Back Blast (15 page)

C
ourt Gentry stood tucked into the dense foliage of the Smithsonian’s butterfly sanctuary, watching Leland Babbitt from a distance of one hundred feet.

His high hopes for getting his eyes on Denny Carmichael took their first hit of the day when he noticed Babbitt continually checking his watch. Then he began nervously pacing back and forth, and soon it became clear that whoever Babbitt was here to meet was late.

At eight fifteen Babbitt pulled out his phone and dialed a number. Court wouldn’t be able to hear the conversation; his high-powered earpiece was picking up every bird chirp and passing vehicle so he turned it off, and instead he just stood there in the bushes, looking on.

—

L
eland Babbitt continued pacing, waiting for Carmichael to come on the phone. When he finally did, Babbitt looked up and down the path before speaking quickly and quietly, spending no time on pleasantries. “It’s a quarter after eight, Denny. You were supposed to be here a half hour ago.”

Denny Carmichael replied, “I didn’t agree to come at all. I just said I’d think about it.”

“Oh, come on, Denny. We
need
a face-to-face.”

“No, we don’t. You and I won’t be doing any face-to-face meetings any time soon. I don’t want you at Langley, of course, and I sure as hell don’t want to set foot at Townsend in light of all the exposure you’ve had in the past two weeks.”

Babbitt’s voice rose and fell with desperation. “I get that. That’s why I proposed off-site. A neutral location. You and me. We can put this to bed and move forward.”

Carmichael said, “Lee. Let’s give it the time it needs to die down.”

Babbitt gritted his teeth. His fleshy jowls rolled with the movement. “You aren’t going to leave me to swing in the wind on this.”

“For now, Lee, that’s exactly what I’m doing.”

“You pulled our access to classified data. How the fuck are we supposed to stay in business?”

“I have no doubt that Townsend will be able to find lucrative security contracts in the commercial sector.”

“We’re American patriots! We’re not
fucking
mall cops!”

Carmichael did not respond.

After taking a moment to calm himself, Babbitt said, “You aren’t the only game in town, you know.”

“Was that some sort of a threat?”

“It is what it is.”

Carmichael growled, “Fuck you, Babbitt.”

“No, Denny, fuck you. As a matter of fact, I think I’ll do just that right now.”

Lee Babbitt hung up the phone, stood up from the bench, and reached back like he was going to throw the phone into the trees. But he stopped himself, slipped it back in his pocket, and began walking up the path towards the National Mall.

—

B
abbitt walked back out onto the road running alongside the National Mall with Gentry trailing two hundred feet behind, and while the butterfly sanctuary had been nearly empty, the road and the mall were chock-f of commuters, morning walkers and joggers, patrolling cops, and tourists.

Court wouldn’t be pulling his gun on anyone right here, right now.

Babbitt walked right past his car in the lot at the reflecting pool and continued on.

Court stopped under a cherry tree, not yet in bloom, and he let Babbitt go. To Court’s surprise, the big man headed straight towards the Capitol building.

Softly, Court said, “What the hell are you doing now?”

Babbitt disappeared heading into the East Portico, and Gentry headed south, back in the direction of his car.

As he walked he took his hand off the small Ruger pistol he carried in the left-hand pocket of his jacket, and he used the same hand to pull his baseball cap down lower over his eyes. His right hand remained in his pants pocket, which kept his sore arm from swinging while he walked.

He stopped at a hot dog cart on the mall, bought a bottled water, and drank a few sips while he stood there, allowing himself one last glance at the U.S. Capitol. This was his first real look at the building since he’d been back in town, the first time he took the opportunity to take in any of the sights here in D.C.

For five long years he’d been outside of the USA, and each and every day during that time he’d thought something of home. Now that he was back he couldn’t allow himself the luxury of devoting any real time to enjoying himself, to relaxing, or to appreciating his triumphant return, such as it was. But for just this moment he gazed upon one of the greatest structures in America, and he felt the power of the symbol and the love for his country in his heart, deep in his bones.

He shook away the moment. Despite the emotions welling inside him, it would not do to stop and stare. He was in cover, and his cover wasn’t some wide-eyed foreign tourist.

And if he blew his cover now, agents of the America he loved so much would find him and shoot him dead in the street.

But his cover was solid, because unlike all of his other operations, in this rare case his cover identity matched his true identity. He
was
American. He’d been gone for a while, but he was still American, and now he was home.

Court tossed the empty water bottle in a garbage can, turned, and headed back to his car, still wondering what the hell Babbitt was planning on doing in the Capitol.

—

L
eland Babbitt stormed through the rotunda of the U.S. Capitol, his Burberry coat whipping along with his brisk gait. He waved his credentials to make his way towards the congressional offices. It was just after eight thirty a.m. and he had no idea who would be here this early, but Congress was in session, so at least legislators were in town.

His mind raced as he tried to decide where to go for help.

He knew Mike Avery, a Republican senator from Utah and the president pro tem. Avery was one of the most powerful personalities in Congress, and Babbitt liked the man. But Avery wasn’t particularly interested in matters involving the intelligence community and Homeland Security, so Babbitt eliminated him from his list of potential recipients of his bombshell.

He also knew Joel Landers, the Democratic congressman from New Mexico who chaired the House Permanent Select Committee on intelligence. Landers was a firebrand, always looking for something to bitch about when it came to the CIA. Babbitt thought about everything he knew concerning Carmichael and his five-year-long hunt to kill an American citizen.

Yeah, Representative Landers would
love
to hear his story.

Of course, Babbitt knew what he was doing was professional suicide; he’d never get another government contract if he sold Carmichael out, even if Carmichael was led off to Club Fed in chains, but Babbitt knew he could still write books and give lucrative seminars on corporate security.

He’d never work in this town again, as the saying went, but he
would
find work, and, more importantly, he’d take down Denny Carmichael.

Babbitt continued towards Representative Landers’s office. Even if Joel wasn’t in yet, he could camp out in his outer office till he showed and ask for five minutes as soon as he came in, and in those five minutes Babbitt knew he would blow the congressman’s mind.

He pushed through a group of legislative aides standing in the hall and found himself just fifty feet from the representative’s office when a young man in a gray suit passing on his left in the corridor turned suddenly into his path.

“Sir, may I speak with you a moment?”

“What about?” snapped Babbitt.

“Director Carmichael has asked me to intercept you before you do anything you will regret.”

Immediately Babbitt’s pounding heart skipped a beat. His eyes narrowed. “You tell your boss that he had his chance to make this right. Now it’s
my
move.”

“You should tell him yourself. He’d like you to come to Langley. Now.”

“
Would
he? I bet he would. No thanks. I—”

A second man appeared from nowhere; he loomed behind on Babbitt’s left, put a hand on Babbitt’s shoulder, and leaned in uncomfortably close.

“We can take my car. We’ll have you right back here in no time.”

Another hand squeezed his right shoulder now. Babbitt turned to look, and a third man had materialized from thin air. They were all under thirty, all wearing suits, and they looked at him with pleasant smiles that, Babbitt knew, would disappear quickly if he did not do exactly what Carmichael wanted him to do.

“Fine,” he said, shaking the hands off his shoulders. “Let’s go talk to Denny.”

L
eland Babbitt knew relations between Townsend and the CIA had never been worse, but the fact that he was here, walking down the corridor on the seventh floor at Langley, meant he still had the juice, and this pleased him greatly.

The drive to McLean had passed in silence. For much of it
complete
silence, because the moment Babbitt pulled out his phone to call his office and inform them he would be running late, one of the young men sitting next to him in the back of the Yukon took Babbitt’s phone out of his hand and said, “Sorry, sir. Operational security. No calls until we leave headquarters.” The phone disappeared into the jacket of the helpful yet ominous CIA officer.

At Langley Babbitt was processed quickly and placed in an elevator that took him directly up to the top floor. As the elevator door opened he was met by Jordan Mayes, who shook Babbitt’s hand as if today were just any other garden-variety day, and the impending meeting was nothing more than another discussion about contracts, fiscal year budgeting, or logistical allocations.

Babbitt waited in a conference room for several minutes; he and Mayes made a little small talk but there wasn’t much to it, and then Denny Carmichael entered, wrinkled and rail thin, as always. Carmichael always looked to Babbitt like a combat-hardened Abe Lincoln, as if the sixteenth president had spent his twenties through his forties fighting in the Third World, as Carmichael had.

Regal yet menacing.

Patriarchal yet savage.

Denny sat down at the table, folded his hands in front of him. Babbitt knew he’d get right to it, because that was Carmichael’s way.

The head of the Clandestine Service said, “Very well, Lee. You win this round.”

“What does that mean?”

“I don’t want you talking to Congress. Our temporary discord is not as important as the long-term headache that would create.”

“So?”

“So, we’ll fold you back into the hunt for Courtland Gentry.”

Babbitt had wanted to hear just this out of Carmichael’s mouth, but when he did hear it, he instantly became suspicious. “That quick? You went from ‘fuck you’ to ‘all’s well’ just like that?”

Denny shook his head. “Negative. The ‘fuck you’ remains in place. Threatening to reveal intelligence pisses me off, but I’m nothing if not a pragmatist. I can’t stop you with a stick, so I’ll wave a carrot, see if that does the trick.”

Babbitt had won, and he knew it. He fought a wide grin and a fist pump into the air by focusing immediately on the job at hand. “Excellent. Obviously I’ve been out of the loop for the last several weeks so I’ll need to get back up to speed. Does the Agency have any new confirmed sightings of Court Gentry since Brussels?”

There was no hint of a pause from Carmichael. “No. None at all. Our analysts speculate he has melted back into Central Europe.” Carmichael turned to Mayes. “How about it, Jordan? Any intel more current than that?”

Jordan Mayes shook his head, an expression of gravity and disappointment. “The trail is cold, I’m afraid. We certainly could use some help.”

Babbitt appreciated the conciliation all around. He said, “Expect that to change in short order now that Townsend Government Services is back in action.” He cleared his throat. “While we’re all here together, let’s go over my terms.”

Carmichael’s eyes narrowed. “Your
what
?”

“Terms . . . I want in. Back in on everything.”

“What does that mean?”

“I want the suspension of all our contracts to be rescinded, our clearance to be reinstated.”

“I’m fine with that.”

“And I want to see submissions from you for new contracts. New opportunities on the horizon we can bid on. This Violator hunt isn’t your only big operation.”

Carmichael raised an eyebrow. “It seems as if you are trying to leverage your newfound position into increased government contracts.”

Babbitt smiled. He was all smiles now. He had the CIA right where he wanted them. “Face it, Denny, I’m the only game in town.”

“Of course you are.”

The meeting lasted another ten minutes. Babbitt had expected it to go even longer, but Carmichael said he had another appointment that could not wait.

—

C
armichael and Mayes watched Babbitt leave the conference room with an unmistakable saunter in his step.

As soon as the door shut, Carmichael looked to Mayes and sighed. “He’s got to go.”

Mayes just nodded, knowing exactly what his boss meant by the statement. “I concur. And it needs to happen soon.”

“How?”

Mayes had an answer ready. “Hightower.”

Denny blew out a chest full of air while he thought. “Will he do it?”

Mayes said, “Back in the Goon Squad, Zack Hightower would do anything we told him to. He sure as hell looked gung ho yesterday.”

“He did, didn’t he?” Carmichael drummed his fingers on his desk. “All right. Turn him loose. But no blowbacks on us.”

Mayes said, “Right.” He thought a moment. “Denny, we might want to look at this as something of an opportunity.”

“I’m way ahead of you.”

“I had a feeling you might be. Hightower terminates Babbitt, we float the intel in-house it was Gentry.”

“If nothing else it will light a fire under Suzanne Brewer and the targeting officers. Show them just how dangerous their target is.” Denny picked up his paperwork and reached for his glasses. “Talk to Hightower.”

—

Z
ack Hightower had spent the first part of the morning on the fourth floor of the Old HQ building, working with Suzanne Brewer on possible staging locations Violator might use here in D.C. Former haunts in the area,
suitable locations to train and store materiel. They also discussed his knowledge of current and former SAD weapon caches on the East Coast, thinking it possible Gentry would try to raid a stockpile somewhere to acquire more equipment.

Zack had enjoyed this work for about half an hour, but since then he’d been bored. This was analytical shit, not his forte. He wanted to be out in the field, in the city, man-hunting.

At noon Brewer had a lunch of Chinese food brought in to the tactical operations center, and Zack was seated at a desk picking through his shrimp lo mein when Jordan Mayes stepped into the room and hurried over. “I need to speak with you.”

Zack put down his cardboard carton and his chopsticks, stood smartly, and stepped into the hallway. Mayes looked back to Brewer as he headed out himself. “I’ll have him for the rest of the day. Maybe tomorrow, as well.”

Hightower fought a smile. “It’s party time!” he told himself.

The two men went upstairs to Mayes’s office. Once there, Mayes closed the door and walked over to a small sitting area. When he and Hightower were seated close together, he leaned closer still and said, “I have a problem.”

Hightower always sat ramrod-straight, but he tightened his posterior chain muscles even more. “Not for long. I’ll take care of it.”

“You know a man named Leland Babbitt?”

“No, sir. I do not.”

“He runs Townsend Government Services.”

Zack nodded. “I know those assholes.”

Mayes sighed, adopting a worried look on his face. “Babbitt has made himself a clear and present danger to our operation at the Agency. We have tried to dissuade him from this, but he persists. He has threatened to go public detailing some classified intelligence programs that, if revealed, would be devastating for our mission here.” He shook his head, an expression of disbelief. “There is no question but that these revelations will put good men and women in the field at great personal risk. Frankly, Zack, at this point, we have exhausted all of our options.”

Zack Hightower grasped instantly that he was being asked to assassinate an American citizen in the United States. He blinked hard at this realization.

But only once. “I’ll take care of it.”

“I need you to do this alone.”

“Of course you do. Don’t worry. I’ll get it done.”

“Denny and I are more than confident that you will. Of course I can help you with any equipment you might need.”

Zack smiled now. “Mr. Mayes, this might come as a shock to you, but I’ve already got a couple of tools that should be suitable for the task at hand.”

Mayes just said, “I had a feeling you might.”