The Code Within: A Thriller (Trent Turner Series) (33 page)

“Believe me when I say I was completely against how this was handled.”

She still didn’t answer.

“I don’t know who these men are, but listen to me.” Moynihan’s eyes narrowed. “If they ask you a question, just tell them the answer. They’ll manage to get it out of you anyway.”

Millar returned her words with a look of concern. “Okay,” she said softly.

Footsteps approached the room, and they stopped talking. The sound the footsteps made was quieter this time. She assumed it was the man with the computer coming back. A few seconds later he opened the door and went over to the desk. He picked up his iPod, put the headphones on and plugged the laptop into the wall jack.

His fingers stabbed at the keyboard for a couple minutes and then he closed the display. Footsteps could be heard outside, and by the time he had made it to the door, the girl had come into the room with the two Russians. The scent of cigarette smoke was overwhelming. The girl thanked the men for bringing her to the bathroom and cuffed herself to the metal railing. The soldiers left without speaking.

The young woman turned to the desk and looked upset. “Shit,” she whispered. “Where did that guy’s iPod go?”

DuPage Airport, Chicago, Illinois

THE FLIGHT FROM Ronald Reagan National Airport to Chicago was short, but there was still plenty of time for FBI Director Frank Culder to piss off his men. Jack Sanders and Rudy Pagano had flown south from Frederick to pick up their boss in a Gulfstream V jet. The bureau had purchased the plane for use in counterterrorism work, and for the director, it had worked well for shuttling around his covert HVT squad. The three men then headed northwest to the Windy City.

A heated exchange between Culder and Sanders ignited shortly after takeoff. Sanders had told the director the hit on Agent Cathy Moynihan was out of the question. The director had always been careful about keeping FBI staff away from assignments that might rouse suspicion about his secret operation, what he and Senator Soller often called their ‘special arrangement’. This had been a case where he needed to act quickly following the murder of Soller’s son. Culder had been forced to pull in one of the local agents since the work involved interviews, and that meant the job would have be done in the public eye. There had to be a face to this covert operation—at least initially.

Sanders’s anger rose to a boil as Culder continued to minimize his decision to take the agent’s life. The back-and-forth banter had nearly seen Sanders clean the floor with the Brillo Pad-like hair on the director’s head, before Pagano inserted himself between the two men. He sensed they knew there was something he wasn’t telling them. They had kept it to themselves through silent gestures they thought went noticed.

Culder hadn’t expected Moynihan to question his actions, and he had quickly determined she was the sort of loose end that could cause waves. He knew the only way to eliminate the risk of exposure was to stamp her out. Since his team leader wouldn’t take care of it, he’d find someone else to do the deed.

“Are we finished?” Culder said with a dark stare.

Sanders didn’t make eye contact. “For now.”

“We can’t have any distractions, Jake,” the director reasoned. “You’re no good to anyone if you’ve checked out mentally.”

Sanders shifted his eyes to Pagano. “I said I’m done talking about it.”

After an uncomfortable silence, Culder said, “You said for now.”

Sanders shot the director a menacing look. “I’m not your bitch. I’m finished discussing this, for now,” he responded with a seething finality. “It’s not going to affect my ability to execute.”

Culder knew pushing back right now wouldn’t do any good.

Sanders looked to Pagano and then Culder. “You’re smart enough to know that. If you have a problem beyond that, with the fact that I’m not gung ho about killing a fucking coworker, we can keep talking about it until I start swinging.” He crossed his arms and locked eyes with the director, then offered a defiant shrug. “If that’s what you’d like. You’re the boss.”

Culder was already regretting his reaction to the news about Moynihan. His anger had blinded him to the fact that his behavior and disregard for an FBI agent’s life would be suspect to his men. It was a stupid mistake, the price for paying too much attention to the prize and ignoring the details. He needed to diffuse the situation quickly before it spun further out of control. His greatest achievement was so close he could almost taste it, and he needed Sanders on his side to pull it off. He decided it was time to swallow some pride in the name of his ultimate goal.

“I’m sorry, Jake,” Culder said. He worked hard to sound sincere.

Both of his men shifted uncomfortably, and he realized it was probably because this was the first time he’d ever apologized.

“Look, I get it,” Culder said. “We’ll think of another way to deal with the situation.”

Sanders raised his chin and said, “Okay?” It was more of a question. He wasn’t convinced.

Culder realized it was high time to change the subject and motioned to the table in between them as the wheels touched down.

“Let’s look at the blueprints for the Studebaker Theater and figure out the best way to approach this,” he said. “Whoever this Trent is, let’s hope he’ll have Francis Millar with him, so we can kill two birds with one stone.”

Sanders remained silent, visibly annoyed.

Pagano was the next to speak. “The place looks pretty big.” His gaze shifted between the two men. “We’ll need at least two more—four if we want to keep things zipped up tight outside.”

The director didn’t like the idea of any more agents getting involved. He had already ordered a surveillance team to keep tabs on Francis Millar, and it had managed to lose him after he had left the airport. Culder wasn’t sure if it was due to incompetence or skill, and was concerned that with this Trent person, it could be the latter.

“Let’s keep it to a minimum. You two take care of this on your own. Just be sure he doesn’t make it out the door.” Culder thought about the exponential increase in risk for each local agent they brought on board. “It’s only one man,” he continued, “two of them if Millar is there, but if he is there, the hacker will do him more harm than good when we move in.”

He could tell by the expressions on their faces that Sanders and Pagano weren’t happy. They had rarely worked with agents outside the team, but the previous night had seen the ranks of the HVT squad cut down to just the two of them. Culder knew they were currently motivated by revenge, and he would use that to his advantage.

He finally accepted the silent consensus that he would have to bring agents in from the local field office; otherwise, the risk of failure was too great. The trick would be making up a good story to go with the job. He was in a position of power, so he would exercise his option to keep the details fuzzy.

“I think we’ll have an advantage if Millar’s there. We’ll do it your way,” Culder agreed. “We’ll keep it to a minimum.” He nodded to Pagano. “Two locals, as you said. This will go down in a public place, and we can’t afford mistakes from untested agents.”

Culder had made a good point, and the three men nodded in agreement as the plane came to a stop in the hangar.

“All right,” Pagano said.

“They won’t get away with what they’ve done,” Culder assured. “Just keep a level head. Time for payback will come soon enough.”

Kozlov Residence, Lake Forest, Illinois

PAVEL KOZLOV WHISTLED triumphantly along with the classical music thundering out of his Bang & Olufsen sound system. Music had always been therapeutic for the Russian and helped calm his nerves. This day would be one of the most important of his life. Not only was he a major player in the operation that would destroy the United States and see the Soviet Union rise once again, but he would also achieve something significant on a personal level. He knew Victoria Eden would become one of the most important violinists of his time, possibly of all time. This evening’s performance would showcase him as the man who brought her talent to the world.

He stood in front of the full-length mirror in his master suite checking the fit of his Brioni tuxedo. He had a penchant for Italian fashion. The finer things in life were a satisfying reward for decades of sacrifice. He considered how his appearance had changed over the years. The gray hair and weathered face projected an air of sophistication. It was a façade that helped to mask his ruthless tendencies.

A sideways glance through the floor-to-ceiling windows was his gateway to the lake. His sprawling stone-crafted residence took advantage of the coveted views his neighborhood was famous for. A smile formed on his lips as he considered others who might also be taking in the view at this moment. His look of satisfaction had nothing to do with the beauty outside. The Russian knew many fortunes would change from his actions, and Tuesday morning would bring with it a catastrophic wake-up call for many who shared this view of the lake.

His smile disappeared as he placed a call. “You have been very disappointing to me lately,” Kozlov said.

“I know,” Bruce Campbell said.

The Russian fixed his eyes on a boat in the distance, and after a few moments decided he owed the man one more chance. His view would be that of a jail-cell wall if it wasn’t for the man on the phone.

“We can’t afford any more mistakes.”

“What would you like me to do?” Campbell asked.

There was an air of surprise in his voice, and Kozlov realized he hadn’t expected another chance.

“Two things.”

“Sure. Whatever you need.”

“I want you to get in touch with your friends,” Kozlov said.

Campbell used to do contract work for a private security company before the Bratva had brought him on board. They were all ex-military who worked the protection circuit. They specialized in bodyguarding and perimeter security.

“I can do that,” Campbell said.

“We need to secure the Chicago building for the next forty-eight hours,” Kozlov explained. He straightened his bow tie in the mirror, with the phone pinched between his shoulder and ear. “They will be well paid.”

“Should I have someone contact you?”

“No. Put them in touch with Dimitri. I want them in place as soon as possible.”

“Will do. And me?”

“I want you to head to the Virginia operation,” Kozlov said. “Nobody in or out. Seal the place up.”

“Got it.”

Kozlov Bratva hideout, Leesburg, VA

MARIA SOLLER’S PANIC gave way to relief when Melody Millar told her the charger for the iPod had been tucked inside the bag the man had left on the desk. She made her way as far along the metal railing as she could, but when she stretched, the bag was just out of her reach. She exhaled in frustration and looked over at Melody and the woman she didn’t know. She flashed them a quick look at her iPhone, and both women’s expressions were lined with hope.

“The battery is dead,” Soller whispered. She pointed to the wall socket. “If I can just get to that stupid bag, I can plug it in.”

“I was wondering what you were doing with that chair,” the woman said quietly, looking impressed. “Can you move the desk?”

Two quick nods from Soller acknowledged the good idea. She grabbed the corner of the desk with her free hand and tried to move it, but the desk was much heavier than it looked. She shored up her grip and put all her strength into pulling it toward her. A shrill screech erupted as the desk moved away from the wall, its metal legs protesting the effort. Soller’s eyes showed fear, a pained grimace frozen on her face.

“Holy shit,” she whispered.

The sudden sound of footsteps increased the tension.

“Get back to your chair,” the woman insisted.

Maria scurried back down the railing to the sound of scraping metal and slumped down into the chair. She stole a quick glance at the desk and saw that it was noticeably crooked. Her heart pounded in desperation as she saw the door open in her peripheral vision. Her eyes darted to the visitor, and the panic began to erase her senses. She took in a deep breath, and was too scared to realize she was holding it.

The visitor didn’t seem to notice the desk had moved, and just as he did the other times when he’d shown up, he avoided eye contact. He went through the same routine with his laptop. He plugged it into the jack and went to work punching commands into the keyboard. Soller strained to see what he was doing, but the text that scrolled on the screen didn’t mean anything to her.

After a couple of minutes, he stood up and grabbed his bag. The three women watched with dread as he sifted through its contents. He pulled out a USB drive and set the bag down before leaving the room.

Maria Soller turned to the others. “Oh my God, that was close.”

They nodded in agreement.

Soller waited for the footsteps to fade before she worked her way back to the desk. Her body formed a cross as she leaned toward the bag with the handcuff restraints supporting her weight. She was closer this time. Her fingernail made a scratching sound as it moved back and forth against the bag’s material trying to find a hold. Maria quickly removed her shoe and assumed the same position. This time she used its rubber sole to push the bag down against the desk and then pull it toward her.

“Bingo,” she said in victory. The word came out a little louder than she would have liked. A mixture of excitement and fear swirled through the air. “Sorry,” she said, her voice much softer this time.

Soller sifted through the bag for the charger. She raised the white cord into the air with a smile and pushed the bag back across the desk to where it was. She stretched out as far as she could, and was barely able to push the charger into the wall socket. The woman confirmed the coast was clear with an eager nod, so Soller pulled out her iPhone and used its length to seat the charger’s plug firmly into the socket. Her shoulders tensed up at the sound of the familiar beep that indicated power. They froze in the silence for a long moment, and then shared a celebratory look.

Maria Soller smiled and said, “Hot damn.”