The Sixth Man

Sean snapped, “You can’t possibly be thinking of breaking him out?”

“Oh, I won’t be the one doing the breaking.”

CHAPTER

68

MASON QUANTRELL’S AIDE UNLOCKED the door to the warehouse and Quantrell stepped through. Automatic lights came on and Quantrell blinked to adjust his pupils. The Mercury Group owned this facility, but the chain of ownership was buried so deep that not even an army of lawyers and accountants would be able to dig through to the truth. Every substantial private contractor to the government, particularly those operating in the defense and intelligence fields, had such complex business structures in place. It was a necessity. Prying eyes were everywhere, and all contractors had secrets they didn’t want either the government or their competitors to know about.

He eyed the column of black SUVs parked in the middle of the warehouse. He walked past them, evaluating each detail and coming away satisfied. In a corner of the facility a last planning meeting was taking place. All the men seated around the table stood when Quantrell approached.

The look in these men’s eyes was clear. They both feared and respected Quantrell, perhaps more fear than respect. Quantrell had never worn the uniform, never fired a gun on behalf of his country, but he knew how to make money supplying those who did. His main business model was hardware sales to the Pentagon. He didn’t build the planes, tanks, or ships, but he provided many of the overpriced accessories for them, like ammo, special fuel, missiles, guns, and surveillance and security gear. But he had determined long ago that the real money was in the soft side of war, namely intelligence. The profit margins there were huge, far larger than he had plying the traditional corridors of supporting the defense effort. And the world wasn’t always at war, not anymore. But they were always spying on each other, always.

He’d made billions off the soft side by following the old-school models. Lots of analysts, lots of reports that no one had time to read, feeding the competition among agencies that desperately wanted to score a victory at the expense of their sister agencies, even if it meant the actual goal of keeping the country safe was lost. Yes, he’d made a fortune, but it still wasn’t enough. And then Peter Bunting had arrived on the scene with a revolutionary model that would soon turn the intelligence-gathering world on its head.

Quantrell’s soft business had dwindled, and his anger and frustration had grown.

But now that was all about to change.

“Prepped and ready?” he said to the leader of the team.

The man replied, “Yes, sir, Mr. Quantrell.”

The team was comprised of elite foreign mercenaries who would do anything for money. They would never talk about what they’d done because that would kill their livelihood.

Quantrell asked the man some questions to judge whether they were indeed ready. He knew the plan better than anyone but came away satisfied at their level of preparation.

He left the warehouse, got back in his SUV, and was driven off. An hour-long plane ride later he was in D.C.

Though it was late he had another meeting. In his world those that relaxed simply were run over.

Ellen Foster was in her office at DHS. She was working late too. She often worked late. But now she was done. She was driven home surrounded by her security team. The pecking order in D.C. was often delineated by the size of one’s motorcade. The president was at the top, followed by the vice president. After that it was a far drop to the rest of the pack. But Ellen Foster was right there.

A man was waiting for her at her elegant home in upper-bracket northwest D.C. Around her lived prominent members of the Washington elite, both in the public and private sectors. He helped her off with her coat when she walked through the door.

“Give me a minute,” she told him.

She went upstairs and came back down a few minutes later. She had on the same clothes but had shed her hose and shoes. And she’d let her hair down.

They walked together into the old-fashioned drawing room of the nineteenth-century dwelling. She reclined on the sofa. She motioned for him to sit.

James Harkes sat.

Black suit, white shirt, black tie with nary a wrinkle. His face was impassive as he stared back at her.

“Would you like something to drink, Harkes?”

He shook his head. “No thank you.”

“Then can you make me a vodka tonic?” She pointed to the sideboard. “It’s all over there.”

He dutifully made the drink, handed it to her.

“Thank you.” She took a sip, nodded approvingly. “Very good.”

“You’re welcome.” His gaze went toward the window. “You’ve got a first-rate security detail. They’ve set their perimeter with a lot of thought. Your alarm system is top-notch, your door locks the best.”

She smiled. “Do you know what the best security is?”

He looked at her expectantly.

She rose, went to an antique secretary against one wall, and pushed against a piece of wood facing, and a small door was revealed. She reached in and pulled out a Glock 9mm.

She held it up for him to see. “The best security is yourself. I wasn’t always sitting behind a desk. One of these often came in handy.”

Harkes said nothing. She put the gun back and sat down.

“Things are going well,” she said.

“Things usually go well until they stop going well.”

She lowered her glass. “You have doubts? Issues? You know something I don’t?”

He shook his head again. “None of the above. I’m just a cautious man.”

“Nothing wrong with that, but you need balance too. Invoke your wild side from time to time.”

“Four people dead, five if you count Sohan Sharma. That’s wild enough for me.”

She said coolly, “Not losing your nerve, are you?”

“Considering I didn’t kill any of them, no. But one was an FBI agent. That is particularly troubling.”

“There is always collateral damage in situations like this, Harkes. It’s unavoidable. You fought in Iraq and Afghanistan. You know that all too well.”

“That was war.”

“This is war, too. You need to understand that right now. Perhaps an even bigger war. This is for the heart and soul of American intelligence.”

“And you want to run it?”

“I should be the one running it. The agency’s name is Homeland Security, after all.”

“The CIA—,” began Harkes.

“Langley is a joke. The Pentagon listens to no one. The intelligence czar has no power, and don’t even get me started on NSA. It’s all very pathetic.”

“But the E-Program had merit.”

“Stop drinking the Kool-Aid. That was Peter Bunting’s world. He owned the space.”

“And you didn’t.”

“Now you’re getting with the program. Bunting’s an idealistic fool. Can you imagine putting the whole of this country’s security on the back of one analyst?”

“But that’s not really the case, is it? There are still plenty of analysts out there doing what they do. The American intelligence agencies continue to hum along. And Bunting’s company does a lot more than the E-Program. They have their fingers in lots of intelligence pies. But Bunting’s person was tasked with seeing the big picture, connecting the dots. That’s always been lacking across the intelligence spectrum.”

She shook her head. “That is a very dangerous philosophy to have.”