A Murder in Time(4)
“Yes, sir.”
Thompson shot Carson a look. “You do know who he is, don’t you?”
Carson found himself bristling for no other reason than Thompson having been a major pain in the ass since they’d been forced to work together—in the spirit of interagency cooperation, of course. While Washington had given him the leadership position, the decision hadn’t stopped Thompson from trying to assert his authority every chance he could, the cocky bastard.
“I read newspapers,” Carson responded testily.
“You should read the reports we’ve had on him,” Thompson retorted. “The cleanest thing about him is his Savile Row suits.”
While Balakirev was a shadowy figure in the underworld of gun-running and smuggling, Kendra knew that Greene was another matter entirely. The Brit graced the business and society pages. He’d had been born into money and had amassed even more. Twenty years ago, he’d been knighted. He’d dined at the White House; slept in the Lincoln bedroom. The public probably believed that sort of prestige made him a good guy. In reality, it just meant he was politically savvy and smart. And his connections hadn’t prevented him from being scrutinized by the CIA, Israeli intelligence, Interpol, and Britain’s own MI5.
“He’s been suspected of money laundering, drugs, human trafficking, and,” Thompson added significantly, “weapons smuggling.”
Carson’s mouth tightened. “Our mission is Balakirev.”
“Don’t be stupid,” snapped Thompson. “Greene changes everything. He’s the big fish. Washington will want to hook him.”
There’d never been anything resembling friendliness between the two men, but Thompson’s implied threat stripped away the pretense of professional courtesy. The very air in the conference room seemed to shimmer, a desert heat of hostility.
Kendra watched the men shift their positions. Those still seated now pushed themselves to their feet. The FBI agents joined Carson, while the CIA agents flanked Thompson, like two packs of dogs sizing up each other, ready to fight for their territory. The representatives from the NSA and NSB took a step back, separating themselves from the upcoming confrontation.
They were Switzerland.
And I’m a fool, Kendra thought wryly, stepping between these two powerful foes. “We may be able to hook both Balakirev and Greene.” Dangling that carrot made her, once again, the focal point. This time was worse, though, because at least one of the pairs of eyes on her was furious, and they belonged to her current boss.
“What are you talking about, Agent Donovan?” Carson demanded. The snap in his voice made her flinch.
“When I realized that Sir Jeremy owned the warehouse Balakirev was using, I took the liberty of tracing his whereabouts. He—”
“Why?” Carson interrupted, his eyes bright with irritation and suspicion.
The question threw her for a second. Recovering, she said, “I recognized his name from an agency report I’d read.” In fact, she’d read the report eleven months ago, but her memory had never been an issue. While it wasn’t quite eidetic, it came pretty damn close. “Greene filed a flight plan from Heathrow yesterday. His private jet touched down at JFK this morning at three a.m. He was picked up by a limousine and taken to his penthouse on Park Avenue.”
Thompson stared at her. “Greene’s in New York?”
Carson scowled. “He has nothing to do with our mission, which remains Balakirev.”
Kendra didn’t need him to emphasize the Russian’s name to know that Carson was warning her. Jesus H. Christ, this was probably how it felt to find yourself in the middle of a minefield. Her stomach churned. One wrong step . . . “Greene is scheduled to be at the Brooklyn warehouse today at four p.m.”
Thompson sucked in a breath. He looked like a man who’d just found God. “How’d you know that?”
“He uses a smartphone.”
Carson didn’t look like he’d found God—he looked coldly furious. But at that bit of information, he snorted. “For a smart man, that’s pretty stupid.” Even he knew that wireless technology, no matter how many layers of security measures one stacked on, could be infiltrated. Especially by somebody like Kendra Donovan.
“Not stupid—arrogant,” corrected Kendra.
There was a short, heavily charged silence. Thompson threw her a speculative glance—it wasn’t the first one he’d given her in the past eight months—before turning his attention back to Carson. “If we can get Greene on record consorting with a known terrorist, that’s a f*cking big deal. If we can hook him, we could blow apart not only Balakirev’s operation, but a hundred more like it. We’ll need him alive.”
He didn’t wait for an answer before pulling out his cell phone. As he moved off to the far end of the conference room, the stony-faced CIA agents broke away to stand near their leader.
Carson gritted his teeth. Diplomacy may be the watchword in Washington these days, but he knew Thompson was just salivating to take over the operation. His operation.
He turned back to his own agents. “If we’re going to take them both down, we need to work fast. Sheppard, get me the blueprints for that warehouse. I want the layout, security. Two teams, plus FBI SWAT. Donovan, coordinate with HAZMAT.” He swung away, striding toward the door, and slid a fiery glance at Thompson. “I’ll call Langley.”