Bullseye: Willl Robie / Camel Club Short Story Read online

  He slowed when he finally spotted the man hurrying down one of the mall walkways, no doubt seeking the nearest exit. He reached for the gun in his pocket.

  Suddenly, the man looked back and saw Robie.

  And then he started to run.

  It was the bank manager.

  The man raced down the stairs and into the underground parking garage.

  Robie followed.

  The men worked their way into the bowels of the place, which was perfectly fine with Robie. He had no need for witnesses.

  They ended up in the equipment area on the very lowest level, well away from any cars and cameras.

  From behind a support column the man yelled, “Who are you?”

  Robie said nothing. He moved a bit closer, angling his approach to give him a sight line on the man.

  The man fired a wild shot that clanged off an overhead pipe and embedded itself in the concrete wall.

  “I have money. I can give you money,” the man called out.

  Robie kept moving forward. He didn’t waste time or concentration on responding. He was in full predator mode.

  “I have powerful friends,” cried the man. “They will kill you if you harm me.”

  Robie moved to his left and then took a few paces forward. The man was doing him a favor by talking. It was allowing Robie to zero in on his position. The man was also not moving. Staying still in a situation like this pretty much ensured one’s death.

  The man fired another shot. And then another. They both were wild and they both ended up stuck in concrete.

  Robie kept moving forward and to the right. He had his position locked down now. It was just a matter of getting there.

  “I will kill you!” screamed the man. “You are just a customer of the bank. I will kill you. Leave now and you will survive. This is your last warning. I am not to be intimidated.”

  As he said this last part he looked up and saw Robie’s muzzle pointed at his head.

  His eyes widened and a scream started up his throat.

  It would never finish the journey.

  One tap to the head, one to the heart.

  The man fell forward onto the concrete, dead before he ever got there.

  Robie straightened from his shooting stance, turned, and left.

  Mission accomplished.

  CHAPTER 14

  “Sarin gas,” said Alex Ford as Stone, Annabelle, Caleb, Reuben, and Harry listened.

  They were all seated around Stone’s fireplace in his cottage at Mt. Zion Cemetery.

  Harry nodded. “I saw the canister in the shaft. Luckily they didn’t get a chance to turn it on.”

  “They almost did,” said Annabelle. “According to what you said, Harry. It was close. He actually dropped the detonator.”

  “He dropped it when the other guy shot him. He also saved my life. I got knocked off balance and lost my grip on the steel beam. I would’ve fallen except he grabbed my wrist.”

  Harry looked over at Stone. “You two were in the bank together as hostages. Who was he?”

  Stone shrugged. “I never got his name. He did have a gun that they confiscated.”

  “So was he a cop?” asked Annabelle.

  “He said he was a lobbyist,” replied Stone, but he tacked on a smile at the end of this statement.

  Reuben said, “Whatever he was, what happened to him?”

  Stone shrugged. “He apparently vanished into thin air.”

  Reuben said, “You got the girl before she got away. But they found the bank manager’s body way down in the parking garage. Two shots. One to the head, one to the heart.”

  “A professional kill,” opined Alex.

  “How is the vice president?” Stone asked him, changing the subject.

  “Shaken but okay.”

  “And who were the assassins?” inquired Caleb.

  “A mixed bag we’re still sorting out. One of the guys we found dead in the shaft is Adam Chase. Gun for hire. Do anything for money, including setting off nerve gas in a residential building. And those C-4 packs might have taken down the whole building if they had detonated.”

  “Was that a backup in case the gas didn’t work?” asked Annabelle.

  Alex nodded. “We think so. We’re still interrogating the sole survivor, the woman. We still haven’t identified her yet. She’s not in any database. We don’t know if it’s international terrorism or homegrown. Or it might be a combo because of what we’ve found out. And that’s a terrifying thought.”

  “The bank manager?” said Reuben and Alex nodded. “Who was he?”

  “Bashir Tufail. Pakistani. Came over here eight years ago. No criminal record. Honest, law-abiding citizen. At least as far as we can tell. I’ve heard some grumblings that our ‘friends’ at the CIA might know a lot more about him than we do, but they’re not sharing.”

  “A cell? Planted here until he was activated?” said Harry. “To kill the VP?”

  “We think so now. He’d been working at the bank for four years but at another location. He’s been volunteering to work Saturdays at that branch.”

  “Because they knew the VP was going to that fund-raiser,” said Annabelle. “He was prepping for that.”

  “That’s right.”

  “And the CIA may know he was not so law-abiding,” mused Stone. “That’s interesting.”

  Reuben eyed him keenly. “I recognize that look. What’s gotten in your bonnet?”

  “Nothing,” said Stone. “I’m just relieved we all got out of there alive.”

  “And a terrorist is no more,” said Caleb.

  “No more,” repeated Stone.

  * * *

  After they all left, Stone was seated at his desk reading when he heard something at his door. He inserted his hand inside a secret crevice in his kneehole and pulled out his pistol. He crouched down, waiting.

  And he could wait with the best of them. However, after thirty minutes passed and he heard nothing more he moved to the window and peered out. There was no one on his porch. But he did see a piece of paper tacked to the door.

  He opened the door and ripped off the paper and unfolded it.

  The message was terse and to the point. He would have expected nothing less.

  You were not the target. Tufail was. Didn’t know what their plan was. Got lucky it happened while we were both there. You certainly lived up to your rep. And, by the way, I told Shane you said hello. He told me he’d like to see you and talk about old times. You up for it?

  Stone looked up and gazed around the cemetery. Without seeing anything to tell him so, he instinctively knew he was being watched.

  He slowly held up his thumb and mouthed the words, “I’m game.”

  * * *

  From a thousand yards away, Will Robie, himself a very patient man, lowered his long-range optics. He smiled and set off to deliver the message.

  Will Robie and Jessica Reel have been assigned to work together on a new mission—one that may be more dangerous than anything they’ve ever faced before…

  A preview of David Baldacci’s explosive new thriller, The Target, follows.

  The men could not have looked more tense. It was as though the weight of the world rested on their shoulders.

  Actually, it did.

  The president of the United States sat at the end of the small table. They were in the White House Situation Room complex in the basement of the West Wing. Sometimes referred to as the “Woodshed,” the complex had been originated under President Kennedy after the Bay of Pigs fiasco. Kennedy no longer thought he could trust the military and wanted his own intelligence overseers who would parse the reports coming in from the Pentagon. The Truman bowling alley had been sacrificed to build the complex, which had then undergone a major renovation in 2006.

  During Kennedy’s era a single analyst from the CIA would man the Situation Room in an unbroken twenty-hour shift, sleeping there as well. Later, the place had been expanded to include the Department of Homeland Security and the White House
chief of staff’s office. However, the National Security Council staff ran the complex. Five “Watch Teams” comprised of thirty or so carefully vetted personnel operated the Situation Room on a 24/7 basis. Its primary goal was to keep the president and his senior staff briefed each day on important issues and to allow for instant and secure communications anywhere in the world. It even had a secure link to Air Force One in the event the president was traveling.

  The Situation Room itself was large, with space for thirty or more participants and a large video screen on the wall. Mahogany had been the wood surface of choice before the renovation. Now the walls were composed mainly of “whisper” materials.

  But tonight the men were not in the main conference room. Nor were they in the president’s briefing room. They were in a small conference room that had two video screens on the wall and a row of world time clocks above. There were chairs for six people.

  Only three of them were occupied.

  The president’s seat allowed him to look directly at the video screens. To his right was Josh Potter, the national security advisor. To his left was Evan Tucker, head of the CIA.

  That was all. The circle of need-to-know was miniscule. But there would be a fourth person joining them in a moment by secure video link. The regular staff in the Situation Room had been walled off from this meeting and the coming communication. There was only one person handling the transmission. And even that person would not be privy to what was said.

  The VP would normally have been part of such a meeting. However, if what they were planning went awry, he might be taking over the top spot because the president could very well be impeached. They had to keep him out of the loop. It would be terrible for the country if the president had to leave office. It would be catastrophic if the VP were forced out too. The Constitution dictated that the top spot would then go to the Speaker of the House of Representatives. And no one wanted the head of what could very well be the most dysfunctional group in Washington to be suddenly running the country.

  The president cleared his throat and said, “This could be momentous or it could be Armageddon.”

  Potter nodded, as did Tucker. The president looked at the CIA head.

  “This is rock solid, Evan?”

  “Rock solid, sir. In fact, not to toot our horn, but this is the prize for nearly three years of intelligence work with our British friends under the most difficult conditions imaginable. It has, frankly, never been done before.”

  The president nodded and looked at the clocks above the screens. He checked his watch against them and made a small adjustment to his own timepiece. It looked as though he had aged five years in the last five minutes. All American presidents had to make many gut-wrenching decisions. In many ways, the demands of the position were simply beyond the ability of a mere mortal to carry them out. But it was one person’s job and that one person had to act.

  He let out a long breath and said, “This had better work.”

  Potter said, “Agreed, sir.”

  “It will work,” insisted Tucker. “And the world will be much better for it.” He added, “I have a professional bucket list, sir, and this is number two on it, right behind Iran. And in some ways, it should be number one on my list.”

  Potter said, “Because of the nukes.”

  “Of course,” said Tucker. “Iran wants nukes. These assholes already have them. With delivery capabilities that are inching closer and closer to our mainland. Now, if we pull this off, believe me, Tehran will sit up and take notice. Maybe we kill two birds with one stone.”

  The president put up a hand. “I know the story, Evan. I’ve read all the briefings. I know what hangs in the balance.”

  The screen flickered and a voice came over the speaker system embedded in the wall. “Mr. President, the transmission is ready.”

  The president unscrewed the top of a water bottle sitting in front of him and took a long drink. He put the bottle back down. “Do it,” he said curtly.

  The screen flickered once more and then came fully to life. They were staring at a man short in stature, in his sixties, with a tanned face, deeply lined. There was a rim of white near his hairline where the cap he normally wore helped to block the sun. But he was not in uniform now. He was dressed in a gray tunic with a high, stiff collar.

  He stared directly at them.

  Evan Tucker said, “Thank you for agreeing to communicate with us tonight, General Pak.”

  Pak nodded and said, in halting but clearly enunciated English, “It is good to meet, face-to-face, as it were.” He smiled, showing off highly polished veneers.

  The president attempted to smile back, but his heart was not in it. He knew that Pak would lose his life if exposed.

  “We appreciate the level of cooperation received,” said the president.

  Pak nodded. “Our goals are the same, Mr. President. No more axis of evil nomenclature. Freedom and being a productive member of the international community—that is the goal. For too long we have been isolated. It is time for us to take our seat at the world’s table. We owe it to our people.”

  Tucker said encouragingly, “Those are truly inspirational words, General Pak.”

  “Details are progressing nicely,” said Pak. “I hope to be able to report to you soon that they are complete. Then you can commence your part in this. Do you have operatives in mind? You must send the best you have. Even with my help, the target is a very tough one, as you are well aware.”

  The president glanced at Tucker and then back at Pak. “We do, General. Our best. We would send nothing less for something of this magnitude.”

  “Very wise. Neither would I, Mr. President.” Pak held up a single finger. “This will be the number of opportunities we will have. No more, no less.”

  Potter said, “And we are sure of both the intelligence and the support?”

  “Absolutely sure. We have shared that with your people and they have confirmed the same.”

  Potter glanced at Tucker, who nodded.

  “If it is discovered…” said Pak. They all became riveted on him. “If it becomes discovered,” said Pak again, “I cannot impress upon each of you enough how calamitous the consequences will be. I will surely lose my life. And America, your loss will be far greater.”

  He looked the president directly in the eye and took a few moments to compose his words carefully.

  “It is why I asked for this video conference, Mr. President. I will be sacrificing not only my life, but the lives of my family as well. That is the way here, you see. So, I need your complete and absolute assurance that if we move forward, we do so together and united, no matter what might happen. I need you to look me in the eye and tell me this is so.”

  The blood seemed to drain from the face of the president. He had made many important decisions during his term, but none so stressful or potentially momentous as this one.

  He didn’t look at either Potter or Tucker before answering. He kept his gaze on Pak. “You have my word,” he said in a strong, clear voice.

  Pak smiled, showing off the perfect teeth again. “That is what I needed to hear. Together then.” He saluted the president, who gave a crisp one in return.

  Tucker hit a button on the console in front of him and the screen went black once more.

  The president let out an audible breath and sat back against the leather of his seat. He was sweating though the room was cool. He wicked a drop of moisture off his forehead. What they were proposing to do was quite clearly illegal and thus an impeachable offense. And unlike the other presidents impeached before him, he had no doubt the Senate would convict him.

  “Into the breach rode the five hundred,” the president said in barely a whisper, but both Potter and Tucker heard it and nodded in agreement.

  The president leaned forward and looked squarely at Tucker.

  “There is no margin of error. None. And if there is the least hint of this coming out—”

  “Sir, that will not happen. This is the first time we
’ve ever had an asset placed that high over there. There was an attempt on the leadership last year, as you know. While he was traveling on the street in the capital. But it was botched. A traffic police officer intervened and the whole plan fell apart. But that was from low-level external sources and had nothing to do with us. Our strike will be quick and clean. And it will succeed.”

  “And you have your team in place?’

  “Being assembled. Then they’ll be vetted.”

  The president looked sharply at him. “Vetted? Who the hell are you planning to use?”

  “Will Robie and Jessica Reel.”

  Potter sputtered, “Robie and Reel?’

  “They are the absolute best we have,” said Tucker. “Look what they did with Ahmadi.”

  Potter eyed Tucker closely. He knew every detail of that mission. So he knew that neither Reel nor Robie were intended to survive it.

  The president said slowly, “But with Reel’s background. What you allege she did. The possibility of her going—”

  Tucker broke in. Normally, this would be unheard of. You let the president speak. But tonight Tucker seemed to be operating on a plane that did not recognize the obvious. He seemed to see and hear only what he wanted to.

  “They are the best, sir, and the best is what we need here. As I said, with your permission, they will be vetted to ensure that their performance will be the best ever. However, if they fail the vetting I have another team, up to the task of performing the mission, but the clear preference is not the B squad.”

  Potter said, “But, still, why not simply deploy them? Then this vetting process becomes unnecessary.”

  Tucker looked at the president. “We really need to do it this way, sir, for a number of reasons. Reasons which I’m sure you can readily see.”

  Tucker had prepared for this moment for weeks. He had studied the president’s history, his time as commander in chief, and even gotten his hands on an old psychological profile of the man done while he was running for Congress many years ago. The president was smart, accomplished, but not that smart, and not that accomplished. That meant he had a chip on his shoulder. Thus he was reluctant to acknowledge that he was not always the smartest, most informed person in the room. Some would see that attribute as a strength. Tucker knew it to be a serious vulnerability ripe for exploitation.