Behind Enemy Lines Page 7

  “We need to talk, Bobby. And as much as I trust you, I didn’t want to risk someone eavesdropping on our conversation in any form or fashion.”

  “And you think my home is safer?”

  “I’d hope so. You are the head of the NSA, after all.”

  A wry grin spread across Besserman’s face. “Of course my house is safe. I just don’t really consider this the best place to discuss national security implications.”

  “Sorry to spring this on you,” Blunt said, “but I’m just leery of everybody these days.”

  “Let’s go inside,” Besserman said. “I’ll fix you a drink.”

  After ushering Blunt into the house, Besserman headed straight for the bar. “I’ve got some great scotch here.”

  “It’s not one of those conversations, Bobby. I want to keep this brief because we’ve got work to do.”

  Besserman stopped and eyed Blunt closely. “What is it?”

  “What did you think of the fiasco at the National Mall earlier today?” Blunt asked.

  “I thought your people were there to ensure something like that didn’t happen.”

  Blunt shook his head. “It didn’t matter, because someone wanted Watkins dead.”

  “You think Gaither wasn’t the target?”

  “That’s what we’re trying to figure out, but I think this whole Gaither death threat thing was a smoke screen.”

  “By who? Gaither or the shooter?”

  Blunt shrugged. “That’s what we’re trying to figure out. All I know is that in this business when something seems coincidental, it usually isn’t.”

  “Don’t forget that the president was supposed to host this ceremony in the Rose Garden, so if you’re suggesting that this was coordinated, there has to be some high-level officials involved.”

  “Or at least capable of pulling some strings to manipulate the situation.”

  Blunt took a seat on the couch.

  “Maybe this is one of those conversations,” Besserman said as he settled into the chair across from Blunt. “You sure you don’t want a drink?”

  Blunt waved his hand, rejecting Besserman’s offer again. “The timing of everything is what makes me suspicious. The only good fortune we’ve received here is that me and my team know about all the moving parts involved here—the truth behind the Watkins situation, the death threats on Gaither’s life, the shifting venue for the welcome home ceremony. And it sure does seem that the ordeal surrounding Gaither was designed to make everyone think he was the intended target.”

  “Well, I’m inclined to agree with you on this one,” Besserman said, “especially after what I found today.”

  “You found? Are you doing your own sleuthing these days?”

  “My trust level on this investigation isn’t very high. I’m just as suspicious of Gaither as you are, but I wanted to find out why you thought so before revealing this.” Besserman leaned forward and nudged a manila folder across the coffee table toward Blunt.

  “What’s this?” Blunt asked as he picked up the documents.

  “Gaither’s phone records, including several of those voice messages supposedly left for him.”

  “And what did you find?”

  “Gaither played the death threats for us from his phone, reluctant to give it to us since he conducts so much business with it. So, I simply asked him when he received those messages. I accessed his voicemails remotely and then got a copy of his phone records. I tried to see who made the calls, but I could only trace them back to a burner phone.”

  “That wouldn’t be surprising in either case,” Blunt said as he scanned the numbers.

  “Exactly,” Gaither said, pointing his index finger at Blunt. “But I went back through the numbers and found that whoever left this message was also the same person who Gaither called back later that night and spoke with on the phone for nearly fifteen minutes.”

  “Nice work,” Blunt said. “This gives us something to go on.”

  “Oh, no. It’s more than that. Playing a hunch, I took it a step further and triangulated the position of several of his staffers’ phones around that same time to see if any of them were in the area. Turns out one of them was.”

  Blunt’s eyebrows shot upward. “You got a name?”

  “Mark Baldwin,” Besserman said. “He’s been one of Gaither’s longtime staffers.”

  “What are you thinking? Baldwin is carrying out orders from someone else? Or do you think he’s doing Gaither’s bidding?”

  Besserman grinned. “That’s what I want you to find out for me. I can only do so much.”

  “And you think we’ll be able to levy charges against Gaither?”

  “That depends.”

  “On what?” Blunt asked.

  “Everything hinges on your team’s ability to get to the truth on this one. Not that I wouldn’t mind putting Gaither away, but if he’s just a pawn, we need to use him as bait to catch who’s really behind this kind of mayhem. I don’t want to play whack-a-mole on this one.”

  “Got it,” Blunt said. “Cut off the head of the snake.”

  Besserman stood and gestured toward the door. “You’re right. This wasn’t one of those conversations. You need to get moving because you’ve got a lot of work to do.”

  Blunt shook Besserman’s hand, but the NSA director called Blunt’s name before he could make it to his car.

  “Yeah?”

  “Next time, I want you to try this scotch I have.”

  “Next time, Bobby. Next time.”

  Blunt climbed into his car and then scanned the area as he pushed the ignition button. He was firmly convinced that Watkins wasn’t paranoid after all. Now Blunt just had to convince the people that mattered—or else handle the situation some other way.

  CHAPTER 12

  Washington, D.C.

  BLACK ZIPPED UP HIS JACKET and pulled it taut as he strode into Union Station, a backpack hanging off his left shoulder. With a quick glance, he checked to make sure he wasn’t being followed. Determining that no one was watching him, he pressed ahead, navigating through the congested passageway. While many commuters continued about their day in a business-as-usual mode, Black noticed the heightened security and the nervous looks worn on the faces of most people.

  When Black reached the lockers, he retrieved the key from his pocket. The moment felt somewhat haunting, especially remembering Watkins’ comment the moment he placed the keyring in Black’s hands.

  I’m planning on blowing the lid off this operation later today.

  Watkins never got the chance, but Black wasn’t going to let the pilot’s sacrifice be for naught. Black felt confident he could use the information Watkins left to get justice for him and perhaps hundreds of others.

  Upon descending into the bowels of the building, Black worked his way through a quiet maze of lockers and found No. 42. He took one more quick look around before opening it. Inside, he found a folder containing grainy screenshots, obviously taken from the footage he recorded. There were also several pages of notes about the operation and descriptions of the more than two dozen girls he observed being led into the C-130 cargo hold at Kadena Air Base. Black snapped the folder shut and tucked it into his backpack. He re-secured the lock and then headed toward the exit.

  As Black turned the corner, he was greeted with a solid punch to his stomach. He staggered backward in pain, slamming into the lockers and using them to remain upright. By the time he looked up, his attacker, clad in dark clothes with a ski mask, was in the middle of swinging his nightstick at Black’s head. Black ducked down and took advantage of the man’s imbalance. Black struck his first counterblow, jamming his foot upward into the man’s crotch. The force of the kick sent him airborne before he crashed into the lockers behind him.

  Black scrambled to his feet and darted toward the door. But the combatant managed to get a solid grip on Black’s bag and yanked him down. Black clutched the strap with both hands, refusing to let go at the expense of breaking his fall. He skidded across
the floor, coming to a stop against the far wall. When he did, his hands jarred loose. And the attacker was right there to seize the bag.

  Black fought hard, spinning around on his back to sweet the man’s legs out from underneath him. The pack flew a few meters away, leading to a mad dash for it. Black crawled to it first and secured it before ramming his foot into the man’s face. He groaned in pain, but Black didn’t let up, following with two more shots to the man’s jaw. Sensing an opportunity to knock the man out and get some answers, Black hustled to his feet again only to turn around and watch the man race out of the room. Across the way, he heard the door slam shut, but Black remained skeptical that he was alone.

  Black crept quietly through the maze of lockers until he reached the doorway. He opened the door swiftly to mitigate a surprise attack and saw no one around him. With the area relatively clear, Black headed up the steps and returned to his car. He turned the key in the ignition as the engine roared to life.

  He dialed Shields’s number and put her on speaker phone as he drove out of the parking garage.

  “Are you at the office?” Black asked.

  “I am now. I just got back from the dealership picking up my rental for the week.”

  “Car trouble?”

  “I need a new alternator,” she said. “Fun times. Did you need something?”

  “Maybe an aspirin for this headache I’ve got,” Black said. “Someone just tried to kill me.”

  “Were you trying to get that proof Watkins left you?”

  “Yep. Someone ambushed me as I was leaving.”

  “Do you still have the files and footage?”

  Black sighed. “No concern about how I’m doing? No questions about my health?”

  “I know you’re alive since you’re talking to me,” she said. “So don’t be such a drama queen. I can dress your little owwies later.”

  “The lack of empathy you have is shocking sometimes,” Black cracked.

  “And your lack of toughness makes me wonder how you ever thought this would be a profession you would enjoy. I have half a leg missing, but you don’t hear me complaining about that, do you? You try to milk these encounters for all they’re worth. You probably don’t even have a shiner.”

  “How many times do I have to tell you that hits to the face are far less effective than a throat punch? The pros know where to hit.”

  “So this guy was a pro?” Shields asked.

  “No doubt about it.”

  “I hope this call wasn’t simply to gain sympathy from me.”

  Black chuckled. “Of course not. I know better by now. I’ve worked with you for two years now. I know what to expect, but I was hoping you would at least show some concern.”

  “What do you need?”

  “Can you get access to the security footage from Union Station for about the last half hour?” Black asked. “I want to see if we can track this guy and figure out who he is.”

  “I’ll see what I can do,” she said. “You think this is the same guy who shot Watkins?”

  “This thug was more of a bruiser than a sniper. I’m thinking more of a frontlines guy. But I don’t know.”

  “All right, I’ll get to work on that.”

  “And I’m going to upload everything I got from Watkins right now so that you’ll have it in case this guy makes another run at me.”

  “I’ll be on the lookout for it,” Shields said. “And I’ll keep you posted on what I find.”

  Black hung up and adjusted his rearview mirror so he could see if the attacker did manage a facial bruise.

  “Nothing,” Black said aloud as he stroked his chin and smiled. “Still handsome as ever.”

  He heard a cackling noise and glanced around his car to determine the source of the laughing.

  “Hello,” he said as he picked up his cell phone.

  “I’m still here,” Shields said. “You forgot to hang up, and I’m too busy to do it myself.”

  “Laugh it up,” Black said. “You can act like it’s funny that I was talking to myself, but everybody does it.”

  “Maybe, but you won’t ever catch me telling myself that I’m as beautiful as ever,” she said before breaking into another chuckle. “I only wish I had accompanying video, but I’m sure it would be disappointing compared to how I imagined that little exchange with yourself and the mirror.”

  “I’m hanging up now, this time for real,” Black said.

  Black pulled out his laptop and transmitted all the files to Shields. After he finished, he headed toward the office. There was still plenty of digging to be done if he and Shields were going to expose who was behind Watkins’s death and the conspiracy he uncovered.

  CHAPTER 13

  Present day

  San Francisco, California

  TATIANA RAN HER FINGERS along the contours of her body, sliding the sequins on her dress in the same direction. She crossed her legs as she took a seat on the foot of the bed in an upstairs room at an extravagant house overlooking the water. This was the moment she had been waiting and training for. After being away from her family and under the general’s tutelage for the past two years, she was ready to prove herself.

  Before Tatiana left for the United States, the general had promised her that all she needed to do was complete her assignment and he would allow her to go back home to her family. That’s all she wanted, to go back home and be normal again. However, she wasn’t sure that was even possible. The time she’d spent preparing to serve her country had changed her in more ways than one. Dreams of playing soccer had long since died. And she didn’t think she’d ever see the world the same again.

  The general had made quite an impact with his theatrical stunts the first day of the incoming class of recruits. But it didn’t take long before she started witnessing events that weren’t staged moments designed to put fear in all the trainees. He was demanding—and ruthless when his standards weren’t met. Daily he emphasized the importance of precision and how attention to detail could mean the difference between survival and failure. And there were no acceptable alternatives other than success.

  Tatiana could almost hear his voice in her head as she sat on the end of the bed and waited.

  “Tatiana, you’re one of our brightest. You will be hailed as a hero and forever etched into the lore of your country if you pay heed to what I’m saying and learn to apply it.”

  A knock at the door made her jump, even though she was anticipating it.

  “Come in,” she said before forcing a smile.

  A man dressed in a light-gray suit with a black tie strode inside. He spoke in a Russian accent and barely looked her in the eyes. “Are you ready?”

  Tatiana exhaled slowly. “I think so.”

  “Think so or know so?” he asked as he knelt next to her at the foot of the bed. “Because there is a big difference, you know.”

  “Think,” Tatiana said, setting her jaw. “I’ve never done this before, so you should know as well as anyone that your first time makes you nervous, even if you are confident you know exactly what to do.”

  “Just don’t think about it,” he said. “That’s the easiest way. It’ll be over before you know it. And I’ll come in and help you when it’s over.”

  “Send him in,” she said.

  With that, the man exited the room. She waited patiently, visualizing everything she was about to do. The longer she waited, the more she felt physically ill. There was only one thing that kept her calm enough to follow through with her assignment.

  It’s all for my country.

  She heard the approaching footsteps before they halted just outside her door. When the person finally knocked, she swallowed hard and slipped her hand inside her purse.

  “Come in,” she said.

  The man who strode into the room looked vaguely familiar, though she couldn’t place him. He shut the door behind him without ever taking his eyes off Tatiana. He looked her up and down before easing onto the bed next to her.

  “My God
,” he said, “how do they make Russian women so beautiful?”

  Tatiana wrapped her fingers around the dagger inside her purse. “I don’t know. Why don’t you ask him yourself?”

  With that, she whipped out the blade and jammed it into the man’s throat. She backed away as he flopped around on the floor, trying to stop the bleeding. But it was of no use. She had severed his carotid artery. In less than fifteen seconds, he’d passed out from the sudden decrease in blood pressure. In just under sixty seconds, he was dead.

  She wanted to scream as she stepped back and realized what she’d done. She resisted the tears that welled up in her eyes.

  All for my country.

  The man in the suit rushed into the room and directed her to avoid touching the body.

  “Step over him,” the man said. “He’s not going to hurt you now.”

  Tatiana looked away as he held out his hand and assisted her. He guided her to the exit and told her to wait in the hallway.

  He returned shortly with a plastic bag containing one of the man’s fingers. He handed it to her along with a pair of gloves.

  “This is what I need?” she asked.

  “You need his fingerprint to access the files. Once you have access, place this back in the bag, do whatever you need to do to get the files the general requested, and then return the body part to me.”

  Tatiana nodded and followed the man’s instructions. In a matter of minutes, she was rummaging around on the dead guy’s computer, downloading files from a particular folder onto a flash drive. When she finished, she wiped down the computer and took the finger and the data files to the man in the suit.

  “Will I be able to go home now?” she asked.

  The man took the items from her and stared at her, eyeing her cautiously as if he wasn’t sure if she was serious.

  “You’re kidding, right?” he asked.

  “No, I’m not. Can I go home now?” she asked, her lips quivering as she waited for his response.

  “I’m afraid not. You don’t go home until the general says he’s done with you.”

  “So what do I do now?”