Red Right Hand

28.

THE HOOVER BUILDING was a nest disturbed. Stuffed beyond capacity. Brimming with activity. Every phone, printer, and photocopier clamoring at once. The HVAC system couldn’t keep up. The whole building smelled like overloaded electronics and unwashed bodies. With the threat of future attacks looming, none of them were willing to abandon their posts for long enough to shower or change their clothes, much less get some sleep.

O’Brien had moved her best agents from their offices to a conference room, the table buried beneath a foot-high layer of paper. “This represents every ounce of intel we have on Khalid Waheeb, Ahmed Muhammad Bakr, and Fazul Abdullah al-Nasr,” she’d said. “Most of it is out of date. Some of it is doubtless inaccurate. But we’re going to sift through every page anyway, because that’s what NSB’s asked us to do. So grab a stack and get to work.”

They all knew it was a shit detail, that if there were anything worth finding in these documents, NSB would be combing through them instead of handing them off. But they buckled down and dug in anyway. Like it or not, that was the job.

They’d been at it for hours when Thompson’s phone rang. It took a moment for her to locate her cell in the mess. It was wedged between a pile of phone records and some credit card receipts that in turn were hidden from view by the open lid of a pizza box.

Caller ID was no help. It was an unfamiliar number, no name attached.

“Thompson here.”

“Tell me you sent them.”

“Who is this?” she asked sharply enough that O’Brien cocked an eyebrow at Thompson over her laptop.

“You know damn well who this is.”

Jesus. It was Hendricks. She got up from the table. Turned her back to O’Brien. Dropped her voice to just above a whisper. Ducked out of the conference room and headed down the hall. “How the hell did you get this number?”

“What are you talking about? You gave it to me.”

“And you refused to take it.”

“No. I took your number. All I left behind was the card you wrote it on.” He sounded out of breath, Thompson realized, like he was on the move. “Now-did you send them?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Five minutes ago, a team of men in body armor stormed a house in the Presidio and captured Frank Segreti. I need to know if they’re law.”

Thompson opened the door to the stairwell. It banged shut behind her once she stepped through. “Someone captured Frank Segreti?” She winced at how loud her voice sounded, amplified by the stairway’s bare concrete.

“I’ll take that as a no, then.”

“No,” she whispered. “I didn’t send anyone. I wish to hell I had the clout to. The fact is, you were my last hope, and, as I recall, you turned me down. What changed your mind?”

“Nothing changed my mind,” he said. “I gave you deniability, and gave myself some room to breathe. But now that someone’s got Segreti, I can’t afford to keep you out of the loop.”

“What else can you tell me about these guys?”

“Not much,” Hendricks said. “Although it’s possible they’re taking orders from a man claiming to be law enforcement.”

“This guy got a name?”

“Probably.”

“How about a description?”

“I haven’t seen him personally, but I’m told he’s older. Deeply tanned. Fondness for cowboy boots and turquoise jewelry.”

“My God. That sounds like Chet Yancey.”

“Who’s Chet Yancey?”

“The good ol’ boy I worked under when I graduated from Quantico.”

“Wait. You’re saying he was-”

“-special agent in charge of the Albuquerque field office when Segreti walked in.”

“Motherfucker,” Hendricks said. “I think we just found your mole.”

“Sounds like. He left the Bureau shortly after the safe house was compromised. I hear he’s some kind of bigwig at Bellum Industries now.”

“That explains the men in body armor. He’s got a goddamn private army at his disposal.”

“Is Yancey with Segreti?”

“Not yet, but he’s on his way. Which means Segreti’s running out of time.”

“Listen, Michael, I’m really glad you-”

But Thompson didn’t bother finishing her thought because Hendricks had already disconnected.

When she left the stairwell to head back to the conference room, O’Brien was waiting for her in the hallway. “What the hell was that about?”

“What do you mean?”

“When your phone rang, you leaped out of your seat like you’d been zapped with a cattle prod. You onto something?”

“No, I…” Thompson began, color rising in her cheeks. “It was Jess.”

“I thought Jess was backpacking through Costa Rica with her new boyfriend.”

“She was. She is. But she got sick of camping, so they shacked up someplace with a TV for the night. When she saw the news, she called.”

O’Brien was skeptical. “That warranted your leaving the room?”

“Oh, you know Jess. High drama. High volume. I figured I’d spare everybody the distraction.”

O’Brien fell silent for a moment, her face set in a frown. “Charlie, this is me you’re talking to. I know you. There’s something you’re not telling me.”

Thompson took O’Brien’s hands in hers. Looked her in the eye. “There’s not.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

O’Brien seemed mollified. “Listen, I just got word from the director. Apparently, Bellum Industries is taking over the investigation. We’ve been instructed to coordinate with them from here on out.”

“You’re kidding me.”

“I wish I were. Anyway, I’m told Chet Yancey’s their top guy on the ground. We’re tracking down his number now. You mind sitting in on the call?”

“Me? Why?”

“You know the guy. I don’t. But if it’s a problem-”

“No. Of course not. Count me in.”