Payback (18 page)

Clearly
showing three transport trucks heading north, not south.

“Do we
have any shots from an angle?”

“Give me
a minute.”

Leroux
began to type a quick communique to his boss warning him of possible false
intel, the reports of them heading south appearing to be a red herring. He
glanced up at the main screen as Therrien ran a search to see what satellites
might have images of the exact coordinates the trucks had been spotted on.

Suddenly
a shot was displayed that looked like it was a view from the north, lower on
the horizon.

Are
you kidding me?

He
jumped out of his seat, rushing forward. “Zoom in! Clean that up!”

Therrien
was way ahead of him, everyone in the room forgetting what they were working
on, instead all eyes now focused on the screen. The image changed, the large
pixels resolving into the ridiculously fine imagery possible with modern spy satellites.

“Is that
what I think it is?” asked Alice Michaels, one of his analysts.

“That’s
definitely four people in the front of that lead truck,” said Therrien. Leroux
agreed, but what wasn’t clear was
who
was in the truck, it still a
nighttime image seen through a specialized filter that gave a greenish glow to
everything, the occupants almost outlines of themselves, no features
distinguishable.

He
snapped his fingers. “We know the two hostages are white, and most likely their
kidnappers are black. Can you enhance that image to at least see if two of them
are white?”

“Give me
a second!” Therrien was clearly excited by the idea, his fingers expertly
flying over the keyboard, his mouse clicking on icons furiously as the image
slowly changed, moments later showing exactly what Leroux was hoping for.

Two
white faces flanked by two black faces.

“That must
be them,” said Michaels. “And they look much shorter than the driver and the
one on the far left.”

“I think
we’ve found our two missing hostages. Good work people, scratch that,
excellent
work. See if we can track where they went and cross-reference this with any
records we have of legitimate shipments. We don’t want to send an armed team in
unless we’re sure. And I want to know if there were any checkpoints along the
way, see if you can pick up any chatter about them passing through. I’m going
to go see the director and let him know.” He turned to Therrien. “Print those
out and email them to me, CC the Chief.”

“Done
and done,” said Therrien, pointing to a nearby printer.

Leroux
grabbed the sheaf of papers off the high-speed color printer and headed for
Director Morrison’s office, leafing through the pages. When he reached the
office Morrison’s assistant was expecting him.

“He said
to send you straight in.”

Leroux
nodded, knocking on the door.

“Come!”

He
stepped inside, closing the door after him.

“Is this
what I think it is?” asked Morrison, pointing at one of his monitors.

“Yes,
sir,” said Leroux, standing in front of Morrison’s desk, leaning over briefly
to see what his boss was pointing at. “We found three transport trucks heading
north
,
not south like we were led to believe. That enhanced image is showing four
people in the front of the lead truck, two we believe are Caucasian.”

“And
these aren’t just a regular transport?”

“We’re
checking that now, sir, but I doubt it.”

“Your
gut?”

“My gut.
And the fact that they’re heading toward the area where all of our known
suspects are from, and that there are no clinics in that area.”

“When
will you know for sure?”

“It
could be hours, sir. It’s a little bit like the Wild West out there. Three
trucks, heading into this particular area, with two white people in the lead
vehicle, exactly as described at the Freetown checkpoint? That’s too much of a
coincidence and I don’t believe in coincidences.”

“Neither
do I. Get the intel to our team in Freetown. Warn them of the possible false
intel as well. I assume you’re trying to find out where these went?”

“My team
is on it as we speak.”

“Excellent.
Pass on my compliments.”

“I will,
sir.” He turned to make for the door when Morrison stopped him.

“Oh, and
Chris?”

“Yes,
sir?”

“Now you
see the power of having a team. With the right supervisor, they can work
twenty-four-seven.” He motioned at the screen. “And look at the results.”

Leroux
felt himself flush, uncertain of what to say, the Director well aware of his
reluctance to have a team. “Uh…”

Morrison
chuckled, flicking him away with his fingers. “Go. And keep me posted.”

“Yes,
sir.”

Leroux
beat a hasty retreat, his cheeks burning as he quickly walked back toward the
Op Center, his mind split between processing what Morrison had said, and the
possibilities of this being a false positive in their search.

He’s
right. I couldn’t have done this without my team.

Well,
that wasn’t entirely true. He could have, but most likely it would have taken
longer because sleep would have been an absolute necessity. But with his team
large enough to do two shifts, it meant he could leave them working under his
orders while he rested his brain.

And he
had a good team.

Actually,
he had a great team.

Most in
the CIA were the cream of the crop when it came to minds. In his business those
who just couldn’t cut it were quickly weeded out, tossed either to less
mentally tasking jobs or out of the Agency completely. And it wasn’t just IQ
that mattered—it was mental toughness. Could you think clearly for 24 or 48
hours? Could you deal with images of torture and mutilation, the pressure of
innocent lives in the balance, or the ramifications of delivering that piece of
intel that could result in the deaths of the guilty?

He had
passed all those tests, all those pressures. It had actually been quite the
surprise since he had never considered himself brave or even much of a man. He
was a shy loner who took a job working with computers and data, two things he
loved. The CIA had approached him, he having done well on some aptitude test he
had taken online on a whim.

And he’d
never looked back.

Now
thanks to his job he had a stable income, a good if infrequent friend back in
his life, and a girlfriend who was way out of his league.

You
have to stop thinking like that!

Sherrie
would kick his ass if she knew he still thought that way. He used to always say
‘I don’t deserve you’ to her and she had ignored him at first, but finally turned
on him one night. In his mind it was true, he didn’t deserve her, and by
telling her so, it was a compliment, but apparently she wasn’t taking it that
way.

“How do
you think it makes me feel?” she had screamed. He had merely stared at her
blankly. “Every time you say that you’re putting yourself down! You’re telling
me
that I’ve chosen poorly! Well, I don’t think I have, and you better realize
that you
do
deserve me pretty damned quick, or you’re never going to see
me again!”

She had
stormed into the bathroom and taken a long shower while he cried into his
pillow.

And he
never said those words again, though his feelings had barely changed. He
realized now that she truly did love him, and he her, and that they really were
a great couple. They liked a lot of the same things, and since they both had
top security clearances, they could be honest with each other, though sometimes
that merely meant saying, ‘Sorry, classified.’

He
thought of what Morrison had said and realized the man was right. And as he
entered the Operations Center, his team and other support staff looking at him
expectantly, he realized for the first time that he had become a man, despite
his best efforts. He was a boss, and apparently good at it, his team respecting
him and looking up to him, despite his age. His supervisors and peers treated
him as an equal, no longer talking down to him as if he were a pimply kid fresh
out of college, trusting him to make life and death decisions on a daily basis.

He
sucked in a deep breath, pride and confidence swelling inside him, a rare
feeling with so many eyes on him.

And
decided that tonight when he got home, he was going to tell Sherrie how he
truly felt.

That he
did deserve her.

He
pointed at a map of Northern Sierra Leone on one of the displays.

“Let’s
get some drones over that area ASAP.”

West African Drop-In Center, Baltimore, Maryland

Master Sergeant Mike “Red” Belme pulled open the glass door of the
West African Community Drop-in Center, Spock behind him, Control jacked in
through his earpiece and a hidden mike on his jacket. The center had opened
about ten minutes late and they had observed from their car parked across the
street seven people enter since, five of them still inside, all male.

Photos
had gone to Bragg for identification but nothing had come back yet. The order
had come down the pipe to proceed, a possible sighting of the Vice President’s
daughter reported by Langley only minutes before.

Time was
of the essence, the location of the sighting over 24 hours cold and the intent
of the kidnappers still unknown, except that they were willing to kill and die
for their cause.

Assuming
the group here were connected to those in Sierra Leone.

Intel
suggested the one suspect in Africa was born in the same vicinity as the
terrorists here, a tenuous connection at best, but a connection nonetheless.
And the timing was simply too coincidental. Red, like the others, was convinced
everything was connected, though the end-game was still a mystery.

And if
their experience so far was any indication they were about to discover
absolutely nothing that might help them.

A rattle
above the door signaled their entry, three men visible inside turning their
heads to stare, Red’s pale redhead British heritage setting him distinctly
apart, Spock’s lineage not much better though at least he could tan.

Red
pulled out his wallet, flashing his fake FBI ID. “I’m Special Agent Grey, this
is Agent Brown. Can we speak to whoever’s in charge?”

Nobody
said anything for a moment, the stares continuing though the eyes were a little
wider, a hint of fear clearly evident.

Maybe
we
have
stumbled onto something.

He
stepped toward the group, just a single step, and they all turned to face him,
eyes darting about as if looking for somewhere to run. Intel had already
provided them with floor plans. There was the front entrance now at their back,
a rear entrance through three adjoining rooms, and a fire escape if they were
to go up the stairs, accessed through the next room, to the second or higher
floors.

“Are one
of you in charge?” he asked pleasantly, a smile on his face as he continued
forward, subtly nearing the rear door so he could cut them off should they try
to flee. “We just have some questions about Mr. Dia Conteh. I understand he
came here often.”

Looks
were exchanged and words whispered in what he assumed was their native tongue
of Krio, a language he was nearly completely unfamiliar with. He and the others
had been receiving crash courses in the language as soon as the Norfolk
incident had begun, but it was impossible to learn a language in a couple of days,
and their knowledge transfer had been more the key phrases like “hands up” and
“drop your weapon”.

Panicked
conversation hadn’t been covered yet.

His comm
squawked. “The one on the right is telling the others not to say anything. The
one behind the counter agrees.”

Fortunately
for them someone back at Control spoke Krio perfectly and could see and hear
everything thanks to the hidden comm gear both he and Spock were wearing.

“Listen,
nobody’s in trouble, we just have a few questions.” He looked at the man on the
right who had told the others to say nothing. “Did you know Mr. Conteh?”

The man
quickly shook his head. “Good, you do speak English.” Red knew damned well the
man spoke English, English was the official language in Sierra Leone, and even
though their version of it was quite often unrecognizable when overheard by an
American, these men could certainly understand the version spoken in their new
country.

He
simply hoped to goad them into a reaction.

“Of
course I speak English.”

And it
had worked.

“Good,
that will make this much easier. I assume of course your friends here speak
English.”

His comm
squawked. “The man on the right is Ahmadou Ballo. He’s the founder of the West
African Immigrant League. No criminal record, American citizen for six years.
He works nights as a janitor, volunteers at the center during his off hours.”

“I’m
looking for a Mr. Ballo. Is that you?”

The
man’s eyes flared almost imperceptibly. The others leaned away slightly.

“Yes.”

“Good,
then I’m sure you can definitely help us.” He stepped over to the counter,
leaning on it, his body angled in such a way that he could easily block the
rear exit from the room, Spock covering the front and hanging back at the
opposite corner of the room, forcing the men to continually turn their heads if
they wanted to watch both of them. “When was the last time you saw Mr. Conteh?”

Ballo
shrugged. “I’m not sure. Not for a long time.” His English was heavily accented
but excellent, good enough for Red to be able to sense the tension in his
answers.

“Really?”
Red pointed at the counter, a pile of leaflets advertising some sort of mixer
next month, the same leaflet stuck to Conteh’s fridge with a Domino’s Pizza
magnet. “New flyers? Kinko’s?”