Unmanned

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Steve’s IntelPro source always insisted on meeting at Tark’s Grill, a watering hole where the happy hour crowd made enough noise to cloak any conversation. He demanded that Steve wear a jacket and tie so they wouldn’t look like such an unlikely pairing. Steve, who’d made the mistake of revealing this detail to Barb and Keira, now kept a blazer and tie in his car rather than tip them off every time he had a rendezvous.

The ground rules for these meetings were simple. Steve could use the Source’s information however he pleased, but it could never be attributed in any way, shape, or form to IntelPro. In other words, under the journalistic rules Steve and his colleagues played by, it was fit to print only if they verified it elsewhere. In addition, whenever possible in these public conversations they avoided using each other’s names, or those of their colleagues, favoring instead a rough code of initials and euphemisms.

Tark’s was just north of the Baltimore Beltway, a long drive from Middle River and a short one from Hunt Valley. Yet it was Steve who was always punctual, while the Source invariably arrived exactly five minutes late, as if he’d been sitting in the parking lot eyeing his Bremont chronometer until just the right moment.

On entry he never failed to convey an air of having reached the southernmost limit of his tolerance for all things urban, as if this was as close to the city center as he ever cared to travel. That was the vibe Steve got from most of Tark’s clientele — old-line locals who had grown up in Baltimore’s best neighborhoods, then migrated to the ’burbs to raise families in exile, comforted by the county’s lower taxes, safer streets, and neighbors who looked just like them. He guessed that at least half the males present had once played lacrosse for a local private school.

This time Steve was running late. He pulled up the parking brake and rummaged in the glove compartment for his tie among maps and repair invoices. Some of the paperwork was from more than a decade ago, when the car was new and so was his marriage. Jill, his ex, lived in Takoma Park with a new husband. Steve sort of kept up with her on Facebook, while wondering if she did the same. Not that he ever posted anything.

The hostess took him to a pedestal table near the bar, where a “Reserved” placard staked out their usual spot in the middle of a yammering mob. The music was deafening. The Source always made a reservation under the name Langley, his idea of a joke. And there he was now, coming through the door with a smile for the hostess, greeting her by name, the amiable and silver-maned Mr. Langley, in a pressed gray suit, white shirt, and red tie, shooting his cuffs as he approached the table. He slid onto the facing chair, ordered an outrageously expensive single malt Scotch — which Steve would have to pay for from his meager budget — and got down to business.

“I take it your natives are restless, Old Pro.”

Steve, unable to hear him over the din, leaned closer.

“What’s that?”

“I said, I take it your natives are restless.” He was practically shouting.

“Why shouldn’t they be?” Steve shouted back. “You fucked us over in not telling us about Mansur.”

His use of Mansur’s name was an intentional breach of protocol, for shock value, although the Source took it in stride.

“Did what about Mansur?”

“Fucked us over!”

The Source smiled and leaned back, mouthing “Moi?” as he spread his arms wide. Steve was about to answer when the waitress arrived with the Scotch and a bowl of nuts. She disappeared before taking Steve’s order.

“Yes, you,” Steve prodded. “How ’bout an explanation?”

“A what?”

“You heard me.”

The Source leaned across the table.

“You know how it works between us, Old Pro. Give some to get some. A two-way street.”

This was another ground rule, one that Steve had never dared mention to Barb and Keira. As part of the arrangement, Steve provided updates on the progress of their investigation, including a summary of what his colleagues were up to. It made him uneasy, but it was the only way the Source would agree to keep talking.

“Not much to report, other than the arrival of the pilot,” Steve said. “B ran the tags on your vehicle. That’s how we learned it was your guys holding Mansur.”

“We were transporting him, not holding him. Important distinction.”

“And now you’ve moved him. K checked this morning and the whole place was cleared out, furniture and everything. They even left the door ajar.”

“Of course we moved him. You’d compromised his safety.”

“So a reporter can scare him away, but not the FBI?”

“They know where to find him.”

“That’s not what we heard.”

“Use your head, Old Pro. It would hardly be a secure arrangement if the Bureau wasn’t in on it.”

“Secure from what?”

“From whom would be the better question.”

“Our main man?”

“It’s all right. These drunks will never notice if you use his name.” He grinned smugly. “Even his real one. Wade Castle.”

So the Source had known the name all along. It rankled, but it would be useless to complain, so Steve instead pushed for more.

“An Agency source of ours doesn’t seem to think Mansur is being held for his own protection. And he’s pretty certain the Bureau doesn’t know about it.”

The reference to Bickell’s information was also supposed to raise an eyebrow, but the Source again took it in stride.

“What makes you so sure the Agency really wants to find Mansur, much less old Wade Castle? Tell me, on your little visit to Lake Woggawogga, or whatever they call it up in New Hampshire, did your friend with the dirty fishing boat surprise you by being more helpful than expected?”

Who had told him all this? Somewhere there was a leak, either among themselves or among their sources.

“How do you know about that?”

“I know all sorts of things. The hidden ball trick. How to smash a trachea with a rolled-up newspaper.”

“Then why should I tell you anything?”

“Because that’s our arrangement. You haven’t answered my question.”

“Yes, he was helpful.”

“Which should tell you what?”

“Disinformation?”

“Eureka. You begin to see the light. People like him are very squeamish and virginal about people like me. He probably ranted on and on about green badgers and blue badgers, didn’t he?”

True enough. But Bickell’s info on Mansur had certainly been more helpful than any recent offerings from the Source. The problem, Steve supposed, was that both men might have good reason to lead a trio of journalists astray. The Source leaned forward again, this time until their foreheads were almost touching. The music rose to a throb, and there was an explosion of laughter from the bar.

“I can see that you’re conflicted, Old Pro. Totally at sea. Let me clarify the situation. The story is the same as it’s been from the beginning. Wade Castle has gone rogue, and his employers are still covering for him. So please get your partners — carnal or not — into line on that as soon as possible.”

“My colleagues will pursue any line of inquiry they choose, and we’re not fucking.”

“You should freshen your drink, Old Pro. You get testy when you fall behind.”

“Stop calling me Old Pro. And the waitress never took my order.”

The Source frowned.

“My goodness. You’re absolutely right.”

He held aloft his right hand and nodded.

“It’s not important,” Steve said, but she was already on her way.

“A beer for this gentleman, please. Something worthy and on tap.”

She smiled and disappeared.

“Bickell said Castle’s in-country,” Steve said.

“So even they’re admitting it, now? Interesting.”

“You knew that?”

The Source shrugged.

“We hear things. Sometimes it’s hard to know what to believe.”

“He seems to think Castle’s been misunderstood, that he’s a whistleblower on a crusade.”

“More damage control.”

“Bickell didn’t seem like the type to spout the company line.”

“It’s part of his charm. The wronged man, so therefore he must be telling the truth. And to his mind I’m sure it feels that way.”

“A lot of it adds up.”

“Cover stories usually do. Tell me, when’s the last time you heard of an Agency asset — a legitimate one — working a domestic operation?”

“Point taken.”

“Point taken? I believe that’s what is commonly known as news. You should be doing backflips of joy. It’s illegal as hell, what he’s up to. The fucking cherry on top of your story, unless you wait so long that someone else eats it, or the whole thing melts away. Which is what will happen if you let those two women lead you down a false trail. What’s the matter — worried that if you don’t play along they’ll fuck the pilot first?”

“Go to hell.”

The waitress arrived with his beer. Steve slid it away, sloshing foam down the sides of the glass.

“Calm yourself, Old Pro. Your instincts are sound, always have been. Look, does my shop stand to make a tidier sum if certain people who don’t like us dirty their reputations? Well of course. But that doesn’t change the basic facts.”

“Give me something fresh, then. Something we can use.”

“How ’bout asking a question first?”

“All right. What do you know about other ops he screwed up, yours included?”

“What’s the matter, thirteen lives aren’t enough for you? Plus those other bodies your friend B says she saw?”

“Why hold out on me unless he interfered with something you weren’t supposed to be doing?”

“Sounds like a Bickell theory. Muddying the water again.”

“Then clear it up for me, starting with who his handlers were, who’s covering for him, and why. Names, dates, and places, the more the better. Proof. Proof and verification. Because we can’t just go with a hunch like you guys.”

The Source looked thrown off his stride for the first time, and he sipped his Scotch before answering.

“I can’t do your job for you.”

“Then what about those ex-Agency jocks working at your training facility? B says there are two of them, and they were both connected to Castle.”

“And she wants access?”

“Of course.”

He gave it some thought. Nodded.

“I’ll do what I can. But it can’t be by phone.”

“She’ll go wherever she has to. In fact, we may be moving soon. To a place on the Eastern Shore, not too far from your facility. I’m fighting it, but it’s rent free, so don’t get bent out of shape if it comes to pass.”

The Source narrowed his eyes but didn’t raise an objection. Steve, who’d been worried about how he might react, was relieved to get that revelation out of the way.

“As long as that’s all there is to it. I can even arrange a tour of our entire training complex if it will cool any unwarranted curiosity. But the minute your people start trying to sneak a peek behind my back, our whole arrangement’s off. Understand, Old Pro?”

“Yes.”

“What else?”

“Tell me about this new executive of yours, the one you hired right out of the Air Force.”

“Boardman? You’re losing focus again. What about him?”

“The pilot says Boardman was wired in directly to the Predator program.”

“Meaning?”

“That’s what we’d like to know.”

The Source shook his head. “Look, does your friend B want access to those contacts or not?”

“Sure she does.”

“Then stay on topic.”

“Fine. What can you tell me about the name Lancer?”

The Source frowned.

“As in Prancer and Dancer? You chasing magic reindeer now?”

“It’s a code name.”

“I gathered as much, but not one I’m familiar with. Where’d you hear it, in what context?”

“What does it matter, if you’ve never heard it?”

“Give some to get some, Old Pro.”

“I just gave you Lancer.”

“Worthless without context.”

Steve sighed, looked at his beer. He pulled it toward him, then pushed it away. He sensed that the Source had already given out all he was likely to offer today, and Steve wasn’t in the mood for chitchat, or for any further lectures on where they should direct their energies.

“So is that all for now?” he asked.

“Not from your end, I hope. What is the lovely K up to?”

Steve stood to go.

“The beer’s all yours. So is the tab.”

“Fine, Old Pro. But if you think I’m a bit of a bastard for trying to keep your colleagues on the straight and narrow, try to imagine how insistent your friend in New Hampshire might become. Or his friends. Trust me, if their ilk ever starts shouting ‘Stop the presses!’ they won’t do it nicely.”

Steve edged around the table, leaning closer to hear better.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Don’t worry, I’m sure they know the unbreakable rule.”

“What rule?”

“The one the Mob always talks about. Kill a cop if necessary, but never a reporter. The problem for you is that one of their people has stopped playing by the rules, and they’re apparently fine with that. Which reminds me, you haven’t asked the one question you always bring to this table. Aren’t you interested in the latest whereabouts of Fort1?”

“Back in the country, we covered that.”

“A little vague, don’t you think?”

“You know more?”

“Like I said, we hear things. But only if you’re interested.” The Source gestured toward the empty chair. Steve stepped around the table and sat back down. “There’s a trail of sorts. Traces, here and there. The last one we picked up was right down I-95, Northern Virginia, practically in Langley’s back yard. Little more than an hour’s drive from your place, if you’re not fool enough to try it at rush hour. And if he’s been tasked to clean up after himself, his laundry list is going to include you and everyone else in your little love shack. I’d like to help you avoid any calamity, of course. But only if the arrangement continues to be reciprocal.”

“You’re getting all I can give you in good conscience.”

“Yes, I thought you’d say something like that. I wonder what your conscience will say if one of your colleagues drives her car off the Bay Bridge. Not that I won’t still be available to you. It’s not my choice for you to go it alone.” He stood, gave a farewell nod to the waitress, and began edging away from the table. “Oh, and leave her a nice tip, Old Pro. She’s been very attentive.”

Then he strolled away, pausing only to say good-bye to the hostess as he pushed through the crowd and out the door. Steve, furious and troubled, wanted to chase him down, follow him all the way to the parking lot if necessary to demand more answers, more information. But that would probably end the relationship. So he kept his seat and tried to calm down, his mind racing in a dozen different directions.

Was Castle a genuine threat, or was the Source just trying to keep them in line? And if the former was true, was there a damn thing they could do about it, short of asking IntelPro to post a sentry?

He looked at his beer glass. Bubbles were rising to the top, but the head was gone. What he really needed now was something stronger, but this would have to do. He sipped, then swallowed. Then he drained half the glass in one long pull before setting it back down, wondering what the hell was he going to tell the others.