A Brewing Storm

“For what reason? Why would he risk kidnapping the stepson of a U.S. senator on U.S. soil?”

Windslow shrugged. “All I’m saying is he’s the one who brought you here, and he has contacts with plenty of ex-military who would know how to pull off a kidnapping. Plus, the kidnappers want you riding around with my money.”

“Motive? Jones could steal millions at his job. He doesn’t need to rip off you.”

“Maybe he’s got other reasons.”

“Since you’ve opened that door,” Storm said, “what’s the covert mission that you and Jones are fighting about?”

A flash of surprise appeared in Windslow’s eyes.

“I’m not opening any doors. Our disagreement has nothing to do with this, nothing. Don’t try to go there.”

“How about Ivan Petrov?” Storm asked. “Could he have something to do with your stepson’s kidnapping?”

The Russian was one of the names that Storm had come across during his late night probe on the intelligence network. Petrov was an oligarch who the CIA was monitoring. He’d recently had several dealings with Windslow, according to CIA INTEL bulletins.

The mention of Petrov’s name sparked an instant reaction that Storm hadn’t expected.

Windslow sprung from his seat toward the chair where Storm was sitting. Towering over him, the senator said, “You’re sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong now. Who the hell do you think you are? How dare you come into my house and accuse me of taking bribes! How dare you accuse my wife of being in cahoots with the kidnappers! How dare you ask about private intelligence matters between Jones and me! Why did you mention Ivan Petrov just now? Did Jedidiah put you up to that? Is that why he brought you in-to investigate Petrov and me?”

Windslow hesitated for a second, clearly thinking about his next step. Still fuming, he said, “Listen, son, all I need to know from you right now is whether you’re in this thing tonight or you’re out. I can arrange for Toppers to get the six million from the bank. But I’m going to need time to find someone else to drive her around if you back out. Are you in this thing or not?”

“What about Agent Showers and the Bureau?” Storm asked.

“I’ve already answered that. No FBI. Period.”

“Even if Agent Showers and the Bureau are your best shot at saving Matthew Dull’s life?”

Windslow’s face was now turning red with both frustration and anger. “You’re supposed to be my best shot. But, so far, all you’ve done is flap your jaws and question my integrity. I’ve destroyed men much more powerful than you are. I crushed them like bugs under my boot heel. If you want out of this, then get the hell out of my house and go back to whatever rock you crawled out from under. But you’ll keep your damn mouth shut about the six million-if you know what’s good for you. Either way, I need to know if you are in or out.”

Storm rose from his seat and stood directly in front of Windslow’s age-lined face. “Don’t threaten me, Senator,” he said calmly. “The last guy who did didn’t survive his 'heart attack.’”

For a moment, neither flinched, and then Windslow broke into an odd smile. “Fair enough,” he said. “In Texas, we admire a man who stands his mud. But while the two of us are having this little pissing contest, time is wasting.”

Common sense told Storm to walk away. The kidnappers had an inside source. The fact that they wanted him to drive tonight was suspicious. Was he being set up? Ever since Tangiers, Storm had trusted Jones completely. He still did. But was it possible that Senator Windslow was right about the CIA’s involvement? People were expendable. Storm had learned that early on. And that applied to him, too. For the good of the country, he could be sacrificed.

From the beginning, Storm had been curious about why Jedidiah had brought him back to help solve a kidnapping. There had to be more involved here. Jedidiah had admitted that to his face. But what was being hidden in the shadows? What was the game that he was being drawn deeper into?

During his overnight Internet investigation, Storm had learned about Ivan Petrov. The Russian was another suspect that he’d added to the long list of suspects identified by Agent Showers. She had told him that the senator and Jedidiah were involved in a nasty dispute about a covert operation. Windslow had reacted violently when questioned about that operation and about Petrov. Showers had mentioned a six-million-dollar bribe from a foreigner. The kidnappers were demanding a six-million-dollar payoff. Were they the same six million, and if so, was that significant or a coincidence?

Only one thing was perfectly clear-the longer Storm stayed, the more he discovered, the more difficult it would be to walk away. Senator Windslow had just offered him an out. To the world, Derrick Storm was still dead. He could catch a flight back to Montana that afternoon and disappear. He could be fly-fishing at sunrise tomorrow. The big trout was still there waiting for him.

It really could be that simple. That easy. All he had to do was walk away now, which is what anyone with any shred of common sense would do.

“I’ll drive tonight,” Storm said.

“What about Agent Showers?” Windslow asked. “Are you going to tell her about what’s happening-about the money and the four bags?”

“No,” Storm said. “I’ll deliver the money tonight with Samantha Toppers on my own. Without backup-either from the FBI or Jones.”

Chapter Six

Storm had gone about a mile from Windslow’s Great Falls estate, when the cell phone that Jedidiah Jones had given him began to ring.

“Out on an early morning drive,” Jones said when Storm answered. “How’s our friend this morning?”

Jones was tracking him. Was the FBI, too?

“He’s a bit rattled,” Storm said.

“Why don’t you drop into my office? The exit is clearly marked.”

Jones was referring to a green exit sign on the George Washington Parkway that read: “George Bush Center for Intelligence CIA, Next Left.”

So much for secrecy.

Storm took the exit and soon reached a stoplight where Georgetown Pike intersected with the entrance to the CIA’s vast compound in Langley. Someone had placed freshly cut flowers next to two wooden crosses in the median. The sight of them brought back a memory.

It had been cold in January 1993 when an Islamic fundamentalist from Pakistan stopped at this intersection and casually stepped from his Isuzu pickup. He’d lifted an AK-47 rifle to his shoulder and started shooting motorists and passengers in the vehicles that had stopped behind him at the stoplight, waiting to turn into the CIA compound. They were employees on their way to work. The shooter had spared the women because he’d considered murdering them a cowardly act. In all, the Pakistani killed two CIA employees and wounded three others before he returned to his truck and drove away. It had taken a special CIA team five years to track down the gunman. They’d caught him while he was asleep in a three-dollar-a-night Pakistan hotel. The terrorist had been brought back to the U.S., put on trial, and executed in Virginia’s electric chair. The flowers were a reminder of the nation’s many enemies out there.

When the red light changed, Storm turned into the CIA entrance and out of habit stayed in the left lane as he approached a large guardhouse. Suddenly, he caught his mistake and swerved into the right lane. The entrance on the left side was for employees. As directed by signs, Storm stopped at a speaker and announced that his name was Steve Mason and he was coming to see the director of the NCS.

“What’s your Social Security number?” a male voice asked.

“You’ll have to ask the director for it,” he replied.

For several minutes, Storm sat in his car at the now silent speaker, imagining what was happening in the guardhouse, which was about a hundred yards directly in front of him. It was unusual for someone to withhold their Social Security number.