CHAPTER ONE
CIA HEADQUARTERS, LANGLEY, VIRGINIA
TEN DAYS EARLIER…
Nick Reagan was seated in the office of his boss, Deputy Director Brian Kenny, inside CIA headquarters at Langley. Kenny regarded Reagan as his most effective field operative and Reagan trusted Kenny with his life. At the moment, however, neither could hide his astonishment at the news Kenny had to share.
“You must be kidding,” Reagan said.
Kenny, as buttoned down as they come, was not known for his sense of humor. “I am not kidding, and I’m telling you Nick, this comes from the top.”
Reagan was Kenny’s polar opposite when it came to things like following the rules and respecting bureaucracy, and absolutely despised expressions like “it came from the top.” But he had just been informed that someone from the office of the CIA Director had ordered him to cease his pursuit of Walid Khoury—known to some in the Company as the Handler for his work in recruiting and dispatching young extremists to carry out his vicious jihad.
Khoury had been the mastermind behind the recent series of vicious attacks in New York, Las Vegas, and Minnesota. Reagan and his colleagues had some success in doing what they could to prevent the intended genocide, particularly the last of those three, but Khoury had escaped capture. Since then, Reagan had spent the past two months tracking him with no success. Ironically, since most of Khoury’s murderous plans had been thwarted by Reagan and his team, the Handler’s own brethren in al Qaeda were also searching for him, all the more reason Reagan wanted to find him sooner rather than later.
In response to this news from Kenny—that he had been directed to end his efforts to locate Khoury—Reagan was unable to just sit there, so he got to his feet and began pacing back and forth.
Reagan was thirty-eight years old and stood just over six feet, which made him five inches or so taller than his boss. His complexion was perpetually tan from all the time he spent in the field, his features even, his dark brown hair cut short, and his dark blue eyes capable of conveying warmth or ice-cold ruthlessness, as the situation dictated. He had a trim, muscular build, owing to the strict physical regimen he maintained that dated back to his days in the military.
When he was done walking around the confines of Kenny’s office, he sat again, staring across the desk at the deputy director. “You’re telling me they really don’t want to find Khoury.”
Kenny shook his head. “No, what I’m telling you is they want you to stop looking and allow them to handle the matter.”
“Who the hell is them?” Reagan asked. “There’s no one in the Company as qualified as Gellos and I to conduct this search.”
Kenny sighed. “You know I don’t disagree, but this is not my decision.”
“Isn’t there someone upstairs we can talk to?”
“Believe me, I tried. I asked for a meeting, to give you an opportunity to present your views, but they turned me down. They said they want you to take some time off, that you’re too close to the situation.”
“Too close?” Reagan asked.
“Let’s face it, Nick, you were there trying to stop those attacks. You witnessed what occurred, you saw what happened to the people you couldn’t save. They think capturing Khoury is more than personal for you at this point, that you need a cooling off period.”
Reagan uttered a short laugh. “That’s what they said? They want me to cool off?”
“That’s what they said,” Kenny replied, his frown making it clear he was as unhappy with the decision as his top agent.
“And how long am I supposed to be on ice?”
“They weren’t specific. They suggested you take at least a couple of weeks.”
“You want to tell me who exactly gave you this message?”
“I cannot.”
Reagan nodded. “All right, I’ll take a couple of weeks off if that’s what they want. But they have no right to tell me what to do while I’m cooling off, correct?”
Kenny paused a moment before responding. “I know what you’re likely to do, just be careful. As I already told you, this comes from the director’s office. You get caught coloring outside the lines and we’re going to have a problem. A major problem.”
“Sir, are you suggesting I might not follow orders?”
Kenny treated him to another of his patented frowns. “I don’t want to know what you’re doing, I don’t want to hear from you, and I also don’t want to hear from anyone else that you’re creating a problem.” Then he repeated, in a softer voice, “Just be careful.”
***
Reagan stopped at the Jefferson Hotel where he had been staying the past couple of days in D.C., pulled together his gear, and grabbed the next Acela Express to New York. During the ride north, he made several phone calls, including one to his partner, Carol Gellos, and one to his long-time companion, Erin David, who was an analyst for the CIA in Manhattan.
In his typically oblique fashion, without providing much detail, he let each of them know what happened and made it clear he had no intention of ending his search for Khoury. He also let them know he expected help from each of them, hoping to build on some leads he had already developed.
Both of them said they would.
Arriving back in his apartment on East 55th Street that evening, he poured himself a bourbon in a crystal tumbler with one large cube, sat on the black leather sectional sofa in his living room, turned on the television to catch the news, and opened his laptop.
Walid Khoury had disappeared in France just before the last of his planned attacks was being carried out. Reagan and Gellos had also been in Paris, close to finding him, but immediately departed when they concluded that the third target was in Minnesota—Khoury’s pattern seemed to favor three-part offensives. They reached Bloomington in time and were instrumental in preventing that final assault, saving countless lives in the process. Since then, Reagan had been piecing together any clue he could to determine the Handler’s whereabouts.
They had already learned that Khoury had been living a double life—posing as an international banker, he was married to a woman who worked in the State Department, Cyla Khoury, who also happened to be a friend of Erin David. After several interrogations of her by various United States agencies, including the FBI, CIA, and State Department, it was apparent Cyla had no idea that her husband was an al Qaeda operative. They had only been married a little more than a year after a brief but intense courtship, and she had believed he was both a brilliant and well-connected businessman, as had everyone else in their world. She was unaware of his true background as a jihadist, or the fact that he previously had a wife and child who were killed in an attack in Aleppo years before. She was now left to contend with the painful realization that their marriage had actually been part of Khoury’s master plan to infiltrate her world while organizing his violent strikes on American soil.
Given the personal relationships among Erin David, Reagan, and Cyla, Reagan was only allowed to question Khoury’s wife after her innocence had been established. Several days ago, Reagan and Cyla met, and he told her he wanted to discuss what little she knew about her husband that might be authentic, such as his personal habits, people he mentioned that she had not met, and places he said he had been in the past. Unfortunately, Reagan realized that much of what Khoury might have told her was likely disinformation and would have little value. At one point, Reagan bluntly asked why she had married him.
“With everything that’s happened,” she admitted, “I’m not sure anymore. He is handsome, and worldly, and we shared the same religion and ethnic background. It’s not much,” she added with a sad smile. “I thought I was in love.”
“Love can be strange,” Reagan admitted, “but you’re obviously a very intelligent woman. Were there no warning signs, nothing that suggested things were not all what they seemed?”
Cyla thought it over. “He never talked much about his business,” she finally conceded. “After a while, it almost felt he was purposely avoiding that subject. And yes, I thought that was kind of odd, but he was more than a decade my senior. I just figured he was old school when it came to things like that.”
“When you say ‘old school,’ I take it you mean traditional Muslim.”
Cyla winced slightly. “I suppose so, yes.”
“This is difficult for me to ask, but do you think he courted you because of the position you held?”
Her eyes moistened, but Cyla did not succumb to tears. “I’ve thought about little else since that day you and Ms. Gellos came to see me at my office in Paris and told me what was going on.” She took a moment to compose herself. “I look back on the dinners we had, the time we spent together, the trips we took before he asked me to marry him. It’s hard for me to believe it was all about my working for the State Department. I honestly never gave him any classified information or anything like that, and he never asked. Still,” she continued, but then stopped. “I was obviously a fool on so many levels, I don’t want to go on deluding myself.”
Reagan nodded, realizing that in addition to his murderous assaults, Khoury had also inflicted serious emotional harm on this young woman, injuries from which she might never recover. He returned the discussion to matters such as the trips Khoury took without her after they were married, any people she may have met through him, and so forth.
“No detail is meaningless,” he told Cyla, but ultimately the interview came to end. When she apologized for not being more helpful, he disagreed.
“There’s value in what you’ve told me,” he assured her. “I’m just sorry you have to go through all this.” Then he said, “You can’t blame yourself. Evil comes in many forms.”
As he sat in his living room this evening, Reagan thought about the few clues Cyla had provided that might be helpful in his search. Whatever lies Khoury told his young wife, Reagan believed there were some things that had to be true.
There were also facts he and his partner, Carol Gellos, had uncovered.
Gellos was tall and trim with short sandy-colored hair, dark brown eyes, and a no-nonsense attitude. Kenny’s top female operative, she had taken an unusual route to get there. After a troubled high school experience, she dropped out of college in the middle of her second year and joined the Army. It soon became evident that her difficult childhood had masked a keen intellect and the willpower to succeed. She completed her education and rose through the ranks of the Intelligence Division, until several years ago when she was recruited by the Agency. Gellos quickly advanced to her current status as a clandestine field agent, having worked on numerous missions with Reagan. At thirty-five and single, she kept her private life private, while proving herself a fearless and trustworthy partner.
And she was all business.
Reagan and Gellos discovered that Khoury kept an office in Paris, but there was absolutely no chance the man would ever return there after they raided the place and took custody of his assistant. Cyla said that Khoury had mentioned more than once that he had banking contacts in London, but she had no details. That could have been part of a cover he arranged for himself in order to take trips back to the Middle East, without disclosing that to his wife or anyone else—but now that al Qaeda was tracking him, there was little chance he would risk a visit to that part of the world.
All the other factors analyzed by Erin and Gellos left Reagan with at least one logical possibility—the Handler might be in London—and, order or no order, Reagan was not going to stop looking for him.
CHAPTER TWO
NEW YORK CITY
As Reagan sat on the black leather sofa in the living room of his apartment, going through his computer to review the information he had compiled on the possible location of Walid Khoury, he began thinking about Derek Malone. Now that he was ordered to stop tracking Khoury, Reagan knew he would have to work outside his normal channels. He also realized that, of all the people he knew outside the government he could safely go to, Derek Malone had the sort of contacts that might aid in connecting the dots they had collected so far. He was a man with innumerable friends in a variety of enterprises—including some with connections in the Arab world.
In the unique orbit of Nick Reagan’s universe, Dr. Derek Malone was not a likely friend. To begin with, he was twenty-five years older than Reagan. He was also outside the world of intelligence agencies in which Reagan spent almost all of his time. And, as a neurologist who paired his medical background with an entrepreneurial spirit, he had accumulated great wealth and influence. Malone developed powerful contacts who introduced him to opportunities in Big Pharma and led him through various tech investments, all of which ultimately had him mingling with many of the so-called captains of industry who control the American economy. Malone was a classic self-made success story who came from nothing, built a fortune, but never forgot his roots.
That alone was enough to earn Reagan’s respect.
But Malone was also a patriot, and several years ago he had provided Reagan invaluable assistance during an investigation into a data breach initiated by the Chinese. Through his far-reaching network, Malone was helpful not only in locating the source of the problem but also in identifying the people capable of shutting down technological invasion.
Unlike so many people Reagan was obliged to deal with in the business world, Malone did not seek any sort of quid pro quo for his support. To the contrary, he was pleased to serve his country and enjoyed teaming with Reagan in the process—someone, Reagan realized early on, who shared his values if not his career goals. Malone was fascinated that a young man as bright and capable as Reagan would risk his life working for what he called “coolie wages,” rather than parlaying those talents into a lucrative position in the private sector. In his typical fashion, Malone was not shy about voicing that opinion.
Reagan had laughed in response. “If you’re worried about my current finances, you better not ask me how much I earned while I was in the military.” In his typical fashion, Reagan did not disclose which branch of the armed forces he served in, nor did he ever admit to Derek that he was now with the CIA.
“I’m serious, you could make a fortune in the business world,” Derek said.
Reagan’s smile faded as he said, “Someone has to do what I do. I believe we both prefer that it’s someone who has the skills and experience to get it done.”
Now Malone also turned serious. “And the focus. Too bad more people in the political arena don’t feel that way.”
Reagan nodded.
“The way our Founding Fathers set things up, politics was not supposed to be a friggin career,” Malone said. “You were supposed to spend some time serving the country, then return to your farm or business or whatever.”
“You don’t have to convince me.”
Malone nodded, as if confirming a thought. “Ever wonder how some of these senators and congressmen get so rich while they’re still in office? How they come to own those big houses with security gates, vacation homes, you know what I’m talking about.”
“I do,” Reagan said, since they had discussed all of this more than once, their shared views contributing to the growth of the friendship. “I wish I had a good answer for you.”
“I have answers, my friend,” Malone told him, “but you don’t want to hear them.”
Another positive in their relationship was Malone’s wife, Connie. She was intelligent, educated, and as sophisticated as her husband was dynamic, but her road had been even rockier than Derek’s. She was an orphan who was raised in foster homes until she was old enough to go off on her own, working her way through college, completing graduate school on scholarships that enabled her to earn a Masters and a Doctorate in psychology. By the time Reagan met her, Connie had given up her private practice but not her penchant for examining everything through the prism of her education and personal experiences. Like her husband, she did not permit their extravagant lifestyle to diminish their kindness or their insistence on treating everyone the same regardless of who they were; she would never forget where they came from.
Reagan decided it was worth a call to see if Malone could provide some help, so he picked up his cell phone, hit the speed dial for Malone’s private number, and waited. He heard the familiar voice after the second ring.
“Where the hell have you been? I thought you dumped us for a younger crowd,” Malone said.
“An older crowd, actually,” Reagan said. “You and Connie move too fast for me.”
Malone responded with the raspy chuckle Reagan had heard many times. “All right, we’ll try and slow things down next time we see you. Now, what do you need?”
“Is that the way to begin a conversation with a good friend? No clever patter? No questions about how I’m doing?”
“Don’t bullshit a bullshitter,” Malone told him. “I haven’t heard from you in months, and now you’re calling me after ten at night. Tell me I’m crazy, but I’m guessing this is not a social call.”
“It’s always social with you, Derek, that’s how you roll. But you’re correct, I need to ask you some questions.” Reagan paused before adding, “In person would be best.”
“Uh huh. Can I ask you where you’ve been all this time?”
“We can also talk about that in person as well.”
Reagan’s tone made it clear Malone should resist the temptation to ask anything else, at least for now. “I see,” was all he said.
“I’m in New York. Where are you and Connie these days?”
“We’re at our place in Florida, but I’m coming up for a couple of meetings in Manhattan tomorrow afternoon.”
“Any chance you can take an early flight and meet me in the morning?”
“How about a drink somewhere at noon?”
“Can’t I buy you lunch?” Reagan offered.
“First, you can never buy me anything, because you’re a pauper and I’m a rich guy. Second, my early meeting is for a lunch in midtown, I’ll have to see you before that.”
“All right, a drink at noon then.”
“Agreed,” Malone said, “provided you give me at least one clue as to what we’ll be talking about.”
Reagan paused for a moment, then said, “A change in the weather pattern.”
“A weather pattern?”
“Acid rain in Las Vegas,” answered Reagan.
“Understood,” Malone said. “Just tell me where and I’ll be there.”
***
The next day, Reagan and Malone met at Il Mulino on 60th Street, just off Madison Avenue. Reagan knew the manager; he told him that he needed a table in the back, but that he and his friend would not be eating. All they needed were drinks and to be left to themselves.
When the maître d’ responded with a curious look, Reagan said with a smile, “Don’t worry; my friend is a huge tipper, and I have someone else joining me for lunch in an hour.”
When Malone arrived, Reagan was already seated in the rear of the modern dining room, which was decorated in cool colors, the pale beige walls adorned with framed black-and-white photographs of celebrities, past and present. He had chosen the last table in the corner off to the left, facing the front of the restaurant with his back to the wall.
Reagan was wearing gray slacks, a black V-neck sweater over a white T-shirt, and black suede rubber-soled loafers. His face was closely shaved and, other than the fact he was handsome with intense, dark blue eyes, his appearance was generally forgettable, which was just as he intended.
Malone, on the other hand, was wearing a custom-tailored suit, dove gray with thin blue windowpane lines. His white shirt was crisply pressed, the collar slightly oversized to accommodate the generous knot of a bright blue Hermès tie. A colorful pocket square was spilling out from the breast pocket of his suit jacket, and his Gucci loafers well shined. He was very tan—living most of the time in Florida, Malone was always tan—his auburn hair cut fashionably long, and his luminous smile revealing snowy white teeth that seemed to glow from across the room.
Reagan stood as Malone approached and the two men embraced.
Taking a step back, Reagan said, “You always look like you just stepped out of a GQ fashion shoot.”
Malone responded with an appreciative chuckle. “And you always dress like you’re hiding from someone.”
Reagan ignored the remark. “I mean it, how the hell can you be so put together if you just got off a flight?”
Malone gave a theatrical look around, as if to ensure that no one would hear what he said next. “Sorry to sound so pretentious, but I flew on a private jet in my favorite college sweatsuit, didn’t change until we landed.”
“My hero,” Reagan said as the two men sat down.
A waiter came by, Malone ordered a Bloody Mary, light on the vodka, and Reagan asked for a Blanton’s bourbon with a big cube.
“Little early for something that heavy, no?”
“These are heavy times,” Reagan replied with a slight smile.
“Getting right down to it then?”
“I know you’ve got a schedule to keep.”
“Don’t worry about me, first things first. When you mentioned Las Vegas, I knew you were referring to that attack at the fountain outside the hotel several weeks ago. ...
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