The End Game (12 page)

17

Ocracoke, North Carolina

“I just heard from our people in New York. They’re playing hard ball,” Tomblin informed Roos over their encrypted phones.

Gordon Roos was fuming, but, as always, he never showed it. He was too busy moving chess pieces in his head, anticipating reactions and counter-reactions and deciding on how best to handle the crisis that had mushroomed around them.

At least they knew more than they did before the screw-up in Arlington: Reilly had found himself a weak link inside the CIA and had leaned on him to help him find Roos. That leak was now plugged, and Reilly was being blamed for it. That wasn’t a bad result at all. But having Reilly in FBI protective custody—that was far from ideal.

“We need to get him out of their hands fast,” Tomblin added, “shut him up before someone starts taking his blabbing seriously.”

“Or we take care of him while he’s in there.”

“That’s the other option. Riskier, of course.”

“Do we have any assets in place?”

“A couple of promising candidates,” Tomblin said.

Roos knew he could count on the man’s judgment. Edward J. Tomblin wasn’t just Roos’s partner back when Roos was an active agent as well as his oldest friend. He was also a very capable man, one of a handful of top-level CIA employees to have survived six administrations.

They had both been recruited by the CIA straight from college and immediately sent with the legend of medical aid workers to the self-declared Republic of Biafra, where they had forged an unbreakable bond in the ocean of blood that had engulfed south-eastern Nigeria. Although their individual reactions to the atrocities they witnessed there were different—Roos experiencing the first flush of the kill-or-be-killed mindset that had defined him from that point on, while Tomblin established the Zen-like detachment that would serve him equally well, both had emerged with the absolute conviction that they could survive anything.

In the almost forty years since their first posting, this had indeed proved to be true. Together they had survived the final few months of the Vietnam War, the killing fields of Cambodia and Angola, followed by a few years at the spearhead of the Cold War, where they’d first used the two code names of “Reed Corrigan” for Roos and “Frank Fullerton” for Tomblin.

It was around that time that the Janitors were born. They’d achieved so much with that small, covert unit, work they were proud of. Work that had kept the nation safe. And then, after 9/11, their paths had diverged. While the country’s intelligence agencies came under fire, smaller conflicts were brewing and boiling over around the planet. Roos saw the potential to bail on the political infighting and cash in on his connections and expertise by going private. He started hiring himself out to various governments and corporate interests, and he raked in serious fees. He managed to convince Sandman leave the Agency and join him for that ride. With Sandman’s talents to draw on, no boardroom problem was insurmountable, no opposition leader untouchable. They provided discreet, effective solutions to the thorniest of problems. Needless to say, they’d thrived together.

Tomblin, on the other hand, was less of an adventurer and preferred to weather the storms and stay at the agency. He did well. In fact, he hadn’t possessed an official public job title since 2005, which was when the CIA’s National Clandestine Service was first created in the aftermath of 9/11 and the Iraq War. The NCS didn’t do “public.” It was the covert, deep-dark arm of an organization that wasn’t exactly an open book itself, and followed an even more aggressive approach to keeping the nation safe. Under its official remit, it had “the national authority for the coordination, de-confliction, and evaluation of clandestine operations across the Intelligence Community of the United States,” meaning it could pretty much do anything it wanted. As the NCS’s Deputy Director, Tomblin oversaw five of its main divisions. This included the Special Activities Division, which conducted both overt action such as paramilitary raids and assassinations in denied areas, and covert action such as PSYOP—Psychological operations.

And it was because of one aspect of PSYOP—namely, mind control, something they’d both been involved in years earlier, in CIA programs such as MK-Ultra—that they were both in this mess.

Because of a young boy’s father who just won’t let go.

Roos had brought this calamity down upon them all: on himself, on Tomblin—who was Roos’s immensely useful, if unofficial, partner in his private global endeavors—and most of all on the man who initially put together and ran the Janitors unit, the man who now stood to lose more than either of them.

“All right,” he told Tomblin. “I’m expecting an update from Sandman within the hour. Let’s review then.”

“OK.” Tomblin paused, then said, “Reilly has several pressure points we can use, Gordo. And we know how much he treasures them. Especially the woman and the boy.”

Roos smiled inwardly. “That’s exactly what I was thinking.”

18

Mamaroneck, New York

Maxed out on caffeine in a vain attempt to counteract a night of maximum stress and zero sleep, Aparo arrived on the tree-lined street on which Reilly and Tess’s house stood and parked his Ford Taurus in front of the three Evidence Response Team vehicles.

He climbed out and went to talk to Max Goodman, the Special Agent in charge of the ERT, who was emerging from a GMC Yukon parked a little farther down the street.

Aparo waved as he approached. “Just give me half an hour, OK?”

He’d called Goodman and asked him to wait till he arrived at the house, making it clear that the inhabitants were a Bureau family and that, right now, his partner wasn’t guilty of anything except fleeing a crime scene.

Goodman shook his head. “You said wait till you arrive, and you’re here now. We need to go in.”

Aparo lowered his voice, trying the conciliatory approach first. “Look, Max, the lady only stepped off the red-eye an hour ago. Let me go in first and talk her through it before your guys go storming in.”

Goodman wasn’t impressed. “You shouldn’t be anywhere near this case. You’re his partner for Christ’s sake! Now get out of my way so I can do my job.”

Aparo put a hand on Goodman’s arm. “Come on, Max. She’s got her mom and two kids in there. A teenage girl and a five-year-old boy. Isn’t that the same age as your kid? How’d you feel if you were in their place? You wouldn’t want your kid going through something like that, would you?”

Goodman didn’t reply.

“They’ll be heading off to school in a few minutes,” Aparo added. “That’s all I’m asking.”

Aparo knew this was the moment it went one of two ways. Either Goodman felt a sizeable stab of sympathy when he imagined his boy looking on as armed storm troopers went through his family home from top to bottom, or the mere mention of the guy’s son in this context risked further harsh words at best, or a fist swung at his face.

Goodman went quiet for a moment then said, “OK. Go. I’ll wait till the kids are gone.”

Aparo hid his smile with an earnest expression of sincere gratitude. “Done. I owe you. And do me a favor, keep the guys out of sight until the kids are gone.”

Tess had arrived home about half an hour earlier, her stress levels off the chart. The Evidence Response Team vehicles were already parked out on the street, though Aparo had texted her to say that no one would try to enter the house before he got there himself.

Her mom was already well into the school routine, with both Kim and Alex finishing their breakfast while Eileen made their lunches. Right now, the kids were oblivious to the events of the past twelve hours. Although Tess knew this couldn’t last, she wanted to see Reilly face to face before she decided what to tell them. Her mom, on the other hand, knew something was wrong the second Tess had called her from La Guardia to say she’d landed—way earlier than expected. Eileen had lived through enough of Reilly and Tess’s misadventures to know when to ask and when to stay quiet. So far, she hadn’t asked, but Tess could read the worry simmering behind her stoic expression.

As Tess tried to help with the lunches—despite her mom trying to brush her away—the doorbell chimed.

She froze, then forced herself to snap out of it. She gave her mom a knowing look. “I’ll get it.”

She glanced at the kids as she headed out of the kitchen. Alex was oblivious, his concentration locked on the box of cereal. Kim, on the other hand, seemed fully aware that something was very wrong. Her questioning eyes followed Tess out of the room, but much to Tess’s relief, Kim seemed to grasp her mother’s unspoken desire to not discuss it just yet.

Feeling sick to her stomach, Tess went to the door and looked through the spy hole.

Aparo. Alone.

She opened the door and let out a breath of relief. “Nick.”

He stepped inside.

She spotted the ERT guys outside as she shut the door behind him. The sight rattled her and her voice went shaky. “What’s going on, Nick? What the hell is this?”

He stepped closer and took her in his arms for a big hug, patting her across the shoulder. “We’ll get through this. It’s going to be fine.”

She pulled back and nodded, wiped her face, then motioned for Aparo to follow her into the study, where she closed the door after them.

Aparo remained standing. “I need Sean’s laptop.”

“Why?”

“He wants it out of here so no one messes with it. I can’t do it, though. I didn’t walk in with anything. Can you carry it out? The ERT guys will be watching us leave, so it needs to look casual.”

Tess looked at her MacBook Air, open on the aluminum desk.

“We’ve got identical machines. Different specs, but same on the outside. I’ll just say it’s mine if anyone asks.”

She went over to a large set of drawers and pulled out another MacBook Air, which she slid into a pink slip case. Then she closed the open laptop and put it in the drawer.

As she stuffed the pink slipcase into her leather shoulder bag, she heard her mother say, “We’re off.”

“Hang on.”

She stepped out of the study, found Eileen, Kim and Alex in the kitchen. Avoiding her daughter’s scrutinizing gaze, Tess put on her best carefree smile.

“See you later, guys. Soak up that knowledge.”

“Mom—” Kim said, but Tess cut her off.

“I’ll see you later, baby,” she said as she leaned in and kissed her on the temple.

“Where’s daddy?” Alex asked.

Tess glanced down at him. Curiously, he seemed worried as well. It was almost like he could also sense the tension, which, given his age, surprised Tess.

She bent down to his level and straightened the collar of his coat. “He went straight to his office, but he said to tell you he misses you a lot. Both of you. Now go on, or you’ll be late.”

She gave Alex a kiss and watched them all head out into the garage, then she hurried back to the study.

“OK,” she told Nick, “talk to me. What the hell is going on?”

“The guy Sean’s been after all this time? The guy that had Alex brainwashed?”

“Reed Corrigan.”

“Yeah. Sean won’t accept that Corrigan is a ghost. He’s still trying to find the bastard. That’s why he went to see that guy in Arlington—the guy who got shot. His name was Stan Kirby. He worked for the CIA.”

Tess’s eyes went wide. “Sean’s accused of killing a CIA agent?”

“As things stand, yes. Well, not exactly—Kirby wasn’t a field agent. He was an analyst.”

“But he didn’t do it, right?”

“Of course he didn’t. And we’re going to help him prove that. We’re going to do everything we can to find Kirby’s real killer. And I’m going to do everything I can to find Corrigan, because finding him may be the only way to prove Sean’s innocence. Everything else is on hold as of last night.”

A sense of utter dread chilled her to the core. “Sean couldn’t find him, Nick. What makes you think you can?”

“Sean was doing this alone, on the side. I’m going to use something Sean didn’t—the entire resource of the Bureau. I’ll even go see the president if I have to.”

That last sentence leapt from Sandman’s earpiece and anchored itself firmly inside Sandman’s mind.

Aparo could turn into another problem, he thought.

He was parked around a corner a hundred yards down from Reilly and Tess’s place. As he listened to the conversation taking place in the house, Sandman could just picture Tess Chaykin’s mind racing. He didn’t have video—cameras, even the tiniest pinhole ones being used for covert surveillance nowadays, had been deemed too much of a risk, in terms of detection. Someone with a keen eye like Reilly might spot them. Audio, on the other hand, was much easier to conceal and yielded the same results.

“So Sean’s been digging into this the whole time?” she said. “Since he brought Alex to live with us?”

“Yep,” he heard Aparo reply.

“And he didn’t tell you?”

“No. And believe me, I asked. I asked a lot.”

“Why wouldn’t he tell you?”

“To help me keep my job. And maybe out of prison. Same goes for you, I guess.”

“Why?”

“He was leaning on Kirby. The guy was sleeping with his wife’s sister.”

“Charming.”

A sentiment with which Sandman concurred.

Aparo didn’t comment. Instead, he added, “He’s had someone helping him out, but he won’t say who. Any ideas?”

Sandman listened as Tess thought about it, his senses alert to a key piece of the puzzle possibly dropping into his lap—then Tess said, “No.”

Sandman frowned. Still, a couple of major gaps in Reilly’s backstory with Kirby had been filled. And he thought he knew where he might find the rest of the answers he was looking for.

Tess let out a tired breath. “I knew something was eating him. All these months . . . I thought it was this stuff about his dad.”

“That’s part of it too. Or at least Sean believes it is. He’s got it into his head that there’s a connection between Corrigan and his dad. He thinks maybe Corrigan had something to do with his dad’s suicide.”

Tess couldn’t process what she was hearing. It was all so far-fetched. As a plot for one of her novels, she would have dismissed it out of hand. But she also knew that reality often trumped fiction—that there are things that happen in real life that are so bizarre and unexpected they’d never allow for the suspension of disbelief necessary to retell them as a story.

“I need to hear it from him.”

“Of course. That’s where we’re going.”

“OK. Let me grab my things.”

She retrieved her iPad from the kitchen and picked up a more formal jacket from the closet in the front hall. And as she headed for the front door, Tess felt a combination of dull fury and desperate sadness. Anger that the man she loved had needed to conceal all this from her—even if it was to protect her—and sorrow that she hadn’t been able to help him deal with his frustration and uncertainty.

She would do all she could to help now.

They left the house together, Aparo waving his thanks to a tall guy in shades and an FBI windcheater.

She climbed into Aparo’s car and left her house to the mercy of the Evidence Response Team.

Sandman heard his encrypted phone ring as he watched Aparo’s unmarked drive past him.

“Are you still at the target’s house?” the voice asked.

“Yes. His woman and his partner just drove off.”

“There’s another player. We need to find him.”

“I’m on it.”

“We need that laptop.”

“I figured as much. Engagement protocol?” Sandman asked.

“The partner is expendable,” the voice informed him in an even tone.

“The woman?”

“Optional.”

“Copy that.”

Sandman cut the call, fired up the engine, and pulled away from the curb.