Back Blast

18

On most days of the workweek, Leland Babbitt left his Chevy Chase home around seven forty-five a.m. to make it into his office in the District by eight thirty. But this Monday morning his garage door hummed and opened at a quarter till seven, and Babbitt emerged behind the wheel of his silver Lexus and backed down the driveway out onto the street.

A black Lincoln Navigator sat parked in front of Babbitt’s home, and inside it four men raised their hands towards Babbitt’s car.

Babbitt acknowledged them briefly with a nod as he passed them by. He wasn’t going to stop to chat with his home protection detail. He had somewhere important to be today — a clandestine rendezvous arranged with a high-profile official — so his attention was focused on beating the traffic and making it to his destination in plenty of time.

A half hour later Babbitt parked in the lot by the Capitol reflecting pool, climbed out of his Lexus, and pulled on a trench coat, and then he began walking west along the National Mall.

Leland Babbitt was director of Townsend Government Services, a private intelligence and security firm that worked on classified projects for the United States intelligence community. Townsend had been around for 150 years, making a big name in an extremely low-profile industry by employing some of the best headhunters in the world. Townsend had gotten its start in the old West when its investigators tracked down train robbers, bank robbers, even marauding renegade Indians. In the following century Townsend hunted Nazis and Russian spies, it helped catch Noriega and Serbian war criminals, and in the 2000s it had a hand in the capture of Saddam Hussein as well as many of the leadership of al Qaeda and other terrorist organizations.

But on its most recent mission Townsend Government Services had failed unequivocally.

Leland Babbitt and his company had been chasing the Gray Man for years on a cost-plus contract with the U.S. government. They’d come to within a hair’s breadth of killing him in Brussels; Babbitt himself had been there at the scene during the gun battle. Unfortunately for everyone, Gentry had escaped, and in the process he’d killed some of Babbitt’s men and wounded others.

The shoot-out in Brussels had been a major news event, of course, and although Babbitt had managed to avoid exposure in the media for himself and his firm, since Brussels, Denny Carmichael had treated Lee Babbitt like he had the plague. The Director of the National Clandestine Service had flatly refused every meeting, every teleconference, even private phone conversations with the director of Townsend since he’d returned to the U.S. Only a few clipped and businesslike e-mails had come from Carmichael to Babbitt, and these made clear that NCS was indefinitely suspending its contracts with Townsend and removing the private firm’s access to classified material.

Babbitt understood Carmichael’s frustrations in a general sense. For some reason Carmichael’s involvement in the Gentry hunt was very personal, so after the debacle in Europe it was no surprise that the head of NCS would naturally try to scapegoat Townsend. But Lee Babbitt had grown weary of the cold shoulder, and he was determined to end his company’s exile from clandestine work and get things back on track.

To this end Babbitt had e-mailed Carmichael over the weekend, insisting the two men sit for a face-to-face to put the matter to rest. Babbitt took into account the fact Carmichael was obviously trying to distance himself publicly from the happenings in Belgium, so he suggested an old-fashioned clandestine rendezvous. He gave Carmichael directions to a quiet location, told him he’d be there at seven thirty ready to do whatever he needed to do to end the rift and reboot the important mutual relationship between Townsend and the CIA.

Denny Carmichael hadn’t exactly agreed to the meeting, but he had not expressly declined it either, and Babbitt felt like Denny would come to the realization that a continued partnership between CIA and Townsend Government Services was in everyone’s best interests.

Denny would show, he told himself.

Babbitt had mentally prepared himself for a verbal beating from the grizzled spymaster. He knew his company hadn’t done what the CIA had sent it to do, but he was ready to spin it by reminding Carmichael that he had gotten closer to Gentry than the CIA had, and Carmichael should simply send Babbitt back out after the Gray Man.

Court Gentry had lived out his nine lives. Next time they would get him for sure.

Babbitt walked directly from his car to the meeting site. He knew he should have conducted some sort of surveillance direction route, but this was the fucking USA, and he was certain nobody was tailing him. Plus, he was too angry and focused on returning his forces to the Gentry hunt to devote attention to anything other than getting to his rendezvous and giving the person he’d meet there a very measured dose of his rage.

While Babbitt walked to his destination, thinking about how much he wanted just one more opportunity to hunt Court Gentry again, the object of his thoughts was exactly one hundred fifty yards away, jogging along the National Mall, doing his best to catch up to the man in the Burberry trench coat before he lost him.

Gentry had been on the man’s tail since just before dawn. He’d found Babbitt’s home in Chevy Chase on USCrypto.org, and he’d parked his car in a little lot in front of a pair of tennis courts near a country club. He’d used the cover of the thick foliage on the edge of a golf course to get close to Babbitt’s property, and then he’d spent a cold, miserable hour under a magnolia tree in a neighbor’s yard surveilling the house.

Court hadn’t been surprised to see Babbitt had a security detail at his place; he was, after all, president of a security firm. A black SUV with four men sat parked in front, and two more men wandered the acre of property.

Court stayed well out of sight of any curious eyes, just squatting there against the tree trunk, watching the house.

At six forty-five the garage door opened and Babbitt rolled down the drive in his silver Lexus. Court didn’t stick around to see where he went; instead he jogged back across a golf course to his car. He had just climbed behind the wheel when the Lexus passed in front of him on Connecticut, and he fell into an easy tail behind it.

Babbitt drove straight towards the city, finally parking in a lot near the Capitol building’s reflecting pool. He climbed out and began walking towards the National Mall.

Court was confused. He’d assumed the man would be heading to his office, which, Court knew, was in the Townsend Government Services building in Adams Morgan. But instead of this, Court now found himself scrambling to find a parking space and to begin a hasty one-man foot-follow operation.

Court found a spot for his Escort just south of the mall and jogged back to where he had last seen Babbitt. Using his binoculars he caught a quick glimpse of his target at a distance as he walked west along Madison Drive. Court picked up his pace to catch up to him — the area was full of early-Monday-morning joggers, so Court didn’t stand out save for the fact he was wearing brown work boots — and slipped into a tailing position sixty-five yards behind. Soon Babbitt turned right into the Smithsonian Gardens Butterfly Habitat, a set of two footpaths that ran through a thick garden of various types of dense foliage.

Court doubted Babbitt was so into butterflies that he’d begin his workweek with them, so he presumed Babbitt was here for some sort of a clandestine meet.

Of course Court knew there was also a chance Babbitt was here for a Monday-morning hookup with a girlfriend, or a boyfriend for that matter, but the more Court thought about it, the more he wondered if the director of Townsend was here to link up with someone senior in the CIA.

Maybe even Carmichael?

It was almost too much to hope for, a lightly protected CIA exec, a man directly invested in the hunt for Gentry, out in the open where Gentry could bag him on just Gentry’s second full day of his op here in the U.S.

But Court thought it was possible.

He knew Leland Babbitt ran a private military company here in D.C. They had been part of the chase and they had nearly gotten him in Stockholm and in Hamburg. In Brussels they had gotten so close Court now wore a bright red scar in the shape of a bullet hole on his right forearm.

Court wondered if Townsend was hunting him here in D.C., as well.

He found himself getting excited that Denny Carmichael might just walk up the narrow path any minute. If he did, Court would deal with whatever security force Denny had with him. This wouldn’t be easy, but the opportunity would be too good to pass up.

Then Court would find a way to get Denny back to his car, take him to his storage unit, and beat the truth out of him.

“Settle down, Gentry,” he said to himself. Bagging and zip-tying a nation’s chief spook wouldn’t be easy anywhere, not even in Paraguay or Namibia. Here in D.C. surely it would be virtually impossible.

Court forced himself to lower his sights a little. If Carmichael showed, Court would evaluate the situation. He doubted he could bag the man himself, so he’d just watch, listen in if he could, and wait for them to part ways. He’d stay on mission, following Babbitt back to his car and taking him at gunpoint as he climbed in.

Babbitt remained the target.

Court moved a little closer, then tucked himself into the foliage of the butterfly habitat and watched his target from behind and one hundred feet away. He placed the Walker’s Game Ear behind his right ear and turned the volume up.