The Sixth Man (25 page)

Foster leaned forward. “In your contract renewal you’ve asked for an increase of twenty-three percent based on a variety of factors.”

Bunting shot a glance at Quantrell, who was shaking his head and making clucking sounds.

“Madame Secretary, with all due respect, one of my main competitors is sitting in this room. That information was delivered in confidence to—”

“I’m sure we can rely on Mr. Quantrell’s professionalism.”

Bunting wanted to say,
What professionalism? He’s a slimeball and you know it.
But instead he said, “Every single cost increase is justifiable. My people spent months cranking the numbers. And they worked with the government side on all of it, so there’re no surprises in there.”

“While we in Washington have the reputation of being a blank
check with a rubber stamp, some of us do like to get what we pay for.”

Though nearly a foot taller than the woman, Bunting now somehow felt much smaller than Foster. “I think we bring considerable value to the table.”

“Frankly, I gave you a chance, Peter. You blew it.”

“I spoke with the president,” Bunting said hastily and then instantly regretted it.

She compressed her lips. “Yes, I know. Neat little end-around. But all it bought you was a little time. Nothing more.”

Foster looked around the room. “I think that concludes the meeting. Mr. Quantrell, if you would join me in my office, I have some important matters I’d like to discuss.”

She left the room with Mason Quantrell following.

As the room cleared Bunting stood there for a few moments staring down at the useless briefing book in his hand. When he finally did leave no one looked at him as he passed little conversation groups in the hall. Foster had done her work well, it seemed.

He waited outside her office until she came out with Quantrell.

“May I have a word, Madame Secretary?” Bunting asked.

She gazed at him in mild surprise. “I have a full schedule.”

“Please, just a minute.”

Quantrell looked amused. “I’ll talk to you later, Ellen.” He slapped Bunting on the shoulder. “Cheer up, Pete. You can always come back to work for Mercury. I understand we need a geek in the IT Department.”

Quantrell walked off and Bunting turned to Foster.

“Well?” she said. “Make it quick.”

He drew closer. “Please don’t do it.”

“Do what?”

“The preemptive action.”

“Good God, Bunting,” she hissed. “You’re talking about this out in the damn hallway? Have you lost your mind?”

“Just give me a little more time.”

She looked him up and down and then closed her office door in his face.

* * *

On the drive back to the airport, Bunting noted the inconspicuous building set at the end of a strip mall. And the brick structure that backed up to a suburban neighborhood. Then there was a building that looked like it was made of all glass but that in reality had not one window in the place. These were all footprints of intelligence gathering. They were stuck like splinters into pieces of the outside world and most of the people passing by them had not the remotest idea what went on inside of them.

Intelligence work was dirty and at times deadly. Whether your adversary was killed quick with a bullet or slow with an enhanced interrogation session, or was anonymously obliterated by a drone strike launched from thousands of feet up, he was still dead. Like Edgar Roy might be soon. Dead.

Bunting settled back in his seat and let out a long sigh. Right now the two-point-five-billion-dollar contract didn’t seem nearly worth it.

“D
O WE SHADOW
Carla Dukes? Do we go see Edgar Roy again? Do we try to bust Murdock’s chops somehow? Do we dig into Kelly Paul’s background and see what turns up? Do we investigate Bergin’s and Hilary’s murders? Do we keep going after the six bodies in Edgar Roy’s barn?”

Michelle fell silent and looked expectantly at Sean as they walked along the oceanfront near Martha’s Inn.

“Or do we do
all
of that? And if so, how?” he replied. “There’s only the two of us.”

“We multitask well.”

“Nobody multitasks that well.”

“But we have to do something.”

“The six bodies can cut two ways. Either someone knew that he was the Analyst for the government and framed him. Or he killed those people and the government is trying to keep what Roy actually did from the public.”

“But you don’t think he did it, do you?”

“No, though I don’t have any solid reasons to back that up.”

“So the people framing him must be enemies of this country. They know what he does and they’re trying to stop him? But why not just kill him? He lived alone on that farm. It would’ve been easy.”

“Well he must have had security, so it might not have been that easy. But maybe they wanted to do more than simply deprive America of its brilliant analyst.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know,” Sean admitted.

“Who do you think shot out our car windows?”

“Either our side or the other side.”

“That’s what I was thinking.”

“Lot of dangerous folks out there.”

“Exactly.” Michelle took his arm. “Come on.”

“Where are we going?”

“You’ll see.”

Ninety minutes later Sean was walking out of Fort Maine Guns with a new Sig 9mm.

“I haven’t fired a pistol in a while.”

“Which is why we’re going there next.” She pointed to a door in a building adjacent to Fort Maine with a sign outside that said Shooting Range.

An hour later Sean studied his results.

“Not bad,” Michelle said. “Total score of ninety percent. Your kill zone shots were right where they need to be.”

He glanced at her targets. The holes were huge because the bullets had all congregated in the same spot.

“What was your score?”

“A bit better than yours. But just a bit.”

“Liar.”

When they got back to the inn Megan was hard at work at the round table in the parlor, with papers and files strewn around.

She looked up when they walked in the room.

“What are you doing?” asked Sean.

“Working on some motion papers.”

“Regarding what?”

“Ms. Paul’s information was very intriguing. I want to know whatever the government knows about Edgar Roy’s background. And what he actually does for them.”

Michelle said, “But if he is working in intelligence they won’t tell us anything. They’ll just bury it under national security mumbo-jumbo.”

“That’s right. But if we can get that on the record it may be enough to raise reasonable doubt in a jury’s mind. It’s certainly critical evidence. And in order to try to get that evidence we have to pull the government’s chain. Hard.”

“But the guy may never go to trial,” pointed out Michelle.

Sean said, “But if he does, some of the forensics help us. The different dirt, for instance, found on the bodies. It’s possible the bodies were brought from somewhere else and dumped in Roy’s barn.”

“Well, that could be all the exculpatory evidence we need,” said Megan hopefully.

“Unless they argue Roy killed them somewhere else, hid the bodies for a while there, and then dug them up and brought them to Virginia.”

“And buried them in his own barn so someone could find them and arrest him?” said Megan incredulously. “For such a smart guy that’s pretty dumb.”

Sean said, “And then there’s the mysterious caller that conveniently tipped the police off about the bodies in the first place. Who is that person and how did he know about the bodies? Maybe the tipster killed the people and set Roy up.”

“We still have to prove that,” noted Michelle.

“No, proof of guilt is the government’s job. We just have to raise it as a way to get reasonable doubt in a jury’s mind,” responded Sean.

Michelle said, “Murdock will be really pissed off when he sees the filings.”

“Let him be.” He looked at Megan. “You cool with that?”

She smiled. “The FBI doesn’t scare me anymore.”

Sean and Michelle headed up to his room. “There are a lot of roads we could go down, but I want to focus on Carla Dukes.”

“She’s probably an FBI agent.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Why?”

“You and I have dealt with lots of FBI agents. She’s no spring chicken, so if she were with the Bureau she’d have been with them for years now. She doesn’t have the walk or the talk of an FBI vet. And an FBI agent would have anticipated we’d pull the media card to get in to see Roy and would’ve had an answer for it. She didn’t.”

“But still, to her we’re the enemy,” replied Michelle.

“Enemies can still reach common ground.”

She cocked her head. “You mean we find some leverage with her?”

“Exactly.”

“It’ll have to be some damn heavy-duty stuff.”

“Yes it will,” said Sean.

“Do you have any in mind?”

“Yes I do.”

“When do we do it?”

“Tonight of course.”

C
ARLA
D
UKES PULLED
her car into her garage around nine o’clock. She unlocked the door that led into the kitchen, put her bag down, and stood in front of the alarm code pad, her finger poised to hit the appropriate buttons. It took her a moment to realize that there was no high-pitched squeal from the alarm system telling her that she had to disarm it before the delay ran out.

That was because the alarm wasn’t on.

She whirled around.

Sean stood there, the butt of his gun visible at the waist.

“What the hell are you doing here?” Dukes demanded.

“I need to talk to you.”

“You broke into my house.”

“No I didn’t. The door was open.”

“Bullshit. I lock everything up before I leave and then arm the system.”

“You must’ve forgotten. As you can see, the alarm system is off.”

“Then you turned it off.”

“I said, you said.”

“You’re in my house. I’m calling the police.” She eyed his gun.

He looked at where she was looking. “It’s a Beretta nine mil. Standard issue for the FBI, ironically enough.”

She slid her cell phone from her purse. “Good, why don’t we call them to come over and collect it and you?”

Before she could hit even one button, Sean said, “Would Agent Murdock want to know you’re working for someone else?”

“All right. I am with the FBI. And therefore I can arrest you right now. But instead I’ll give you five seconds to get the hell out of here.”

Sean didn’t move. He just looked at her, a tight smile edging across his features. “Just so you understand, Carla, the next minute or so will determine whether you end up in a federal prison or not.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You just made a big mistake.”

“I’m warning you.”

“You’re not FBI. You’re not even close to being FBI. So if anybody’s going to call the Feds I think that’ll be me.” He took out his phone and poised his finger over the numbers. She watched him dumbly. “But maybe you want to talk first,” he said.

“Maybe,” she said nervously.

Sean reached out and slipped the cell phone from her hand, and set it down on the kitchen counter.

“I think you want the FBI to believe you’re working with them. You’re certainly going through the motions. You have Murdock convinced. But he didn’t put you into play at Cutter’s Rock.”

“Look, I told you I’m with the FBI.”

“Then show me your creds.”

“I’m undercover. I don’t carry them.”

“Where’s your Beretta?”

“In my bedroom.”

Sean shook his head. “SOP for FBI undercover is to get into the part. Your office is barren. Not even one fake family picture on your desk.” He pointed to his gun. “And FYI, the FBI doesn’t use the Beretta. They carry either Glocks or Sigs.”

Dukes said nothing.

“So someone else put you at Cutter’s. Which means your loyalties lie elsewhere. The FBI really frowns on being played for chumps.”

“I was assigned to work at Cutter’s Rock. I have a long career in federal correctional institutions.”

“It doesn’t matter. You’re here temporarily. You haven’t even bothered to move into your office. And this place is a rental. With a six-month lease.”