No more bureaucratic bullshit. No more politics. No more red tape. It was a covert operator’s dream come true. Clandestine backing from the government without interference.
That Majid Sadiq had been dispatched and members of his group were dead or on the run was an important victory in the never-ending war on terrorism because it had proven that Fisher and his team were a viable asset.
Indeed, this was Fourth Echelon, and Fisher answered only to the President of the United States. He no longer worked alone in the field but relied upon his team. He’d come a long way since his early days of hanging out in a ventilation shaft at the Tropical Casino in Macau. However, the ghosts still hovered at his shoulders, the ghost of his old boss Lambert, a man whose life he had once saved but then had been forced to take…
“We’re going over the files from Istanbul,” came a voice from behind Fisher, jarring him back to the present. “But you still want to go back there?”
Fisher swung his chair around to face Anna “Grim” Grimsdóttir, her strawberry blond hair pulled back in a ponytail, her blue eyes narrowing with skepticism. She wore a black striped blouse and the shoulder harness for a SIG P229R 9mm pistol.
When he’d first met Grim, she never carried a weapon. She’d been secretly watching him run a CIA obstacle course at “the Farm,” Camp Peary, Virginia. Her spying on him should’ve been his first clue that he couldn’t trust her, but as they say, hindsight is twenty-twenty. She’d begun her career as a programmer, hacker, and analyst, providing assistance for Fisher while he was in the field. Over the years they became friends, sharing jokes about the use of lasers being so 1970s and hi-fi versus Wi-Fi in such globetrotting locations as skyscrapers in New York and banks in Panama City. Grim relished reminding him that he was “old,” but her taunts were good-natured, and Fisher never took them lying down; in fact, he usually took them while suspended, inverted, from a rope.
Then, regrettably, their relationship had taken a very dark turn. They’d told him that his daughter, Sarah, was killed by a drunk driver.
That was a lie.
Grim had known the truth. For three long years he’d thought he had no reason to go on living, and she’d done nothing. Then, when 3E became gripped in conspiracy and corruption, she began working as a mole inside the organization, reporting directly to President Caldwell. Grim had used the promise of Fisher being reunited with his daughter to manipulate him into a mission he didn’t want to take.
He’d thought what she’d done to him was unforgivable, but she’d apologized, told him she’d had little choice, that it was all for the greater good and that she’d do it all again if necessary. The venerable nickname “Ice Queen” had been used to describe her before, but that seemed insufficient. He’d never known she’d go to such great lengths to protect their country. He’d never known her at all, and the emptiness he felt over that revelation ached every day.
He studied her now, acutely aware that she had not wanted him in this position, that Fourth Echelon had originally been her initiative and she’d wanted to be its commander. She hadn’t trusted his motives, but he thought he’d proven himself to her during the Blacklist mission.
“Grim, I know it’s a long shot, but maybe we missed something. There has to be another connection.”
“If there is, we’ll find it. Charlie’s acting like he’s possessed right now.”
“I’m glad you guys are getting along.”
“I wouldn’t go that far.”
“I’m telling you, Grim, when we worked for Victor, the kid was amazing. And you have to admit, the SMI would be nothing without him.”
Fisher was referring to his time working for his old Seal Team Two buddy Victor Coste, who’d formed Paladin 9, a private security firm. That’s where Charlie Cole, the twenty-five-year-old technophile and brilliant programmer, had gone to work after Grim had booted him out of Third Echelon’s R&D department — they’d been working on the SMI together — and that’s where they’d taken the call sign for their aircraft after Vic was injured in the first Blacklist attack and closed up his firm. The name “Paladin” was a tribute to him and a historical reference to chivalrous and courageous knights.
Grim shook her head. “Charlie hasn’t changed a bit. Still an uncompromising know-it-all who almost got us killed—”
Fisher frowned. “What’re you talking about?”
Grim winced, as though she’d let something slip. “Look, he’s great at what he does—”
“But what?”
“But I still don’t know if I can trust him.”
“Give him a chance.”
“Oh, I will. That doesn’t mean I’ll take my eyes off him.”
“Maybe I never earned your trust, but he will.”
She took a deep breath. “Sam, we’ve been through a lot together. And we’ll go through a lot more. The work always comes first.”
“You’re preaching to the choir.”
“I know, but we can’t let the past come between us.”
“I’m glad you finally said that.”
“Really?”
He smirked. “Yeah, because it’s the understatement of the year. You think we’ll ever trust each other?”
“We’re gonna have to.” She started off.
“Hey, Grim?”
She paused and glanced back.
“You made me realize I belong here. Not Vic. Not anyone else…”
A sheen came into her eyes before she turned and headed back to the SMI table.
Her reaction surprised him. It always seemed that her warmth and sympathy had been accidently uploaded and stored in the cloud instead of her heart. And admittedly, she was often a far better strategist than him, yet at the same time she was risk averse, unable to call an audible, and too worried about the consequences of going with your gut. But he needed her. More than ever.
Before he could ponder that further, the seal of the President of the United States appeared on their big screens, and Charlie came rushing out of his chair, tugging on the strings of his hoodie and raising his voice: “Got the POTUS on the line!”
“Good morning, everyone,” said the president.
Patricia Linklater Caldwell was an absolute rarity in American politics, having reached the highest office in the land while single. Her husband, Tobias Linklater, had lived long enough to see Caldwell become a senator before he’d succumbed to pancreatic cancer. In many ways Caldwell was a survivor, having suffered the loss of her husband even as she weathered a tumultuous bid for the presidency and an assassination attempt after she’d been elected. As chief executive, she was results driven, did not frighten easily, and her willingness to get things done by taking quick action had easily won over Fisher. Knowing she lacked Fisher’s perspective from the ground, she wasn’t afraid to listen to his advice.
“Hello, Madame President. If this is about Rahmani, let me assure you—”
“I’ll cut you off right there, Sam. I know you’re on your way to Istanbul, but there’s been a change of plans.”
The SMI began flashing with imagery and data bars, and the big screens above the infirmary hatch displayed images of a handsome middle-aged man with long sandy blond hair and piercing eyes.
“I assume most of you recognize Igor Kasperov, founder and CEO of Kasperov Labs in Moscow.”
“And one of the greatest antivirus programmers ever,” added Charlie. “A legend like Gates, Jobs, and McAfee.”
“That’s right,” said Caldwell. “And I’ve met him before. He’s quite a character.”