Three Weeks in Washington, page 2
part #3 of Titus Ray Series
Since the occupants had already been evacuated, there was no one inside the building.
From the look of things, everyone had left in a hurry. Weights were sitting out, towels were strewn across the carpet, and a treadmill in the middle of the room had been abandoned with its motor still running—traveling along the road to nowhere.
I told the shooter to take a seat on the floor and motioned for him to put his back up against the wall. He did as he was told, and I got the impression he was used to taking orders from people.
I sat down on a weight bench opposite him.
He pulled his knees up to his chest, put his head down, and locked his hands together in front of him, almost as if he were expecting me to cuff his hands in that position.
If I’d had any zip ties on me, I would have done exactly that.
Instead, I kept my gun pointed at him and showered him with kindness.
“You’re in a lot of trouble. You know that, don’t you?”
His head popped up, but he didn’t say anything.
When I repeated myself in Spanish, there was an immediate look of recognition in his eyes.
He nodded and said he understood. “Sí, lo sé.”
I explained—with a slight degree of exaggeration—what the federal authorities would do to him once they locked him up. My colorful description portrayed the type of punishment inflicted by a drug lord on a courier who failed to follow orders.
He grew more agitated with each horrific adjective.
“But,” I paused a second or two for emphasis, “... if you’re willing to cooperate with me, I won’t allow any of this to happen to you. You won’t be harmed.”
It didn’t take him long to make a decision. Within a few seconds, he’d agreed to do whatever I told him to do.
After finishing up these negotiations, I called Ben Mitchell.
* * * *
“Can you leave the Command Center and get over to Building 220 without drawing anyone’s attention?”
“Titus?”
“Yeah, it’s me. There’s someone I want you to meet. He’s at the Navy Fitness Center, but it’s best if this introduction stays between the three of us.”
“What are you doing here? The last I heard you were still in Oklahoma.”
“I’ll explain later. Can you get over here?”
“Who’s this mysterious person you want me to meet?”
“That’s not important right now. How soon can you get away from there?”
He sighed. “I’ll need at least ten minutes.”
“That works. When you turn onto 10th Street, stop off at Building 172 and grabbed the backpack in the doorway. As far as I can tell, it’s not hot.”
“As far as you can tell?” He lowered his voice. “Any chance that item belongs to the person I’m about to meet?”
“There’s a very good chance of that, and now you know why I want you to meet him.”
“Are you sure about this?”
“I am.”
“On my way.”
“Before you leave the Center, grab one of those blue shirts with the big yellow letters across the back of it and bring it with you.”
“Oh, sure. Are you looking for any particular size? Would you prefer cotton or polyester?”
He hung up before hearing my answer.
* * * *
While I waited for Mitchell to arrive, I had the shooter empty his pockets and answer a few questions.
He had nothing of significance on him—no ID or cell phone—and he responded to my grilling with a minimum of prodding.
He said his name was Felipe Arcos, and he was originally from Mexico. He told me he and Reyes, the other shooter, were students at the University of Arkansas in Fayetteville. When I asked him about what they were doing in Washington, he gave me some nonsensical story about visiting his aunt.
I decided not to press the issue.
I knew he’d eventually tell me the truth.
After a few minutes, I had him move over to a spot on the floor by the front windows. I wanted to keep him in my sights, while I kept an eye out for Mitchell.
Although I’d only known Mitchell a short time, I fully expected him to arrive at Building 220 without bringing the feds along with him. I didn’t believe he was the type of guy to betray a fellow operative.
While I was pretty sure I was right about that, I didn’t know the guy well enough to be certain of it.
Mitchell had been my contact at the embassy in San José, Costa Rica, when I’d arrived there to do a snatch and grab of Ahmed Al-Amin, a Hezbollah assassin who’d recently gunned down a fellow operative in Dallas, Texas. Unfortunately, things hadn’t gone exactly as planned in Costa Rica, and Ahmed had eluded my grasp and boarded a yacht for Venezuela.
After Ahmed had made his getaway, his bodyguards—a couple of members of a Mexican drug cartel—had tortured a CIA asset who knew Mitchell was an employee of the CIA. Because the Agency couldn’t take the chance Mitchell had been burned by the asset, they’d pulled him out of Costa Rica and brought him back to Langley.
Once Mitchell had arrived stateside, I’d convinced Carlton to vet him for Level 1 status—even though he’d only been with the Agency a short time and wasn’t really eligible for a change in status.
My motive in moving him to Level 1 status was to have him assigned as my partner for the run into Caracas to capture Ahmed.
Carlton had agreed to assess him for a status change, but he’d been surprised at my willingness to accept Mitchell as my partner.
My request had surprised me as well.
Usually, I preferred to work solo.
I’d found it was a lot less messy, and if I ended up getting killed, I wouldn’t have to answer to anyone for losing an operative during a mission.
However, from the moment I’d laid eyes on Mitchell, I’d seen something of myself in him—he was also a good-looking guy—and I’d observed several characteristics indicating he had a natural talent for doing clandestine work.
He wasn’t perfect, though, and he had several strikes against him. Besides his immaturity, the biggest obstacle he had to overcome was his father.
I’d been clueless about Mitchell’s genetic makeup when I’d first laid eyes on him in San José. However, when we’d met up again at Langley, I’d discovered his father was Senator Elijah Mitchell, the Chairman of the Senate Select Committee on Intelligence. He was also a member of several other congressional committees, including the Senate Armed Services Committee.
The Senator was a controversial figure, able to annoy both parties with equal enthusiasm, and he was known for his biting sarcasm and caustic wit. Controlling people appeared to be a passion with him, and the younger Mitchell had once told me he’d joined the CIA because he was certain his father’s reach couldn’t extend into the bowels of the Agency.
That wasn’t necessarily true, and I’d never told Mitchell what I’d discovered about his father’s influence at the Agency. Nor had I mentioned I’d actually met the Senator once in the Situation Room of the White House—not a pleasant encounter for either one of us.
Now, as I glanced at my watch and realized fifteen minutes had passed since I’d last spoken with Mitchell, I was beginning to get a little worried about that trust issue.
* * * *
Another five minutes passed—probably more like four—and then I spotted a Chevy Suburban slowly making its way down the block toward the Fitness Center. The windows were tinted black, and it was difficult to see inside.
It drew to a halt outside Building 172.
I immediately relaxed when I saw Mitchell jump out and grab the backpack from the doorway. Seconds later, he pulled up outside Building 220.
As he emerged from the vehicle, I noticed he’d recently gotten a haircut. On our run into Caracas, his dark brown hair had always looked disheveled, as if he’d just gotten out of bed. Now, his hair was shorter, making his boyish face appear more mature.
When he came through the doorway, he was carrying a dark blue shirt in his hand. Presumably, FBI was spelled out in yellow letters across the back of it.
He quickly surveyed the area, taking in Felipe, the AR-15, and the treadmill going full speed in the middle of the room.
“Now would be a good time to tell me what you’re doing.”
“What we’re doing,” I said, “is getting out of here.”
I pointed toward Felipe. “He gets the shirt. You do the driving, and I’ll give the orders from the back seat.”
Mitchell tossed the shirt toward Felipe. “Let’s hope there aren’t any CCTV cameras around here.”
I said, “We’re clear. I’ve already checked.”
I wasn’t sure how much of the conversation Felipe had understood, but, as soon as Mitchell threw the shirt at him, he put his arms through the sleeves and started fastening the buttons.
When he’d finished, I warned him. “Remember what I told you. If you cooperate with me, I’ll get you out of here alive, and los federales won’t be able to touch you. Just keep your mouth shut and try to relax.”
He assured me he was very relaxed. “Estoy muy tranquilo.”
That made one of us.
Chapter 3
Getting through the 9th Street gate was a breeze. The cops barely glanced inside the vehicle. If they’d done so, they might have questioned why a skinny young Hispanic kid, barely out of his teens, was wearing an official FBI shirt.
But they didn’t, and we cleared the compound easily.
The hardest part came next.
I called Carlton.
Communication Services put me through to him almost immediately, but when he came on the line, he sounded irritated.
“We’re still on lockdown, Titus.”
“I wasn’t calling to check on your status.”
“If you’re calling about additional intel, there’s not much of that either. The only thing I can tell you is that Katherine’s office has identified the second shooter. He’s—”
“Felipe Arcos. I know.”
“Yeah, that’s the guy. How did you know that?”
“That’s why I’m calling.”
I heard him take a deep breath. “I’m listening.”
“Ben Mitchell and I are with Mr. Arcos right now, and the thing is, we need a quiet place away from the crowds where the three of us can have a nice little chat.”
Carlton didn’t respond for several seconds, and when he did, I had to hold the phone away from my ear.
“Have you lost your mind?”
“That’s always up for debate. Listen, Douglas. I believe there’s a connection between the shooter at the Navy Yard and what we discussed a few days ago. For obvious reasons, I can’t go into those details right now.”
I saw Mitchell glance at me in the rearview mirror. From the look on his face, I thought he might be questioning my sanity as well.
Carlton said, “Well, in that case, Titus, what you’re doing is perfectly acceptable, and I’m sure the feds will see it that way and not haul you off in handcuffs.”
“I’m not unaware this sounds crazy, Douglas, but bear with me. I’ll give you a fuller explanation later, but right now, the most pressing issue is to find a location where we can sort everything out.”
I heard a rhythmic tapping noise, and I knew Carlton must be drumming on his desk with his Century Cross pen, the gold one he always carried with him, the one engraved with the words “special edition” on it.
I felt sure the irritating sound meant he was considering my request, so I tried to ignore it.
A few seconds later, he said, “Head out toward Arlington, and I’ll call you back in five minutes.”
When I hung up, I told Mitchell to get on the Beltway and take the Arlington exit. I wasn’t about to tell him anything else until we were alone. Even though Felipe didn’t seem to have more than a rudimentary grasp of the English language, I decided not to take any chances.
As promised, Carlton called me back within five minutes.
However, he asked to speak to Mitchell instead of me.
I wasn’t sure what that meant.
* * * *
As I listened to Mitchell’s side of the conversation, I paid close attention to his responses and tried to get a clue as to what Carlton might be telling him. All I heard were one-word answers and a bunch of “uh-huhs” strung together.
His facial expression also left me clueless.
Once Mitchell had hung up, he handed me back the phone without saying a word.
“What gives? Where are we headed?”
“He told me not to tell you anything until we got there.”
“Did he give you a reason for that nonsense?”
Mitchell laughed. “He said you probably wouldn’t agree with the location.”
There were times when Carlton tried to control his operatives by means of psychological games, and I wondered if this was one of those times.
On the other hand, Carlton could be so furious with me for snatching the shooter out from under the feds’ noses, he was about to turn me over to them.
I prodded Mitchell to give me more intel. “What are your thoughts about where we’re going?”
“The place sounds perfect to me, but it’ll take us at least forty-five minutes to get there.”
As Mitchell merged onto I-66, I calculated where we might be in forty-five minutes.
My thoughts were suddenly interrupted by Felipe announcing he was hungry. “Tengo hambre.”
Before I could say anything, Mitchell replied in Spanish. “Well, tough, kid. We don’t provide meals on this tour.”
Whether Mitchell wasn’t in the mood to coddle a shooter, or he’d decided to use his bad cop routine on Felipe, I wasn’t sure.
At any rate, I opted for the good cop role. “Hey, the guy’s hungry. Let’s stop somewhere and get him something to eat.”
Mitchell shrugged and took the next exit off the freeway. A few miles down the road, I spotted a truck stop, and he pulled in.
As I waited in the car with Felipe, Mitchell went inside to grab some burgers.
When I began assessing our surroundings, the synapses suddenly fired and the cerebral cortex went into overdrive. Something about the place looked familiar, and I remembered purchasing gas at the same truck stop several years ago. It was around Thanksgiving, and I’d just come in from a run into Pakistan.
Now, I knew exactly where Carlton was taking us.
* * * *
When Mitchell returned, I told him I needed to make a phone call and left him in the car with Felipe.
After walking a short distance away, I leaned against the bumper of an older model Buick and called Carlton’s personal cell phone. It was a number I seldom used, except in an emergency.
The phone rang four times before he finally answered it.
“Titus?”
“Yeah, it’s me.”
“So you worked it out?”
“You’re sending us out to The Meadows, aren’t you?”
“It was the only place that made sense.”
The Meadows, as Carlton always referred to it, was his ten-acre farm outside of Fairfax, Virginia. It was located about fifty miles from Langley.
After he’d gone to work for the Agency, he’d purchased the property for his wife Gladys when she’d refused to live anywhere in the D.C. area. At the same time, he’d also bought a townhouse near Langley to use when an operation was running hot, and he had to be on call.
However, after Gladys had suddenly passed away of a heart attack, Carlton had moved into the townhouse permanently.
He’d never sold the house in Fairfax, but, as far as I knew, he seldom spent a night there, leaving its upkeep in the hands of his live-in housekeeper and her husband.
Once a year, usually at Thanksgiving, he threw a big bash at his country estate, inviting Agency personnel, as well as a few academic types from Georgetown University.
I’d been on his guest list a few times, and although I hadn’t especially cared for the company, I’d always enjoyed the food.
I’d also visited The Meadows on one other occasion for an entirely different reason.
I said, “No, Douglas. The Meadows makes absolutely no sense. You need to find me a safe house, and, preferably, it needs to be one the feds can’t connect with you. Otherwise, when they realize I was the person who grabbed the shooter, you’ll be forced to take an early retirement.”
“What makes you think they’ll connect you with Felipe Arcos?’
“There were CCTV cameras all over that place, and I ran into Frank Benson before I spotted Felipe. It was because of Frank I managed to get into the compound in the first place.”
This revelation didn’t seem to faze him.
“All the more reason for you to get out to The Meadows and question the guy as quickly as possible. Once you get that done, I’ll make arrangements for Homeland Security to take custody of him.”
I could tell there was no talking him out of it, so I told him I’d call him back once I’d finished interrogating Felipe.
When I got back inside the Suburban, Mitchell handed me a large drink cup.
“They didn’t have any lemonade, so I just got you some ice water and a ton of lemon slices.”
“Thanks, I can improvise.”
“Isn’t that what you’ve been doing all day?”
* * * *
The Meadows was located off Fairfax County Parkway, about ten miles southwest of Fairfax and a mile from Piney Branch Creek.
The first time I’d seen the property had been back when Gladys was still alive. It was in the summertime, around this same time of year, and even now I could remember how unassuming the house had looked when I’d first seen it from the access road.
The view had been spectacular as I’d driven up to the house with the sunlight breaking through the canopy of foliage. However, as I’d pulled in the circle drive in front of the two-story brick monstrosity, I’d remembered Gladys’ phone call and the way she’d described the place to me when she’d invited me out for a visit.
