The Sixth Man (43 page)

He eyed the column of black SUVs parked in the middle of the warehouse. He walked past them, evaluating each detail and coming away satisfied. In a corner of the facility a last planning meeting was taking place. All the men seated around the table stood when Quantrell approached.

The look in these men’s eyes was clear. They both feared and respected Quantrell, perhaps more fear than respect. Quantrell had never worn the uniform, never fired a gun on behalf of his country, but he knew how to make money supplying those who did. His main business model was hardware sales to the Pentagon. He didn’t build the planes, tanks, or ships, but he provided many of the overpriced accessories for them, like ammo, special fuel, missiles, guns, and surveillance and security gear. But he had determined long ago that the real money was in the soft side of war, namely intelligence. The profit margins there were huge, far larger than he had plying the traditional corridors of supporting the defense effort. And
the world wasn’t always at war, not anymore. But they were always spying on each other, always.

He’d made billions off the soft side by following the old-school models. Lots of analysts, lots of reports that no one had time to read, feeding the competition among agencies that desperately wanted to score a victory at the expense of their sister agencies, even if it meant the actual goal of keeping the country safe was lost. Yes, he’d made a fortune, but it still wasn’t enough. And then Peter Bunting had arrived on the scene with a revolutionary model that would soon turn the intelligence-gathering world on its head.

Quantrell’s soft business had dwindled, and his anger and frustration had grown.

But now that was all about to change.

“Prepped and ready?” he said to the leader of the team.

The man replied, “Yes, sir, Mr. Quantrell.”

The team was comprised of elite foreign mercenaries who would do anything for money. They would never talk about what they’d done because that would kill their livelihood.

Quantrell asked the man some questions to judge whether they were indeed ready. He knew the plan better than anyone but came away satisfied at their level of preparation.

He left the warehouse, got back in his SUV, and was driven off. An hour-long plane ride later he was in D.C.

Though it was late he had another meeting. In his world those that relaxed simply were run over.

Ellen Foster was in her office at DHS. She was working late too. She often worked late. But now she was done. She was driven home surrounded by her security team. The pecking order in D.C. was often delineated by the size of one’s motorcade. The president was at the top, followed by the vice president. After that it was a far drop to the rest of the pack. But Ellen Foster was right there.

A man was waiting for her at her elegant home in upper-bracket northwest D.C. Around her lived prominent members of the Washington elite, both in the public and private sectors. He helped her off with her coat when she walked through the door.

“Give me a minute,” she told him.

She went upstairs and came back down a few minutes later. She had on the same clothes but had shed her hose and shoes. And she’d let her hair down.

They walked together into the old-fashioned drawing room of the nineteenth-century dwelling. She reclined on the sofa. She motioned for him to sit.

James Harkes sat.

Black suit, white shirt, black tie with nary a wrinkle. His face was impassive as he stared back at her.

“Would you like something to drink, Harkes?”

He shook his head. “No thank you.”

“Then can you make me a vodka tonic?” She pointed to the sideboard. “It’s all over there.”

He dutifully made the drink, handed it to her.

“Thank you.” She took a sip, nodded approvingly. “Very good.”

“You’re welcome.” His gaze went toward the window. “You’ve got a first-rate security detail. They’ve set their perimeter with a lot of thought. Your alarm system is top-notch, your door locks the best.”

She smiled. “Do you know what the best security is?”

He looked at her expectantly.

She rose, went to an antique secretary against one wall, and pushed against a piece of wood facing, and a small door was revealed. She reached in and pulled out a Glock 9mm.

She held it up for him to see. “The best security is yourself. I wasn’t always sitting behind a desk. One of these often came in handy.”

Harkes said nothing. She put the gun back and sat down.

“Things are going well,” she said.

“Things usually go well until they stop going well.”

She lowered her glass. “You have doubts? Issues? You know something I don’t?”

He shook his head again. “None of the above. I’m just a cautious man.”

“Nothing wrong with that, but you need balance too. Invoke your wild side from time to time.”

“Four people dead, five if you count Sohan Sharma. That’s wild enough for me.”

She said coolly, “Not losing your nerve, are you?”

“Considering I didn’t kill any of them, no. But one was an FBI agent. That is particularly troubling.”

“There is always collateral damage in situations like this, Harkes. It’s unavoidable. You fought in Iraq and Afghanistan. You know that all too well.”

“That was war.”

“
This
is war, too. You need to understand that right now. Perhaps an even bigger war. This is for the heart and soul of American intelligence.”

“And you want to run it?”

“I
should
be the one running it. The agency’s name is Homeland Security, after all.”

“The CIA—,” began Harkes.

“Langley is a joke. The Pentagon listens to no one. The intelligence czar has no power, and don’t even get me started on NSA. It’s all very pathetic.”

“But the E-Program had merit.”

“Stop drinking the Kool-Aid. That was Peter Bunting’s world. He owned the space.”

“And you didn’t.”

“Now you’re getting with the program. Bunting’s an idealistic fool. Can you imagine putting the whole of this country’s security on the back of
one
analyst?”

“But that’s not really the case, is it? There are still plenty of analysts out there doing what they do. The American intelligence agencies continue to hum along. And Bunting’s company does a lot more than the E-Program. They have their fingers in lots of intelligence pies. But Bunting’s person was tasked with seeing the big picture, connecting the dots. That’s always been lacking across the intelligence spectrum.”

She shook her head. “That is a very dangerous philosophy to have.”

“What, quality over quantity?”

“We give them our hard-earned work and they get the credit for it. How is that fair?”

“I didn’t think fairness was an issue when we’re talking about the nation’s security.”

“I don’t want to discuss this with you anymore,” she said sharply.

“All right. I was just playing devil’s advocate. It’s part of my job.”

“You can be devilish, can’t you, Harkes? You have that reputation.”

“I do what needs to be done.”

“Bunting’s wife attempted suicide. Did you know that?”

“I heard.”

“Bunting must be frantic. I can’t stand the man professionally, but I have to admit, he does care for his family.” Her tone was gleeful.

“And it also helps you,” he said.

“Exactly. It takes him off his game. He’s not thinking about Edgar Roy. Or anything else. He knows we’ve set him up to take the blame. But he can’t do anything about it. All the people who matter have been dealt with.”

“It was a good plan.”

She eyed him thoughtfully. “You know, you can relax a bit. You look like you’re about to attack someone.”

Harkes let his rock-hard body ease just a fraction.

“You’ve done excellent work, Harkes. I’ve been impressed by you from day one. I plan on using you a lot in the future.”

She crossed her legs and let her dress slip back liberally on her bare thighs as she sat back farther against the cushions.

“I appreciate that, Secretary Foster.”

“We’re off the clock, Harkes. You can call me Ellen.”

Harkes said nothing to this.

“You’ve had an interesting life, James,” she said. “That was one reason I selected you.”

“I chose the path less traveled,” Harkes said simply.

“Combat hero, field agent with a list of successes. You can shoot straight and go toe-to-toe intellectually with a Cabinet member,” she added. “As I can certainly attest.”

Harkes said nothing.

She smiled demurely. “Am I making you uncomfortable?”

“Should I be?”

“I guess that all depends on how you want the evening to play out.”

“Do you think that wise, ma’am?”

“I’m not old enough to be a ma’am.”

“Sorry.”

“The staff is off until tomorrow. Security detail is outside and will stay there unless I tell them otherwise. I’m a big girl. You’re a big boy.”

She stretched out one bare foot and touched his leg. “At least I
hope
you are.”

Harkes sat in silence.

“Have you ever done it with a Cabinet member?” she asked.

“No. And since most of the Cabinet are male my options are limited.”

“Well, then this is your lucky night.”

Foster rose and went to him. She bent down and kissed him on the lips. “I hope you’re impressed. I don’t do this for just anybody.” She took one more sip of her drink and then put it down. She said casually, “I’m also in the market for a new chief of my personal security detail. I think you may like the fringe benefits offered.”

“I don’t think so.”

“What?” she said, startled.

Harkes rose. “I don’t mix business with anything else. Now if there’s nothing else you need, I’ll be going.”

“Harkes!”

“You have a good night, Madame Secretary.”

Harkes walked out the front door.

B
UNTING AND
P
AUL FOLLOWED
Sean and Michelle back to Machias. On the way Sean filled Michelle in on all that had been discussed at the restaurant. Hours later they pulled their vehicles up to the darkened cottage in the woods and cut their lights. Sean was first to notice something wrong. The door to the cottage was partially open. It was nearly four in the morning and still dark. Michelle noted the open door, too. She slipped out her gun.

Bunting, who had fallen asleep in the other car, awoke and said groggily, “Are we here?”

“Keep quiet,” warned Paul, who was driving his rental. “Something’s not right.”

When Bunting saw that all three had their weapons out he sat upright, fully awake now. “What is it?” he hissed.

“Stay here,” ordered Michelle, as she came up next to their vehicle. “And keep down.”

Paul said, “I’ll stay with Peter.”

Bunting instantly crouched down in the floorboard while Paul’s gaze swept the house and the surrounding woods.

Michelle entered through the back door and Sean the front, and they met in the middle of the one-story house. Michelle picked up the overturned chair while Sean looked at the smashed glass cabinet that had sat against a wall, and the upside-down table. Megan Riley’s legal documents were scattered across the floor.

But that was all secondary.

“Damn,” said Sean in a low voice.

Eric Dobkin lay sprawled on the floor next to the table. He was
dressed in civilian clothes because he was doing them a favor. His last favor.

Michelle knelt down next to him. “Looks to be a single GSW to the chest,” she said, examining the bloody hole in the man’s shirt. She edged him over. “Slug’s still in him. No exit wound.” Michelle laid the body back down, rose, and stepped back. “I can’t believe this happened.”

“Front door’s been kicked in,” noted Sean. “And Megan is obviously not here.”

That’s when he saw it over behind the couch. Sean picked it up. It was Megan’s sweater, with blood all over it. He poked a finger through a hole in the garment. “Not a bullet. Looks like maybe a knife.”

“If she’s dead why take her body?” said Michelle.

“I don’t know. But we have to call the cops.”

“Wait.”

They looked up to see Kelly Paul and Bunting standing in the front doorway.

“We can’t wait, Kelly,” said Sean. “This guy is a state trooper. He was doing us a favor. And now he’s dead. He’s got a wife and three little kids. This is a nightmare.”

Michelle said, “And Megan has been taken too.” She looked at Sean and added bitterly, “Some guardian angels we were.”

They contacted the police. Sean and Michelle waited for them to arrive while Bunting and Paul left. It would have been far too complicated to explain the latter two’s involvement. They arranged to rendezvous later.

Before she’d departed Paul had said, “It will be coming soon.”

“How are they going to do it?” asked Sean.

“The only way they really can,” replied Paul.

“And our response will be?” asked Sean.

“Unpredictable,” answered Paul.

“And after that?” said Michelle.

“The real work begins,” she said cryptically.

A moment later she and Bunting were gone.

Twenty minutes after that, two state trooper cruisers slid to a stop outside the cottage. Sean and Michelle heard running feet. A few seconds later two troopers appeared in the doorway. Their gazes swung around the room before settling on Sean and Michelle and then, inevitably, on Dobkin’s body. They moved forward slowly. Sean recognized them from the Bergin crime scene. He assumed they were good friends of Eric Dobkin. The troopers in this area were probably all close friends.