The Code Within: A Thriller (Trent Turner Series) (34 page)

White House Oval Office, Washington, DC

WASHINGTON, DC SERVED as a breeding ground for political secrets. When it came to secrets, President Vincent Cross was no exception to the rule, and he had already carefully considered what he was about to do from every possible angle. He and FBI Deputy Director Ivor Hood barely knew each other, but Cross was a man who had risen to the highest office in the land with a keen instinct. Knowing whom he could trust and when to trust them was a skill that kept him several steps ahead of the game.

He had just finished getting everything he needed together when his guest arrived. He looked up as a secret service agent directed Hood into the Oval Office.

“Mr. President.” Hood nodded respectfully. “Thank you for taking the time to meet with me.”

The president stood up from his desk and approached him with his hand extended. “Assistant Director Hood,” the president said as he waved off the secret service agent. “Not a problem. This isn’t something that can wait.” He offered a tight smile.

The politician was a big fan of the handshake. It was a simple gesture, but one that conveyed a lot of information. The initial acceptance of the gesture, the firmness of the grip, the amount of shake, and the duration of the action all told a story. He would measure eye contact, spoken and body language when he sized a person up. Hood managed to pass his test with flying colors, but Cross had expected as much.

Hood’s face was full of concern.

“I appreciate your time,” he repeated nervously. The deputy director instinctively looked around to make sure they were alone. “They found my goddaughter’s car abandoned in Leesburg, Virginia. There wasn’t any blood, but it was parked well off the road behind some bushes.” Hood’s eyes hardened. “It doesn’t look good.”

The president motioned for Hood to have a seat on one of the two couches that were separated by a coffee table in the middle of the room.

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

When they were seated, the president pushed a white binder across the table between them. The binder was labeled
NSPD 26: Intelligence Priorities
and was dated February 26, 2003.

“Let’s not waste any more time then,” Cross said. “But before you open that…” the president leaned toward his visitor and locked eyes, “…I need to make something clear.”

Hood glanced down at the binder, and Cross waited for his recognition that the circulation of its contents had been extremely limited.

Hood’s eyes narrowed. “Of course.”

“Your source for this information is even more confidential than the information itself,” the president said in a tone that meant business.

“Yes, Mr. President. I understand.”

Cross gave him an approving nod, and the deputy director picked up the binder.

Hood looked across the table and said, “Wherever this leads me, you can be sure that I will take our words today and this document to my grave.”

“Good.” The president leaned back, satisfied with the answer. “Maybe you could help me with something.”

“Absolutely,” Hood said.

The president gestured toward the binder and said, “Why don’t you have a look at that first?”

Hood opened the binder and reviewed its table of contents. The president read the deputy director’s facial expressions as he flipped to the first document. It was a National Security Presidential Directive from February 2003 titled
Intelligence Priorities:
Eliminating Terrorist Risks on US Soil
. He noted the deputy director’s brow crease as he read through the pages.

The document authorized and detailed the formation of a top-secret FBI team with the purpose of eliminating known terrorists operating within the United States’ borders. The directive included a detailed decision tree, which provided the necessary criteria to authorize a hit. The definitions meant the team could act on its own, providing a layer of deniability to keep the politicians out of the loop.

Cross reflected on the irony of the situation. The impetus for the NSPD was the very incident that delivered Frank Culder to the bureau’s top spot at the expense of his good friend. Now it had all come full circle, a sparkling example of the “what comes around goes around” theory.

Hood peeled his eyes away from the document and looked to the president. “Wow,” he said, before continuing.

“It was rescinded soon thereafter. We found a more suitable arrangement,” Cross said, referring to Island Industries. His tone grew angry as he considered what Culder had done. “It looks like our friend took dismantling the team as a suggestion rather than an order.”

Hood nodded without commenting and continued to read. The next page held the personnel details.

“So they were part of the team.” He shook his head in disbelief. “Jacob R. Sanders and Rudy M. Pagano. Unbelievable.”

“It was funded by a shell corporation called BlackRock.”

“Is that the redacted section?”

The president nodded slowly.

Hood exhaled. “He could have kept this going without anyone knowing? It’s like J. Edgar Hoover all over again.”

“I think so.” Cross thought out loud. “With some help.”

“Obviously, you weren’t pushing for this. Can you tell me who was?”

The president looked at the FBI man. The wet team, Culder, everything about the situation had been a prime example of a political power play. The sort of move that in his mind screamed for the introduction of term limits in congress and the senate.

“Senator Soller,” the president said flatly.

“So you think he’s in on this?”

“Let’s just say I think you’re on the right track. The effort was needed, but the risk with doing it this way, with Culder being Soller’s puppet, was too great.”

“The Stagehand program,” Hood said with contempt. “Culder makes sure everything that goes on there is well guarded. He keeps it a bit too close to his chest for comfort. I hear about some of what goes on secondhand, but only because everyone assumes I’m in the loop.” He thought for a moment and said, “Nothing too outlandish, but I’d guess they only paint a partial picture under the circumstances.”

Stagehand was the code name for the bureau’s program to outfit the FBI’s tactical operations teams. All of the individuals on the hit squad had once been a part of that team.

The president nodded. “Stagehand would be my guess too. Everything is hush-hush there anyway, so it’s the perfect place to get things done off the radar.”

Hood looked to the binder and then to the president as if something had occurred to him. “So the others involved—they might not even know the team had been ordered to shut down.” He took a measured breath and exhaled. “They probably think their operations are legit.”

The president nodded. “That’s a distinct possibility.”

Hood’s eyes met the president’s. “I need to find this Sanders guy,” he said, looking to the document and then back to Cross. “And what is it that is it that I can do for you, Mr. President?”

“I want what you want,” Cross said. “I want to know what Culder is up to, and I’ll need your help to get this under control.”

“That’s it?”

“Almost,” Cross said as he stood. “I want you to work with a close friend of mine on this. I’m certain you and your goddaughter will find the collaboration to be mutually beneficial.”

Travelodge Hotel, Chicago, IL

HE FOUND THE keys to the Chevy Impala under the visor. Traffic was light, so it took less than thirty minutes for Jake Sanders to drive the three of them to the hotel. He and Rudy Pagano had brought suits along and they had laid them out on the two beds. They were a requirement if they wanted to blend in with the attendees at the performance.

FBI Director Frank Culder was in rare form. His men had never seen him so anxious.

“We’ll go in after the show has already started,” Sanders said. “That way he’ll be in his seat and preoccupied with the performance.”

“Sounds good,” Culder said. “We need to try to get him during an intermission. Keep it as low-key as possible. Only the elite can afford to attend this event, so going in there hard and fast isn’t an option. Pissing off the wrong people could be problematic.”

Sanders reached into one of his bags and pulled out a small black leather case. He shook it and smiled.

“M99,” he said. “Pop him with this and he’ll be out cold. We can make it look like he’s sick and carry him out of there.”

“Good.” The FBI director clasped his hands together and said, “I’ll put in a call to get the two men from the local office to help.”

“We need four to cover the inside,” Sanders reminded him. His tone was edgy and it was clear he wasn’t on board with what they’d agreed to on the plane. “How will you cover the exits alone?”

“You four head inside,” Culder said, and pointed to the blueprint that was spread out on the table. “There aren’t too many exits, so if you make sure he doesn’t get out the front door, I’ll only have one exit to cover.”

Sanders studied the blueprint for a long moment. “That works,” he finally agreed. “We can squeeze him out the back if we miss him in his seat.” He gave the director a probing look and asked, “What do we know about the target? Trent.”

Culder’s face was full of disdain. “He works for Island Industries.”

Pagano rubbed his eyes and tried to remember where he’d heard the name. “Sounds familiar. Is that—?”

“It should.” Culder’s posture tightened. “It’s the company Admiral John Simpson founded after he resigned from the CIA.”

“Right,” Pagano said. “I suppose we still haven’t been able to get many details on their operation?”

“You suppose correctly,” Sanders said, now remembering. The director had been trying to dig up dirt on Simpson since the day they’d met. “He’ll be a pro,” he continued. “You can count on that.” He stood and began to pace as the details he had uncovered about their operation came back to him. “Don’t underestimate him, or you’ll find yourself pulling your head out of your ass. And that’s only if he decides not to turn you into a ghost.”

Pagano scrunched his nose. “Sounds awful,” he said, referring to the former. “I don’t know what I’d do if my head smelled like your breath.”

Sanders stopped pacing and smiled for the first time since he and Culder had butted heads on the plane.

“Anything else we need to know?” Sanders asked.

“Yeah, wear a black suit. I assume that’s what you have in those garment bags.”

Both men nodded.

“Good.” Culder slid a picture of the target out of a folder and placed it on the table. “Now burn this man into your memory. Losing him isn’t an option.”

Downtown Hotel, Chicago, IL

BOTH MEN WERE focused. Trent Turner had been busy showing the hacker how to use the equipment he brought with him from his townhome. The operative was impressed with Etzy Millar’s ability to operate the gear. He had picked it up much quicker than expected. Millar attributed his fast progress to playing too many video games, a guilty pleasure he likely thought would never give him an advantage in real life.

Turner had scouted around the area for a secluded place to launch the PMD so Millar could practice. Chicago was much busier now than it had been in the morning, but it wasn’t long before he found a suitable location to launch the PMD and turn Millar loose. The hacker would be an extra set of eyes during Turner’s planned meeting with Heckler at the performance.

He was awestruck by the capabilities of the toy-like flying machine, and Turner could tell he was looking forward to the opportunity to be a part of the action.

Millar commanded the PMD to return to their location and said, “This thing is insane.”

“That’s one way to put it.” The operative laughed. “Tak is a genius. Wait until you meet him.”

“So you never told me?” he asked curiously.

Turner fixed a questioning glance on the hacker. “Told you what?”

“What it stood for. You know, PMD.”

Turner smiled. “That’s right. You have to promise you won’t lose respect for it if I tell you.”

“Aw, come on,” Millar implored.

“Promise.” His tone was insistent.

Millar nodded his head in surrender. “Okay, fine. I promise.”

Turner looked him square in the eye with a stone expression. “PMD stands for Poor Man’s Drone.” He sounded so serious it took Millar a couple seconds to process what he had said.

Millar burst into laughter. “Holy shit, that’s funny,” he blurted out as Turner cracked a smile.

“Chalk that one up to Tak,” Turner said. “Without a sense of humor, this job can become dismal.”

“I’ll bet. I can’t wait to meet him,” Millar responded. Then he went ominously quiet as the drone landed in front of them.

Trent sensed Millar was feeling the gravity of the situation. “Are you okay?” he asked.

“Yeah,” he said unconvincingly.

“We’ll get through this, Etzy. You need to stay strong.” He walked over and started to disassemble the PMD and then looked to the hacker. “It’s the only way you’ll make it out the other side.”

“I know.”

They walked back to the hotel room in silent contemplation. As soon as Millar sat down in front of the desk, his computer screen lit up. It was an audio call from The Shop. Millar clicked on the button to answer.

“Hello, Etzy, it’s Cyndi.”

“Any more news?” he asked.

“Yes. Both good and bad.”

“Okay. Finger is here with me, so go ahead.”

“Good. We’ve managed to find what we think are the remnants of a bot at the Federal Reserve locations in New York and in DC.”

“Wow. What’s wrong?” Turner said, reacting to the concern evident in her voice.

“Well, the bot doesn’t appear to be on any of the systems. We got lucky in New York when we pulled traffic logs from an ISP they’re using. We were able to trace communication activity by correlating information with one of the bots Etzy’s module had propagated to.”

He sat down next to Millar. “So they uninstalled the bot?”

“That’s right, Finger,” she confirmed. “It’s no longer on the machine. Fortunately we were able to find backups of the systems in question close to the date indicated in the ISP’s traffic log. We’re trying to download the computer’s image without the Fed picking up the traffic.”