The Camel Club (Camel Club 1)

Alex stared at the men. If there was one agency that was more shrouded in secrecy than the CIA and even the NSA, it was NIC. He could easily envision the roadblocks being erected with a foundation of national security interests outweighing everything else. While it was true that the Secret Service used that tactic at times, Alex had a lot more confidence in his agency invoking that authority properly. He wasn’t nearly as comfortable with NIC chambering that particular silver bullet.

“So what do you think?” Simpson asked him.

Alex studied the ground for a long minute and then looked up at her. “Not to sound too selfish about it, but I think this is going to be a pain in my ass that I don’t really need at this point in my career.”

As Alex and Simpson were leaving Roosevelt Island, the two men who’d been identified as being with NIC hustled over to them.

“We understand you’re Secret Service,” the tall blond one said.

“That’s right,” Alex replied. “Agents Ford and Simpson out of WFO.”

“I’m Tyler Reinke and this is Warren Peters. We’re with NIC. Since Johnson was a shared employee between our two agencies, it’ll probably be best if we work together.”

“Well, it’s pretty early on in the game, but I don’t mind sharing so long as I get something in return,” Alex answered.

Reinke smiled. “That’s the only way we play the game.”

“Okay, so can you arrange for us to interview the people Johnson worked with?”

Peters said, “I think so. Do you know anyone at NIC?”

“Well, you’re the first two I’ve ever found who would admit you worked there.”

Both Reinke and Peters looked a little chagrined at this comment.

“Here’s my card,” Alex said. “Let me know when you’ve got it set up.” He pointed to the bagged note in Simpson’s hand. “We’ll also run a comparison on the handwriting on the note, to make sure it’s Johnson’s.”

Peters said, “I actually wanted to talk to you about the note. We’ve got lots of handwriting experts on staff. They can turn that around pretty fast.”

“The Service can get it done quickly too,” Alex countered.

“But NIC has a hundred samples of Johnson’s handwriting at work. I’m just offering to help make things go faster. Cooperation is the key these days, right?”

Simpson piped in, “That note is evidence in a homicide investigation. The M.E. might have a problem letting you take it. It’s one thing to give it to the FBI or Secret Service, we’re sworn law enforcement.”

“Actually, we are too,” Reinke said. “And I’ve already talked to the M.E. and pointed out that there are national security interests here. He was fine with us taking custody of it so long as the chain of evidence was properly maintained.”

“Well, I’m sure that scared the hell out of him,” Alex said. He pondered for a moment and then shrugged. “Okay, let us know ASAP. And check it for prints too.”

After Peters had filled out the appropriate paperwork with the M.E., he gingerly took the note. “Carter Gray’s going to be on the warpath. Probably already is.”

“I can see that,” Alex replied.

After the NIC men had left them, Simpson asked, “So what do you really think?”

“I think they’re assholes who’re gonna pitch my card in the nearest trash can.”

“So why’d you give them the note, then?”

“Because now that they have control of material evidence in a homicide case, that gives us a great excuse to go to NIC and see things for ourselves.”

CHAPTER

18

CARTER GRAY HAD RISEN AT six-thirty and arrived back at NIC forty-five minutes later. In the NIC lobby were a series of stark black-and-white photos that every employee had to pass each day. One showed the World Trade Center towers ablaze. The photo next to it graphically captured the rubble and empty space where the towers had stood. The crippled Pentagon was in the third photo, a hole punched in its face by the American Airlines jet. A fourth photo showed the stark crater in the Pennsylvania field, the final resting place of the doomed United Airlines flight. The picture beside that one captured the blackened and blistered skin of the White House where two rocket-propelled grenades had hit and actually entered the East Room of the president’s house, and the one next to it showed the devastation of the Oklahoma City bombing.

These horrific pictures continued down one side of the NIC lobby and then marched down the opposite wall. For many, though, the last photo was the most devastating. Virtually all of the victims had been under the age of sixteen, their lives ripped from them by a squad of four suicide bombers who detonated simultaneously during a special ceremony overseas honoring America’s best and brightest schoolchildren. They had won the trip to France because of their academic prowess and stellar community service back home. They returned to the States wrapped in coffins instead of accolades.

“Never forget,” Gray had lectured his people. “And do all you can to make certain these things never ever happen again.”

NIC kept an unofficial tally of how many lives and property had been saved by its stopping potential terrorist attacks in the United States and overseas. The estimated number of deaths prevented stood at 93,000 Americans and 31,000 foreigners, and the value of property saved at nearly $100 billion. No one outside the highest intelligence circles knew of these statistics; certainly, the American public would never know, and for good reason. If they ever found out how many “near misses” there had been, the American people would probably never leave their homes again.

Gray rode the elevator to the same floor as he had the night before but entered a different room. In here were five men and two women seated around a rectangular conference table. Gray sat and opened a laptop in front of him.

“Results of last night?” he said.

“Al-Omari refused to cooperate,” one of his lieutenants answered.

“Not that surprising actually.”

“About al-Omari’s son, Mr. Secretary, do you want us to take him?”

“No. The boy can stay with his mother. A child needs at least one parent. ”

“Understood, sir,” the man said, acknowledging the death sentence just handed out to the unfortunate father.

“Take one week, and by any means at your disposal you will extract as much useful intelligence as possible from Mr. al-Omari.”

“Done,” one of the women said.

“Ronald Tyrus, our resident neo-Nazi?” Gray asked.

“We’

ve already started debriefing him.”

“And the others?”

“Kim Fong has given us a confirmed lead on a shipment of a new-generation explosive allegedly invisible to airport X-ray. According to him, it’s being smuggled into L.A. next week.”

“Follow it to the buyer. I want the scientists, equipment and their financial backers, the whole spectrum. The others?”

“None of them would cooperate.” The man paused. “The usual exit strategy?”

Each of the people in this room had worked with Gray before in some capacity and stood in awe of the man. They had collectively made decisions and taken actions that were illegal and often immoral as well. Over the years these highly educated and trained men and women had been given orders to find and kill those persons deemed to be enemies of the United States; and they had dutifully carried out those commands, because that was their job. Yet the potential death of another human being, while certainly not new territory for this group, never failed to garner their respectful attention.