Angels of Vengeance: The Disappearance Novel 3 (51 page)

The drive to Madison Park was too far, even with a government car and driver. Jed called Marilyn and told her he’d be staying in the townhouse for the night. She had a couple of friends over and was already three sheets into the wind, so at least he wasn’t in trouble there. Neither of the kids, Melanie and Roger, could tear themselves away from their games consoles to say goodnight. Jed didn’t much care by that point. He just wanted a shower, something to eat, and sleep. If he could sleep.

It was a calculated gamble, turning somebody like Caitlin Monroe loose on Blackstone. He had no doubt that within a couple of days the impasse would be ancient history. But whether Monroe would deliver to him the information he needed to quietly remove the Governor of Texas, or whether they were hours away from some violent, nightmarish blood swarm, he couldn’t say. And not having control was killing him.

He couldn’t control the fact that Blackstone had sent special operators to Florida and stumbled across an apparent piece of villainy by Roberto down there. Just as he couldn’t control the fact that a certain ‘Colonel Murdoch’ had now loomed into the President’s consideration.

Kip had no idea who Murdoch was, of course. For James Kipper, one more military officer writing one more report was a matter of supreme indifference. For Jed, however, the President’s sudden, inconvenient awareness of the existence of ‘Murdoch’ was a source of diabolical uncertainty. It was just so frustrating having to wait on other people to finish something he had set in train. Especially since the end result could see him remembered as a national hero, or sent to jail.

His indigestion felt like a fist squeezing tightly just below his rib cage. Pizza was the worst thing in the world for it, but pizza was what he felt like. And for the moment, at least, it was about the only thing in his life he could control. Plus, he knew that for half an hour or so, the food would be a blessed relief as it sopped up his stomach acids. After closing the door of the apartment behind him, and silently thanking Marilyn’s forgetfulness – she hadn’t turned off the heating system when she’d left for home – Jed dialled up for a four-cheese pizza from the place on the corner, and poured himself a double measure of Mylanta as an aperitif.

He channel-surfed the news stations for a few minutes, but that did nothing to settle his stomach or his nerves. Fox News, as usual at this time of night, was taking its feed directly from Sky in the UK. The Greens leader, Sandra Harvey, was on MSNBC, causing him to rapidly surf away from that channel, and the local news station was still obsessing about the weather. In the end, he left it on a movie channel, where John Wayne was trying to remake his image in
The Searchers
. He had just enough time for a shower and one glass of Bulleitt Bourbon before his pizza arrived.

Jed knew he shouldn’t have been inhaling so many tons of cheese and starchy carbs that late at night. Marilyn was already on his case about the extra weight he was carrying, and she had a point.

‘Soon as I put this asshole away,’ he promised himself as he levered out the first slice. ‘I will bury Mad Jack Blackstone, and then I’ll get myself back into shape. Maybe even go back to wrestling. But there’s not much fucking point pretending it’s going to happen before then, is there, Duke?’

He saluted the TV with his drink.

He probably should’ve had a glass of wine with the pizza, but he was on a roll with the bourbon and didn’t want to change drinks. It would just make for a worse hangover in the morning.

After sluicing down the last piece with another slug of antacid, Jed washed his hands and took a legal pad and pencil to bed with him. There he began to sketch the outlines of the problems he was dealing with, and what if any solutions he might apply.

‘Blackstone, for now, I can’t do anything about,’ he said aloud. But he wrote down the name
Murdoch
, circled it, and penned a question mark.

Of course, he had never intended for Kipper to find out about Agent Monroe’s mission in Texas. Since the President had expressly forbidden any such mission, there was a fair chance he would be unhappy to learn of it. Especially if he found out before Monroe was able to effect a result. Jed imagined she would do so quickly, but he would have to build a firewall around her to prevent Kip from having any contact with the fictional air force colonel. At least until she was done.

Distraction
.

He wrote the word underneath the first entry and followed it up with another question mark.

Prisoners.

Jed had done some preliminary work on the question of what to do with the prisoners they still held from the fighting in New York. It was an issue the President wanted to deal with and move past. It was also an issue that spoke to the better angels of Kipper’s nature, unlike his own, and that made it ripe for exploitation.

The next hour passed quickly as Culver mapped out a plan for dealing with the prisoners in a way he knew would appeal to Kip. As a bonus it would also meet with the approval of Secretary Humboldt, meaning that he should be able to whip up a small shit storm of enthusiasm for it in the short term. Like, tomorrow. Kipper’s natural inclination would be to let Tusk Musso make the running on any initial response to this bullshit in Florida. For once, Jed had reason to be grateful for Kip’s natural scepticism about national security issues. Give him the choice between dealing with a security issue and an engineering challenge, or a question of development or resettlement, and you would do your dough cold betting on the former.

When he finally looked up from the legal pad, which he had filled with pages of scrawled notes and diagrams, it was after midnight. He wondered what might be happening in Texas, if anything, and resisted the urge to call Wales Larrison in Vancouver.

He could talk to him first thing in the morning. No point waking the man up to deal with something over which he had no control. For the moment at least, the President remained unaware that Monroe was operating within the boundaries of the United States, in direct contravention of his wishes. Perhaps they could keep it that way.

‘Well, this is awkward.’

‘You could put the gun down, Ty. Might help.’

‘I don’t think so,’ he said, smiling disingenuously. ‘And if you could keep your hands where I can see them and stay out of striking range, which I presume to be considerable in your case, we’ll be cool.’

He took a step back into the corridor, allowing her a better view of two security guards flanking him, both with their own handguns drawn and pointed none too steadily at her head. One of them moved towards her, reaching for a set of handcuffs.

‘Whoa. I really wouldn’t do that if I was you, Sam,’ said McCutcheon. ‘You don’t want to get too close to her.’

Damn.

The Governor’s main man grinned as though he’d just played the winning card. ‘Gee, this is a surprise, isn’t it? The international super-spy gets her ass handed to her by a bunch of hicks. Embarrassing much?’

‘A bit. But how?’ she asked. ‘Surely not the clowns you had monitoring my room back in Temple?’

She had her hands up, and the night-vision goggles pushed back on her head. One of only two advantages she held at that moment. Another second and she would’ve fitted the NVGs, blinding herself when McCutcheon had thrown open the door and flooded the room with light.

He laughed. ‘No. Rest assured, your surveillance shift is still listening to whoever you put in your room. I checked in with them earlier. She snores, which you don’t. Those boys are probably jerkin’ their gherkins right now while they tell each other exactly how many ways they’d fuck you from Sunday.’

‘Nice to know I still got it,’ said Caitlin.

‘Oh, you got it, baby. And I want it. Now hand it over.’

He pointed his gun at her phone.

‘Just lay it on the floor and step away.’

‘You didn’t tell me how you blew my cover, Ty. You know, in the movies the super-villain has the decency to explain that sort of thing.’

She crouched down and laid the cell at her feet, before backing away. McCutcheon sent one of the security guards through to collect it while keeping his gun aimed at the centre of her face.

‘I’m more of a senior henchmen than your actual super-villain,’ he replied. ‘But for what it’s worth, you can blame your husband. Well, if you ever get to see him again.’

‘Bret?’

‘Oh, don’t be too hard on old Melly. He meant well. He loves you, and he’s very proud of you. That’s why he sent a wedding photo to an old army buddy of mine, a Ranger too, who forwarded it to their regimental association, who then published it in their newsletter. Their
electronic
newsletter.’

She closed her eyes.

‘Yes, you remember now? Hatches, matches and dispatches. That newsletter covers them all. And, of course, Bret was quite the fifteen-minute celebrity for a while there.
Army Times
correspondent, one of what, half a dozen who survived the Wave? He wrote some great dispatches out of Iraq. Pulitzer Prize-winning stuff, if there’d still been a Pulitzer Prize. So, yeah, when an old boy of the 75th Ranger Regiment makes good like that, and marries himself a pretty girl, it’s a feel-good story. The sort of thing that gets a good run in the old boys’ newsletter. You know – to lift the spirits. People have been so darn gloomy since the end of the world.’

She said nothing.

‘It was the old man who remembered you. Well, not you, but your husband. The Governor doesn’t wear the uniform anymore, of course. Wouldn’t be right. But he keeps up with the regimental news, makes sure to get along to the annual reunion. It’s good politics, if nothing else. We have a lot of Rangers down here. Soon as he met you, bells started ringing. You are a good-looking woman,
Caitlin
– the sort a man would remember. He had me scouring back issues of the newsletter, convinced he’d seen a story on you there. And he had. But not about Colonel Murdoch. No, the story he’d seen had been about the wedding of old-boy-made-good Bret Melton to a USAID staffer, Caitlin Monroe. And there you were, pretty as a picture. But really, Caitlin, a white dress? In your case, I think not.’

Still she gave him nothing. It wasn’t Bret’s fault. He’d sent a photo to an old army buddy, a guy who hadn’t been able to make it to the wedding. The way old buddies do.

‘I can see you calculating the odds and the angles, Caitlin,’ he said. ‘So if you want to unburden yourself of that awfully heavy handgun you’re carrying, and any USB sticks or data disks you might’ve used to copy my files, you’d make me feel a lot less like shooting you in the face.’

As she reached slowly for the weapon, all three men adjusted their stances. She slowly placed the pistol on the ground and kicked it over to them.

‘The phone is the data disk,’ she replied. ‘I’m sure you’ll want to pat me down. But it’s all in there,’ she lied. ‘Encrypted, I’m afraid.’

‘I’d love to pat you down, but I could do without the broken arm,’ McCutcheon said. ‘It’s a pity really. I was wondering last night at drinks whether your devotion to duty and country might let me score a free blow job from Colonel Murdoch. Now we’ll never know. And don’t sweat the phone. I’m sure we can find some redneck genius somewhere to figure out how your cell works. Don’t be too hard on yourself, by the way. Some of it was just bad luck. It’s a small world these days.

‘We didn’t clue in to who you were right away. The boss just had a feeling that he knew of you from somewhere, and not as an air force wingnut. Me, I’d never heard of a Colonel Murdoch. And the USAF, especially these days, it’s a small town, let me tell you. It was when you said you’d been exiled in the UK for a couple of years that the penny dropped. The Governor remembered the wedding story. Just one of those things. If you hadn’t mentioned it, you might not have jogged his memory about good old Bret and the newly minted Mrs Melton. That’s some tough shit, eh?’

McCutcheon did love the sound of his own voice. She didn’t bother feeding his ego with a reply. The way he was grinning now, it didn’t look like he needed it.

‘Come on, Caitlin. We better go see the old man and figure out exactly how much damage you’ve done.’

He thought at first that it was his bedside alarm. Jed Culver groaned until he realised the ring tone was wrong. He had a phone call.

He wasn’t ruinously drunk or hung-over. But the brandy and bourbons lay heavy on his brow as he struggled up out of a fitful slumber. His indigestion came roaring back too, courtesy of the four-cheese pizza. For a second, he couldn’t understand why Marilyn wasn’t in bed, then he remembered she was back home and he was crashed out in the townhouse. The entirety of the evening came rushing back in on him. The unpleasant surprise of discovering Kipper knew of Colonel Murdoch and her mission in Fort Hood, thanks to Blackstone and the Federation’s special operators, who’d turned out to be anything but special.

Jed’s voice was so croaky and thickened with alcohol and sleep that he couldn’t even get the words out at first. He coughed to clear his throat.

‘Culver,’ he said. ‘What’s up?’

As soon as he heard the Echelon’s Deputy Director of Special Clearances on the line, all of his grogginess sluiced away on an adrenaline surge.

‘It’s Wales Larrison, Mr Culver. We have a problem. In fact, we have two of them.’

*

‘That trick you guys pulled breaking into our system, looping the security footage back over itself, that was fucking brilliant,’ raved McCutcheon.

He sat next to her in the back of a Humvee, both of them being driven across the base to Blackstone’s home residence. Caitlin’s hands were cuffed behind her back and the former air force man kept his gun trained on her midsection, while maintaining as much separation between them as he could. The driver’s head bobbed in time to the bass beat of a song he was listening to through earphones plugged into his Zune.

Little fucking Wayne, again. There was no escaping the guy.

‘A bit
too
brilliant, though,’ her captor went on. ‘We probably wouldn’t have noticed anything, except I was standing at the security desk with my boys when I saw myself walking down a corridor on the other side of the building. Whoops!’

Caitlin maintained the stillness and silence within which she had cocooned herself, ever since she’d handed over the cell phone and her Kimber pistol.

‘You’re like a Bond villain, you know that?’ said McCutcheon. ‘All of you spooks are the same. All so intent on getting your ninja merit badge, throwing your little smoke bombs, doing your Spiderman thing up on the ceiling, that you forget it would be simpler to just walk in through the front door! You probably could’ve hidden in a broom closet and not been caught.’

She ignored him and concentrated on her breathing. He seemed relaxed, which wasn’t surprising given that she was wearing the handcuffs and he was pointing a gun at her liver. But he shouldn’t have been relaxed. He should have been freaking. Because Caitlin hadn’t stored the data from his laptop on her augmented cell phone. Everything had been uploaded and transmitted back to Vancouver. Either he didn’t know that, or there was nothing on the laptop worth worrying about. She doubted the latter. Not with the lengths to which they’d gone to secure the thing from interference.

Unless, of course, that too had merely been a charade to entrap her.

Echelon’s senior field agent did not have enough information to reach a conclusion, and so she did not bother. What mattered now was waiting for an opportunity to reverse the flow of this encounter.

*

Culver pressed the phone so hard to his ear, it was starting to hurt his head.

‘How many dead?’ he asked.

‘Two here, that we are aware of. Down there, I couldn’t say.’

‘Jesus Christ, Larrison, how long does it take to do a simple body count?’

‘There’s nothing simple about this, Mr Culver. We have confirmation from Australia that Henry Cesky hired Parmenter to kill Pieraro and Zood here, and Ms Balwyn and Mr Ross in Darwin. And that was after hiring other contractors who failed in the same goals. Parmenter also appears to have killed his accomplice in Kansas City, but we have no idea who that was, yet.’

Jed rubbed at his temples, which were pounding with a headache. He felt ill and desperately wanted to hang up, vomit, and crawl back under the sheets.

‘And you’re telling me this is connected, but it’s not connected to what Agent Monroe is doing at Fort Hood?’

‘Only tangentially, sir. Our information is that Pieraro and his family were on the boat commandeered by Ms Balwyn. Pieraro attacked and humiliated Cesky in Acapulco while Balwyn was interviewing him for a place on board the yacht. Pieraro turned up on the margins of Agent Monroe’s mission because his was one of the four cases regarding attacks on homesteaders you’d flagged for her interest while she was in Kansas City. That’s the only connection.’

For one, brief, shining moment Jed had entertained the idea of possibly fitting up Blackstone for the Pieraro killing. Unfortunately, Larrison, like James Kipper, was not the sort of man to countenance villainy of that ilk.

A damn shame
, thought Jed.
If only I wasn’t surrounded by Boy Scouts
.

He washed down a couple of painkillers with the cup of water he kept by the bed. When you were this deep in the briar patch, there was only one thing to do. Start hacking your way out.

‘Okay,’ he sighed. ‘Thank you for informing me about Cesky. As soon as we’re finished here, call the FBI and have him picked up. The first thing the President will hear about it will be when he turns on his radio in the morning. We can’t have any suggestion of him knowing or doing anything about a case involving his biggest supporter.’

‘No sir, we can’t,’ agreed Larrison. ‘And Agent Monroe?’

*

‘Yes, what are we to do with you, Miss Monroe?’

Jackson Blackstone stood before her in a plaid dressing gown nursing a glass of warm milk. With floor-to-ceiling bookshelves behind him, and a golden retriever curled up on a leather couch, he looked like a greeting card granddad. His demeanour was disappointed, deeply disappointed, rather than enraged. She wasn’t sure whether that was a good sign.

Caitlin stood in front of him, dressed as one of his troopers, with her hands still cuffed behind her. McCutcheon was the only other person in the room. But two squads of TDF soldiers waited outside the Governor’s humble residence, leaned up against the Humvees, smoking and laughing quietly.

Still, she said nothing.

‘Been like this all night,’ McCutcheon chimed in. ‘Worst case of sour grapes I’ve ever seen.’

‘I’m curious about what you hoped to achieve,’ said Blackstone. ‘Does the President imagine I would submit to the indignity of being hauled up for impeachment on the basis of a couple of files illegally removed from my assistant’s office? Nothing you have on that device of yours is admissible in anything even resembling a court. What did you hope to achieve?’

On
her phone. Blackstone thought the data was still on her phone.

‘Just the truth,’ she replied.

‘Hell’s bells, we can stop looking for the cat, Governor,’ quipped McCutcheon. ‘It doesn’t have her tongue after all.’

‘The truth is negotiable, Miss Monroe, easily moulded, pliable. Like the ballistics gel you used to defeat our fingerprint scanner. The truth can be shaped to take whatever form we need it to take.’

‘Did that little pecker-head send you down here because he’s still got his panties bunched up about the homesteaders?’ Blackstone asked. He took a sip of his warm milk. It left a noticeable milk moustache behind in the hairs of his actual beard. He sucked at them, a disconcerting sight.

‘I am sure the President would want to know why his homesteaders were being attacked, Governor, when yours weren’t. And why only some of the Mandate settlements were targeted by road agents.’

The aide answered this one. ‘Well duh, because we don’t want a lot of sand niggers, and wet-backs and crazy fucking worshippers of the six-armed elephant God moving in here and fucking everything up for us. Didn’t we make that obvious?’