Besserman, Deputy Director of the CIA. The name alone might encourage the chief of police to decline charging Blunt, but the chance that the chief was a hard-ass and would relish the opportunity to make a point out of arresting a former senator was a fifty-fifty toss-up.

  When the car came to a stop, Blunt collected his cane before exiting. He leaned on the stick in a more pronounced manner, anything to garner some extra sympathy. At face value, the charges were absurd: an old man with a cane accused of assault. He was the one who was on the ground when Gus came running out of the diner, not Elaine Gibbons or Betty Green or whatever that woman’s name was. She was probably at home in bed as the case now hinged on the eye-witness testimony of a disgruntled short-order cook.

  The chief of police Harold Ralston sauntered around the corner with a cup of coffee. He hiked his pants up by yanking on his belt before taking a seat across from Blunt at one of the empty desks. Blunt remained handcuffed as he eyed Ralston.

  “Chief Ralston, I appreciate you handling this yourself,” Blunt began. “I’m afraid this has been one big misunderstanding.”

  Ralston glared at Blunt. “You know what I hate more than anything else in this world?”

  “I've got no idea,” Blunt said, trying to sell the lie as much as possible. He knew what words were coming next out of Ralston's mouth.

  “Politicians,” Ralston said, ignoring Blunt.

  Blunt sighed at the confirmation of his bad luck.

  Ralston continued. “I don’t know how many times I’ve seen politicians in this town act as if they are above the law. They commit some crime and then try to convince this department that it’s in the community’s best interest that they are allowed to go free. I’m not sure whether I’m supposed to be insulted or amused, neither of which is an appropriate response to a criminal attempting to talk his way out of something.”

  Blunt understood that there wasn’t going to be much to help him escape Ralston’s bully pulpit. If Blunt wanted to snap Ralston back to reality, a more direct approach was necessary.

  “Unless Betty Green is alleging that I approached her in her car and asked to speak with her, I’m innocent of all accusations,” Blunt said. “In fact, I’m innocent—period. But I still don’t know why I’ve been detained.”

  Ralston held out his hand to receive a report from the arresting officer. After Ralston perused the document, he looked up at Blunt. “Says here that you assaulted our beloved Betty Green outside the Prairie Diner. She gave our department a statement over the phone that you tried to assault her in the parking lot.”

  “Like I said, I just wanted to ask her a question,” Blunt said, preparing to shift to the next phase of his attempt to escape the fabricated charges. “But I see that you don’t believe me. If it’s all the same to you, I’ll just make my call right now.”

  Ralston drew back, his eyes widening. “You have a lawyer? Here in Laramie?”

  Blunt nodded. “You might be familiar with him?”

  “Would I now? I doubt I’ve come across a lawyer in town who’d defend a lowlife politician like yourself. Most lawyers here have far more self-respect than to stoop to such depths.”

  “In that case, I take it you’ve never had the privilege of meeting my lawyer here, Thaddeus Lindstrom.”

  Ralston stopped and froze.

  “What was that,
Chief?” Blunt said, leaning forward in his chair. “I couldn’t quite make out your response. Did you say you’re not familiar with the state’s most popular lawyer, former senator, and head of the special political action committee that has the deepest coffers of any in the state?”

  Ralston squinted as he glanced back down at the arrest report. “You think saying that is going to make me place this report in the circular file beneath this desk? Think again.”

  “You think arresting me on a ridiculous charge will stand up in court?” Blunt asked. “Who’s the presiding judge here? Judge Adams? McMichaels? Gentry? I’m sure any one of them would love to see you drag me into their courtroom. I actually hunted with all of those men at Lindstrom’s invitation two years ago. We all got along, too. But don’t let that stop you from carrying out your brand of justice.”

  “You better watch the ground you’re treading on, Senator Blunt. The ice is awfully thin.”

  “And the water’s deep too, but I know how to swim,” Blunt said with a wry grin. “If I go in, you’re going in with me—and you’ll be weighed down. Your response to arresting me and trying to make these ridiculous charges stick will mean the end of your tenure as police chief in Laramie. Now if I were you, this isn’t the hill I’d choose to die on.”

  Ralston growled before snatching up the report and feeding it into a nearby paper shredder. “Frank, can you come remove Senator Blunt’s handcuffs? I think this has all been a big mistake.”

  A deputy hustled over and unlocked Blunt’s cuffs. Blunt rubbed his wrists before offering his hand.

  “No harm, no foul?” Blunt asked.

  “I guess so,” Ralston said through clenched teeth as he shook Blunt’s hand.

  The Firestorm director’s plan had worked, so much so that Ralston never called Blunt’s bluff, which would’ve exposed him as a fraud. Senator Lindstrom hated Blunt’s guts, as did all three of the judges he’d named. He’d met them all at a conference on judicial activism and eventually found himself on a panel with two of them, diametrically opposed philosophically in a workshop that devolved into a shouting match, complete with name calling and middle school insults.

  Fortunately for Blunt, Ralston didn’t know any of that. The police chief simply excused Blunt and let him walk outside and into the frigid Wyoming night air.

  Blunt dialed Shields’ number and waited for her to answer.

  “Where are you?” she asked. “I’ve been trying to reach you for a while now.”

  “Laramie,” he said. “I ran into a little trouble, but I’m hoping you can help me get out of it.”

  “What kind of trouble?”

  “Never mind that,” Blunt said. “I was wondering if you know of anyone who can help me with a special project.”

  “Describe who you’re looking for,” she said.

  “I need someone who can manipulate a person’s past history—bank records, arrest records, previous employment, the whole works.”

  Shields laughed. “Are you looking to pin a crime on someone?”

  He ignored her question. “You got a guy or not?”

  “Actually, I do,” she said. “He’s one of the best in the business, not that I’ve used him or anything.”

  “Nobody’s listening to this call,” Blunt said. “We’re on a secure line. Have you used him or not? I don’t have time to mess around trying to find the right person for the job.”

  “Okay, I’ve used him,” Shields said. “He’s truly the best.”

  “Where’s he located?” Blunt asked.

  “Vegas,” she said. “I’ve used him on a few jobs when the agency needed some help and we didn’t have anywhere else to turn.”

  “That’s just the kind of person I need,” Blunt said. “I’ll call you when I get to Vegas.”

  He hung up and smiled.

  Blunt couldn’t wait to make Elaine Gibbons talk.

  CHAPTER 6

  Washington, D.C.

  PRESIDENT YOUNG SIPPED his coffee before taking a seat behind his desk. He glanced at the stack of documents and sighed. His work day was all of two minutes old and his chief of staff David Salisbury was already in his office.

  “What is it this time, David?” Young asked before taking another swig of his drink. “Must be important if you want to dive into this before the security briefing.”

  Salisbury eased into the chair across from Young and handed him a copy of that morning’s edition of The Washington Post. “Did you happen to see this, sir?”

  Young frowned as he scanned the headlines on the page Salisbury pointed to. “What am I looking for?”

  “I think you’ll know it when you see it,” said Salisbury, who scratched behind the ears of his Yorkshire terrier, Abe. “You know how I like to start your morning off with good news before we jump into dealing with issues like this, but this one demands your immediate attention.”

  Young read the headline aloud followed by the subhead. “U.S. Cancels Envoy to South Africa: Anti-Terrorism Partnership at Risk. Please tell me this article doesn’t say what I think it says.”

  “I’m sorry, sir,” Salisbury said. “I wish there was a silver lining in here for you, but it’s straight reporting, all from first-hand sources. The most troubling part is the response from the South African ambassador Ken van Wyk.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He said that, and I quote, ‘South African president Zweli Nokosi is disappointed in the United States’ inability to view the rise of terrorism in Africa as a priority when it comes to global security. This is just another example of the world’s superpower ignoring the issues that will affect the kind of life citizens here will lead.’”

  “Sounds a bit extreme for just a cancelled meeting,” Young said.

  “There’s more,” Salisbury said. “The article later quotes van Wyk as saying, ‘Money from outside Africa is pouring into these terrorist organizations with the understanding that nations here won’t be able to police these groups, allowing them to flourish and build the kind of following and momentum that will enable them to strike in the west. We need help and our cries for a working partnership with western leaders are being rejected at every turn.’”

  Young stroked his chin. “I told Secretary Geller that I didn’t want her going there with so much unrest. What happened with Secretary Hatcher was devastating to the mission of the State Department, and I’m not willing to risk sending her anywhere again unless I can guarantee her safety.”

  Abe nestled his head on Salisbury’s lap, distracting him for a moment. “If that was all there was to it, I’d tell you not to worry about it. But there’s something else that’s going to be more disconcerting for you personally.”

  Young scowled. “I’m sure Geller can patch this up with a rescheduled meeting a few months from now.”

  “I wouldn’t be so sure, sir. President Zweli proposed some legislation that I think is designed to get your attention, at least politically,” Salisbury said.

  “Let me hear it.”

  “This morning, Zweli announced that he wants to get a bill passed that lowers the import tax on German automobiles by twenty percent while raising U.S. automobile import tax by the same amount.”

  “How does that affect me politically? We don’t export that many cars to South Africa, do we?”

  “In terms of the overall U.S. export market, it’s not a huge number,” Salisbury said. “But General Motors does the majority of the business there and that represents ten percent of their export market. It’s several hundred million dollars, which is nothing to sneeze at.”

  “Damnit,” Young said, slapping his desk as he realized the implications. “This was dirty by Zweli. He knows that Archie is one of my top fundraisers and donors, doesn’t he?”

  Salisbury nodded. Archie Oliver was the CEO of GM and an outspoken supporter of President Young.

  “Has Archie called about this?” Young asked.

  “He has,” Salisbury said. “Called a half-hour ago, requesting a call with
you.”

  Young clenched his fists, upset his hand was being forced. “Okay, call Geller and tell her the trip to South Africa is back on. But tell her to double her security detail for the trip. I still don’t like this, but I don’t feel like I have much of a choice here.”

  “I’ll make the call, sir,” Salisbury said as he scooped up Abe and stood.

  “I need a minute before the security briefing,” Young said.

  “Of course,” Salisbury said before leaving the office.

  Young took a deep breath and then drained the rest of his coffee.

  Damn you, Zweli.

  CHAPTER 7

  Mogadishu, Somalia

  DESPITE THE CLEAN SHEETS and the plush queen bed in Ethan Ward’s hotel room, Black endured a restless night’s sleep. The steady noise drifting up from the street below prevented any such luxury. A cacophony of honking horns, screeching tires, and shouting pedestrians served as a disruptive soundtrack. However, by 3:00 a.m. the activity had almost disappeared, allowing Black to get two hours of continuous sleep. But he sat up in the bed at 5:00 a.m., suspicious of a sound coming from the hallway.

  “Did you hear that?” Black asked Ward.

  The CIA agent didn’t move.

  “Ward, are you awake?” Black said, speaking in a hushed tone.

  When Ward didn’t move, Black scrambled to his feet and threw on a pair of sweatpants and some shoes. He grabbed his Glock and peeked out of the curtains from his room on the top floor. Parked along the curb near the hotel entrance were two cars, both with their engines still running and headlights on. Black unlatched the sliding glass window leading to the balcony and then turned his attention toward the room again.

  “Ward, get up,” Black said.

  Ward didn’t stir.

  As Black moved toward Ward to shake him awake, the door opened.

  Black dove to the ground behind his bed and heard a pair of muffled shots from a gun. He stayed low while scrambling toward the balcony. Without looking back, he slid open the doors and wormed his way outside. Two shots shattered the glass, sending shards raining on top of him. Black protected himself by covering his head with his hands. He didn’t hesitate to scamper up onto the railing and leap onto the balcony jutting out from the adjacent room.