Fog of War (Justin Hall # 3) (11 page)

Romanov did not openly pull the favor string again, and Justin appreciated his subtlety. He wanted to stop Houthis insurgents and other militant groups in Yemen from using those powerful missiles in terrorist attacks. But the more pressing matter of finding the traitor within his own Service was going to take priority.

“I’ll run this by McClain and give you an answer. But as I said, his approval is unlikely.”

Romanov nodded. “Fair enough,” he said. He pushed a button on his console. “Sergei, take us back to the theater,” he ordered the driver.

Justin felt the stretch Mercedes-Benz make a wide turn. His BlackBerry chirped with a familiar tune. It was Anna. “I’ve got to take this.”

Romanov nodded, then dropped his eyes to his own BlackBerry.

“Hi, where are you?” Justin said on the phone. He listened for a few seconds. “Yeah, OK, OK. I’m just around the block. I’ll be there right away. Yes, yes, I heard the show was delayed. Great. See you in a bit.”

“Unfortunately, I will not be able to watch the show tonight.” Romanov pointed at his BlackBerry. “But I hope you’ll enjoy it.”

“I’ll try,” Justin replied, but he knew there was too much going on. He would not be able to sit back and shut down his mind, even if for just a few hours.

The Mercedes-Benz slowed down, then eased into a smooth stop. “We’re here, sir,” the driver said.

Justin looked at the closed partition separating the driver’s seat from the passengers’ compartment. The driver’s voice was clear even though it came over the limousine’s communication system.

“Take good care of yourself,” Romanov said.

“Yeah, you too,” Justin replied. “I’ll let you know.”

Romanov nodded.

They shook hands, then the back door opened. Justin stepped out and faced the front passenger, the mountain of muscle that had summoned him to this meeting. He closed the door gently, ignored Justin, and strutted back to the front of a car. The driver forced his way into the other lane, amid screeching brakes and honking horns protesting his unsafe moves. Seconds later, the Mercedes-Benz disappeared into traffic, heading toward 8th Avenue.

Justin looked up at the theater’s blinking lights and the flashing screens of advertisement boards covering almost every inch of available space around him. They gave everything a yellow and red glow, blurry and ever-changing as people rushed by on the sidewalk and cars zoomed passed on the street. He saw Anna waving at him. She was standing near the theater’s main entrance, wearing a knee-length V-neck black dress and a Cashmere coat, and a matching purse hanging around her left shoulder. She was saying something to him, but the surrounding street noise was drowning out her words. Justin waved back and hurried his steps.

A silver Escalade SUV parked in front of Da Marino—an Italian restaurant across from the Ambassador Theatre—caught Justin’s eye. Two black men dressed in orange leather jackets—which Justin noticed were two sizes too big for their thin bodies—and blue baggy jeans were arguing with a third man, who was in brown khaki pants, a white shirt, and a brown cap. He looked like a parking attendant. The back of the SUV stretched over the entrance to the Crowne Plaza Hotel parking garage. The parking attendant was shouting and pointing at the Escalade, but the two men were largely ignoring him, throwing furtive glances down the street and toward the theater.

Justin was now a few steps away from Anna. He moved out of the way of a man running in the opposite direction, then walked around a young woman carrying large shopping bags. A second later, he noticed flashing lights coming from behind him. He turned his head and saw a white-and-blue NYPD police cruiser driving toward the theater. Justin glanced across the street. The arguing by the Escalade stopped at the sight of the police. One of the black men broke into a fast sprint through the parking garage. The other man just stood there, frozen in place, his hands deep into his jacket pockets.

Justin’s eyes caught his look—a blank, distant look—and he recognized the man’s face. He was a known member of al-Shabaab believed to be hiding in New York. Justin realized what the man was holding in his pocket. He also realized the purpose of the illegally parked Escalade.

“Anna, get down, get down! Everybody down, down!” Justin shouted, darting forward toward Anna.

“Allahu akbar! Allahu akbar!” the man screamed his battle cry.

The noise from the ensuing explosion covered his cries and all other sounds. An orange glow and black smoke appeared as the SUV turned into a firebomb. A city bus—which happened to drive by at the unlucky moment of the explosion—was torn to pieces. Other cars next to the SUV bomb were thrown around like toys. The bus saved Justin’s life, but he was still tossed through the glass windows of the Colony Records store close to the theater as the blast wave washed over him. Glass slivers and debris covered his face and his body. Dead bodies littered the sidewalk, while severely wounded people struggled to get back to their feet and move away from the explosion.

Justin felt a pair of hands lifting up his head. A soft voice said, “Justin, Justin. Can you hear me?”

He recognized the voice, even though it sounded worried, weak, and distant. “Justin, can you . . . can you hear me?”

“Yes, yes, Anna, I can . . .” He stopped to clean his mouth with his hand. It was covered with white powder. “I just can’t move.”

“Oh, thank God.” She sighed. “I thought you were . . .” Her voice trailed off, and she didn’t finish her words.

“No, I’m not dead. I’m not that easy to kill.”

Anna frowned. “Not funny. Stay still. A couple of shelves have fallen over your legs. Let me see if I can move them. How’re you feeling?”

“OK, I guess. I’m finding it hard to breathe.”

He coughed and spat out dirt and blood. He raised his head and saw dust and smoke. Sharp sirens echoed in the distance.

“There’s smoke and dust everywhere. The ambulances will be here shortly,” Anna said.

She grunted as she lifted and pushed away two plastic shelves and a few boxes.

Justin lifted his back slowly, his bruised hands seeking purchase against the debris next to him. He moved his right leg, then his left. “Nothing seems to be broken.”

“Your face is full of cuts and bruises,” Anna said, sitting next to him. She leaned over him in a tight embrace.

“What about you?”

“I’m fine. Your shouting saved my life. I slipped in just inside the theater. Its walls and the bus took most of the blast.”

Justin looked at Anna’s face. Her eyes were watery, and her hair was covered in dirt and grime. A few black and brown stains covered her neck and arms.

“What happened here, Justin? Why?”

He studied her eyes for a moment. “People who have no regard for innocents, determined to destroy our lives. There were two of them. One, the suicide bomber. The other is gone. But I know who he is. And I know where to find him and his friends who planned this massacre.”

Chapter Eight

New York City, New York

United States of America

September 23, 9:15 p.m. local time

The NYPD cordoned off the area around the Ambassador Hotel in a matter of minutes. The wounded were loaded into ambulances, and firemen used the Jaws of Life more than once to extract people from mangled vehicles. Department of Homeland Security agents arrived at the scene soon thereafter. After they interrogated a few eyewitnesses, heard Justin’s testimony, and confirmed his identity, they whisked them off in one of their Chevrolet SUVs to a hospital and then to their local office. Justin repeated his account to DHS senior officials, skipping over his meeting with Romanov, but otherwise leaving out no details. Satisfied with Justin’s replies and his offer about Canadian Intelligence Service’s full cooperation, DHS agents offered to drive him and Anna back to their hotel. After cleaning up and gathering their belongings, they boarded a flight to Ottawa.

The tragic turn of events had drastically changed their plans, pressing new priorities into Justin’s schedule. He dropped off Anna at her townhouse, ending their short-lived romantic getaway with a goodnight kiss. McClain had called an emergency meeting at CIS headquarters to discuss the information obtained from NCS, the evolving situation of the intelligence leak, and the recent car bombing in New York.

Justin flashed his credentials to the guards at the gate of the CIS complex, and they waved him through at once. He arrived at the massive marble building a few minutes before the meeting scheduled to begin at two in the morning. The parking lot was half-full, a usual sight for an agency that never slept. He parked at the first available spot and hurried to the main entrance, slightly annoyed at yet another security checkpoint. The young intelligence officers put his briefcase through the X-ray scanner and asked him to walk through the metal detector. They examined his badge at length, eyeing him suspiciously and comparing his face to his photo ID, reminding Justin of his early days in the Service. He had been doing this exact same job for a few weeks, and he had soon learned to learn to trust his instincts rather than just go by the rules.

After getting back his ID, Justin climbed the stairs, taking them two and three at a time. The Maple Leaf Conference Room was at the end of the fourth floor, right by where he used to have an office. He slowed down for a moment when passing by the door, where now hung a sign with another man’s name.

“Hello everyone, sorry I’m late,” Justin said as he entered the room.

McClain stood up from his seat across the large oval table. “How are you doing?” A look of concern spread over his square, unshaven face. He walked over and shook Justin’s hand.

“OK. The explosion spared me, but for a few bruises.” He pointed to his lips and the right side of his face.

“Glad to hear it.” McClain patted Justin’s shoulders. “And Anna, how’s she doing?”

“She’s fine too. Thanks for asking.”

“The Americans patched you really well,” Carrie said, before giving Justin a hug.

“Yeah, and they didn’t charge me for the pleasure.” Justin rubbed his left forearm. “Still stiff from the stiches.”

“Coffee?” McClain asked, returning to his seat.

A brown plastic carafe and a few mugs sat on a small table in one of the corners by the window.

“Sure.” Justin poured himself a cup and looked at the dim lights of Ottawa’s skyline. A blurry moon struggled to show its face from behind thick clouds.

“Well, we’ve analyzed the NCS files.” McClain said, opening one of the folders in front of him after Justin has sat down and had taken the first sip of his coffee. “Unfortunately or perhaps fortunately, depending on the point of view, they’re right. Al-Shabaab has come to possess accurate, up-to-date intel about our operations on the ground.”

Justin nodded.

McClain continued, “I’ve personally reviewed all our communications, among me, you, and Nathan, about the Iran operation. I’ve also sought technical expertise from our cyber analysts. We all concluded that someone has succeeded in penetrating our Service’s firewalls, defeating our secure encryption system, and accessing our sensitive data.”

“Al-Shabaab is doing all this from some broken down mud hole in southern Somalia?” Justin asked.

“No, of course not. The data-stealing worm, as the cyber techs call it, was installed by someone working on the inside. Inside our Service.” McClain let his last words hang in the air for a few moments. “The worm is still active, but we’ve quarantined it. Our techs have strengthened some of the firewalls.”

Justin exchanged a quick glance with Carrie. She shrugged, as if to say it had not been her call. “Quarantined? Why not remove it completely? And why not strengthen or replace
all
our firewalls?”

McClain ran his hand through his receding, yet still mostly black hair. “That was my initial thought too, but we haven’t identified who installed the worm and the location where it’s transmitting the data. So we’re—”

“You’re keeping it active to monitor it and bait the traitor,” Justin said.

“Yeah. We’re allowing it to go in a safe direction, giving it non-secret or worthless intel about old or bogus operations.”

“Wouldn’t the people behind this worm clue in soon to your tactics?”

McClain sighed. “We just hope it’s not going to be that soon, at least not before we have uncovered their identity and their hideout.”

Justin chewed on McClain’s words. “It may work if these people are dumb enough. But the fact they were able to breach our defenses tells me that’s not the case.”

McClain’s eyes narrowed, focusing on Justin’s face. “True, which makes it even more important for us to act fast and capture this son of a bitch.” He drew in a deep breath. “I’ve started to review all new hires and dismissals during the last six months. It’s going to take some time, since I’m keeping the circle of people who are in the know quite small.”

Justin nodded and looked at Carrie. She had removed her eyeglasses and was rubbing her temples. A couple of curls had fallen over her eyes.

McClain continued, “But we have a starting point. We know it involves you and al-Shabaab.”

A brief pause followed, then Carrie said, “And we know this is personal. Someone is personally targeting you. First in Iran, then in New York.”

“Well, not exactly,” Justin said. “The attack against the Navy SEALs in Somalia had nothing to do with me.”

“It did involve you, albeit indirectly,” McClain replied. “Your team assessed the intelligence about that operation.”

Justin frowned. “Yes, and the intel was solid, as was our assessment,” he said in a stern voice.

“I have no doubts about it, Justin.” McClain’s voice also took a heavier, forceful tone. “I’m not accusing you or even suggesting there were any errors on your part or on the part of your team for that matter.”

“All right.” Justin spread his palms over the table. “Just wanted to make that clear,” he added in a softer voice.

“It is clear. Now, it seems you’re the common denominator in all these attacks. They’re shadowing you really close, and I don’t want to give them another chance at taking a shot at you. These bastards are coming after you, and we’re going after them.”