Closure

  He considered calling some old contacts he maintained from his days with the CIA. But then he would owe favors, and they would be curious as to what he was doing since he had left. Hard to collect a favor if you didn’t know what someone was capable of. One of their best biological warfare hunters just disappearing in the middle of an armed conflict was not unusual, but for him to stay gone was. There were still plenty of people that needed watching. North Korea, Iran, China, Pakistan, our new/old friends the Russians, the new government of Iraq, and, of course, every terrorist group out there. He decided he would just stay quiet and off the radar. He would most likely get what he needed from the press anyway. It would just take a little longer.

  He turned the TV off and picked up a report on Arctic Tern migration. They had been tracking them very closely this year.

  —THREE—

  Study warns of dire overheating of crops, food crisis by 2100

  January 13, 2009—USA Today

  “It’s about time Jack, I’ve been stalling for a couple of hours now. Where the hell have you been?”

  “Sorry, sir, I was at the beach house to get away from the press, and I kind of let my pager die,” Jack confessed as they turned to walk down the seventh floor hallway of the Hoover building. Jack had broken a few speed limits on his trip in from Delaware.

  “Let your pager die?”

  “Well, you’re the one who put me on vacation, sir.”

  “Touché, thanks for pointing that out. You can consider that vacation over as of now. You saw the news this morning I take it? The AG wants a team sent to figure out if Osama’s boys are behind this as they claimed, or if it’s somebody else using their name. You can pick your people, but you’ll have some additions from State and the CIA. No arguments right now, Jack, just hear me out. This is big and we need to move quickly. There was some protest when your name came up. You’re lucky to get this assignment at all. This is your chance to get back in the game.”

  “Why me, sir? I really don’t have that much experience in Africa.”

  “I know. And I mentioned that, but they didn’t debate it very long and you got the green light. You care?”

  “Not yet. Something tells me I might later,” Jack replied.

  The Deputy Director stopped walking and looked around. Jack straightened his tie while he waited. His boss lowered his voice.

  “Look, Jack, it’s like this. You pissed off a lot of people when they found out the shooter we were chasing was your personal friend.” He held up a hand before Jack could interrupt. “I know it wasn’t your fault, but the way things ended on live TV didn’t make you or the Bureau look good. That senator had a lot of friends. I’m not sure why your name came up for this, but Africa is a long way from DC and maybe that’s why, they could just want you farther away. If you find something and do well they can say they always had faith in you, and they look good for backing you and the FBI. If you screw up, they can use it against you and the Bureau and give the investigation to another agency. Some of these guys are hoping you drop the ball. I know you hate the politics, but that’s the way it is. So, when we go through those doors, just be a good little soldier, toe the line, and we’ll get you back on the front line, okay?”

  Jack nodded. “Okay.”

  “That’s my boy.”

  They turned and entered the large double doors. All conversation stopped as Jack found himself in the Bureau’s largest conference room. It was used for meetings involving the upper echelon or the elected committee members. The walls were richly paneled in dark wood, and oil paintings adorned them, depicting highlights in the FBI’s history. A large portrait of Hoover himself looked down from one end of the room. The windows were floor to ceiling, and the faint buzz of elevator music vibrating the glass to foil eavesdropping devices could be heard if one listened closely. The table was larger than any Jack had seen in his corporate days and it was ringed by high-backed leather chairs. Two empty ones sat waiting for him and his boss, and they took them facing several men and women. Jack couldn’t help but note that there were no aides standing on the sidelines taking notes. Some of the people he recognized, but most he didn’t.

  “I apologize for the delay everyone,” his boss addressed them. “We can proceed whenever you wish.”

  The room shifted its collective gaze to the man seated on the opposing end of the table. Jack recognized the man as Senator Kenneth Teague of Texas, the longtime chairman of the Senate Arms Services Committee. He was infamous for being a hard-ass, both for and against, when it came to the military. The senator had very clear ideas on what he thought the military needed and didn’t need, and billions of dollars rested on his yea or nay votes. Now that the Department of Homeland Security had been added to the country’s defensive arm, he had gained influence into the intelligence and antiterrorism world. There were many who felt he wielded too much power, but few that had the cover to oppose him. No president had won Texas without his support, and the current president was a personal friend of the senator.

  “Mr. Randall, I have no doubt you know why you were summoned here today. This embassy bombing is another setback in our war on these terrorists. I have your file here—” he placed his hand on a thick manila folder on the table in front of him, “—and I can see you’ve had a short, but impressive career here at the FBI. Normally I would expect the CIA to rectify their mistake of not averting this type of attack by bringing in those responsible for it. But I’m afraid they are focused elsewhere at this time. An investigation into this bombing is just that, an investigation. We have determined that the FBI has the best resources to execute and complete this task. I’m also told you are the man we need to conduct it.”

  Jack forced himself to not look to his boss for support. The questions in his mind were popping up faster than he could process them. How did he get my file? Was it my FBI file? My military file? Who cares, he has it. He can have it anytime he wants! Why are they so eager to send me? He recalled something an old teacher had told him. When it all goes to hell, just fix one thing at a time.

  “Thank you, sir,” Jack offered.

  “You have some special operations experience?” the senator probed.

  He already knows what I have, Jack thought, this was for the others present. Or it was a test. Don’t be a pushover.

  “Sir, I apologize, but I don’t know every party present here. I feel it would be inappropriate to discuss that here today.”

  “Fair enough. Ever been to Africa?”

  Jack hesitated again, but the senator let him off the hook.

  “Simple yes or no will work Agent Randall. I’ve been six times myself.”

  “Yes, sir, just not to Tanzania.”

  “Know a lot about bombs, do you?” The senator smiled as he asked.

  “I know the fundamentals pretty well, sir.”

  “Very well. You know what to look for. I think we can get you some help from some of our people in the area?” He directed the question to a man seated across from Jack.

  “Whatever he needs,” was the man’s reply.

  It suddenly dawned on Jack who the man was. Anthony Beason, the newly appointed Deputy Director of Operations for the Central Intelligence Agency. The man responsible for every field spook the agency had deployed. He saw every piece of intelligence that came in from every asset they had. A powerful man in his own right, yet he seemed to defer to the senator.

  “Good. Mr. Randall, you will assemble your team and depart as soon as possible. The Bureau will be the lead agency on this investigation and I expect all others represented here today to back him up. Are there any questions?” The senator didn’t look around the room when he asked it, and a tap of Deacon’s foot against Jack’s ankle erased any from his mind. After a pause, everyone rose with the senator and filed out of the room. Soon Jack was left with just himself and his boss.

  “That was quite a show,” Jack ventured.

  “Yes, it was. Look, Jack, the senator is a hard man, but he gets the job done. He?
??s managed to cut a lot of pork from the defense budget while still giving up a lot of money for what he thinks they all need, and if the bastard wasn’t right every time he wouldn’t be where he is today. Hell, he hasn’t had a real challenge to his seat since he got elected. Today he sees a mission that needs to be done, and he’s stepping on some heads to see that it doesn’t get used as a stepping stone by some bureaucrat, or bungled due to inter-service rivalry. He pressured the others to get you the job.”

  Jack thought about it and the full definition of his new position came into stark clarity. His name had no doubt been discussed at length before it was mentioned to the suits that had just left the room. With his current public-hero status combined with his internal problems, he was good for all contingencies. They could point out that their hero had done it again if he succeeded, or they could ease him right out of the Bureau if he failed. He was disposable, if necessary. The right man for the job, huh? From their point of view, he was perfect.

  “I get to assemble my own team?” he asked.

  “I have a letter from the Director and the Attorney General to that effect. Your budget is out of Homeland Security and is basically a blank check. You have temporary rank as an O-7 with access to whatever military support you need. You have some mandatory attached personnel, but you can assemble your own team.”

  “Mandatory attached personnel?” Jack frowned at that. “You mean babysitters?”

  “The CIA has people who are familiar with the area. They’ll assign someone to be on the team. It’s not negotiable,” his boss replied.

  Jack sank back in the leather chair and flipped a pen through his fingers. It was either accept the mission or return to the beach house—possibly forever.

  “All right, here’s who I want.”

  * * *

  Crack!

  Sydney Lewis rode the recoil into her shoulder and brought the sights back in line with her target, her finger already taking up the slack in the trigger. She steadied her sight picture and did her best to not jerk the trigger.

  Crack!

  “Good,” she heard the instructor say behind her. “Improve your memory.”

  She knew he was referring to her muscle memory and not her brain. Although those memories were the reason she had devoted so much of her free time to the range over the past month. She had almost shot her boss in the middle of an important investigation! The fact that they had been a couple once didn’t help things either.

  She had never been a good shot, favoring the science aspect of her job more than the law enforcement portion. Jack had taught her himself in the beginning, and thanks to him she had somehow made it through her qualifying shoot to make it into the FBI. The brief romance that followed was passionate, but had ended with their graduation. They both just had different paths before them at the time. Being teamed up with him years later had been both pleasant and stressful, but so far their past had not interfered with their ability to work together. At least not too much. Since then she had picked up her weapon only when she’d been required to do so.

  Her near-miss had changed her mind on shooting. The instructors here at Quantico were the best, and she had improved quite a bit in the last month.

  Crack-Crack! She finished off the clip with a double-tap and automatically ejected the spent magazine and reloaded with another she pulled from her belt. It was empty and the reload was just practice, but it was something the instructors insisted on. Only then did she relax, and still keeping the barrel pointed downrange, pulled the clip from her new automatic. She laid both down on the pad in front of her with the slide locked back. The safety was built into the grip and already engaged.

  When she had first approached the instructors about becoming a better shot, they had all listened politely and then watched her shoot a few times. It was quickly determined that her current Glock was just a little too big for her small hands. They had tried her out on a few different models before she found her fit.

  The Heckler & Koch P7 was small, chambered for a 9mm round, and featured a built-in safety mechanism that was disengaged just by her gripping it. She could cock it manually or with the grip mechanism, and this worked perfectly for her as it took a lot of doubt out of her mind and let her concentrate on improving her marksmanship. It had been further modified for her by the instructors to fit her specific trigger strength and outfitted with tritium sights for low-light conditions. She had purchased two and was practicing with the backup today. Behind her was Dave, her favorite instructor. She pulled her ear muffs down around her neck and shook her long black hair back behind her shoulders so she could hear his critique.

  “Much, much better today, Sydney. I saw a few go a little right, so we need to get that trigger pull of yours a little smoother, but other than that I think you should be happy with your progress. I may even take you out on the combat range and start working with you there. Let’s see how you did.”

  Sydney pushed the button on the side of the lane divider and watched as her target came rushing at her. Sometimes Dave worked the button while she shot, simulating a rushing attacker. It was a little unnerving at first, but she got over it. The targets today were standard silhouettes. Dave had eagle eyes that missed little, and she wondered how far to the right she really was.

  The target stopped in front of her and was backlit by the range lights. Most of her shots were center-mass—right in the chest, with a couple in the head when she had double-tapped.

  “See here?” Dave pointed to two holes that were on the outside line of the innermost circle. “There, a little right. We need to work on your trigger pull, you’re still jerking it after the first five shots.” The shots were still in the center and would have been lethal if real, but Dave was a perfectionist in a serious business, and if he said she was off, then she was off.

  “Okay. Any changes?” she asked.

  “No, I think more practice will take care of it. Your reload speed is better. This is your backup, right? Do we need to get the well beveled?” They’d had the magazine well of her primary machined to accept the clips easier. It helped when loading a new clip in a hurry or in the dark. Her backup had yet to visit the machinist for that alteration.

  “No. I think we’ll just practice that more. too,” she replied. Dave smiled, obviously pleased with her answer.

  His smile was replaced with a frown and she followed his gaze to the rest behind her. Her pager was vibrating toward the edge and threatening to fall on the floor. She intercepted it before it could. Thumbing the button, the screen lit up and revealed three numbers.

  “888”

  Her expression changed from one of curiosity to a smile. 888 was code for “Report for a mission.” She could finally get back to work.

  “Raincheck, Dave?”

  “Anytime,” was his reply. “I’ll clean your backup. You can pick it up later. Go see what they got for you.”

  “Thank you!” she called as she left the range, trying not to run.

  * * *

  Eric scrolled the code across the monitor screen, looking for what he was sure was a typo in the latest upgrade to his crime scene software. His schedule at the FBI was more hectic than most and he hoped to finish the software upgrade today so he could concentrate on other things.

  His arrival at the Bureau had been rather untraditional and he was working hard to change everyone’s perspective. Less than a year ago he had been a promising student at MIT, but a conflict with a professor over a prank had resulted in his being asked to leave for a short while. He’d been spending the time helping his father at the Las Vegas police department when he was discovered by Jack Randall. It had led to a job offer and now he found himself taking an accelerated course at Quantico on top of his other assignments. It was a heavy schedule, but he knew he would never find anything more interesting than what he had been exposed to in the last few months. The training and influence of his instructors showed as he had done away with the spiked hair and earring and replaced them with a m
ore conservative cut and better wardrobe. He had also packed on a few pounds of muscle, most of which was sore and causing him to squirm in his seat.

  He looked up from his computer screen as the buzzing broke through his concentration. He checked his pager, but the screen was blank. Puzzled, he looked around his cubicle for the noise. No lights on the phone. His cell was not ringing. He waited for it again.

  Bzzzzzzzzz.

  Some quiet cursing was heard from the cubicle next door. He pushed his chair out into the aisle and leaned it back in order to see around the corner.

  Larry was holding a file in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other. A man with decades of experience, he was the detail man that Jack needed to back up his up-front style of leadership. The years had not been especially kind to him and duty at headquarters had added pounds around his mid-section. He accepted the fact that he would never make it to the top of the ladder years ago and that was fine with him. Larry preferred good solid investigative work and would have been surprised to know that Jack had fought hard with several people to get him on his team. Some found Larry’s unkempt appearance, peculiar wit, and lack of protocol a negative, but Jack knew better. Larry got results, and to Jack that was all he needed to know. Larry had taken a shine to Eric and they now had side-by-side cubicles.

  He was currently making a concentrated effort to ignore the pager on his belt as it continued to vibrate.

  “Larry?”

  “Yeah, kid?”

  “Your pager’s going off.”

  “You sure?” Larry continued to pretend to read the file.

  “Uh...yeah. You don’t want to answer it? Could be important.”

  “No.”

  Eric smiled and pushed his chair farther into the cube. “Why not?”

  “Ever been to Africa, kid?”