Forty-Two
Sandy Montrose opened a file and slid it to the center of the table for all to see.
Tom recognized its contents: copies of police reports.
She wrote down on a notepad the series of letters and numbers that Tom recited. Then she laid the notepad next to the top page of the police report.
Everyone gathered at the table could see that the number on the pad and the serial number of the Uzi listed as having been recovered outside the motel varied only by two digits.
“Both firearms came from the same lot,” Savelle announced. “Which means the men who came after Cahill got this weapon from the stockpile on Front Street.”
“So who owns the property?” Tom said.
“We’re in the process of determining that now,” Savelle answered. “So far, it seems to be a string of offshore holding companies and investment banks. Obviously, someone is trying to hide his tracks.”
“Make finding that out a priority,” Raveis told her.
Savelle nodded.
Tom asked about the lab reports.
“I stabbed the man who shot Erica,” Cahill said. “In the right calf. That’s how I was able to escape with her. A sample of the blood on my knife matched a profile in the FBI database.”
Montrose placed a photograph on the table.
It was a mug shot of the man Tom knew only as the Slav.
“Is this him?” Cahill said. “The leader?”
Tom nodded.
“His name is Umar Kadyrov,” Raveis said. “A cousin of the Chechen president Ramzan Kadyrov.”
“Over the past twenty years, Chechnya has become a model of human rights abuses and repression,” Savelle said. “The president himself condones honor killings. Men murdering their wives for, well, you name it. He has embraced strict Islamic codes and enacted laws that allow for the brutal treatment of anyone accused of a crime, particularly minorities, and often without benefit of a trial. A number of minor crimes are now punishable by death—usually by public stoning or beheading. Torture is the norm, and Kadyrov was one of his government’s top torturers.”
“Kadyrov is a smart man,” Cahill said. “He graduated Oxford, where he learned to alter his accent to mask his country of origin. After torturing and killing for his government—and getting paid shit for it—he moved into the private sector and began providing arms to whoever would pay.”
“Despite the leanings of the president he faithfully served,” Raveis said, “Kadyrov is a capitalist at heart. He’ll arm both sides of a civil war, even if only one side can pay, just to keep the conflict going. He has worked with his own government’s enemies, and ours, too.”
Tom asked Cahill if there was any proof connecting this man with Carrington.
“You brought it to us, Tom. In the phone Hammerton’s partner left behind.”
“Simpson.”
Cahill nodded. “There were two numbers in its call history.”
Montrose handed Cahill a small sheet of paper, which he held up for Tom to see.
“Do you recognize either of them?”
The first listed was the number of Carrington’s cell.
The number Tom had been told five years ago would be the only number Carrington would ever use to contact him.
Tom nodded, then said, “I don’t recognize the second one, though.”
“It appeared to be a dead end for us at first, too,” Raveis said. “But then Savelle was able to find it among the numbers listed in an old roving wire-tap warrant for a suspected killer-for-hire turned terrorist named Israilov.”
Montrose produced another photograph, this one obviously taken from a streetlamp surveillance camera and zoomed in on a particular person.
Tom glanced at the photo and saw the face of the Russian.
The man armed with the Desert Eagle.
The man who had, among other things, lobbed a grenade at him.
Cahill read Tom’s expression.
“This man was Kadyrov’s bodyguard, correct?”
Tom nodded.
Cahill listed Israilov’s credentials.
Spetsnaz—Russian Special Forces.
Then FSB—Federal Security Service, formerly known as the KGB.
Muscle for hire after that, primarily in Eastern Europe, before working full time for Kadyrov beginning two years ago.
At some point during that time, he had become radicalized.
“What about Simpson?”
“He was Treasury,” Savelle answered, “resigning shortly after the Secret Service became part of Homeland Security in 2003. He has worked steadily in the private sector since. His passport shows several trips to Eastern European countries, but each trip syncs up with his employment history. Carrington hired him a little over a month ago and quickly moved him into his own personal security detail.”
She paused before continuing, “You have to wonder why Carrington would do that. Assign a man he had just hired to his own protection team.”
Cahill said, “Apparently, Hammerton had his doubts about Simpson from day one. Nothing specific, he says, just a gut feeling. And you said it was obvious to you that Simpson was working with Kadyrov. He suddenly took point after you found the cache and led you upstairs. He brought you straight to the room where Kadyrov and his men were waiting.”
“It all links up,” Savelle said.
“It’s still only circumstantial.”
“Fortunately, we’re not building a legal case here,” Raveis said.
“How convenient for you,” Tom said. He turned to Savelle and Cahill. “The fact that Israilov’s number was in Simpson’s phone doesn’t necessarily connect Carrington to Israilov. And of course Carrington’s number was in Simpson’s phone; Simpson worked for Carrington.”
Savelle said, “The fact that the phone contains just those two numbers suggests it’s a burner phone, Tom. Also, the call history—the calls from it to Carrington and to it from Israilov—only started two days ago. Friday morning, to be specific. Don’t you think Carrington would take note if one of his employees suddenly started contacting him from a strange number? Hammerton certainly thinks he would. In fact, according to Hammerton, Carrington provided them both with phones that were designated for business use only, nothing else.”
Tom recalled the look of surprise on Simpson’s face at the end.
And how the man opened his mouth as if to speak right before being shot.
“So when the first attempt on your life failed,” Cahill continued, “Carrington adapted and decided to see if he could use you. He eavesdropped on you, heard you and Stella talk on Saturday, and when he learned she’d discovered where I was, he saw another chance to have me killed.”
“How could Carrington have found Stella, though? In the motel, I mean. No one tailed us there, I’m sure of it.”
“A tracking device had been planted on Erica’s car,” Cahill said. “It was well hidden and wasn’t discovered by the police till after the preliminary reports you were given had been written. That’s how the Chechens knew where to find us. A few hours ago, Sandy’s husband went to where Hammerton said your truck was parked. He found an identical tracking device attached to it. And in the exact same, hard-to-find place. Same manufacturer, same model.”
Savelle said, “Hammerton tells us that when he and Simpson were sent to tail you in the city, Simpson disappeared for about fifteen minutes, which Hammerton agrees would have been just enough time for Simpson to make it to where you had parked your truck, attach the device, and then catch back up with him.” She paused. “How many lies has Carrington told you in the last forty-eight hours? There’s a point when even loyalty has to give way to the facts. He betrayed his country, Tom, in the worst way possible. And he betrayed you.”
Tom looked at each person in the room.
Cahill first, then Raveis, then Montrose, ending finally with Savelle.
The woman with whom he had almost burned.
“So what now?”
“That doesn’t concern you,” Cahill said.
His tone was abrupt, almost matter-of-fact.
He was a man ready to take action, at last.
No time to waste.
No need for pleasantries.
Raveis’s demeanor was different, however.
“We’ll take it from here, Tom,” he said.
Friendly and assuring, grateful in a way that was almost fatherly.
There was no doubt in his mind what that meant for Carrington.
What Tom needed to know right then, though, was what it meant for Stella and himself.
He expressed that concern.
“We have no way of knowing if Carrington and Kadyrov believe you and Hammerton were killed in the explosion,” Savelle said. “If Carrington is still monitoring the listening device in your apartment, he would have heard Stella on the phone a little while ago, and it would be obvious from her side of the conversation that she was talking to you. Even if that is the case and he knows you’re alive, I doubt he’d come after the two of you.”
“Why?”
“Because he has bigger problems now,” Cahill said.
Tom looked at him.
“Within twenty-four hours, they’ll all be dead. Carrington and Kadyrov and Israilov. I can guarantee that much.” Cahill paused, then said, “You deserve your life, Tom. You’ve earned it. I told you I wanted to get you back to it as soon as possible. So return to it, don’t look back, and everything will be fine.”
Tom knew a veiled threat when he heard one.
Maybe not a threat, exactly.
But a warning to steer clear and forget—and speak of none of this to anyone.
Tom didn’t respond to what Cahill had said, nor did he really care how Cahill had said it.
He had, after all, every intention of doing all those things and more.
Savelle instructed Montrose to escort Tom outside so he could make his call.
Tom took one more look at Cahill.
The man’s eyes were fixed, narrowed.
Before him stood a man with only one thing on his mind.
Vengeance.
But would any man, knowing what Cahill now knew, appear any different?
Feel any different, think any different?
Before Tom could step away from the table, Raveis extended his hand.
“You did good, son,” he said.
Tom didn’t see the point in refusing to accept the gesture.
He took Raveis’s hand and shook it, then followed Montrose through the mazelike bunker and back to the steep metal stairs that led up.
He suddenly craved the feel and smell of open air.
More than that, he sensed that he was mere moments from heading home.
He told himself that within an hour, barring something he could not foresee, he would be with Stella again.
Forty-Three
Tom stood in the still-muddied driveway, facing east so he could see the dawn breaking as he called Stella.
Standing beside him, Montrose made no attempt to hide that she was listening closely to his side of the conversation.
But it was the possibility that others were listening to Stella as she stood in her apartment that concerned him more.
“How’d it go?” she said.
Tom replied, “It went.”
“How are you?”
“I’m okay.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah.”
“Are you in danger right now?”
“No.”
“Are we?”
“They seem to think we’re in the clear.”
“They?”
“We’ll talk when I’m there.”
Stella let out a quiet sigh, then asked how much longer before Tom would be leaving.
“A few minutes, I think. I’ll text you when I’m on my way.”
“Okay.”
“Is everyone still there?”
“Yes.”
“I need you to do something, but I have to tell you something first.”
“What?”
“The bug in the apartment, it seems it was put there some time before Friday night.”
Tom heard only silence from Stella’s end.
He knew what was more than likely running through her mind.
The frantic calculation of all the things that had been said and done in the apartment since Friday.
It wouldn’t take long before that calculation narrowed to what she and Tom had done in the privacy of her dark bedroom that night.
The specific things she had said, for her pleasure as well as his.
Those dark and twisted thoughts she could never explain, and that he would never ask her to.
“You all right?” Tom said.
“Yeah.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. What do I care, right? So what is it you need me to do?”
“Ask Conrad and his buddies to locate and disable the listening device. And tell them that with a note; don’t say anything. Understand?”
“Yes. Anything else?”
“We’re going to need some new phones.”
“I’ll have someone make a run.”
“There’s a convenience store just past the McDonald’s that’s open twenty-four hours. They sell prepaid phones there.”
“Sounds good.”
“Better get some extras, just in case.”
“How many?”
“Make it four.”
“Okay.”
Tom paused. “I’ll be there soon, Stella.”
“Good.”
“I love you.”
“I love you, too, Tom. Very much.” She paused. “Come straight home, okay?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
They ended the call. Tom looked at his phone before finally pocketing it.
Montrose said, “How is she holding up?”
When Tom didn’t respond, Montrose said, “You know, your friend Hammerton will have to keep his movements to a minimum for a few days. It would be good if he had someone to keep an eye on him, just in case. And I’d imagine, for obvious reasons, his apartment in the city is the last place he should be right now.”
Without hesitation, Tom said, “He’ll come home with me.”
Montrose smiled. “Good. Thanks.”
Tom looked at the barn.
“Cahill paid for all that? The renovations, the underground shelter?”
Montrose nodded. “He helped us buy this place, too. And helped get Kevin’s practice up and running. He has always been extremely generous to me.” She paused. “Not a lot of money in being a prep school physician.”
“So why do you do it?”
She shrugged. “Tradition, I guess. My father had lived a quiet life. I hated it growing up, but when I got back from Iraq, it was all I wanted. There was . . . I don’t know . . . dignity in it. In the things he did behind the scenes. Being a role model to kids like Cahill, changing their lives, setting them on a better course.”
“Your father meant a lot to Cahill.”
“They were very close. Cahill spent a lot of time with our family. And he joined the marines because of my father. He did a lot of things because of him.” She paused. “Men and their father figures, right? It’s a bond that lasts, you know.”
Tom ignored that.
“You knew the work Cahill was doing?” he said.
“Yes.”
“And you knew about his affair with Erica DiSalvo?”
“No. No one did. He kept that a secret.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
Tom studied Montrose but said nothing.
It was clear that she was thinking about something.
Something that bothered her deeply.
“He had to bury her body,” she said finally. “Can you imagine doing that? Not only watching the person you love die, but having to stick her body in the ground and cover it up, leave her there in the dirt for God knows how long. Like a criminal covering his tracks, but really the act of a patriot, you know? Even in his grief, even at his lowest, he remembered that lives were at stake. If he failed, then others would die, too. I know a part of what’s driving him right now is his need to have her family notified. They must be suffering terribly, not knowing if their daughter is alive or dead. That has to be weighing on him, you know. I don’t even think he cares what happens after. What happens to him. The legal actions he may face. There’s no reasoning with him, no talking him out of it. Trust me, I’ve tried.”
Again, Tom said nothing.
“He hasn’t slept since he got here,” Montrose continued. “He’s hiding it, or trying to, doing what a marine is supposed to do. But he’s a wreck inside. He never once regretted doing what needed to be done for his country, over there or here. But I’m not sure he’ll ever be right again. Not after this. He blames himself for what happened. He says he shouldn’t have loved her, that he put her life at risk. I know he truly believed he could protect her, though.”
She paused. “I think he sees this as a suicide mission. I think there’s a part of him that welcomes that. And that scares the shit out of me.”
Tom wanted to know more, had questions. There were things that didn’t completely make sense to him.
But before he could speak, a vehicle turned into the driveway, followed quickly by another.
Two black SUVs, driving aggressively.
Instinctively, Tom stepped between Montrose and the rapidly approaching vehicles.
“It’s okay,” she said. “It’s Raveis’s men from the city.”
She and Tom moved from the driveway to the wet grass.
The SUVs passed and continued to the barn, where they stopped.
The doors opened and a dozen men in suits climbed out.
The sight of them chased any and all questions from Tom’s mind.
It was time to get out of there.
Kevin Montrose emerged from the farmhouse, his AR-15 slung over his shoulder.
Watching the men, he crossed the yard to where Tom and his wife were standing.
“Savelle just called on the landline,” he said. “We’re leaving right now.”
“What’s wrong?” Montrose asked.
Kevin addressed Tom as he answered. “Apparently, some of Raveis’s men moved against Carrington a few minutes ago. He got the jump on them, killed them all, and has now disappeared.”
Montrose looked at Tom, who said nothing.
Tom got the sense that she recognized the significance of this.
Of Carrington and Cahill having switched roles.
The irony of the hunted now being the hunter, and vice versa.
Kevin said, “Savelle wanted me to tell you that they doubt they’ll need your help flushing out Carrington. But if they do, would you be willing?”
Roughly thirty-six hours ago, Tom had been asked a similar question about Cahill.
Would he help find him and, if necessary, bring him in?
But there was a difference here.
The difference between finding a man in need of aid and finding a man marked for execution.
A man found guilty without the benefit of a trial before a jury of his peers.
Despite Tom’s grogginess, he made his decision quickly.
“I have work tomorrow morning,” he said.
“So that’s a no.”
“I can’t help. Sorry.”
“He was like a father to you, wasn’t he?” Montrose said finally. “Your former CO. It’s a terrible thing when the person closest to us turns on us,” she said. “Uses everything they know about us against us.”
Tom thought about that.
The things Kadyrov had known and said—all meant to coerce Tom as quickly as possible.
Force him into embracing cold-blooded murder as if it were self-defense.
The moral thing to do.
The only thing to do.
The only
choice
to make.
“You know, you’re welcome to stay,” Montrose said. “Stella, too. Till all this blows over. You’ll be safe here. And this way you’ll be in the loop. When Carrington is killed, you’ll know it right away. Same with Kadyrov. That might be better than holing up in your place, waiting for the worst.”
Tom shook his head. “No. But thanks.”
“I guess I’d rather be in my own home, too,” she said. “At some point, we have to stand our ground, right? If you change your mind, though, or if something does happen, we’re here, okay? We’ll help. And meanwhile, Kevin will drive you and your friend back to your truck.”
Tom thanked her.
As he stepped away, Montrose reached into the pocket of her raincoat, removed an envelope, and offered it to him.
“I almost forgot,” she said. “I was told to give this to you.”
He could tell by the shape and thickness of the envelope that it contained cash.
A stack of it.
“Who told you to give that to me?”
“Raveis.”
Tom said, “Keep it.”
Then he turned and took one last look at the men in suits.
Two stood on either side of the door, guarding it, while the rest entered the barn.
He thought of Carrington getting the better of men like them.
Fighting his way through an ambush before running for deep cover, which was likely what the man had done.
But could he stay hidden forever?
Could anyone, really, in today’s world?
Tom knew the answer to that.
Knew it was only a matter of time before Carrington was hunted down.
The combined resources of Raveis and Savelle and Cahill were just too formidable.
Tom didn’t care, though—couldn’t care.
Like Cahill, there was only one thing on his mind now.
One direction in which he wanted to head.