Hunter dh-1 Read online

  Hunter

  ( Dylan Hunter - 1 )

  Robert Bidinotto

  Hunter

  Robert Bidinotto

  PART I

  “Justice is that virtue of the soul which is distributive according to desert.”

  - Aristotle, Metaphysics

  ONE

  Dulles International Airport

  Monday, March 17, 11:45 a.m.

  Today she would finally nail the bastard.

  Annie Woods watched the traitor’s cab thread through the jam of courtesy vans and pull to the curb. The right rear door opened and he emerged. She slowed her own tailing car to a crawl.

  Looking edgy, the man scanned the vehicles around him. Masked only by her sunglasses, she held her breath as his gaze slid right past her. Then he leaned back inside the cab, pulled out a rolling carry-on suitcase, and slammed the door shut. He wheeled it behind him, heading into the terminal. Through the building’s soaring windows she saw him make his way to the rear of a long line of passengers snaking toward the ticket counter.

  She squeezed the Agency’s Taurus in behind a departing vehicle and leaped out. She flipped open her CIA credentials and held them in her outstretched hand as she approached a young state trooper directing traffic.

  “Sir, we’ve got a national-security situation here,” she said. “I’m Ann Woods, with a federal task force following a criminal suspect. He’s just entered the terminal.”

  He squinted at her ID. “Nobody told me anything about this.”

  At that moment, two midnight-blue Crown Vics and a black Suburban pulled up beside them. Doors flew open and nine men in dark suits spilled out, quickly assembling behind the SUV. The trooper’s mouth fell open.

  “Please alert airport security,” she continued. “Tell them they’re not to interfere or approach the ticket area until we give the all-clear.”

  The startled trooper nodded, then moved off, radioing it in.

  Rick Groat, the FBI’s special agent in charge, trotted over. His dark brown mustache was meticulously trimmed, and his eyes gleamed with an adrenaline rush. “Where’s he now?”

  She nodded toward the building. “In line at the Aeroflot counter.”

  They joined the others behind the SUV. “Okay, listen up,” Groat said. “You guys”-he pointed to three agents-“go in over there on the left and hold that entrance. You two-and you also, Ms. Woods-block the other door on the right. The rest of you, follow me in here. We’ll approach him and I’ll make the arrest.”

  “But he knows you, Rick,” she said. “He’ll spot you as soon as you enter. Especially if you take in a team.”

  Groat frowned, clearly not happy to be challenged in front of his men. “So? We’ll have him surrounded. Where could he go?”

  “That’s not the point. Remember, he’s probably armed-at least until he gets near security, when he’ll dump his weapon somewhere. But if he sees you, this could go south, fast. Maybe somebody gets hurt or taken hostage.”

  “So, how would you play it?”

  “Give me a second.” She went to her car, grabbed her shoulder bag from the passenger seat, then rejoined them. She drew out a curly blonde wig, pulled it over her short brown hair, then put her sunglasses back on. From their sudden smiles, she knew the transformation was striking.

  “I’ve used this in investigations. I can get right next to him without being recognized, then take him down before he knows what’s happening.”

  “You?”

  “Why not?” She saw his uncertain look. “Look, here’s what you can do. Cover the far entrances, so he can’t escape. You stay outside this one. I’ll go in and wait until he’s left the ticket counter and heads toward the gates. I’ll radio you a ‘mark,’ then count down from ten. On ‘two,’ you come in fast, from all directions. Yell, make some noise. When he turns your way, I’ll grab him from behind-right at ‘zero.’ If we time this right, he’ll never see me coming.”

  He still looked unsure.

  “Remember,” she added, “come in only when I say ‘two.’ No sooner. Don’t alert him before I can reach him.”

  “I don’t like it,” Groat said. “The Bureau has the lead on this arrest… Okay, you do the initial approach. But since I’m the SAC here, it’s my responsibility to make the collar and read him his rights.”

  She forced herself to speak evenly. “Of course. It’s your operation.”

  She shouldered her bag and headed toward the entrance. Inside, she took position behind another line. She pulled out her cell and raised it to her ear, feeling the tug of the pistol rig under her tailored jacket. “Six in position,” she whispered into her throat microphone, pretending to be chatting into the phone.

  “Control copies.”

  Out of the corner of her eye she kept track of her quarry.

  *

  James Muller was chubby, baby-faced, and fifty-three. He wore rumpled gray slacks and a wilted white shirt beneath a navy blazer. For a veteran manager in the CIA’s Office of Security-where Annie worked as an investigator-Muller’s tradecraft left much to be desired. He fidgeted, checked his watch constantly, and stole furtive glances at fellow passengers. He kept running his fingers through his lank, thinning gray-blond hair.

  She watched him shuffle toward the front of his line. She tried to suppress her anger and focus only on him. But she couldn’t help thinking about the absurdities that had put Groat in charge of Muller’s arrest. The FBI, not the CIA, wielded authority over counterintelligence activities on U.S. soil. And Groat was the FBI’s chief liaison with Langley’s Counterintelligence Center.

  As the security officer who first suspected, then investigated, and finally exposed Muller’s treason, Annie had worried for months about Groat’s interference. That’s why she waited until after she’d already done the critical leg-work before telling her boss about her investigation. Impressed, he’d pulled strings to allow her to remain involved to the end.

  But now, it was clear that Groat intended to cut her out and hog the glory of the arrest.

  *

  Muller reached the front of his line, then wheeled his carry-on bag toward a waiting ticket agent.

  “Six,” she whispered. “He’s at the counter. Stand by for my count.”

  “Control copies. Guys, get ready!”

  Her silent cell phone pressed to her ear, Annie threaded her way to the back of her line, then moved to position herself for the intercept. She reached a point between Muller and the corridor leading back to the boarding gates. He’d have to pass her here.

  She set her shoulder bag on the floor and pretended now to send a text message.

  And waited.

  She felt a drop of sweat trickle down her back.

  Felt the weight of the holster under her jacket.

  In her peripheral vision, Muller took his ticket from the counter woman, grabbed his rolling bag, then turned in her direction.

  “Mark,” she whispered in her throat microphone. “Ten…nine…eight…seven…six…”

  “Go! Now! Now! Now!”

  The sudden shout in her earpiece startled her. Then noise, to her right. She looked.

  Groat was charging through the entrance alone, gun in hand.

  “Freeze!” he was shouting. “Freeze! Freeze!”

  She couldn’t believe it. She wheeled. Saw Muller still twenty feet behind her, staring wide-eyed at Groat. Then he whipped around, looking for someplace to run.

  And spotted her looking right at him.

  She dropped her cell and hurtled toward him.

  He released his grip on the suitcase. His right hand clawed inside his blazer.

  “Freeze! Freeze!”

  Beside Muller, a young couple froze in place.

  “Down! Everybody down!”


  Behind him, other agents, yelling and pushing through the milling mass of passengers.

  Can’t let him shoot…

  She sprinted toward him as he looked down, fumbling inside his jacket.

  She reached him just as his gun pulled free.

  Her left hand seized that wrist and her right palm drove into his throat and she slammed against him, her momentum driving them back over his suitcase and onto the floor.

  She landed on him hard. Heard him gasp. Heard his weapon clatter across the marble floor.

  Then something massive smashed into her, knocking her aside.

  She lay sprawled on her back, sucking in air, reeling from the impact.

  “Got him!” A beefy young agent straddled Muller, knees pinning the traitor’s arms, a. 40 caliber Glock pressed to his captive’s forehead.

  “James Muller…you…are under arrest!” Groat’s voice, quavering. He stood over Muller, panting, legs splayed too far apart, pointing his own service pistol in extended hands. The muzzle was wavering.

  She forced herself to sit up. Other agents retrieved Muller’s weapon and suitcase, then established a perimeter. The young agent atop Muller flipped him onto his stomach, slapped cuffs around his wrists behind his back, and began to pat him down. He glanced over at her sheepishly.

  “Sorry,” he said. “Hey, you okay?”

  She wasn’t in the mood to reassure him. Her right shoulder felt like it had been clubbed with a baseball bat. She hauled herself slowly to her feet and took stock. Her own Glock was still in its holster. Her favorite sunglasses lay next to Muller, crushed. He remained curled up on his side, fetal position, coughing and retching, his hands secured behind his back. Around them, scores of passengers, some whimpering, huddled against walls or lay terrified on the terminal floor; others hurried away down the corridors.

  Rubbing her shoulder, she stepped toward Groat, who lowered his weapon. His eyes were too wide; they held both fear and relief.

  She got right in his face. “You jumped my signal.”

  He took an involuntary step back. “You…are you all right?”

  “No thanks to you, you stupid son of a bitch.”

  *

  They jammed into a small airport security office. State police milled outside the door. Another trooper, a sergeant, sat at a gray metal desk barking into the phone. Muller slouched in a chair next to the desk, hands still cuffed behind his back, two Bureau agents looming over him. They’d wrapped a towel filled with ice from a soda machine around his rapidly bruising throat. His cheeks were red and he was still coughing.

  Groat entered the room. His eyes darted at her, then scurried away. He marched straight to Muller. Drew an envelope from inside his suit jacket, then unfolded a document from it.

  “Okay. To finish the formalities. James Harold Muller, you are hereby under arrest for violation of Title 18, United States Code Section 794(c), conspiracy to commit espionage. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say-”

  Muller shot a glance up at him. “Not another word, Ricky,” he interrupted, his voice hoarse. “I know my rights.”

  “Look, I have to-”

  “If you shut the hell up, Ricky, I might even be willing to make a statement without the presence of counsel.”

  Everyone stopped what they were doing and looked at him. This was too good to be true.

  Groat nodded. “Okay. We’re listening.”

  Muller coughed and shook his head. “No, Ricky. Way too many people here. You want my cooperation, we do this my way.”

  “Exactly what way is that?”

  The traitor sat back in his chair, taking his time. His gaze drifted over to where Annie stood leaning against the wall in a corner, arms folded across her chest.

  “I see you’re back to brunette, Annie. Good. Blonde just isn’t you.”

  She just looked at him, refusing to take the bait. She knew he loved to grandstand.

  “Tell me the truth, now, Annie. You’re the one who sorted it all out, right?” Muller nodded scornfully in Groat’s direction. “Certainly not this bozo. Groat couldn’t find his ass with a GPS.”

  The FBI man’s face reddened. She saw the other agents struggle not to smile.

  “Yeah, I figured as much,” Muller went on. “You know, Annie, I always worried that it would be somebody like you who’d get on to me.”

  “You’ve got something to say, say it,” she said.

  He coughed again. “Sure, Annie. I’ll tell you everything. But not the G-Man here. In fact, not anybody from the Bureau.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You heard me, Ricky. I only talk to people I respect. Agency people.” He paused again, making a show of it. “I think Annie’s earned the right to be in on this. And I think, maybe…how about Grant Garrett? Yeah, Garrett, too.”

  “You’re in no position to dictate terms!” Groat shouted. “This is FBI jurisdiction, not-”

  “Ricky, Ricky. You just don’t get it, do you? I am in a position to dictate terms. Uncle Sam very badly needs to know what I did. But if Uncle wants to hear it, he’s going to have to do things my way.”

  Nobody said a word. James Muller leaned forward and smiled.

  “Come on, now, people. Do I chat alone with Annie and Garrett? Or do I get lawyered up?”

  TWO

  Washington, D.C.

  Monday, March 17, 1:45 p.m.

  The man left the elevator and emerged into the underground garage. Traffic noise from above echoed faintly around the cavernous gray walls. Like all downtown parking facilities, it was crammed with vehicles this time of day. But he saw no one else around; only his shadow marched before him as he approached his SUV.

  He tossed his briefcase over onto the passenger seat as he settled in, snapped the belt across his corduroy jacket, and turned over the engine. The digital clock on the dash lit up, reassuring him that it was still before two o’clock. A relief that his meeting had ended so early; he’d beat the rush-hour traffic.

  Still, District streets were never predictable, what with unexpected road closures and VIP motorcades creating constant bottlenecks. He reached over and clicked on the radio, set to the local news station, to catch their traffic report.

  “…according to a CIA spokesperson. And the Washington Post is reporting on its website that the dramatic capture of this ‘mole’ within the Agency came after a nearly two-year investigation-”

  The seat beneath him seemed to be falling away.

  “-a Post source at Langley, the individual taken into custody caused, quote, ‘serious harm to national security, including the betrayal of numerous CIA assets and sensitive operations over a period of years.’”

  His hand, still extended to the volume control, fell to his thigh.

  “Meanwhile, the Agency spokesperson tells us that more information about the arrest of James Harold Muller today at Dulles Airport will be released at a joint CIA-FBI news conference, scheduled for 3:30 p.m. That’s it from here. Richard, back to you.”

  “Thanks, Mark. We’ll have a lot more on this breaking story at the top of the hour… Now, let’s find out what’s happening on the area roadways-”

  Muller.

  For a moment, he couldn’t think of anything beyond that name. The rest of his mind was an empty hole.

  Then the man’s face floated up into his consciousness. Smooth, round, moon-like. Pale blue slits for eyes. The wispy hair. The little smirk.

  A blast of rage tore through him.

  Muller.

  Now it all made sense.

  He hammered the steering wheel with his fist, once. Twice.

  Then gripped the wheel. Hard. Squeezed his eyes shut. Took a slow, steady breath. Tried to impose order on the churning images in his brain.

  All right. What happens next? What do they do with him?

  Well, what would you do if you had just captured a traitor? Somebody who had-

  Immediately, he knew. Knew what they’d do.

  Guessed where the
y’d go.

  He turned to fasten his seat belt. Straightening, he noticed his eyes reflected in the rearview mirror. Hard and glittering, like marbles.

  Then the anger melted away.

  His hands now rested lightly on the steering wheel. As always after he’d made a decision, he experienced a sense of icy physical tranquility and heightened mental clarity.

  He shut off the radio. Began to roll it around in his mind. Options. Details. Implications.

  It occurred to him that he should be concerned. After all, he might be about to wreck everything he’d been working so carefully to establish during the past two years. Yet that stray thought now seemed an irrelevant intrusion, like a scarecrow hanging impotently in some distant field.

  He would deal with any remote consequences, if and when. The only thing that mattered is that he could not let this go, here and now.

  Would not let this go.

  He sat in stillness for another minute, taking comfort in the low, reassuring purr of the engine. Then he shifted smoothly into reverse, backed from his parking space, and eased forward through the garage, prowling slowly toward the ramp that curved upward toward the exit.

  He would make a few calls, change some plans.

  He would not go home tonight.

  THREE

  En route to CIA safe house, Virginia

  Tuesday, March 18, 9:30 a.m.

  The tall hills-as a Colorado native, she couldn’t think of the Blue Ridge chain as real mountains-rose and rolled around them as their trio of CIA vehicles sped west on Route 66. They’d been on the highway since the early-morning meeting on the seventh floor at Langley.

  “Nice briefing.”

  She lowered the copy of the Washington Post that she’d been reading and glanced at the man beside her in the rear seat of the armored Lincoln limo.

  Grant Garrett, the CIA’s deputy director of National Clandestine Services, wasn’t given to compliments. Nor had he looked at her as he said it; he was staring off at the hills. He was a study in gunmetal gray, from his close-cropped hair, to his well-tailored suit, to the pen he tapped idly against the slate-colored note pad on his lap.