Collision

31

Vochek glanced at the clock-just past nine on Saturday morning-and studied the photos of the dead men. The investigators on Kidwell’s murder, operating out of the Homeland Security office in Houston, sent her the latest on the dead Arab gunmen.

The men had been identified; they were all from the southern suburbs of Beirut. Two of the men were brothers, two more were their cousins, and all were tied to a gang that ran drugs into Beirut and did muscle work when hired.

She remembered a truism she’d read about the Middle East in a book by former CIA agent Robert Baer: You don’t recruit individuals; you recruit families, tribes, clans. Here was a perfect example. But the one with dyed blond hair, the other with two piercings in his ear-these men did not strike her as typical fundamentalists.

She called one of the Homeland investigators in Houston, let him complain about working with the FBI for three minutes, then she said: “But these guys don’t seem like religious extremist types.”

“Oh, I don’t think the Murads are prayerful boys. They’ve always been hired help.” She heard a shuffle of paper on the investigator’s desk. “The Murads all flew in via Paris then Miami, staggered over five days. Tickets paid for in cash in Beirut. But they all stayed together at a hotel in Miami before they flew into Austin, the morning of the attack.” He coughed a smoker’s hack. “Here’s the sticky part. Back in the 1980s, Papa Murad, the head of the clan, was eyes and ears for the CIA.”

“Interesting.”

“Yeah. When we were hunting the embassy bombers, he was an informant. Not a great one but he was willing to point a few fingers for a price. He dropped off the Agency payroll about a decade ago. One of his sons got tangled up with a Blood of Fire cell in Lebanon, did some for-hire bombing work for them, got murdered a few months back.”

“So the Murads have played both sides.”

“Yes, but you wouldn’t know it to hear the CIA. They say they don’t have a file on the Murads, which beggars belief; they’ve been part of the Beirut underworld for two generations. My sources are two retired CIA field officers. And Mrs. Murad.”

“You talked with her.”

“She’s not speaking publicly, of course. And she could be trying to defend her family’s honor, say they’re not terrorists. But frankly, it’s more dangerous for her to link her family to the CIA than to Hezbollah. She said her husband mentioned he’d gotten a call from an old friend, big money for a favor.”

“Who’s the old friend?”

“She says he was an Englishman her husband knew years ago called the Dragon. Of course the CIA denies that they know, or have known, anyone by that code name. In fact, the CIA is no longer talking to me.”

The Dragon. She said, “Of course they’re putting distance and denying they know anything. Former hirelings of theirs attacking a Homeland office on American soil? It’s a PR nightmare. They won’t touch it.”

Former CIA informants, and now a mysterious Englishman from the Murads’ CIA days. “Why does someone hire a gang from Lebanon? You could just as easily find gunmen closer to home.”

“Quit asking hard-to-answer questions.”

She tapped her finger on the table. “They attacked an office that wasn’t even open yet. Very low payback for the effort put forth. Let’s say they get caught or killed. Arab gunmen attacking a Homeland office, it creates a different image in the media. That sounds like a terrorism attack. But this wasn’t.”

“Probably not.” She heard the investigator shuffling another file.

“So what were they after? They could have taken Kidwell if they wanted a Homeland officer. And if they wanted Ben Forsberg… why? What does he know, why is he valuable to them?”

“I don’t know. I’ll keep digging.”

“Maybe the only want was wanting everyone dead.”

It still didn’t tell her why. She thanked him and hung up. She wanted to sleep-she had gotten precious little of it last night-but she couldn’t shut her mind down.

She called Margaret Pritchard. “Did you find out about Sam Hector, if he was CIA?” she asked.

“I’ve got feelers out. Don’t get your hopes up for a speedy answer.” She sounded uninterested.

“Feelers?” Impatience churned in her chest. “Pardon me, Margaret, but can’t you just call the CIA director and ask?”

“Please. If he was CIA deep cover, they aren’t going to tell me.”

“They will if you tell them he’s a suspect in a Homeland agent’s death.”

“Sam Hector is hardly a suspect.”

She told Pritchard about the Murad/CIA connection, what Mrs. Murad had said about a man called the Dragon.

“I don’t care about an idiot called the Dragon. He sounds like an extra from a Bruce Lee film. I care about Randall Choate.”

“Choate and this Dragon are both ex-CIA. Hector is allegedly ex-CIA. We need to see if they’re connected.”

“You would make me proud if you would follow a straight line, Joanna.”

It sounded like a compliment she’d wish her mother would make instead of complaining. “You hired Hector to give us logistical and security support in hunting down the off-the-book operations. But could he have his own agenda in finding these groups? He could be using us to piggyback for his own purposes.”

Pritchard made a dismissive huff. “He could hardly plan for me hiring him.”

“Maybe he didn’t plan, until you hired him.”

Tick. Tick. Tick. The clock on the wall measured the wrath of Pritchard building. Maybe she knows she made a mistake in hiring Hector and she doesn’t want to admit it. It could be fatal for her career, Vochek thought.

Pritchard said, “He would hardly risk a lucrative business screwing up a government operation.”

“A businessman will do anything if he thinks the risk is worth the payoff. Who told you we had to go after the off-the-books groups?”

“That’s classified, but my directions came from a very senior person.”

“And Hector has millions in contracts with the government. He knows every senior person.”

“You’re making a presumptive jump.”

“Then test my theory. Find out about Hector. What are you afraid of?”

“Remember we work in a hierarchy, Agent Vochek,” Pritchard said coldly. “But if it will be of help to you, I’ll tug a bit harder on my fishing lines.” Pritchard hung up.

You’re stalling, Vochek thought. She could hear it in Pritchard’s tone. So either Pritchard knew more about Hector than she admitted, and didn’t want Vochek to know; or-far more frightening-Pritchard didn’t know about Hector’s background, and she had been played by him, and was refusing to see that she’d been played.

The phone rang. Ah, Hector hopefully. She answered her cell, frowning at the number-blocked readout on the screen.

“This is Vochek.”

“I hope you didn’t have a headache.”

Shock raced through her like steam through a pipe. She knew the voice instantly. The man at the hotel who had knocked her out, locked her in the closet.

“Yes. Hello.”

“I hope the headache’s past.”

“Nearly. I’d like to talk to you, Randall.” Her own voice sounded thin to her in the stillness of the room.

“Randall Choate is still dead. At least until you and I come to an agreement.”

“What are your terms?”

“Sam Hector goes down.”

Silence for ten long seconds. “Excuse me?”

“Hector hired the gunmen that killed your partner. One of his people killed Delia Moon and tried to kill Ben yesterday. We stole the guy’s car from him and it’s registered to a shadow company that’s connected to Hector.”

“I need details.”

“You’ll get them. When we meet. You come alone. Anyone else is there, I run, I don’t look back. Homeland gets nothing and you’re still hooked at the hip to a killer like Sam Hector.”

“I’m not sure I feel comfortable coming alone. You hit me in the head.”

“You tried to break my neck with a baton. Let’s forgive and forget.” She could almost hear the smile in his voice. “If I wanted you dead, you’d’ve been dead in Austin. I’m still waiting for the thank-you for saving your life by sticking you in that closet.”

She swallowed. “Thank you, Randall.”

“Soccer fields off Plano Parkway. Noon. Come alone. If I get a sense that you’ve brought company, I’m smoke.”

“Ben Forsberg. Is he all right?”

“Ben is okay.” Then she heard regret tinge Pilgrim’s words. “So you know-Ben is entirely innocent. He did not hire Nicky Lynch. I used his identity without his knowledge. But Hector’s tried to kill Ben multiple times in the past two days, so Ben’s shy right now. One more thing for you.”

“Yes?”

“I don’t have details, but if you’ve got any hot leads about a threat in New Orleans, take it seriously. That’s my Boy Scout moment.”

“New Orleans.”

“Yes.”

“Okay. Randall?”

“Yes?”

“I want to help you come in. I don’t want you or Ben hurt.”

“Words are cheap. See you at noon.” He hung up.

Well. Pilgrim’s offer could be genuine or it could be a trap. Protocol demanded that she inform her superior.

She hesitated. She was not by nature a rule-bender. But… she knew Pritchard. Pritchard would demand backup for Vochek and the immediate capture of Pilgrim. They would have an actual rogue CIA agent-tied to an actual dirty dog group-in their custody. Of course she might talk him into surrendering, but capture would guarantee he would be in their grasp.

And New Orleans-what did that mean? She had no idea if a threat had been identified against the city. It was a lead she couldn’t keep to herself, it would be grossly irresponsible. Decision made. She called Pritchard and explained the conversation.

“I’ll contact the New Orleans office, see if they have a hot situation working,” Pritchard said. “Of course it will be a bit difficult to attribute this warning to a man who’s been presumed dead for a decade. Are you willing to meet with him alone?” Pritchard asked.

“Yes.”

“I’m not willing to risk it. If he won’t surrender to you, then I want him followed.”

“He’ll spot a tail.”

“Not our people. I’m calling Secret Service in Dallas.”

“Not their jurisdiction.”

“Ah. But he said he stole Ben Forsberg’s good name. Identity theft and financial fraud are under Secret Service’s purview.”

“Please. Let me handle this. Alone.”

“We already lost Kidwell. We have no idea of what this man is capable of.”

“And the things he said about Sam Hector?”

The long silence returned. “I want to see the evidence that he has.”

“Should we put working with Hector on hold?”

“On this man’s word? Please.” On the phone, Vochek could hear the tap of Pritchard’s nail against the desk. “Evidence, Joanna. Let’s find the meat on the bone first.”