Immune (The Rho Agenda #2)(14)

Besides Kromly, two others sat at the briefing table across from the vice president: Bert Paralto and Bridget Dunn, both senior NSA staffers who had worked closely with Jonathan Riles.

George Gordon leaned back in his chair. “Okay, Kromly. Let’s see what you’ve got.”

Kromly clicked a button on the remote control and a list of names appeared on the flat-panel display at the end of the table.

“As you requested, sir, this is a list of all the operatives capable of pulling off the Los Alamos truck hit. On the left is a list of contract mercenaries who could have been in the service of Jonathan Riles, before his unfortunate demise.”

“In other words, you haven’t been able to track down those people’s recent activities,” said Gordon.

“Precisely.”

“And the right column?”

“That’s a list of field operatives who were reported killed in the last five years but we don’t have a body for.”

“Show them to us.”

Kromly pressed another button on the remote and the photograph of a man replaced the list on screen. For the next hour and a half, he presented the photographs, accompanied by a brief biographical description of each. And after each photograph the two NSA people would shake their heads. They had never seen a single person on the live list.

The dead list presented problems. The files of several people on that list contained no photographs.

Having exhausted their usefulness, the vice president released the NSA staffers before turning his attention back to Kromly.

“I want pictures of everyone.”

“We have people working on it.”

George Gordon rose to leave, then looked back at Kromly.

“Jonathan Riles was the best I ever knew at picking his team. Worst-case scenario, who on that list would give us the most trouble?”

Kromly hesitated briefly but did not glance at the list to answer. “No question. That would be the Ripper.”

“I don’t recall that name on the list.”

“Real name’s Jack Gregory. Killed by Al Qaeda in Pakistan in two thousand two.”

“You know that for sure?”

“We don’t have his body.”

“I want a picture.”

As the vice president turned back toward the door, Kromly’s voice stopped him.

“Sir, I hope your intuition is wrong.”

“And why is that?”

“Best to let the nightmare sleep.”





13


Freddy Hagerman stared out his second-floor window, in what should have been his spare bedroom but was now his home office, watching the first drops from the approaching storm splatter on his driveway. Christ, what a dump. Well, what could he expect? He was a forty-six-year-old, three-time divorcee, ex New York Times reporter who now tried to meet his alimony, child support, and rent digging up gossip for the Kansas City Star. Funny how the dreams of his youth had faded. And as much as he loved New York, the cost of living had driven him to the Midwest.

Why they called this the Midwest was a mystery. Mid-dead-center would have been more appropriate since the exact center of the country lay near Salinas, Kansas, a good couple of hours to the west of where he now stood. Didn’t really matter. The Mid-f*cking-west was where he was stuck.

When the UPS truck pulled into his driveway, Freddy almost didn’t answer the door. Anything someone thought important enough to send to him via a special carrier meant trouble. No doubt one of his ex-wives’ attorneys had found some way to dig deeper into Freddy’s pockets. Legal paperwork was something he expected, things being the way they were.

There was no avoiding it though. If he didn’t answer the door today, they would just come back the next day and the next, finally resorting to delivery by an officer of the law. Best to just get it over with.

As he opened the door, the UPS man handed him a package roughly the size of a shoe box before having him sign his name on the computerized clipboard, which would immediately uplink the delivery status to the World Wide Web. The damn attorneys would probably be smiling before the truck was out of his driveway. Wasn’t technology grand?

Freddy tossed the box on the coffee table in preparation for making his way back upstairs, but it missed. The package caught the edge of the table and then tumbled to the floor. Freddy paused. The sound it made as it bounced off the floor wasn’t right. Certainly not a sound you would expect from a box stuffed with legal forms and documents. And despite that he had been demoted to the role of backwater gossip columnist, Freddy had once been an investigative reporter with instincts second to none. The only thing that had kept him from the acclaim he had thought himself destined to receive was his piss-poor judgment in women. Thrust a couple of nice tits in his face and he thought he was in love. He should have been an ass man.

When he bent down to retrieve the package, Freddy felt the contents shift. Definitely not packed by any legal office. Eschewing the couch, Freddy moved to the kitchen table where the lighting was better. The box was wrapped in plain brown paper. The “From” label on the shipping slip was so sloppily printed that he couldn’t make it out, although his name and address on the “To” label were clearly legible.

Freddy turned the box over, carefully examining every crease and fold in the wrapping. Absolutely nothing unusual about it. So why was he suddenly as nervous as a kitten?