BAD DEEDS: A Dylan Hunter Thriller (Dylan Hunter Thrillers) (21 page)

Boggs didn’t answer.

“Look. I know you are upset. Everyone is—you, me, the EPA, CarboNot …”

“I don’t give a damn about CarboNot!” Boggs said. “As you well know. That company is only a slower form of the cancer that’s metastasizing over the entire earth. Its wind turbines are perpetrating a holocaust among the raptors. Its solar panels are a blight on the land that will—”

“I know. I know all that. But remember: CarboNot is only our temporary ally of convenience. A tactical means to an end. Our overriding goal right now must be to stop fracking. It represents a far greater planetary danger than their windmills and solar panels. First things first. We can worry about CarboNot later.”

Boggs kicked a small stone, sending it clattering across the pavement of the gas station. He knew the man was right.

“You know how I hate compromises on matters of principle,” he said. “Still, I agree that fracking is the greater and more immediate threat … But why did you call me
now
about all this?”

“Because I need your help.”

“Doing what? Do you want us to picket this Silva guy’s house?”

“No, of course not.”

A pause. When the man spoke again, his voice sounded firm. Decisive.

“I need you to get rid of his research data and samples. And anything else in his lab or on his computer. A fire, perhaps. I leave the particulars to you. You know how to do that sort of thing.”

The man’s cold determination surprised him. “Yes, I know exactly how to do that sort of thing. But I don’t see how that helps us, long-term.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, it will only delay things for a little while. He’ll still be able to get new samples and eventually reproduce his work.”

Almost half a minute went by before the man spoke again.

“Then you will have to make sure that will never happen.”

It caught him off-guard. “Exactly what are you saying?”

“Just that.”

Boggs felt his anger rising again.

“Listen, my friend: To me, this Silva is just one of billions of leeches sucking life from the earth. Why should I stick my neck out to target one man?”

“Because the damage he is about to do will affect
all
of us.”

“That may be. But if you expect me to do what you’re only hinting at, then you’re going to have to man up and at least
say
precisely what you want from me.”

Silence. Then:

“You are right, of course. I am merely being careful.”

“Well then?”

“Get rid of his lab, his research—everything.”

The man paused once more, but not long. This time his voice was even colder.

“And get rid of Silva, too.”

“This is great, Annie.” Grant Garrett raised his fork, displaying a piece of lamb roast.

Annie smiled at him from her seat at the head of her dining room table. “Why, thank you, Grant.”

“Lucky you, Dylan. The lady has brains, beauty,
and
she cooks up a storm.”

“‘Lucky me’ is right,” Hunter said. “I’m hopeless as a cook.”

“I know,” Garrett said. “It was in your file.”

“What wasn’t? I’m glad I persuaded you to delete it.”

“I don’t need it. I have a great memory.” Garrett poked at the last bit of lamb on his plate. “So Annie … when you invited me here to your lovely home, you mysteriously intimated that you had a surprise for me.”

She looked at Hunter, her eyes bright, waiting for him to say it.

“We do,” he said. “Grant, we wanted you to be the first to know … Annie and I are going to be married.”

The CIA man put down his knife and fork. His dour features were inscrutable except for a flicker of amusement in his eyes.

“I thought you said you were going to surprise me.”

They laughed while he remained deadpan.

“So you guessed,” she said.

“I’ve never known two people better suited for each other.” He raised his wine glass and when he spoke, his gravelly voice sounded softer, gentler. “To my favorite people in the world: May you find and enjoy every happiness together—today, tomorrow, and always.”

Hunter had never heard anything like that from him.

“Thank you, Grant,” Annie said, her voice barely above a whisper.

They all tapped glasses and sipped the Malbec.

Hunter said quietly, “One more thing. Would you do me—would you do
us—
the great honor of being my best man at our wedding?”

Garrett remained silent for a moment, his expression empty, unrevealing. Only his jaw muscle stood out, pulsing, as if he were rhythmically clenching his teeth. Then he coughed, though it didn’t sound like his normal smoker’s cough.

“
Now
you have surprised me,” he said at last, the gravel back in his voice. Then his flinty features softened and Grant Garrett smiled—actually
smiled.
“Thank you. But the honor will be entirely mine.”

“That’s it,” Zak said, pointing.

Rusty slowed the truck and rolled up parallel to the home. Perched well back from the road on a small hill in the wooded, residential area east of Warren, Pennsylvania, its lights shone through the trees. He strained to see the dimly lit mailbox; it bore the name
Silva
in white, hand-painted letters. “Yeah. That’s it, all right.”

“We’re far too early. From what we learned online, Silva has a wife and kids. They will all be up for a while, so we have time to kill. Now that we know where he lives, let’s go back into town and have something to eat before we return here. Then I’ll check the layout and figure out how to proceed.”

“Sure,” Rusty said, trying to tamp down his excitement.

Garrett lowered his coffee cup. “Oh. I meant to tell you. I heard back from the FBI about the bloodstain on that towel. You guessed right.”

“Boggs,” Annie said, an edge in her voice.

He nodded.

Hunter picked up his napkin from his lap. He folded the white cloth precisely, along its original fold marks. Placed it on the table next to his plate. Lined it up carefully with the edge of the table. Smoothed it slowly.

When he looked up, Garrett was watching him.

“What?”

Garrett ignored him and dug into his slice of apple pie. “Annie, this is just unbelievable.
Brava.”

“Thank you, for the hundredth time.”

“Come on, Grant. You have that look.”

The spymaster remained bent over his plate. “I don’t know what you mean.”

Hunter decided to let it go and changed the subject.

“Annie tells me you think you have another mole.”

Garrett straightened. “That’s right. I thought it had ended on the day you iced Muller. But more has happened since. Things that just don’t add up. Things involving Ivan.”

“The Russians? I thought you dismissed that line of speculation when you figured out that I was the shooter, not them.”

“We did. But lately the Kremlin has been acting in ways that suggest they know, in advance, what we are up to. Things involving our C.I. ops.”

Hunter caught himself absently running his forefinger along his jawline. Along the scar. He lowered his hand to his lap. “So, you have a leak in counterintel? Or how exactly do you read it?”

Garrett was working on a mouthful of pie, so Annie answered.

“Working in the Office of Security, Muller had access all over Langley. We think he had a contact on the inside—somebody giving him assistance, protection, and serving as a conduit to Moscow for his information.”

With sudden clarity, Hunter grasped something that neither Annie nor Garrett had ever brought up to him before.

“But I blew your investigation, didn’t I?” he said slowly. “I killed Muller before you could interrogate him. Before you could get him to flip—perhaps rat out his contact … the second mole.”

Garrett and Annie exchanged a sober look, but didn’t answer.

“So it’s true,” Hunter continued, his voice low. “When I heard that you had him, all I could think of was revenge. So I went off half-cocked and shot him. Before he could open his mouth to you.” He felt like hell. “I may as well have been working for the Kremlin myself.”

“Don’t be hard on yourself,” Garrett said. “You couldn’t have known. And there is no certainty that Muller would have spilled his guts about an inside contact, anyway. He was a congenital liar and manipulator. He
loved
jerking us around. He could very well have continued to play us.”

Hunter shook his head. “Look, I appreciate that you’re trying to make me feel better. But let’s face it: I blew it, big time.” He sighed. “In retrospect, it’s too damned bad that your sniper didn’t spot me sooner than he did, and just take me out.”

“Dylan!” Annie looked horrified. “Don’t say that!”

Garrett frowned. “What do you mean, ‘sooner’? My sniper team never saw you. And from where they were positioned, a mile away on the opposite hillside, they couldn’t have hit you, anyway.”

It was Hunter’s turn to be puzzled. “No, I mean the guy you had positioned on
my
hill.”

Garrett stared at him. “
What
guy?”

It took them the next half-hour to sort it out. Garrett paced around Annie’s living room, looking jittery. Hunter knew he was having a nicotine fit but didn’t want to break this off and go outside for a smoke. Abruptly, the spy chief halted at the fireplace and turned to face them.

“So. The long and short of it is that a second shooter
was
present. Since hunting season was long gone, that eliminates the possibility he was out there for deer or bears. You didn’t recognize him, perhaps because of his camo. But he carried a sniper weapon that you think may have been a Dragunov, plus a sidearm. You even waved at the guy before escaping—but he just stood there and did nothing to stop you. Do I have it all right?”

“That about sums it up. I never could figure out why he didn’t take a shot at me, if he was part of your team. He had me cold, if he’d wanted to.”

“Because he was
not
on our team … Look, nobody else had a motive or means to take out Muller, except you and the Russians. I figured that Muller’s shooter had to be you, because I didn’t think the Russians could possibly know where the safe house was. But if there is a second mole at Langley, that could explain how they knew. Ergo, that other guy you saw had to have been dispatched by Moscow. To do exactly what you did.”

“You simply beat him to it,” Annie interjected. “Do you see, Dylan? Muller would have been shot and silenced, anyway.”

“Maybe. Maybe not,” Hunter replied. “You’re still just trying to make me feel better.”

“Speculating about whether their man could have made a shot is pointless,” Garrett said. “But you’ve just done us a huge favor by revealing the existence of this second sniper.” To Hunter’s questioning look, Garrett answered: “You’ve explained
why
the Kremlin had to have Muller silenced. Not just for the secrets he had stolen and passed along to them, but—”

“—to keep secret the existence of a second mole,” Hunter finished.

“Exactly.” He coughed a bit, then eyed the front door. “Look, I want to continue, but I need a smoke break. And I want to check in with HQ. Would you excuse me for about five?”

Annie said, “Sure. Just watch out for snipers.”

Garrett gave her a mock-scowl, grabbed his overcoat from a rack near the door, and left.

Rusty pulled up past Silva’s driveway and slowed to a stop. A few lights still glowed through the trees from the house.

“All right,” Zak said, checking his watch. “I’ll wander around in there and try to determine where his office and lab are. I hope it’s in a detached structure.”

“Yeah.” Rusty recalled the internet profiles of Silva and the photos of his wife and two kids. “No point in doing the whole family if you don’t have to.”

Zak looked at him. “That’s not the issue. My concern is that it will be impossible to break into an occupied house and plant the bombs without being heard. And for all we know, they may have a dog. But if his lab and office are separate from the house, I can enter, rig the bombs, then draw him out there and set them off when he goes inside.”

“Oh.”

“Just make sure to be back here in exactly forty-five minutes. I should have it all worked out by then. And don’t do anything suspicious. With what you’re carrying in the back, the last thing we need is for a cop to stop you and search the truck.”

Rusty licked his lips. “Gotcha. I’ll be careful.”

He watched Zak get out, close the door quietly, and move into the darkness of the trees.

“I was watching you watching him,” Annie said after the door closed. “You miss working for him, don’t you?”

Hunter shifted around toward her on the sofa. Took her hand. “A little. But I couldn’t tolerate it anymore. He understands why.”

“You hated the Langley office politics. And the betrayals.”

“Those things were a big part of it.” He looked around her living room. At the tasteful furniture. At the expensive Oriental rug spanning most of the polished hardwood floor. At the large Impressionist print hanging above the fireplace. All of it from her previous marriage to a rich guy named Frank Woods who had cheated on her.

His gaze moved to those large gray cat’s eyes. To the full wide lips. To the curves of her breasts beneath the soft pale blue sweater. To the long bare legs stretching from her pleated skirt to a foot rest. It returned to those incredible eyes, and to what he saw revealed in them: intelligence, spirit, wit, courage, character …

How could any man betray a woman like her? He ran his thumb over the diamond of her engagement ring. She felt it and smiled, closing her other hand over his.

“So, that’s part of it. What’s the rest of it, then?” she asked.

“I went into the Agency expecting to be able to fulfill a specific motive. But I found that I couldn’t do it there.”

“Let me guess: Matt Malone expected to be able to mete out
justice.”

He shrugged.

“But you couldn’t,” she added. “Because of—what, Dylan? You say office politics and betrayals were only part of it. What else?”

He thought of the night when his Princeton professor of Politics and International Studies—on contract for the CIA—first approached him with the pitch.