Sympathy For the Devil (6 page)

Despite the security of the University’s closed network, a strict standard protocol was observed every time a field agent contacted the main switchboard. “Switchboard. How may I help you?”

He knew the operator already had his name and location on her screen. “This is Mr. Warren,” he said, using the pre-assigned codename that told the operator he was safe and not being forced to talk. “I need to schedule a pickup.”

“For when?”

“As soon as possible.”

“Understood, sir.” He heard a few clicks of a keyboard. “And the pickup would be at your previous location?”

Hicks knew they’d tracked him to the footbridge. His handheld always emitted a tracking signal, but Jason had probably earmarked his signal for priority surveillance. He’d probably already had a Varsity team staged nearby. “That’s right. Three items.”

“Very well. We’ll send someone out for it right away. Thank you for calling.”

The line went dead, and Hicks put the phone away. He could’ve gone back into the park and waited until the Varsity’s cleanup squad showed up, but he decided to keep trudging south through the snow on his own. It was best to put as much distance between him and the dead men as possible. The men he’d killed and the friend he’d gotten killed.

He knew the Varsity would take the three bodies back to a University facility where full autopsies would be performed. The purpose wasn’t so much for determining cause of death, but charting DNA and other biological statistics that might come in handy later on. Having a dead man’s DNA can often prove useful.

Besides, he didn’t like the Varsity crowd anyway and the feeling was mutual. There had always been a professional tension between the University’s Faculty and Varsity members, not unlike the Marines and the Navy. Each branch worked its side of the street and, on the rare event when the two overlapped, it usually meant something had gone terribly wrong.

And a turned agent qualified as something that had gone terribly wrong.

Despite the thickness of his parka, Hicks felt his handheld buzz again. He expected to see Jason was calling and was sorry to see he was right. A blizzard and a gunfight wasn’t enough for one night. Now he had to deal with this terse son of a bitch.

Hicks answered the phone with the standard University all-clear protocol. “This is Warren.”

“What the hell happened back there?”

“Weren’t you watching the whole thing on OMNI?”

“No,” Jason said. “If we’d had you on satellite, I would already know what had happened and I wouldn’t be asking you. So, what the hell happened?

Despite the security of the University’s closed network, Hicks still kept it vague. “Looks like Colin set me up. He came to the rendezvous point with a two-man backup team. One shooter, one cameraman.”

“A cameraman? Was he broadcasting?”

“No. It was a small hand-held number you’d find in any electronics shop. I’ll take a closer look at it back at the office. No ID on any of them, including Colin.”

“Are they dead?”

“If they weren’t, I would be. Which, for the record, I’m not.”

Jason was silent for a beat. “Sarcasm is not appreciated, James.”

“Neither are stupid fucking questions. You know goddamned well I just called in a Varsity team for a pick up. I wouldn’t have done that if I’d left them making snowmen in the park.”

He heard Jason’s keyboard clicking. “I see you’ve uploaded the faces and prints of the dead men to OMNI. I take it you didn’t recognize them?”

“No, just Colin. They turned him, Jason. I don’t know how the hell they did it, but they did it.”

“We’ll find out how and why eventually,” Jason said. “You know we will. We always do.” He managed to sound concerned. “Are you hurt?”

“No.” Hicks had more important things to do than worry about himself. “I shot both of the backup team. The gunman fired as he went down and hit Colin in the throat. I think I found their transport vehicle waiting for them at Seventy-second Street…”

“I know. We’re tracking it, and it’s heading uptown now. I’ve got someone en route to track him further uptown in case he gets out of the car. Don’t worry about him.” He heard Jason clicking on his keyboard. “Varsity Team verifies that it’s five minutes out. I want you to double back and ride in with them. We can have a secure debrief from our facility. I know how difficult this must be for you. Colin and you were… close.”

Hicks kept walking south. “You’re wrong. You have no idea how difficult this is. I’m better off on my own.”

He knew Jason didn’t like to be rebuked. He wasn’t in the mood to care. He’d just killed two people and lost an operative he’d known for a decade. If Jason wanted an argument, Hicks would be happy to give him one.

“Have it your way, but I’ll expect a full debriefing in person tomorrow.”

Hicks stopped trudging through the snow. A sharp wind slammed into him only to be offset by a cross current that kept him on his feet. “You’re coming to New York?”

“That’s what in person means, doesn’t it?” Jason said. “Same time and location as before. Don’t be late.” The connection went dead.

Once again, Hicks put the handheld back in his pocket and closed his eyes. The sleet had let up, giving way once again to heavy snow. He could feel his temper beginning to build, so he concentrated on being calm and tried to control his breathing.

He’d just lost a good operative. He’d just shot two strangers dead. He’d retrieved good intel and was tracking a suspected transport vehicle. He had material and evidence to examine. The entire idea of the University was built on mobility and digital connectivity. Instant dissemination of information from a variety of positions throughout the globe was what had set it apart from any other intelligence agency. Briefing Jason in person was a waste of valuable time that could be spent tracking Colin’s movements and running checks on the backgrounds of the dead men.

But the Dean had told him to work with Jason. To help him become a better Department Chair. So that’s what he’d do. Because as much as Hicks hated following orders, he ultimately followed them. Because he had no reason not to.

He pulled his hood a little tighter around his head and leaned into the wind as he headed back to the office he called home.

W
HEN
H
ICKS
made it back to the Office over an hour later, he shut the vault door behind him and fell back against it. The lock mechanism was programmed to engage automatically and the door vibrated as the bolts slid home.

He hadn’t felt this exhausted in a long time.

Every day, Hicks undertook a vigorous workout routine. He did extensive cardio work and could lift weights far heavier than someone his size should. Yoga and stretching exercises followed. He didn’t look like a strong man and that was the general idea. But after an hour pushing through driving sleet and heavy snow, he barely had the strength to take off his parka. He knew it wasn’t just physical exhaustion, but didn’t want to dwell on Colin or what had happened in the park. Not yet. He just stood with the back of his head against the door and breathed; grateful for the cold steel of the vault door to dull his growing headache.

The novelty of working in a vault below West Twenty-third Street had lost its effect on Hicks long ago. Three years before—when the Dean had assigned him to run the University’s New York office—his directive was clear: make the New York office a model for the University’s future.

The first order of business had been to set up a proper base of operations.

The University’s New York presence had been little more than a joke since the end of the Cold War in the early nineties. Not even 9/11 had done much to change that. The University’s Boston, D.C., and Los Angeles offices had been held in much higher regard and did the lion’s share of the University’s intelligence work within the United States. Even Miami had a higher standing.

New York had become viewed as a vanity post; little more than window dressing and probably would’ve been closed altogether if the U.N. hadn’t been headquartered there.

The New York office of that time bore little resemblance to the high-tech spaces shown on television shows and movies; with trim, young people in dark suits darting around as they sifted though intelligence data on the latest technological devices. Flat screen televisions, high-speed Internet connections and satellite surveillance.

Until Hicks took over, the University’s New York office was simply a part-time operation run out of John Holloway’s cluttered York Avenue apartment. Holloway had been the University’s point man in the war against Communism once upon a time. But time catches up to all men, spies most of all, and Holloway gradually became a doddering academic more interested in the dusty first editions of his library and attending policy conferences than doing any actual intelligence work. The only information Holloway ever sent back to the Dean was whatever he’d managed to cobble together from the boozy gossip he’d fielded from minor diplomats at U.N. cocktail parties. Holloway had never been fond of technology, and thought his ability to forward Council on Foreign Relations e-newsletters to the Dean was something of an amazing technological accomplishment.

The end came on one drizzly spring morning when the legendary John Holloway when a mailman found him lying dead between two parked cars off First Avenue. His dog—a white Pomeranian he’d named Publius—licking his face.

The University’s private autopsy report revealed Old Holloway had died of cardiac arrest due to clogged arteries from years of too much pâté and red wine at too many cocktail parties.

The Dean mourned the death of his mentor, but when he named Hicks as the New York Office Head, it was with a clear mission: make the New York Office relevant again.

The Dean had given him a healthy budget to find a place and advised him to hide in plain sight. Rent an office or buy a large apartment some place and keep a low profile. But regular office buildings were difficult to secure and often more trouble than they were worth. Running the operation out of an apartment or condo was risky, too. Supers with pass keys. Nosey neighbors. Even burglars.

He needed something quiet and not easily found. Something without windows or other tenants. In New York, that was a tall order, but not impossible.

Because Hicks had a plan.

While working in Tel Aviv a few months before coming to New York, he’d learned of a local developer looking to expand his family’s fortune by investing in Manhattan real estate. He had just closed on a row of dilapidated townhouses in the west Twenties. This particular developer came from a strong Israeli family who despised the Palestinians. This particular developer had built a fortune of his own by quietly accepting Palestinian investments in his projects back in Israel.

Hicks showed the developer the evidence and made him an offer: give him the ground floor and basement of one of his new buildings and enough space for a sub-basement beneath all three buildings and forget about it. No rent, no lease, no sale. Say no, and the family finds out you’ve been laundering money for the PLO.

The developer complied.

The result was the University’s New York office: a hidden concrete shelter buried beneath the basements of three townhouses on West Twenty-third Street. The University had arranged for secure contractors to build the facility quietly and quickly. Some creative manipulation of the city’s building department’s records allowed the construction to occur without government interference.

The garden apartment on street level was just for show. It looked benign enough from the outside: curtains on the windows, lights in the windows, even furniture and a full book case if anyone looked inside. People on the upper floors paid a good amount in rent, too.

The stairs down to the basement from the garden apartment looked normal. The boiler served the two legal apartments above, but the washer and drier had never been used. The basement was merely a stop-gap that led to the subbasement. It was sealed by an ordinary looking wooden door with a large knob and lock. But there was no key to the door and the knob didn’t turn. The door could only be opened by reading the biometrics in Hicks’ hand when he gripped the doorknob while a camera scanned his facial features at the same time. When the two matched, the hatch opened.