Back Blast

42

Even though he’d had less than three hours to prepare, Gentry had planned this operation against Max Ohlhauser well, even to the point of buying two Metro Smart Cards, one for himself and the other for his hostage. He slipped the card into the older man’s hand and together they went through the turnstiles. Feet away a pair of Metro Transit Police stood, the female officer holding the leash of a Belgian Malinois who looked only somewhat less bored than her handler.

The two men waited in silence on the platform, standing shoulder to shoulder, as per Gentry’s instructions. Max’s breathing was labored and sweat drenched his brow, but Court just stood there, his face placid and his eyes scanning the area around him calmly, not flitting back and forth.

They took a Red Line train heading to the northwestern outskirts of the metro area, but that was just because it had been the first train to arrive at the platform. Court wanted to interrogate Max while onboard the Metro, thinking it would make it tougher for the followers to catch up. Of course he knew at each stop he’d have a new crowd to look over, and it was possible the four CIA contractors up at street level had radioed to other units with instructions to be ready at every stop, but by making himself a moving target in a transitional area with spotty comms, Court was reasonably certain he’d bought himself at least ten or fifteen minutes in which he could squeeze Ohlhauser of intel free of danger.

Court led Ohlhauser to the back row of a car that was only about a quarter full and, as the train began to move, Court sat with his back to the wall and pushed Ohlhauser down into a seat where he faced Court and his back was to the car.

Court still carried an air of calm, and Ohlhauser remained petrified.

Court said, “Relax, Max. You and I are going to chat for a few minutes. If you don’t scream like a bitch, and if you don’t try to make a run for it, I’m not going to hurt you.”

Ohlhauser nodded. He didn’t believe. But he nodded.

Court kept looking beyond Ohlhauser’s right shoulder and down the length of the entire car. He’d slipped his knife back in its sheath inside his pants pocket, and formed a grip on the pistol inside the waistband on his right hip, shielded from view of the other passengers by his body. He said, “First things first: I did not kill Leland Babbitt. I was there. I planned on questioning him, but I didn’t shoot him.”

Ohlhauser gave another compliant nod that looked to Court like a man trying desperately to stall for a few moments until he could think of something to say that would get him out of this situation.

Court said, “I can see you don’t believe me. If I let you go today, will that help convince you I didn’t smoke Babbitt?”

Court saw a hint of optimism on his face. Then Ohlhauser nodded with conviction.

Court said, “Cool. Now, next item of business. The shoot on sight. You give me the truth, and you live. You bullshit me, and you die. What did Denny tell you that got you to sign the term order?”

Ohlhauser looked down at the floor of the train car for several seconds.

Court kicked his foot gently. “Talk. Don’t think. Talk.”

“Denny said you assassinated the wrong man on an operation in Italy. You did it intentionally, in violation of clear and unmistakable orders.”

Court did not react to this; he just kept scanning the car. A couple of days ago hearing this lie from Travers left him gobsmacked, but now he expected it. He simply replied, “Not true. Denny wants me terminated because of what I know about AAP.”

Court glanced again at Ohlhauser and watched the man furrow his brow. Confusion on his face. Ohlhauser kept looking down at the floor.

Court said, “It’s an old program I used to be involved in. Called the Autonomous Asset—”

Ohlhauser looked up and interrupted him. “I know what AAP is. Hell, I drafted the finding that sanctioned the program.”

“What?” Court said. “You looked surprised when I mentioned AAP. Why?”

“I was only surprised that you think the shoot on sight against you has anything to do with that program. Why on earth would Denny term you for your old job?”

“I don’t know why. All I know is that all the other operators from AAP are dead.”

“Is that right?”

“Yes. I’m the last one. Denny needs to silence me. To remove the compromise.”

Max rubbed his face. His eyes under his glasses. A nervous affectation. “Look, Violator, I hate to break this to you, but your theory doesn’t make a bit of sense.”

“Why do you say that?”

Another rub of the face. The skin of his thick cheeks reddened. “Because AAP is still up and running. Under another name. I mean… I’ve been out of the Agency for just two years, and it was going strong when I left.”

Court sat back in his seat. The train came to a stop at the Farragut North station. Several people got on. Court scanned them perfunctorily, but his mind was on Ohlhauser’s assertion. When it started rolling again, Court said, “I don’t believe you.”

Max shrugged. “Why would I lie about that?”

“But—”

“BACK BLAST, Violator. Denny came to me because of BACK BLAST.”

Court shook his head violently. “Forget BACK BLAST, it’s just a cover story Denny is using. I did nothing wrong.”

Max sighed. “I just know what I was told, and I was told you took a payoff from the Serbs to kill the wrong man.”

Court stared at Max. “The Serbs?”

“That’s what Denny said.”

“Then Denny is a goddamned liar. When I worked for the U.S. government I never took a cent from anyone other than the U.S. government.”

Ohlhauser shrugged. “I guess Denny is the man you need to see.”

Court’s jaw flexed. “Don’t worry. I’ll be seeing Denny.” Court took his eyes off the other passengers in the car now, just as it began to slow before the next station, and he looked at the man in the red bow tie. He got the impression the man wanted to say something, but was holding back. “What is it?”

“You say you did what you thought was right on BACK BLAST. If that’s true, then the shoot on sight wasn’t justified. But I did what I thought was right when I signed the shoot on sight, so you kidnapping me or… or worse. That’s not any more justified.”

“Spoken like a lawyer facing an armed man.”

Ohlhauser shook his head. “Maybe you killed the wrong guy. Maybe by me signing that paper, I signed the death warrant for the wrong guy.” He heaved his shoulders. “I’m truly sorry if I acted with bad information, but I did not act in bad faith. I did what Denny asked me to do. That is all.”

“You were a rubber stamp for Denny Carmichael.”

Max leaned forward. “You’re damn right I was. And you were the tip of Denny’s spear. We’re the same, you and me.”

Court just switched gears. He didn’t want to hear anything more about Denny Carmichael and Operation BACK BLAST. He said, “This new iteration of the Autonomous Asset Program. Where is it located?”

Ohlhauser answered immediately. “How would I know that? I am out of the Agency, and even when I was in the Agency, I wasn’t operational side.”

“Did they move it? It used to be in a compound at Harvey Point.”

“I’m telling you, Violator. I don’t have a clue.”

The train stopped at the Dupont Circle station. Court fought his anger and frustration at reaching another dead end, and he stood quickly. He just wanted to get back to his room, to regroup, and to come up with some other options.

He pulled Ohlhauser to his feet, turned him around, then pushed him towards the door.

They walked together in the station, just as they had ten minutes earlier before boarding the train at Metro Center. Court leaned in to Max’s ear and said, “Go up the escalator to the mezzanine, then head to the escalator for the opposite platform. Take the train back to your office. We’re done here.” Max nodded without looking back, and Court leaned close one more time. “How ’bout that? You aren’t dead. You’re going to have to tell your friends on CNN that I’m not the monster they’re making me out to be.” Court immediately began lagging back a few feet. His plan was to separate from Ohlhauser here in the bowels of the crowded station and get up to street level, where he knew he could quickly melt into the busy neighborhood.

The crowd thickened on the mezzanine level at the top of the escalator, and Court drifted even farther back. He slipped off his raincoat, revealing his new black suit, and then he pulled off his suit coat and walked on in his shirtsleeves. He wadded the coats up into a tight ball as he exited the turnstiles to leave the station, and he crammed them both in a garbage can at the bottom of the five-story-high escalator that led up to Connecticut Avenue.

But as soon as he got on the escalator he saw them. Two D.C. Metro cops heading down the opposite escalator. They were checking faces, clearly looking for someone.

Court looked ahead and above him now. He could just barely make out the pale blue uniforms of two more cops at the top of the escalator, four stories up.

He turned quickly and began heading back down the escalator, pushing to the right of others on the stairs in hopes of covering his retreat. As soon as he got to the bottom of the stairs he hurried back along the mezzanine, planning on getting down one of the escalators to the platform level. From here he could jump on the first ride out of here in either direction.

He went back through the turnstile and walked a few feet, but there Max Ohlhauser appeared out of the crowd in front of him, along with four D.C. Metro police officers. The faces of the policemen did not register with Court at first. He just saw Max, the uniforms, and he started to turn away, hoping the fact he’d shed his jacket and his coat might disguise him to Ohlhauser.

But that had been too much to hope for.

“There! That’s him!”

All four cops reached for their weapons, right in the middle of the crowded mezzanine of a subway station.

Court knew he could run, though his chances for escape weren’t particularly good. There were at least eight cops in the vicinity and they all seemed to be hunting for him. Running would have long odds, although he’d certainly wiggled his way out of tighter spots than this. But, Court told himself, if he tried to make a break for it now, there was a chance one of these cops would open fire, just like they had done the other night, and there was no way they wouldn’t hit innocents here in the busy metro station.

Reluctantly, Court raised his hands. Surely they wouldn’t shoot him in cold blood with his hands up, he told himself.

Quickly all four cops stepped up to him, their guns still drawn, and they turned him around and walked him to a wall. They kicked his legs apart, pushed him till his hands slapped high on the wall.

Two men began frisking Court while the other two stood there, guns still drawn and pointed close at the back of his head. Passing commuters stopped to look, but only for a moment. This was a tight station and the mezzanine was narrow here. As the crowd backed up people coming up the escalators began pushing forward, and this kept the traffic moving, more or less.

The cops did not say a word, but Max Ohlhauser would not shut up. He told the police about how he was kidnapped and about the knife and the gun, and how he used to work for the government, though neglected to mention what agency. He told the four men, over and over in half a dozen different ways, that Court was some sort of a former Special Forces commando who was now a criminal, and he’d killed a lot of people, some of them this week here in the area. Court wondered if the big middle-aged lawyer was going to hyperventilate during his retelling of the events of the past fifteen minutes.

The cops for their part seemed oddly silent and unimpressed with this information, which frustrated Ohlhauser. They just continued their frisk. Court felt several hands upon him as his face was pressed hard into the wall. He had no wallet, only a phone, a cash-loaded credit card, a paper Metro card, and a thick wad of tens and twenties. When the cops finished frisking him and determined this for themselves, one of them said, “ID?”

Court looked back over his shoulder at the man. For the first time he noticed the man’s darkish skin. He wasn’t black; not Hispanic, either. Court said, “I beg your pardon?”

“Identification?” He spoke with a noticeable accent, but Court couldn’t place it.

Behind the cops Ohlhauser said, “His name is Gentry. Courtland Gentry.”

A couple of the cops looked at each other, then the other two handcuffed their prisoner. While they struggled to get the cuffs on, Court turned his head back and forth, looking back over both shoulders at the four officers.

Quickly he sensed his troubles were even greater than he’d realized.

All police everywhere are trained to interact with suspects using a tactic called contact and cover. One cop steps up to contact distance with the subject, converses with him, then frisks and handcuffs him if the decision is made to do so. The other officer remains far enough away to provide cover if things go bad for the contact man.

But these cops apparently didn’t get the same training as every other police officer Court had ever dealt with. All four of them were close enough to touch Court — two of them were touching him, at the same time.

No. This wasn’t right at all. These assholes didn’t act like cops.

They spun Court around and started walking him to a nearby elevator that went from the mezzanine up to street level. This, Court knew, would let them avoid passing the police officers with the dog back by the escalators. He didn’t know if the other cops were legit or not, but he was by now highly suspicious that these four guys were foreign operators, because in addition to their poor knowledge of police work, they all had olive complexions, and they had barely said a word.

It made Court think back to the other night on the overpass, when a large group of men in police uniforms tried to gun him down without any warning, and nearly succeeded.

Max walked along with the group now, as if Court was a trophy he wasn’t ready to relinquish yet, and he stood there while Court and his captors waited for the elevator to come down from the street. Max pulled his phone out and tried to get a signal here, but he was having trouble doing so. Court suspected that, as soon as he made it up to street level, Max would be calling Carmichael or Mayes or someone else high up at CIA to let them know he had personally bagged the Gray Man.

The son of a bitch would probably be on CNN within the hour.

Court looked away from Ohlhauser and towards the uniformed man closest to him. His name tag read Stern, and his badge number was 99782. Court said, “Officer Stern, what’s your badge number?”

The officer didn’t hesitate, and he did not look down at his badge. In an accented voice he said, “Nine, nine, seven, eight, two.”

Court smiled at him. “You must have stayed up all night to remember that.”

Stern said nothing else.

The door opened and the cops pushed Court in, and the quiet men in uniform followed. Ohlhauser started to enter himself, but one of the cops held a hand up, keeping him out.

Max was confused. “Wait. I want to come, too. You have to be careful with this man. As I said, he is—”

“No. You stay.”

Ohlhauser put his own hand out, holding the elevator door open. “Look, Officer Stern. This is a delicate situation. My former Agency is very interested in this man. They will be sending people—”

Behind Max Ohlhauser, three Transit Police officers appeared on the mezzanine. Their uniforms were a solid dark blue, in contrast with the cops in the elevator, who wore light blue tunics and dark blue pants.

The one female transit cop called out, “What you boys got?” The other two Transit Police shepherded the few straggling passersby along, clearing out the area in just a few seconds.

Max Ohlhauser, clearly still afraid the D.C. Metro cops in the elevator were going to abscond with his prisoner, put his foot in the door to keep it from closing.

After a look to his colleagues, one of the men in the D.C. Metro uniforms stepped out of the elevator and walked towards the transit cops. As he closed on them Court heard him speak. His voice was accented, but less so than that of the man with the Stern badge.

He said, “A man with a gun. We are taking him to station now. Everything is under control.”

Ohlhauser took the opportunity to step into the elevator. Two cops were behind Gentry holding him by his arms, and one more was on his right, so Max stood to Gentry’s left.

Court leaned over to him and spoke softly in his ear. “You don’t want to be in here. These guys aren’t cops.”

Ohlhauser spoke back without whispering. “Don’t be ridiculous. You asked the officer’s badge number and he told you.”

Outside the Transit Police continued speaking with the D.C. Metro cop. Court couldn’t hear the conversation, but he could see a look of puzzlement on the face of one of the men wearing dark blue.

To Max he asked, “How long does it take you to remember a five-digit number?”

Another transit cop was turning suspicious. Court could see him cock his head and challenge something the D.C. Metro cop said.

Ohlhauser, also looking out at the exchange in the subway station, said, “If it doesn’t prove anything that he knows his badge number, why did you get him to tell it to you in the first place?”

Court rolled his head around slowly and brought his shoulders back, stretching the muscles in his neck and in his bound arms. He replied, less softly now. “Because I wanted to hear his accent before I killed him.”

Ohlhauser turned to look at Court and, at that same moment, the dark man on the mezzanine wearing the D.C. Metro police uniform reached for the gun on his belt.