FATAL eMPULSE (7 page)

“I wish you hadn’t done that, Gloria.” Devon’s voice sounded tense, almost angry. He waited until he seemed to bring himself under control. “Other people will be very upset that you gave out that information.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. McAllister.” She started to cry. “I’ve never been in that position before. I just thought—”

“Don’t think next time, Gloria. Ask someone who has a brain.” The line went dead.

Devon quickly redialed. Stuart answered. “Yes?”

Devon braced himself. “I’ve got good news and bad news. Which do you want first?”

“Give me the bad.”

“Gerrit O’Rourke and Alena Shapiro have my credit-card information that links back to your company.”

“How did they manage that?” Stuart’s voice exploded over the phone line.

“They somehow tracked me back to a hotel in Miami I like to use when I’m passing through.”

“Where are you now?”

“A few hours away from Miami.”

“Get your team and track those two before they leave Florida.”

“You got it.”

“And, Devon…?”

“Yes, Mr. Martin.”

“I expect you to make this right.”

“Yes, sir.” Devon knew what Stuart left unsaid. If he did not find Gerrit and Alena, Devon had better start running—as if he could find someplace to hide. With a man like Stuart Martin, Devon might have to run to the end of the earth and beyond.

A few minutes later, he climbed into a white Mercedes coupe and drove toward Miami more than three hours away. Devon began making phone calls, calling in his crew who lived closer to the city.

Gloria’s call unnerved him, and he swore over his failure to be more careful. Using his real name at the hotel had been stupid, as was Gloria knowing his true identify. Regardless of whether they caught up with Gerrit and his girlfriend, he would have to take care of Gloria. She just became a big liability.

Too bad!
She was always a nice layover on his way through that city.

Gerrit e-mailed a copy of the credit-card information to Willy. “Alena and I are going to check in to a hotel. Give me a call as soon as you come up with any leads, okay?”

“You got it, Mr. G.”

Gerrit hung up and climbed back into the car. “Let’s find a nice hotel with an ocean view and a nice seafood dinner. Sound like a plan?”

“I am sure Gloria would love to help you with those arrangements, Detective.” Alena batted her eyes at him. “She does have your number.”

Gerrit laughed. “You know, that might be a good idea.”

“Have you lost your wits?” Her false demure look turned to a glare. “We are not going anywhere near that hotel. For all we know, Devon McAllister might be heading back for another stay since Gloria is so
accommodating
to all the men who cross her path
.
”

“Then we would be there to snatch him up.”

She shook her head. “Let us pick somewhere else to stay. After dinner, we will check in with Willy.”

Gerrit stepped on the gas and headed south along the waterfront. They found another hotel about a mile farther and checked in for the night. By the time they sat down for dinner, both were tired and ready to call it a day.

It was the first time they’d been out together since San Francisco, and a lot had happened since then. His internal alarm system told him more was about to happen. What did the future hold for them? Whatever it was, he doubted it would be a house with a white picket fence. More likely a graveyard with a tombstone.

Until then—he wanted to live every day as if it was his last.

As he watched Alena pick at her dinner, he wondered if she shared the same thoughts. Outside, a despondent dusk hovered outside as the remnants of daylight danced toward the west. For just a moment, he conjured up what part he might play in this woman’s life. Until now, in these waning years of midlife, he seemed to resist any complications, any relationship that might divert him off course. But Alena seemed different. If he had any chance of changing, of making that commitment—here was that opportunity. Sitting before him, front and center.

Listen to me! Complication
.
Off course
. Words he used to ward off anyone getting too close. What was he afraid of? Was he able to have a relationship?

Alena took a bite and placed her fork on the plate. She used her napkin as she watched others in the restaurant. A small smudge remained on her lip. He fought the urge to reach over and wipe it for her. Instead, he followed her gaze to another couple who seemed very comfortable with each other.

He envied them. Alena and he were so different, and yet in some ways, they were very much alike. Both parents died violently—his in a Seattle bombing; hers in devastating blast in Argentina. He fought throughout the Middle East and Afghanistan with the U.S. Marines; she wound up with Israeli’s IDF after her family emigrated from Russia, with a later reassignment to Mossad before coming to the United States. Violence and death had always played a part in their lives.

There loomed one really significant difference—religion. Alena found faith in a God who seemed to meet her needs, to make life more tolerable. He, on the other hand, had no use for the Big Guy in the sky. There seemed to be more evidence of a superior being that created this world rather than the Big Bang theory. To think that his ancestors somehow slithered up from organic ooze and developed into human beings over a million years seemed a bigger leap of faith than to believe in divine intervention.

It was the practical application of this God-thing that became the Great Wall of China between Alena and him. She believed God was interested in her day-to-day troubles, that this divine being watched from above to guide and protect her. Gerrit thought this superior being sat up in the heavens, benignly watching people go at it in this messed-up world as they slowly destroyed themselves. Like some grand watchmaker, creating the watch, winding it up, and letting it tick into oblivion.

Alena saw his troubled look. “What’s wrong?”

For a moment, he almost told her. Then, pulling back, he decided to leave it alone. Sooner or later, they might have to take a run at this subject. Right now, she seemed to find peace in this belief of hers. It might be better to allow her to continue in her own way of coming to grips with this violent world.

Gerrit would rather have a gun in his hand. Something concrete he could touch and feel. He could choose when to pull that trigger. There might not be inner peace about the way he chose to face life, but at least he felt in control over what could be controlled. The rest—he’d leave to fate.

He just shrugged. “Nothing. Just trying to figure where we go from here.”

February 23
Andrews Air Force Base, Maryland

W
ashington, D.C.—a city of awesome power and backstabbing compromises—had become a shell of what the founding fathers hoped might happen here. Jack Thompson still dreamed the Constitution might survive. He always came to this city with a round-trip ticket in hand. The moment he arrived, he began making plans to leave.

Today would be no different.

A car and driver waited for Jack when he disembarked from the Boeing C-17 and made his way across the tarmac. He glanced across the airfield at Air Force One, the most famous part of the USAF’s 89th Airlift Wing, sitting under guard. The president must be in town.

As he approached the unmarked military car, the young driver saluted. Jack gave him a friendly nod as the driver started to open the rear door. “Don’t need to salute, son. I’m in civvies.”

Jack waved the door closed. “If you don’t mind, I’ll ride shotgun with you. Hate riding in the backseat.”

The young man seemed to hesitate for a second and then smiled. “Yes, sir.” After taking care of Jack’s luggage, the driver jumped behind the steering wheel and began the drive south. Crossing the George Mason Memorial Bridge, Jack looked upriver along the Potomac and wondered what kind of trouble lay ahead. Trying to keep his overt military responsibilities separate from his cover operations raised all kinds of problems, like the one he was about to face.

Gerrit O’Rourke and that group existed in the gray, nebulous world of covert ops—where right and wrong could be a matter of perspective—without government sanction. To some, that might mean they could be labeled criminals or terrorists. But not to Jack or Beck Malloy. Gerrit, Alena, Willy, and Joe were thrust into a situation beyond their control and forced to exist in a world in which their very actions—computer hacking, even the use of force—was a matter of survival.

Survival for themselves and for their country.

If the other side snagged them, God forbid, and they survived, they could easily wind up in federal prison or worst—executed for treason.

“Sir, we are almost there.” The driver nodded at the security gate ahead. Heavily armed guards with automatic weapons, bomb-sniffing dogs, and reflective mirrors to examine the undercarriage of vehicles did more to advertise that this was the CIA’s headquarters than any sign posted along the roadway.

He pulled out his identification, and he and the driver submitted to a security search before they were allowed to drive forward. After they parked, Jack climbed out of the vehicle, telling the driver to stay with the car. He walked toward the main entrance of the CIA’s newest building. Even before he reached the main lobby, he saw a woman walking briskly in his direction.

Shakeela Vaziri. This woman was so pretty she could start a riot in a church.

“Colonel Thompson. We meet again.”

“SECNAV didn’t give me a choice.” Jack ignored the hand she held out.

“I’m sorry. This is not how I wanted to get the message to you. Once you’re briefed, I’m sure you’ll see why my boss went through our ADMA, Associate Director of Military Affairs, to reach the SECNAV…and you. We want to make sure there are no leaks, and most important, no misunderstandings. We’ll talk more about this in just a few minutes.”

Shakeela stood nearby as Jack passed through security and received a temporary identification card. Once cleared, she guided him to an elevator that took him belowground. The glass entryway, seen from the outside, was actually the fourth floor of the building. Most of the building lay buried in concrete. As they descended, Shakeela stifled a yawn and rubbed her temple.

“Been burning the late-night oil?” Jack needed to try to build rapport with her if he was going to get any information. No sense making enemies from the get-go. “You look tired.”

Shakeela gave a halfhearted smile. “Just jet lag catching up, I guess.”

“Europe? Middle East?”

She just shook her head. “Let’s just say, not in the United States.”

The elevator door rolled open, and he followed her down a brightly-lit hallway until they reached what appeared to be a conference room with only one door. No windows.

“Make yourself comfortable, Colonel, while I round up those who need to be here.”

“Wait a minute, Ms. Vaziri. How many people are coming to this party? I sent out a flag on one person—in what I considered a covert operation—and I want to know who I’m dealing with before we have a major sit-down with a bunch of strangers.”

“Our cooperation comes with conditions, sir—”

“Then take your conditions and shove ‘em. People are out there putting their lives on the line—”

“Like Gerrit O’Rourke?”

He glared at her, taken aback that she already knew something about his operation. “How’d you come up with that name?”

“You know Gerrit and I go way back. Ever since that operation you loaned him for in Afghanistan.”

“I know that you and he went out of country on that one. It has nothing to do with our conflict in Afghanistan. You lied to me then. Are you going to lie to me now?” He must have hit a nerve. Her eyes flared and her jaw muscles tightened.

“I never lied to you, Colonel. It was a need-to-know—and you didn’t.”

“Speaking of which, what happened between you and Gerrit? He came back mighty angry.”

She lowered her eyes. “I never meant to hurt him. I…can’t talk about it.”

“Can’t or won’t? You spooks have a convenient way of hiding what you don’t want to share. Did national security have anything to do with what happened? Or was it personal?”

“Frankly, that’s none of your business, sir. Let’s focus on what we’re facing right now.”

“Yes, shall we? Why did you haul my tired bones all the way out here to talk about what could have been covered over an encrypted phone line?”

“Let me get my boss here, and we’ll tell you.” With that, she turned and left him in the room.

So the CIA already knew about Gerrit. What else did they know? And why were they so interested in Stuart Martin? These unanswered questions made him nervous. How could he and Malloy protect Gerrit and the others if more strangers knew about the operation?

Shakeela closed the conference door and moved down the hallway. She did not reveal to the colonel that this meeting put her own life in danger, pulling her from an undercover assignment overseas to meet with him at Langley. A total violation of CIA policy, which painted a red bull’s-eye on both their backs. Deep undercover meant just that. She had spent years setting up an operation centered in Paris that made use of the Iranian contacts currently living in France.

She never realized how those photos she took of Atash Hassan meeting with this unknown man, Stuart Martin, would set off so many bells. As soon as she had received notification as to the identity of Stuart, she started getting encrypted messages—first, from her station chief, and later from a manager at headquarters—to return to Langley.

Once she got to a secure line, her chief advised the name might have something to do with a man known as Gerrit O’Rourke, a subject the Agency knew she had contact with years ago. Suddenly, it was as if she—and indirectly, Gerrit—became subjects of interest to the CIA and not Stuart Martin. Whose toes had she stepped on? Maybe this Martin guy was affiliated with the Agency and part of another operation unknown to her. Her target was Hassan and anything pertaining to that terrorist. She had a legitimate reason to find out all she could about any of Hassan’s associates.