The Sixth Man Page 37

  Paul nodded and said, “Thanks for the confirmation.”

  “So you suspected?” he asked.

  “Of course. She was the most logical choice.”

  “Do you know who they are?” Bunting asked Sean.

  Sean couldn’t seem to pull his gaze from the photos. “The lady is Ellen Foster from DHS. I don’t recognize the man.”

  “Mason Quantrell, CEO of the Mercury Group.”

  “They’re a big player in the intelligence field, right?” asked Sean.

  “One of the biggest. And my chief competitor. Ever since the E-Program came on-line and supplanted what he was doing for the government, he’s been mostly relegated to low-hanging and far less valuable fruit. Though he still makes truckloads of money.”

  “And that didn’t sit well with Mr. Quantrell, did it?” asked Paul.

  “You know him?”

  “Of him. He has a reputation for underperforming and overbilling. In most sectors that would lead to disaster. In the defense and intelligence-gathering world it simply gets you more of what you don’t deserve.”

  “It’s not just about the money, it’s about the prestige. He doesn’t like playing second fiddle, getting my leftovers. He’s been after me ever since,” said Bunting. “His way is to throw a lot of expensive shit against the wall and see what sticks. No integration. No thought. God forbid any sharing of resources or results. With that philosophy it’s a wonder we only had one 9/11.”

  Paul tapped the photo of Foster. “I knew Ellen Foster before she was Madame Secretary. You would be hard-pressed to find someone more ruthlessly ambitious. With the brains to match.”

  Sean said, “But DHS? I thought it would be more likely CIA or NSA playing dirty games like this. DHS is homeland security. Are they that big on intelligence now?”

  “They want to be the dominant player,” answered Bunting. “And they have the budget and manpower to accomplish that. Especially with someone like Foster at the helm. She’s a member of the Cabinet. The CIA director does the daily presidential briefings, but he’s not Cabinet level. Foster has figured out that she is in a prime position to take over the throne and run America’s intelligence empire. And she’s making a hard run to do just that. But the E-Program is based on integration among agencies and cooperation. That model does not fit into Foster’s plans.”

  “And Quantrell?” asked Sean.

  “Extremely capable and equally adept at playing all sides. He’s apparently riding Foster’s coattails on this one.” She gazed at Bunting. “The bodies in the barn?”

  “I believe so, yes. Strongly believe, in fact.”

  “Six bodies. Eddie was the first E-Six.”

  Bunting grimaced. “Occurred to me too. Sick bastards’ idea of a joke.”

  “The bodies were never identified,” noted Sean.

  Bunting shrugged. “Easy enough to do. You wouldn’t believe the number of unidentifiable bodies floating around. Foster and Quantrell could get what they needed from multiple sources. Quantrell has assets all over Latin America, the Middle East, and Eastern Europe. Bodies are a dime a dozen in those places. You just ship them back.”

  “But there was different dirt on the bodies,” said King. “That’s a red flag.”

  “In an ordinary legal case, perhaps,” said Bunting impatiently. “This is not an ordinary legal case. I don’t envision any scenario where Edgar Roy goes on trial. They simply won’t let it happen. The dirt is irrelevant. Foster knows that.”

  “And Eddie knows far too much,” added Paul. “Which begs the question of why my brother has been allowed to live this long.”

  Sean looked at her in surprise at the unemotional way she was discussing her brother’s potential murder.

  She noted his surprise and said, “If I had time to play the role of the ordinary sister, I would, Sean. I don’t.” She turned back to Bunting. “Why is he still alive?”

  “My theory is that Foster is orchestrating this like some insane symphony. Every piece in its place. She wants to discredit the E-Program and destroy me. Your brother is an integral part of that, so he has to go too. But he has to go down in a way that will satisfy both Foster and the people she has to answer to.”

  “Like the president?” commented Paul.

  “Exactly. They framed him with the bodies in the barn to get him pulled off the E-Program. And I’m certain they’ve been feeding a pack of lies about me to the people who matter. Merely killing your brother is not enough. Now I have no doubt they plan to murder Edgar, I just don’t know when or how. Hell, they’ll probably try to blame that on me too, somehow. Bottom line is, I’ll be gone, the E-Program will be over, and a concept like that will never be revisited again. Then it’s business as usual. That’s their plan. And it’s actually a damn good one.”

  “How long have you suspected their involvement?” asked Paul.

  “I suspect everyone. But I didn’t seriously suspect them until recently. Frankly, though I know anything is possible in the intelligence field, even I didn’t think they’d go that far. I was wrong.”

  “Foster needs political cover on this,” noted Paul.

  “She’s been working that for some time. She’s managed to cut off all my critical sources of support. I know she also made a very recent trip to the White House. She probably painted me as the second coming of Attila the Hun. And I can almost guarantee that the discussion involved your brother.”

  “And me, do you think?” Paul asked him.

  “That I don’t know,” replied Bunting. “They know of your connection, obviously. And they may suspect that you wouldn’t just idly stand by while your brother is in such danger.”

  Sean said, “And you visited your brother at Cutter’s. They have to know that.”

  “I’m quite sure that Ellen Foster has built her political cover at the very highest level,” said Bunting. “She excels at stabbing people in the back. And chances are very good she’ll come out smelling like the proverbial rose.”

  Sean said, “I worked on the federal side a long time. I know how dysfunctional it can be, but do you really think a Cabinet secretary is capable of something like this?”

  Paul smiled wryly. “You were Secret Service, Sean. You were with the Mr. Cleans of the federal government. Peter and I play in a different neighborhood.”

  Bunting nodded in agreement. “The intelligence side hoards its toys and scores the occasional triumph at the expense of a competing agency. They try to one-up each other every minute of every day. At least that’s how it worked ever since World War II.”

  “And until you designed the E-Program and got them to sign off on it,” pointed out Paul.

  Sean shook his head. “And Foster says to hell with the safety of the American people? Like you alluded to—what about another 9/11 happening?”

  Bunting said, “Cost of doing business in their eyes, Sean. And blame can be deflected. You don’t reach for such lofty positions in life and not expect the power to come along with it. Believe me, I’ve met with both Foster and Quantrell recently. Their intentions could not have been clearer. And they’ve backed me right into a corner.”

  “So we know the players,” said Paul. “We know their strategy. They dealt the hand and they’re blaming you for the result. What do we do about it?”

  Bunting said, “She’s poisoned the well against me. I have no allies left on the government side. I’m a pariah.”

  “You said she visited the president?” asked Paul.

  “Yes. It was an off-schedule meeting, so it must have been important because the president squeezed the time in.”

  “Who else was there?”

  “National security advisor.”

  “Is he in Foster’s pocket too?”

  “I believe they have an understanding,” replied Bunting. “One of mutual assured cooperation.”

  “You don’t do an off-schedule with the president for anything less than the most critical reasons.”

  Bunting said, “That’s right. What�
��s your best guess?”

  Paul said, “She needed authorization for something. Something highly out of the ordinary that she was unwilling to stick her neck out for in the ordinary course of business.”

  Bunting nodded. “I think you’re right.”

  Sean said, “She’s DHS Secretary. According to you she’s already had four people killed, including an FBI agent. Hell, isn’t that out of the ordinary enough?”

  “That was window dressing, Sean,” said Paul. “And don’t think I’m being callous. I know there are four people dead who shouldn’t be. But the blame for those deaths will be placed elsewhere, so in her mind they don’t even count. What Foster was probably going to the president for was explicit authorization for her to take extraordinary action on her own.”

  Bunting added, “In other words, she asked for permission to terminate certain people.”

  Sean looked incredulous. “Terminate certain people? Who?”

  Paul said, “Eddie, Peter, and probably me.”

  “Three American citizens?” said Sean. “You really think the president of the United States would ever authorize that?”

  “Mr. Clean again,” said Paul. This time she didn’t smile.

  “Bullshit. Okay, I know the government has people killed. Terrorists, known enemies of the country, the occasional rogue dictator.”

  “We’re a problem for the country, Sean,” said Paul. “A serious problem. Eddie will never go to trial. Not with what he knows. If the president has bought the lie that Peter has had people killed, it’s not a stretch to believe he would lean toward termination. He wouldn’t want a murder trial where certain facts come to light which would be disastrous for America’s security. The president is the commander in chief. He has to wear many hats, but that’s the most important one. His number one priority is to keep America safe from her enemies. Wherever they might be.”

  “So let’s assume that’s the case,” said Bunting. “Foster will get her answer. Let’s also assume it’s a go. She’ll waste no time executing the plan. What does she do first?”

  “There’s little question in my mind about that,” said Paul.

  “What then?” asked Sean.

  “Eddie will not be at Cutter’s Rock much longer.”

  Sean snapped, “You can’t possibly be thinking of breaking him out?”

  “Oh, I won’t be the one doing the breaking.”

  CHAPTER

  68

  MASON QUANTRELL’S AIDE UNLOCKED the door to the warehouse and Quantrell stepped through. Automatic lights came on and Quantrell blinked to adjust his pupils. The Mercury Group owned this facility, but the chain of ownership was buried so deep that not even an army of lawyers and accountants would be able to dig through to the truth. Every substantial private contractor to the government, particularly those operating in the defense and intelligence fields, had such complex business structures in place. It was a necessity. Prying eyes were everywhere, and all contractors had secrets they didn’t want either the government or their competitors to know about.

  He eyed the column of black SUVs parked in the middle of the warehouse. He walked past them, evaluating each detail and coming away satisfied. In a corner of the facility a last planning meeting was taking place. All the men seated around the table stood when Quantrell approached.

  The look in these men’s eyes was clear. They both feared and respected Quantrell, perhaps more fear than respect. Quantrell had never worn the uniform, never fired a gun on behalf of his country, but he knew how to make money supplying those who did. His main business model was hardware sales to the Pentagon. He didn’t build the planes, tanks, or ships, but he provided many of the overpriced accessories for them, like ammo, special fuel, missiles, guns, and surveillance and security gear. But he had determined long ago that the real money was in the soft side of war, namely intelligence. The profit margins there were huge, far larger than he had plying the traditional corridors of supporting the defense effort. And the world wasn’t always at war, not anymore. But they were always spying on each other, always.

  He’d made billions off the soft side by following the old-school models. Lots of analysts, lots of reports that no one had time to read, feeding the competition among agencies that desperately wanted to score a victory at the expense of their sister agencies, even if it meant the actual goal of keeping the country safe was lost. Yes, he’d made a fortune, but it still wasn’t enough. And then Peter Bunting had arrived on the scene with a revolutionary model that would soon turn the intelligence-gathering world on its head.

  Quantrell’s soft business had dwindled, and his anger and frustration had grown.

  But now that was all about to change.

  “Prepped and ready?” he said to the leader of the team.

  The man replied, “Yes, sir, Mr. Quantrell.”

  The team was comprised of elite foreign mercenaries who would do anything for money. They would never talk about what they’d done because that would kill their livelihood.

  Quantrell asked the man some questions to judge whether they were indeed ready. He knew the plan better than anyone but came away satisfied at their level of preparation.

  He left the warehouse, got back in his SUV, and was driven off. An hour-long plane ride later he was in D.C.

  Though it was late he had another meeting. In his world those that relaxed simply were run over.

  Ellen Foster was in her office at DHS. She was working late too. She often worked late. But now she was done. She was driven home surrounded by her security team. The pecking order in D.C. was often delineated by the size of one’s motorcade. The president was at the top, followed by the vice president. After that it was a far drop to the rest of the pack. But Ellen Foster was right there.

  A man was waiting for her at her elegant home in upper-bracket northwest D.C. Around her lived prominent members of the Washington elite, both in the public and private sectors. He helped her off with her coat when she walked through the door.

  “Give me a minute,” she told him.

  She went upstairs and came back down a few minutes later. She had on the same clothes but had shed her hose and shoes. And she’d let her hair down.

  They walked together into the old-fashioned drawing room of the nineteenth-century dwelling. She reclined on the sofa. She motioned for him to sit.

  James Harkes sat.

  Black suit, white shirt, black tie with nary a wrinkle. His face was impassive as he stared back at her.

  “Would you like something to drink, Harkes?”

  He shook his head. “No thank you.”

  “Then can you make me a vodka tonic?” She pointed to the sideboard. “It’s all over there.”

  He dutifully made the drink, handed it to her.

  “Thank you.” She took a sip, nodded approvingly. “Very good.”

  “You’re welcome.” His gaze went toward the window. “You’ve got a first-rate security detail. They’ve set their perimeter with a lot of thought. Your alarm system is top-notch, your door locks the best.”

  She smiled. “Do you know what the best security is?”

  He looked at her expectantly.

  She rose, went to an antique secretary against one wall, and pushed against a piece of wood facing, and a small door was revealed. She reached in and pulled out a Glock 9mm.

  She held it up for him to see. “The best security is yourself. I wasn’t always sitting behind a desk. One of these often came in handy.”

  Harkes said nothing. She put the gun back and sat down.

  “Things are going well,” she said.

  “Things usually go well until they stop going well.”

  She lowered her glass. “You have doubts? Issues? You know something I don’t?”

  He shook his head again. “None of the above. I’m just a cautious man.”

  “Nothing wrong with that, but you need balance too. Invoke your wild side from time to time.”

  “Four people dead, five if you count Sohan Sha
rma. That’s wild enough for me.”

  She said coolly, “Not losing your nerve, are you?”

  “Considering I didn’t kill any of them, no. But one was an FBI agent. That is particularly troubling.”

  “There is always collateral damage in situations like this, Harkes. It’s unavoidable. You fought in Iraq and Afghanistan. You know that all too well.”

  “That was war.”

  “This is war, too. You need to understand that right now. Perhaps an even bigger war. This is for the heart and soul of American intelligence.”

  “And you want to run it?”

  “I should be the one running it. The agency’s name is Homeland Security, after all.”

  “The CIA—,” began Harkes.