Blood Oath (23 page)

“So you got her killed.”

“I didn’t think the entire team would get blown.”

“Still. They did. Three people dead. Because you felt ... what? Professionally slighted?”

She looked down, feeling the eyes on her again. “Yes.”

“Last question, then,” the man said. “Are you sorry?”

She looked up, defiant. “No,” she said. “They should have listened to me. None of it would have happened if they had just done what I said.”

Another image flashed in her mind. Helen herself. In junior high. Alone, as she was every day, despite her clothes, her hair, her family’s money, her shiny good looks. As if the others could sense the hole inside her, and they stayed well clear, afraid to fall.

The man looked at the other figures in the gloom, then nodded. “Thanks for your time,” he said. “We’ll be in touch.”

Helen woke up immediately, still in her bed in Langley.

She turned on the light and examined her arm. There wasn’t a mark on it, but it hurt like hell.

They came for her the next morning, right after the final Board of Inquiry. The man with the wire-rimmed glasses, the one she would come to call Control, gave her a new set of credentials.

Then her training began for real. Her new job turned out to be far more demanding than the CIA. And far more rewarding.

It only took her a little while to realize what happened in Montreal wasn’t a black mark to her new employers. Far from it.

The Shadow Company liked survivors. That was really the only reason they recruited her. They didn’t care about her schoolgirl crush on fascism, or the twigged brain chemistry that made her believe other human beings were expendable. Those were bonuses, yes, but they weren’t essential.

Bottom line, they wanted Helen on their side because she would do anything to gain what she wanted. And she hated—absolutely hated—anyone or anything who got in her way.

They could use that.

D
ylan stood in line at the impound lot. Everyone waiting with him seemed just as hung over, sweaty and tired as he felt. The man ahead of him had a burst blood vessel in one eye and a large bandage around his head.

When he’d discovered the truck was gone, he had stifled the urge to catch a cab to the airport and run like hell. He still had a chance, as long as no one looked inside the truck....

He had spent the night before locked inside his hotel room, too scared to even look at his cell phone. He knew it was Khaled, every time. He didn’t need that stress on top of everything else. He opened the door only for room service and then only after checking through the peephole. He was sure he was screwed. There was no way his truck could be impounded without anyone checking the cargo.

When morning finally came without a knock on the door from any cops, Dylan steeled himself. Then he ran to the bathroom and puked out room-service Jack Daniel’s. He went downstairs and found a place in the casino that would give him the cash advance. That was the easiest thing he’d done since the trip started.

Next, an insufferable cab ride with an old driver who smelled like the inside of a coffin, a long wait in the wrong line, followed by a longer wait in this line.

Dylan looked up and saw the CCTV cameras in the corners of the room, wondered who was watching. The longer he waited, the more he became convinced that this was all a ploy to stall for time as they examined the truck.

He played it out in his head, saw it happening right now. One of the pricks would look at him through the lens and say, “That’s him. That’s the sick bastard.”

Would they understand what was inside the truck? Or would they simply assume he was dangerous and had to be killed?

Dylan knew what he would do in their position.

When he reached the front of the line, he was certain that at any moment black-suited thugs from Homeland Security would appear from nowhere and gun him down in a hail of bullets from their automatic weapons. Or torture him first. He heard that happened a lot.

The impound clerk, looking supremely bored behind the glass window, waved him over.

Dylan swallowed. He handed the man his receipt and his proof of registration.

“Where are you from?”

“Orange County,” Dylan said. Khaled had coached him: keep the cover story simple and as close to the truth as possible. “I’m heading back to college.” He looked the part: short hair, jeans and a T-shirt with fraternity letters on it. He wondered if that last bit was too much.

“Says this truck is a rental.”

“Yeah,” Dylan said, still smiling. “I’m taking my stuff back to school.”

A frown from the clerk. “Sort of a big truck for that.”

Dylan shrugged, trying not to panic. “It was all they had at the rental lot.”

The clerk just stared.

Dylan added, as casually as he could, “I’m bringing a hot tub to the frat house.”

The clerk looked incredulous for a moment, then broke into a wide grin. “No shit?” he said. “Damn, you really know how to party, buddy. Wish I’d thought of that when I was in school.”

The clerk stamped his paperwork.

“Take that to the guy out back, he’ll get your truck.”

Dylan took the paper, grateful, but the clerk didn’t let go of it. He leaned close. Dylan did the same.

“I know what’s going on here,” he said, a leer on his face.

Dylan nearly wept. He’d gotten so close....

“You went a little overboard at one of the clubs last night, didn’t you?”

He laughed again, and Dylan laughed loudly with him. “Yeah,” he said, feeling the anxiety flush out of him. “I guess so.”

“Hey, I been there. You get away from those girls with your wallet, you’re lucky. Travel safe.”

“Thanks,” Dylan said, feeling the sweat roll from under his arms. “You too. I mean, uh ...”

But the clerk had already called up the next person in line.

Dylan walked down a corridor, handed his papers over to another person and, twenty minutes later, was behind the wheel of the truck again.

Twenty minutes after that, he was back on the highway. He could still make the rendezvous. If he hurried.

He couldn’t believe his luck. Maybe Khaled knew something after all. Maybe Dylan really was on a mission from God. Someone certainly seemed to be looking out for him.

W
yman sat behind his desk, wearing a plain shirt and jeans. Griff knew without looking that the VP had moccasins on his feet—a throwback to his days as a pot-smoking, Vietnam-protesting hippie. He wore them whenever he came in on the weekend. It was his trademark now, with several prominent mentions in profiles in newspapers and magazines. Of course, these days, he’d discovered the virtues of clean living and a good war, particularly now that he wasn’t eligible for the draft.

Griff stood, hands behind his back.

“Have a seat, Griff,” Wyman said.

“No thank you, sir.”

“Suit yourself.” He passed Griff a single sheet of paper. “What is this?”

Griff picked it up off the desk.

It was a copy of an approval for an arms sale—$2 billion worth of planes, guns and missiles—to Kuwait.

“Looks like a done deal to me, sir.”

“You’d think so, wouldn’t you? But then I’ve heard that there’s a former FBI agent—who works for a department that doesn’t actually exist, by the way—kicking up all kinds of crap with our Kuwaiti friends. Then I find that agent is asking questions about a good friend of this administration, a respected diplomat—”

“Mahmoud al-Attar,” Griff cut him off. “Yeah. I know. His holding company was the one that sent the shipment with the pieces of our soldiers in it. His son, Khaled, has links to—”

“I don’t care. Mahmoud al-Attar is a friend. And his companies are helping to broker this deal.”

“That’s not really my problem, sir.”

“I know you don’t like me, Agent Griffin. And I don’t like you.”

“Your opinion means a great deal to me, sir.”

“But try to be reasonable,” Wyman continued. “It’s the biggest shipping company in Kuwait. Millions of tons move through it every day. You have any actual proof this is connected to your little problem?”

“That’s what I’m trying to find out—”

“No. You don’t. And what has your friend Cade found out in L.A.?”

“He’s still investigating.”

“In other words, nothing. We need every friend we have in the Middle East, especially this one, to get supplies to our troops. And you’re jeopardizing that. For what? Nothing. Pure speculation.”

“I’ll be happy to discuss it with the president when he returns, sir.”

“We’re discussing it right now,” Wyman snapped. “The last thing this administration needs is to be connected in any way to a scandal. I’m ordering you to leave it alone.”

Griff had to smile at that. “I’m sorry, sir?”

“Don’t look so amused, Griffin,” Wyman said. “I mean it. I’m ordering you to leave the al-Attar family alone.”

“No,” Griff said.

“What?”

“You heard me, sir.”

Wyman’s face went bright red. “I gave you a direct order, Agent Griffin.”

Griff leaned forward, his fists on Wyman’s desk. He wasn’t feeling great, and he had no patience for a bureaucratic ass-chewing. “And I said no. What are you going to do about it?”

Wyman’s mouth worked a moment before sound came out. “The president is out of town until tomorrow. That makes me the head of the Special Security Council in his absence. You are legally bound to follow my—”

“What do you think this is, Mr. Vice President?” Griff asked, still looming over the smaller man. “You think this is the scene in the movie where the detective gets ordered off the case? You’re wrong. It’s not that part of the movie. You want me to stop doing my job? Call the president. Otherwise, shut the fuck up and quit wasting my time.”

Wyman sat back in his chair, eyes mean as a snake’s.

“Get out,” he said.

“Thank you, sir,” Griff said. He turned and walked to the door.

“You know, someday I might be sitting in the Oval Office, Griffin. You should remember that.”

Griff paused, his hand on the knob. “And you might want to remember you’re the seventh vice president I’ve worked under.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Wyman asked.

“Seems likely you’ll be out of here before I am, sir.”

Griff closed the office door before Wyman could reply.

 

 

AS SOON AS GRIFFIN was out the door, Wyman opened a desk drawer, pulled out a cheap pay-per-minute mobile and dialed.

The encryption took a moment, like it always did. Then, as soon as the person on the other end picked up, Wyman started talking.

“It’s me,” he said. “I talked to Griffin. He won’t listen to me. He’s going to continue investigating the Kuwaiti connection.”

He listened.

“No. That would draw far too much attention. Things are tense enough here as it is.”

He waited again, looking angrier by the second.

“No,” he snapped. “That’s not my problem. I’ve met my end of the bargain. I gave you the information you wanted. I told you where Cade’s safe house is located. And I’ve given you a clear shot on ... on the other thing. What you do with it—that’s your business. I can’t afford to do any more.”

The tone of the voice on the other end raised several notches.

“Hey, I did my best,” Wyman said. “How am I supposed to scare the guy? He spends all day in a basement with a vampire, for God’s sake. It’s up to you now.”

He pressed a button, ending the call.

Across the country, in her office in L.A., Helen slammed her phone down. Unbelievable, she thought. Wyman didn’t even have the balls to handle an over-the-hill FBI agent. Christ, I have to do
everything
myself.

H
elen couldn’t believe Wyman had hung up on her. With that same phone, she could order anything from a tax audit to a cruise missile strike. But she couldn’t make Wyman pay for his insult. It was necessary to have a man on the inside. Unfortunately, they always seemed to be such worms.

The door to her office opened. No knock. Helen grinned, thankful for someone stupid enough to interrupt her while she was in a mood like this—

Then she saw the man at the door and she froze.

He wasn’t a scary individual on the surface. Far from it. Balding, average height, round glasses that made him look like a small-town librarian.

But the power that Helen used all flowed through him. She called him Control. It was his title. It was his role in her life, as well.

He stepped in to keep tabs on her, offered the occasional instruction. He could find her anywhere, simply showing up like this, unannounced and unscheduled. He knew every detail of her life. She didn’t even know his real name.

But she knew he could kill her, and would, without a second’s hesitation, if he thought it necessary.

Helen was powerful, but Control—Control was God.

Helen checked her fear and gave him her best smile. “What do you need, sir?”

Control looked back at her, his face as placid as ever.

“Agent Holt,” he said. “A word, please?”

She gestured to a chair.

He looked up at the ceiling, the walls. “Not in here,” he said.

He went out into the hall. Whatever he had to say, he didn’t want the office’s recording gear to pick it up.

Her hand shook slightly as she grabbed the handle and followed.

Control leaned against the wall in the corridor. “What are you doing, Helen?” he asked.

“What?”

He sighed. “Why are you antagonizing Cade?”

Helen’s fear vanished as the anger welled up inside her. “He was stalking one of our primary subjects—”

“So?”

Helen’s mouth worked for a second before she could come up with a reply. “We need Konrad. We can’t afford to lose him—”