The FBI spokesperson shook his head. “We’ve had one or two possible leads, but nothing substantial. That said, we’re fairly sure he’s headed to Washington, D.C.”
“Why D.C.?”
“I can’t answer that, ma’am.”
“Is he a danger to members of the public?”
The FBI official looked directly into the camera. “He’s a real danger to certain people.”
“What advice do you give if he’s spotted?”
“Stay well away. Then call us or the cops. We’ll send in HRT or SWAT to take him down.”
The reporter frowned. “What’s HRT?”
The spokesperson replied, “They’re the type of men we need to take down Cochrane, and they’re embedded in our task force.”
“Is that standard procedure?”
“No, but this is a highly unusual case. We need to move very fast and with maximum force if Cochrane’s spotted or tracked down.”
The reporter asked, “Can you tell us a bit more about Cochrane’s capabilities?”
The spokesperson’s expression was somber as he answered, “He’s a highly trained and effective operator. This is a dangerous manhunt. I can’t emphasize that enough. If he’s spotted, no members of the public must approach Cochrane. Nobody.”
After the hotel room television was turned off, Oates turned to Scott and asked, “What’s HRT?”
“Hormone replacement therapy.”
The former SAS soldiers laughed.
“Feds are using hormones to capture Cochrane.”
“Trying to make him have a sensitive side.”
Scott turned serious. “Hostage Rescue Team. Some of my pals in Delta and DEVGRU joined HRT. They’re good.”
“As good as the Regiment?”
The SAS.
“Don’t be a dickhead.”
“Thought not,” Oates said. “You worried you might have to slot some of those pals of yours?”
Scott shrugged. “Shit happens.”
Oates grabbed his knapsack containing food, drink, three cell phones, and two handguns. Scott had already collected his things from his adjacent room. “Where we taking over from Amundsen and Shackleton?”
Scott nodded toward the blank TV screen where moments ago they’d seen the J. Edgar Hoover Building. “Outside the cross-dresser’s place.”
A reference to the FBI founder’s sexual peccadillo.
“Gage already there?”
“Yeah.”
“Best we go and keep her company, then.”
The long FBI ops room was filled to capacity with Bureau men and women unpacking boxes, arranging their desks, checking phone lines and computer terminals, placing mementos and framed photos of loved ones on their work stations, and catching up with colleagues they hadn’t seen for a while. Including Alistair, Patrick, and Sheridan, the room contained fifty-four people, most of whom were wearing suits, with the exception of eight men who were wearing sweaters, jeans, and boots. Unlike all the other agents, Pete Duggan and his seven HRT colleagues had no need to unpack anything. Their two SUVs, both parked in the building’s secure basement parking lot, contained everything they needed — Springfield Armory’s M1911A1 Professional handguns, Heckler & Koch MP5/10A3 submachine guns with laser aiming devices and SureFire tactical lights, Heckler & Koch HK416 rifles, ammunition, communications and surveillance equipment, stun grenades, plastic cuffs, fire resistant overalls, Kevlar helmets and body armor, and respirators.
The room smelled of coffee, aftershave, perfume, and testosterone, and the combined scent was one that Marsha Gage had been surrounded by on many occasions. As she stood watching her team from one end of the room, she recalled the first time she’d had to give a briefing to a task force. Back then, it had been a daunting prospect, and she remembered the butterflies in her stomach and trying to relax through breathing exercises. But since then, years of detective work, and having kids who didn’t give her one second to think about nerves, had made briefings like these a walk in the park.
Still, this was the first time she’d ever been put on a manhunt to capture a rogue intelligence officer. And though she’d handpicked five agents for the team who were experts in counterintelligence, she knew for a fact that no one on the task force had ever come up against someone like Cochrane. She breathed in deeply. “Okay, everyone. Listen up!”
The room grew silent as all looked at her and ceased their activities. Alistair and Patrick moved to her side, Patrick folding his arms and adopting a look that suggested he was going to kill anyone in the team who asked something dumb, Alistair leaning against a wall with one foot resting over the other and a look of nonchalance.
She pointed at a whiteboard containing two photos of Will Cochrane: one in which he was clean-shaven and wearing a suit and tie, the other the International Avenue border crossing shot. “We’re after Will Cochrane. He works — correction, worked—for the two gentlemen by my side. Both are spooks, so try to keep hold of your wallets and sanity if you go anywhere near them.”
One of the agents called out, “They got names?”
Patrick answered, “We do, but you don’t need them. I’m CIA, and”—he gestured toward Alistair—“my friend here’s MI6. Cochrane was a joint U.S.-U.K. asset. We’re here as advisers to Agent Gage.”
Marsha said, “He’s been sighted crossing the Canadian border into Maine. It’s possible he broke into a house in Springfield, because whoever did stole a set of clothes that matched Cochrane’s size, grabbed some food, and left a lot of cash to pay for both. Either way, we believe that Cochrane’s heading southwest along the East Coast toward D.C.”
One of the team members asked, “Why D.C.?”
Marsha stared at Sheridan, wishing she could hold a gun to his head and make him tell her and everyone else in the room what Ferryman was. “He wants to know details about a CIA mission.”
More questions were fired from the team.
“We think he’s still armed?”
Marsha nodded. “Yes.”
“Any assessment on his mental condition?”
“No doubt he’s had better days, but he’s trained to operate for long periods in hostile locations.”
“Is he wounded?”
“He might have some cuts and bruises, but based on the way he moved during the border crossing, we don’t think he’s got any serious physical problems.”
“How much cash has he got on him?”
“I’m told by my CIA colleagues that he had ten thousand dollars when he was deployed to Norway.”
“ID?”
“An alias passport and credit card in the name of Robert Tombs.”
“How did he get to Canada from Norway?”
“Most likely he had help from assets we don’t know about.”
“Has he got assets in the States?”
Marsha glanced at Patrick.
The CIA officer answered, “Before my team was disbanded, two of Cochrane’s colleagues were paramilitary Agency.”
Roger Koenig and Laith Dia, both of whom had served with Will on three missions.
“They’re very loyal to Cochrane, and no doubt would help him if they could. For that reason, I redeployed them overseas as soon as we suspected Cochrane might be heading this way.”
Marsha hadn’t known that, and wondered if there was anything else the damn spies in her team weren’t telling her.
Patrick added, “Cochrane was raised in the States, but his parents are dead and his sister lives in Scotland and doesn’t have contact with her brother. As far as we can tell, he’s got absolutely no one here who can help him. That’s our assumption.”
The youngest member of the team — a male who’d been selected by Marsha because of his cyber intercept expertise, but had no idea about old-fashioned detective work — smirked and stated, “We know where he’s headed and he’s on his own. He’s screwed.”