The End Game (A Brit in the FBI 3)

Temp said, “Before Bayway, Spenser never killed anyone. Why the sudden change? I think Damari changed it, somehow spurred Spenser to more violent, more dramatic action, using one of his own coin bombs, or perhaps only a small portion of it, if all the hype as to its power is true. There’s more. Unverified from the Mossad is that it’s not only Callan who’s targeted by Damari, maybe even someone more important.”

“The only person more important than Callan Sloane is the president.” Carl was frankly disbelieving. “No state would dare assassinate a president of the United States. The fallout would be catastrophic.”

Temp said, “You know as well as I do, Carl, that many terrorist organizations, like ISIS and Al Qaeda and Hezbollah, would like to bomb the world back to the Stone Age and reduce civilization to rubble. Their only goal is to be the last ones standing. Question: can Spenser’s bomb accomplish this for them?”

Carl paused. Given Bayway, and positing that only a very small portion of one of Spenser’s small bombs, then yes.

“Temp, this is very scary.”

“At least now we have a visual on Damari, Carl, and with that we can stop him, hopefully before he can steal one of Spenser’s bombs and get it to Iran and Hezbollah.” A pause, then, “You think we can catch him, Carl? In time?”

“With all our agencies focused on Damari, I’m hopeful.”

Temp looked decidedly happier. “Yes, of course you’re right. We stop Damari, we get our hands on Spenser’s gold-coin bombs, and you know what? No one will care that we had a CIA operative undercover on U.S. soil.”

Carl knew his boss very well indeed. A master of justification and strategy. He said, “Yes, we must accomplish both those things. And you’re right, if we do, all our sins will be forgiven. And we might save the world while we’re at it.”

Temp didn’t laugh, he was too deep in plots, reeling out scenarios in his mind. “But here’s the thing, Carl, the vice president wants names in this organization by tonight, or heads will roll. And that means confessing we know all the players because we had Vanessa embedded with them.

“I like this job, and that means if I have a chance of keeping it, when Vanessa is out of surgery we’ve got to find out everything she knows. You know there’s more, there’s always more. When she is able, you need to find out what these fanatics are planning to do next. Knowing who they are doesn’t help us anymore. We’ve got to find out about their next hit, and Vanessa has to know about that. If only we knew where they were, we could pull them in right now, Damari with them.”

Carl said, “When Matthew Spenser and Zahir Damari find out Vanessa’s still alive, you know they’re going to want to kill her.”

“Of course, of course. I’ll send agents over now to cover her. Carl, you know once this all shakes out I’ll have to testify in front of Congress and they will want names. It could come out that she designed the COE bombs, all for a good reason, of course, getting the technology behind those gold-coin bombs, and that might make them back off a bit, but I hate to take the chance. On the plus, she did confirm COE is planning an assassination, and hopefully she will give us much more, so we could still come out whole-hide.

“Now you’ve got to get back to Vanessa, give me more to work with. Surely she knows where they’re headed, their next target, and how Damari is going to kill the vice president. And ears to the ground—is he indeed targeting someone else?”

Carl splayed his hands on the desktop, leaned in close. “Listen, Temp, Vanessa might die, that’s how badly wounded she is.” He felt tears burn his eyes. “Don’t you understand? I don’t give a rat’s ass if Sloane finds out we’ve been operating on American soil if Vanessa dies.”

“I understand, Carl.” Then Trafford paused for a moment, and Carl realized he was seeing a brilliant mind come up with a solution. He waited.

Temp said slowly, “I think I know how to save our asses and keep those idiots in Congress from censoring us. You will quietly give all the needful information to Maitland at the FBI. If they manage to find these people and bring them down, we’ll stand back, out of the limelight, and let him and his team take the credit. Nicholas Drummond and Mike Caine are the leads on COE, both smart and focused. Maitland has put Dillon Savich on the case—they’ve worked with him in the past. Yes, they’ll fit right in. And if they manage to stop Damari, then no one need ever know the CIA was involved here.”

“I see a big hole,” Carl said. “If Vanessa survives surgery, the FBI will insist on speaking to her. There’s no way, if you’re forced in front of Congress, that I’ll allow Vanessa to be thrown to the wolves, Temp.”

“No, no, of course not. Carl, I can massage that. This is our play: we’ll dump it off on the FBI, let them run with it. They can have all the glory and keep us out of it. Vanessa isn’t dirty. She was trying her best to keep us all safe. They’ll understand and we’ll cover for her. I promise, it will all work out.” And he beamed at Carl and added, “I want you to meet with Drummond and Caine personally and give them anything they want to help them find Matthew Spenser and Zahir Damari. Many lives are at stake, Carl, not the least of which is Callan’s. You must find out what Vanessa knows about COE’s plans, when and where, before the FBI grills her. Then we can move toward neutralizing this assassination threat against Callan, because the last thing we want is her dead. You’re on board, right?”

“Of course.”

When Carl Grace left him, Trafford sat down at his desk, laced his fingers behind his head. He’d been tired, but now, if everything went right, if Maitland’s wunderkinds proved themselves as great as their rep, then he would keep his job and the CIA wouldn’t get a black eye.

• • •

Carl’s cell phone rang as he left Trafford’s office. It was the hospital. His heart hammered in his ears; his mouth went dry. “Any news?”

The nurse said, “Mr. Grace, your niece started bleeding internally again and that bottomed out her blood pressure. They believe it was into her collapsed lung, on the side of her pneumothorax. The doctors are still working on her. I’m afraid it’s rather dire, sir.”

39

KING TO F1

George Washington University Hospital

Vanessa wasn’t floating this time. She knew immediately she was in the hospital, knew she was in bed, tethered to more needles than she wanted to think about, all of them helping her stay alive. Yes, she was still alive.

She couldn’t open her eyes, nor could she really think, so she let herself drift. Back, back to Londonderry, Ireland. Was it four months ago that it all started? She remembered being undercover in Northern Ireland, working her way ever closer and closer until finally Ian McGuire had talked in a lowered voice about the Bishop, patting her hand, telling her how he was the one she needed to join up with, given her amazing talent at building bombs.

The Bishop this, the Bishop that; Ian had a serious love affair going on with the man who was her target. He and Ian had been together seven years, Ian told her finally, they’d met up in a bar in Italy, of all places, found they were like-minded, and they’d traveled all over Europe, a bit of destruction here, a bit of havoc there, and the Bishop had finally surpassed Ian, he freely admitted it, sounding for the world like a proud papa.