Dead Shot (17 page)

Walker spread out the digital photographs that had been taken of the suspect while he slept. “His body gives us the only real information we have. No tattoos or other identifying marks, but those scars are from bullet holes, knife wounds, and medical operations. Battle wounds.”

“Which means military.” Hunt started pacing. “Okay. Active or ex? A merc? Damn, Carolyn, we don’t even know if he’s American.”

She chewed a fingernail. “My gut feeling is that he’s one of ours, because nobody has the ability to scrub an identity from U.S. databases so thoroughly without help from the inside, and that presents the real problem. We have pictures of him shooting Saladin in the head with a pistol, which indicates he also was the one who fired the kill shot with the rifle. He assassinated the man, and that is not sanctioned by our country. That’s why we are hauling his ass back home. That’s where the answer is.”

“Doesn’t make sense,” Hunt said. “Even if he was on the inside, we should have known about him snooping around in Paris. He is as sterile as they come. That’s no accident.”

A
NOTHER GOVERNMENT
G
ULFSTREAM WAS
also streaking back to Washington that evening, and its only passengers were Captain Sybelle Summers and Lieutenant Commander Benton Freedman. Both were worried. Swanson had not turned up at the designated rally point, and according to protocol, they abandoned the plan after waiting fifteen minutes.

They saw the smoke plume and drove toward it, viewing the destruction of the house with a fear that Kyle might have been buried inside. The debris was mostly confined inside the grounds, as the building had been brought straight down, one floor pancaking upon another, but damage was visible on surrounding buildings, too. Windows were shattered, and bricks littered the sidewalks.

Sybelle had hopped out of the car and moved to the Peugeot, then dropped into the open manhole. No one in the gathering crowd had
paid her any attention because the main attraction was across the street. She walked a hundred meters in each direction down the tunnel. No Kyle.

Their orders were to bail out if the mission was compromised, rather than risk getting caught on foreign soil, which would only make things worse. They hated to obey, but they had no idea where Swanson was or what had happened to him.

The Lizard took them to a military airport, where their Gulfstream was being readied. Once they had taken off, he filed a brief report in code to General Middleton in Washington. There was an acknowledgment that the message had been received, but there was no other reply.

All they could do now was get back home as fast as possible.

MARYLAND

A
N AMBULANCE WAS WAITING
at Andrews Air Force Base when the FBI Gulfstream landed and taxied over to a distant hangar. The unconscious patient was transferred to the vehicle, and it drove away at a normal speed, inconspicuous in the morning traffic around Washington. Special Agents Hunt and Walker followed in a black SUV.

The ambulance stayed on the Beltway, then broke away onto less busy highways and finally onto the streets of a town and an even narrower road that led to a Coast Guard station on a rocky promontory that jutted out into the Atlantic Ocean. A storm front was moving in, and rain drummed heavily on the roof of the SUV. Dave Hunt had the wipers on high but still had to lean forward as he drove slowly along a narrow road that was bordered by a mosaic of waist-high walls of rocks.

Both vehicles pulled into the parking area of a weathered old building that was two stories tall, its bare concrete walls dingy from the gravel, grit, and saltwater that had scoured it for half a century. The masts and aerials mounted on the roof were pegged tight on the surrounding rock but strained against the tension of the support wires as the wind whistled around the big masts. The building had been abandoned by the Coast Guard in the 1960s for improved quarters nearby and was now a safe house shared by several government agencies.

Hunt and Walker parked and hurried through the rain into the house, where a team of CIA agents was taking charge of the sleeping man delivered by the medics.

“What do you think, Carolyn? Should we go wake him up and have a talk?”

Agent Walker shook her head. “Not yet. We’re exhausted and need some rest. Let him be for now so he can wake up in there and wonder what has happened to his little life.” She gave instructions to one of the other agents. “Turn off the air-conditioning and switch on the heater. Have the urine analyzed. In three hours, hit him with the lights and the a/c again, only put it two degrees lower. Alternate that about every hour, and then start the noise about two o’clock, off and on. Give him water only during a dark phase. We want him disoriented, hungry, and thirsty.” She stretched. “He can sit there and stew while we get some sleep upstairs and come back in, fresh as daisies, and hammer him. By then, the identification will probably have popped out of the computers, and that will make our job a lot easier.”

ST. PETERSBURG, FLORIDA

That afternoon, Juba attended a baseball game between the Tampa Bay Rays and the Toronto Blue Jays at Tropicana Field in St. Petersburg, Florida. The weather was hot, but a breeze from the Gulf of Mexico kept it from being scorching and it was easy to understand why retirees flocked to the place after spending their lives in cold climates. It never snowed in St. Pete, and the locals called the city “God’s waiting room.”

Despite the kind weather, the stadium was an old domed arena that was home to a poor team, and the relatively few fans attending that day’s game were mostly older men and women. Most of the seats were empty. Thinking tactically, Juba decided this was not the kind of crowd, nor a suitable place, that would gain the attention he wanted with the attack. In fact, Tropicana would be a waste of time and energy. Don’t kill the wrong people.

That evening, he flew out of Florida, and as he crossed the Great Plains Juba’s thoughts again turned to Swanson, who was supposed to
be dead and buried at Arlington. Juba had been in the military long enough to realize that the entire burial, posthumous Medal of Honor and all, could have been just a charade, a staged black operation event. So, Swanson was actually alive and totally undercover. Was there a possibility that Juba might find a bonus in this situation by having another chance to prove who was superior? After all, Swanson had tarnished the reputation of Color Sergeant Osmand, back in the day. Juba would like to serve a dish of cold revenge to the man. Why not add a one-on-one showdown with Swanson to the agenda, even if it meant leaving a trail of breadcrumbs to help his enemy along? It would be interesting.

His mind was made up by the time his plane began to be buffeted around the sky by the turbulence of the Rocky Mountain air prior to landing at Denver International Airport.

S
YBELLE
S
UMMERS AND THE
Lizard arrived at the Pentagon only to find that General Middleton was out at Quantico for an emergency conference of Marine leaders. The president had increased the national alert status to orange.

Freedman went to his desk and logged on to his mainframe computer while Summers put on a pot of coffee and checked the unopened mail. They would have a concise report for Middleton by the time he returned.

“Here’s some good news,” called Freedman. “The medical status of Double-Oh has been upgraded to ‘Good,’ and he’ll be flown back here in a few days.” He went back to the screen. “And here’s an e-mail from Sir Geoffrey saying that Delara Tibrizi is doing okay but is wondering about Kyle.”

“So are we,” Sybelle said and went to her own desk and flipped through copies of the
New York Times
and the
Washington Post
.

“Whoa! Sybelle, would you please come over here?” A pulsing chime was repeating from Freedman’s computer, and a small red rectangle flashed in the upper right-hand corner. Something had pinged
the automatic warning system he had designed to track any queries about members of Trident.

He clicked some keys and the NCIC/Interpol symbol appeared, along with the expanded data. “Somebody is checking Kyle’s fingerprints in the FBI’s National Crime Information Center system! The request lists him as a John Doe and an ‘unknown suspect.’”

“Unknown suspect? That would indicate he’s alive and being held prisoner. Does it say who has him, or where?”

The Lizard was frantically scrolling through data, calling up new screens of information. “No. It doesn’t even carry a high priority. Bingo. Look at this link to some photos that are being run through the government’s face recognition software. Kyle, for sure.”

“I’m calling Middleton,” Sybelle said, reaching for the encrypted telephone. He was in a car being driven back to the Pentagon and answered on the first ring. “Gunny Swanson is alive, sir, and someone is checking his fingerprints.”

Middleton paused before answering. “That fucking Swanson. Where is he and who is checking up on him?” The general could hear the Lizard clack the keyboard, and Sybelle switched them all onto a conference call.

“It looks like the original ping came from the FBI but has since branched out to cover databases around the world, under the flag of the Department of Homeland Security. The ping registered about noon, so we are several hours behind on this.” Freedman tapped a pencil on his desk.

“Stay on it, Liz,” said Middleton. “Get into the system and sidetrack whatever you can. Do what you can to slow them down. I will be in the office as soon as I pay a visit to the Hoover Building and talk to the Feebs.”

“Yes, sir. Got it.”

Middleton replaced the car’s secure telephone in its cradle and stared at the surrounding traffic. Rush hour never ended around Washington, and thousands of cars and trucks were creeping along bumper to bumper. “Sar’nt Johnson!” he barked at his driver.

“Sir!”

“Turn on your fancy spinning lights and that siren and get us out of this mess and over to the FBI place pronto.” The general buckled his seat belt and was thrown back against his seat as Johnson launched the big sedan across a thick band of traffic and into the lane especially reserved for emergency vehicles. He roared around the cars ahead, tapping bumpers when necessary. Middleton held on, hoped for a safe landing, and repeated to himself, “That fucking Swanson.”

C
AROLYN
W
ALKER CHECKED THE
big wall clock in the office that was adjacent to the interrogation room: 5:10
P.M.
The clock was a discount store special, and a federal agent precisely adjusted it twice a day to the correct atomic time. Why not just buy a better clock? She blinked and turned her attention back to the man strapped into the chair on the other side of the one-way mirror. “We’ve got bupkis. Nada. Diddly-squat. Three damned hours and he hasn’t said a word.”

“That’s not exactly true, Carolyn. He has told us to go fuck ourselves at least a dozen times, in several different languages,” corrected Dave Hunt.

“He doesn’t look like someone who was scared out of his wits after hours alone in that room, buck naked and motionless.”

As if he knew they were watching, Kyle Swanson yawned. Since his head was also strapped to the chair, it was mostly just opening his mouth and flexing his jaw muscles.

“We’ve got to report in soon. I can’t believe that we’ve caught an assassin red-handed and he’s mocking us.”

The urgency they felt to identify him was not shared by everyone in law enforcement, for they were being very cautious about making a splash until they could do so without infuriating the international community. The French had not even known they were in the country when they made the arrest on a public street. Now safely back home, they had run into a stone wall. Since the national alert level had been raised, traffic had picked up on the computers, and they felt their efforts were falling on deaf ears. They had made a routine blood draw
from the suspect to furnish DNA samples but were curtly informed that the backlog was so great that their samples might not get tested for a week. Other requests were being similarly delayed, and their entire system was slowing down, the memory being packed with reams of useless data.

Walker pushed rimless glasses up on her head and fluffed her brown hair in frustration. In her early forties, she was a thorough intelligence professional who had come over to the DHS from the CIA in the big reorganization after 9/11. With a doctorate in psychology and years of interrogation practice, she believed she could get to any suspect. She sighed. “We still don’t even know his name.”

“Nope. Still Mr. X.”

“We have to do more, Dave. If we can’t scare him with words, then we must employ some physical stress. I recommend that we use Level Two techniques.”

“I agree. Should we file it up the chain of command?”

“Not yet. Not yet. I can order a Level Two decision on my own authority. Let’s crack this guy.”

“Dangerous game, Carolyn,” Hunt warned. “I can almost hear a special blue-ribbon commission questioning us now. At least let’s file a short summary saying our John Doe may be on the terrorist watch list, just to get a time stamp on it and protect our asses.”

“Life was easier when we didn’t have so much power,” she said, recalling the time when the agency did not worry about such particulars. “Okay. They get a synopsis, but I’ll keep the particulars vague to buy us more time.”

Agents Evan Brown and Kealoha Kepo’o were large men who had been specially trained in advanced interrogation techniques, ways to intimidate people and make someone hurt like hell without leaving a bruise. Both had played football in college, Brown at Florida State and Kepo’o for Hawaii, and their imposing size was part of the drill, for when they sauntered into an interrogation room, they carried a sense of menace. The subject immediately knew that polite questioning was over.

Everything was choreographed. They were federal agents, not thugs, and their job was to persuade the prisoner to answer questions. Walker and Dave Hunt had briefed them well and let them read the transcript of what had been asked so far. They studied the man through the mirror and decided their next move.

The unidentified subject finally seemed disoriented by the cold, heat, sleep deprivation, bright lights, and hours of questioning. Mixed music, yelling-loud rap lyrics followed by classical melodies so soft that they could barely be heard, had also taken a toll. Walker now shifted the music to a soothing concerto for flute and violin, let the room go dark, and set the temperature just a shade above normal. Comfort. Within five minutes, the man’s head sagged to his chest. At that moment, she switched off the cameras and the music and turned on the bright lights, and the two big agents stepped into the interrogation area.

Kyle Swanson had been running through a series of isometric exercises to keep blood flowing to his extremities, muscles, and brain, straining so hard that he had broken into a light sweat.

He had recognized the chair as soon as he had awakened and gotten his bearings, for he had strapped a couple of guys into one just like it in other places, in other times. Stamped into the base of the round metal frame would be a stamp that read
PROPERTY OF THE UNITED STATES GOVERNMENT
. Kyle had remained still, knowing he was probably being monitored with an infrared camera, and had given the man and woman who questioned him nothing to work with. They weren’t going to kill him, so all he had to do was hang on until the cavalry arrived.

He also had been expecting this new tactic, because he was being so uncooperative, and centered his mind on how to deal with it. There would be physical pain, and standard practice was to get the subject out of the chair for a Level Two so the apes could toss him around.

Agent Kepo’o threw a five-gallon bucket filled with cold water onto him, and Kyle did not tense up. He was relaxed and fully alert. Waiting for an opportunity.

Brown stood beside him, hands on hips, and Kyle glanced at the
diver’s watch on the agent’s left wrist. The hands were almost at six o’clock, but a small dial indicated the military time. Almost 1800, which would make it six in the afternoon. Free information.
Thanks, big guy
.

“We are required to ask you one last time to cooperate with the special agents who have been questioning you,” said Brown. “So I just did that, you little shit.” He slapped Kyle hard with his open palm, and Swanson’s head snapped around.

Kepo’o hit him with a return volley, using a fist that seemed the size of a volleyball. The first punch had split Kyle’s lip, and blood oozed from it. He shrugged off the pain.

“Now we are going to drag you up out of the chair and kick your skinny ass around this room until you decide to cooperate.” Brown roughly undid the strap around Kyle’s right arm and leg while the giant Hawaiian unbuckled the left side. Then Brown released the chest restraint and unsnapped the Velcro head band.