Retribution Page 11

  Drenna’s chest tightened. “Care to elaborate?”

  “As you know, we were running on the assumption that Petrov and the others were taken out by the drone.”

  “Correct.”

  “I guess that’s why they call him the Phantom. Based on the information we have now, I think it’s possible he was never there. We were played like fools.”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Drenna felt all the blood drain from her face. Even though she had theorized that the Phantom might still be alive, it was still shocking to hear someone confirm that it was true. It was also humbling. She had been the de facto leader of the operation, and she had given the authorization to act on the intelligence they had received.

  “Looking back, we should’ve known it was all too easy,” Driscoll said. “They call Petrov the Phantom for a reason. The guy lives in the shadows and only comes out when he absolutely has to.”

  “You’re not wrong, although you and I both know that’s often how these things happen. We keep our eyes and ears open, waiting for the bad guys to make a mistake. And sometimes they do, even the best of them.” She paused. “Look, the NSA takes a lot of heat—and in some cases it’s deserved—but when it comes to electronic surveillance, they’re the best.”

  “The communications they intercepted were legitimate. But it was all a ruse.”

  “Why would they do that? Why not remain out of sight?”

  “Petrov knew we were hot on their tail, so what better way to take off the heat than to stage his own death? They send out a series of messages that indicate they’re going to be in a very specific place at a very specific time, but instead of going themselves, they send a bunch of their own men—low-level expendables—in expensive cars. Then during the standoff, they order those men to start firing missiles at a residential area, knowing there’s a good chance we’ll respond with lethal force.”

  Drenna had to admit it made sense. In the months prior to the intercepted communications, the CIA and MI6 were hot on the trail of Petrov and his associates, and the Russian probably knew that. While he was certainly adept at disappearing when he had to, he might have felt the only way to remove the pressure was to stage his own death. Yes, they would lose a lot of assets, but it would allow Petrov and his leadership team to escape and live to fight another day.

  “In a strange twist of irony, it’s the same thing a certain CIA assassin is doing right now,” Driscoll said.

  “So how did you find out they were still alive?” she asked.

  “I need to send you something. I assume you’re using a burner.”

  “Of course.”

  “Does it have MMS capability?”

  “It does.”

  “Give me a second.”

  Drenna took a sip of coffee as she waited for the incoming text. The news about Montenegro had opened up another possibility. What if Nikita Petrov had sent the hit team to kill her? That might explain why the assassins had been told to make it look like an accident. If it had been an obvious murder attempt, an investigation would ensue. And if an investigation ensued, authorities might very well follow the crumbs back to the Russian.

  Still, something didn’t seem quite right. How had Petrov even known she was involved in the operation to bring him down? Drenna worked in black ops, and her identity had always been kept a secret. And even if he had somehow been tipped off that she was involved, how had he known where to find her? The latter question was particularly unsettling, since they had never run across any intelligence that would suggest he had access to that kind of information. Was there a mole operating in the US government?

  Her phone pinged with an incoming text.

  “It’s a short video clip,” Driscoll said after coming back on the line. “Take a look at it and let me know what you think.”

  Drenna put the phone on Speaker then looked at the screen. A text had just arrived, and the MP4 file attached was labeled CCTV-NF. She tapped on the file, and a thumbnail appeared that depicted a busy sidewalk in the evening. As Drenna studied the image more closely, she guessed it was probably a city in Europe. The buildings on either side were adorned with pastel shutters typical of those found throughout the southern part of the continent. Spain, France, and Italy were three countries that came to mind.

  “You there?” Driscoll asked.

  “Yes, I’m getting ready to look at it now.”

  Drenna hit Play and watched as people walked in and out of view. Many of the women carried shopping bags, an indication the footage was taken in a retail district. Drenna tried to examine the faces that passed by, but there were too many to keep track of. The video ended after seventeen seconds.

  “I didn’t see anyone who looks even remotely like Nikita Petrov.”

  “I didn’t say to look for Petrov. Play it again, and this time, watch for a bloke wearing a newsboy cap.”

  Newsboy cap. Drenna vaguely remembered seeing a man wearing a hat of some kind, although she couldn’t specifically say it was a newsboy cap.

  She played the video again. About eight seconds in, a man wearing a gray newsboy cap came around the corner. She hit Pause and studied his features. Although it was difficult to tell from the image, he appeared to be around six feet tall. He had a thin build and a thin face to go along with it. His deep-set eyes were partially obscured by a pair of dark eyeglasses.

  Drenna thought that she had seen the man before, but it certainly wasn’t Petrov. Petrov had distinctive ears and extensive burn scars on his right cheek. The latter had come when he was injured in a bomb blast almost twenty years ago.

  “Do you see him?” Driscoll asked.

  “Yes, who is it?”

  “Our favorite Afrikaner.”

  Jacques Botha. Of course. A former banker from Cape Town, he was responsible for laundering Nikita Petrov’s funds around the globe. Botha wasn’t physically imposing, but he was known to be a cruel and ruthless man with psychopathic tendencies. It was widely assumed that if anything ever happened to Petrov, Botha would be the most likely candidate to take his place, even if it meant killing those in his way.

  Like the others, his body was thought to have been incinerated by the drone strike in Montenegro. And yet there he was, walking down a busy city street.

  “When was this taken?” Drenna asked.

  “Three days ago.”

  “Where is he?”

  “Nice, France.”

  Drenna would never have expected a man like Botha to surface in the French Riviera. Like Petrov, he was a man who generally stayed in the back alleys and rough neighborhoods of small towns in Africa, the Middle East, and Eastern Europe. Maybe Botha had chosen the South of France for that very reason, she thought. No one would think to look for him there.

  “I’m impressed,” she finally said. “How did you find him?”

  “Pure luck,” Driscoll admitted. “I got a text from the Bear about a week ago. He claimed one of his men had seen Botha on two occasions in Nice.”

  Although she had never worked with him, Drenna was quite familiar with the Bear. He was a Russian informant who was on the payroll of both MI6 and the CIA. He had ties to a number of gangs and criminal organizations across Europe, which gave him access to valuable information. Drenna had once been told the Bear was paid well into the six figures for the intelligence he provided.

  “Did the Bear’s man follow him?” Drenna asked.

  “No, he didn’t. I tried to get more information, but the Bear went silent. He’s currently working undercover, so it’s likely he just surfaced long enough to reach out to me.”

  “You sure it was the Bear and not another smokescreen?”

  “Yes, it was him,” Driscoll said. “He used an authentication code.”

  “So he sent you this footage?”

  “No, he simply passed along the intel. I had a colleague back at Vauxhall Cross hack into the CCTV network, and he ran several days of footage through our facial-recognition software.”

  Vauxhall Cross was a
nother name for MI6 headquarters in London.

  “Where are you now?”

  “In Nice. We arrived yesterday.”

  “Does DGSI know you’re poking around in their neighborhood?”

  DGSI was the acronym for the General Directorate for Internal Security, the French intelligence service responsible for locating and combating potential threats on French soil.

  “No. The only ones who know we’re here are me, my two men, and Andy. For now, we’re keeping this whole thing under wraps.”

  “If Botha is alive, then I think we have to assume that Petrov is alive as well,” Drenna said. “Have you found evidence that Petrov is there in Nice?”

  “Not yet, but we came across a valuable piece of information that gets us one step closer to finding him. And before you ask, I can’t tell you about it over the phone.”

  Drenna wondered what could be so sensitive that it couldn’t be shared over the phone. Even so, she didn’t press the issue. “I understand. You can just fill me in when I get there.”

  A long moment of silence fell over the line.

  “Surely, you’re kidding,” Driscoll finally said.

  “No, I’m not. You and I started this hunt, and now we’re both going to finish it.”

  “I thought you were trying to stay out of sight.”

  “No one is looking for me. They all think I’m dead, even Petrov. And even if someone suspects I’m alive, they certainly won’t be looking for me in France.”

  “Let us check things out first before you come over. It’s possible this lead won’t go anywhere.”

  “Not a chance. This is personal, Simon. You know that. Even if Petrov isn’t in Nice, I want to be there to take down Botha. He’s probably the one who paid the assassins who killed Trevor.”

  “We don’t even know if there is a connection between Petrov’s organization and this hit team who came after you.”

  Drenna wasn’t going to engage in an endless debate. “I’ll see you tomorrow or the day after at the latest.”

  “I see you’re not going to be talked out of it. Since you’re obviously not being funded by Langley anymore, I assume you could use some help in finding accommodations. Shall I ring the front desk and have them send some extra pillows to my room?”

  The man was an insufferable flirt.

  “No, have the concierge bring one up, place it over your face, then press down really, really hard.”

  Smiling, she disconnected the call.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CIA Headquarters

  Langley, Virginia

  Mack Delgado arrived at the George Bush Center for Intelligence just before five a.m. He needed to take care of some very important business before he and partner Gabe Corbin met with Nathan Sprague at seven to discuss their next assignment. Sprague didn’t provide much preliminary information in his email, but he did say they would be working with the NIS, the Greek National Intelligence Service, on a matter related to Cyprus.

  Delgado was no authority on the island nation, but he was certainly familiar with the ongoing conflict there. The Republic of Cyprus—the internationally recognized government that was closely aligned with Greece—had legal sovereignty over the entire territory, but they only held practical control over the southern and western parts of the island. The northern part was controlled by Turkish Cypriots, who were widely known to be a puppet regime of Turkey.

  Control of the island was one of several issues that had fanned the flames of hostilities between Greece and Turkey. Even though neither country had legal standing on the island, both were actively involved in protecting the interests of the Cypriots they were aligned with. Delgado had recently heard rumors that if the ongoing talks failed, Turkey would consider annexing the northern territory, an act that could escalate tensions to the point of war.

  But it wasn’t Cyprus that occupied Delgado’s thoughts as he entered CIA headquarters. His focus was on the possibility that Drenna Steel was alive. He had come in early in hopes that valuable information would be waiting on his computer. He had reached out to a friend the day before, a friend who had access to an intelligence tool that could confirm that the agency’s most-decorated assassin was still alive.

  After taking the elevator to the fourth floor, Delgado went straight to the break room for an infusion of caffeine. Normally, he stopped for coffee on the way in, but it was so early that even the local Starbucks hadn’t opened yet. So instead of sipping a premium brew, he was forced to make a cup using the single-serve coffee maker that most of his colleagues avoided like the plague. Delgado said a prayer before taking the first sip. He could only imagine the bacteria that must be swimming around inside the seldom-cleaned machine.

  Coffee in hand, he crossed the hall and entered a rectangular room the size of four tennis courts. It served as the operations officer command center, a place where field agents could get work done while in between overseas assignments. The floor was a sea of cubicles, with the larger ones reserved for officers of higher rank.

  Across the room was a series of tinted windows that looked out on the thick forest at the rear of the complex. Massive flat-screen televisions hung on the other three walls. Each one displayed a live feed from a news outlet somewhere around the world. To create a quieter work environment, the audio could be accessed only via wireless earpieces that were assigned to each employee.

  Delgado sipped the rancid coffee as he skirted the maze of cubicles. The room was mostly dark, with the only light coming from several of the television screens that had been left on overnight. As best he could tell, he was the only one there, and that suited him just fine. The last thing he needed was to get approached by someone while doing what he came to do.

  As a senior operations officer, Delgado had been given one of the large cubicles on the row nearest the windows. After reaching it, he sat down at his desk and turned on his computer. As he waited for it to boot up, he noticed a red light blinking on his secure line. The screen indicated two messages were waiting.

  Maybe it’s Brad.

  He hit Play and listened.

  Seconds later, a female voice spoke through the speaker. “Hey, it’s me. I haven’t seen you lately. Hope everything is okay. I guess you’re probably out on assignment.”

  Courtney Nash. Delgado swore softly at the sound of her voice. She was a competent operations officer, but her attempts at starting a relationship were growing old. She had no social life and therefore used Langley as her personal dating pond. Unfortunately, she saw Delgado as the biggest fish in that pond.

  “I wanted to see if you wanted to grab lunch and catch up. I found this awesome Thai place in Falls Church and—”

  Delgado erased the message. He would deal with her later.

  A moment later, the second message played. The speaker had a deep male voice. “Is this the man who only calls when he needs something?”

  Delgado immediately recognized the voice as that of NSA analyst Brad Klacik.

  “Anyway, I have to run, so I’ll make this quick. I used my little tool to go through CCTV footage at the locations you gave me,” Klacik continued. “As you can imagine, it picked up quite a few hits. There were several hundred females total.”

  Delgado gave a little groan of dissatisfaction. He didn’t have time to go through hours of footage, since he and Corbin might have to travel to Greece soon.

  “But here’s the good news,” Klacik said. “I entered a few parameters that culled that list down substantially. I then went through some of those myself, and I found one in particular you may want to look at. Check your inbox.”

  As if on cue, Delgado’s computer chimed, indicating it was powered up and ready to go.

  “You owe me big-time, buddy, but we can discuss that later.”

  Delgado saved the message then turned to the computer screen. Using the wireless mouse, he opened an incognito tab on the browser. He and Klacik shared an email account that they used to exchange sensitive information. Delgado would contact his
friend at the NSA whenever he was working on something off the books, and the joint account ensured that the information could be transmitted away from the prying eyes of others.

  After signing in to the account, Delgado opened the draft folder. Inside, he found an unsent email that contained a brief message and two attachments. The attachments were MP4 video files that were labeled Master Compilation and North Glebe. Delgado assumed the Master Compilation file contained CCTV footage of all females at each location during the specified time. That meant the other file was the one Klacik had referred to in the voice mail.

  Before viewing the video, Delgado opened the email and read the message from Klacik.

  Take a look at the woman in the North Glebe attachment. You’ll see her walk out of the parking deck wearing a wide-brimmed hat and sunglasses. I find that a little interesting because the footage was taken around five o’clock on an overcast day. Maybe there’s nothing to it. Then again, maybe there is. Anyway, what’s even more interesting is what happens after she comes out. Let me know what you think.

  Delgado’s pulse quickened. He had asked Klacik to look at several locations where Drenna Steel might show up, including a one-block area along North Glebe Road in Arlington. Whenever she had wanted to meet outside of CIA headquarters, she usually suggested a coffee shop in the Glebe Food Hall. She had told him it was her favorite place to go whenever she needed to get away from the office.

  After reading the message one more time, Delgado opened the MP4 file and hit Play. The camera seemed to be aimed at the entrance to a parking deck directly across the street from the food hall. As the footage began, a car pulled up to the barrier-gate arm. Someone reached out of the driver’s-side window and swiped a card across the sensor, and the barrier-gate arm lifted in response.

  Minutes later, a woman strode out of the dark interior of the parking deck. She wore a wide-brimmed hat and bug-eye sunglasses. Both would have been appropriate at the beach or a horse derby, but both seemed out of place in downtown Arlington on an overcast day. Still, he knew people often did strange things.