This, of course, was part of the overall problem that the Cellar was trying to overcome. The rivalries, the egos involved, between people and organizations that were supposed to work together in defense of the country.
Gant knew all this as he walked into the lobby of the new CIA headquarters in Langley. There were people he knew who served in Able Danger, a highly classified and compartmentalized part of Special Operations Command, that had identified a cell of the nine-eleven hijackers over a year before the event and wanted to relay the information to the FBI but had been denied permission to pass it on. Gant knew that Nero was chafing at the bit to expand the role of the Cellar from chasing down rogue operatives to breaking down the walls between the bureaucracies.
It was not something Gant felt positive about because he had a feeling that attempting to do that would have the reverse effect: suck the Cellar into the world of bureaucracy. He shoved these thoughts from his mind as he walked through the lobby and focused on the current situation.
They had parted company with Neeley at the airfield — she was on her way to the cache site to meet Bailey who had found a partial cache report. Once more the partial was worthless by itself listing only and Immediate Reference Point (IRP) of a road crossing railroad tracks and an Azimuth and Direction (A/D) of one hundred and sixty degrees and four hundred and twelve meters to the cache.
Given there were tens of thousands of rail-lines crisscrossing the country, this information was of little aid. It was another taunt according to Golden. Gant had not found that observation very insightful.
Golden was still with him, but so far she had been of limited use. If he took away all her contributions to the mission so far, nothing would be different in his opinion other than a couple of the people they had interviewed might feel a bit worse for the process. She had come up with the names of the three targets, but only as part of a possible group of sixteen. Gant had gotten the three names much more easily and quickly.
So Gant was ignoring her, focusing his attention on the mission. Two men had died today at the cache site — two innocent men who had only been doing their jobs. Two more innocent men had died this morning at the farm. So he was not in the best of moods when one of the many suits moving through the lobby came toward him and stuck out his hand.
“Mister Gant?”
Gant ignored the hand. “Yes.”
“Deputy Director Roberts is waiting for you.”
Gant simply nodded and the agent, after a moment of confusion, lowered his hand and turned on his heel, leading them toward an elevator. As they walked Gant glanced to his right at the memorial wall. He’d seen it before. Eighty-three stars adorned the wall, one for each CIA officer who’d been killed in the line of duty. Gant knew that even today, thirty-five of the names represented there had never been made public, still classified, even in death.
Memorials to the dead, he mused, thinking back to the wall at Bragg, as they got into the elevator. Bureaucracies seemed to go for those. While they were touted as testaments and honor to those who they represented, Gant believed they were designed more with the living, who would see them, in mind. Everyone wanted to be immortal, at least in thought.
The Cellar had no such memorial. In fact, Gant had no idea how many people were in the employ of the Cellar. He worked for Nero and he had always worked alone prior to this mission. Bailey had always been his mission briefer. When he needed logistical support, he used the power of the Cellar to commandeer it from whatever various government agency he needed to.
The elevator came to a halt and the nameless flunky led them down a carpeted corridor to a door, which he rapped on lightly, then opened, beckoning them in. Gant slid by the man, Golden following and the door was shut behind them.
The room was dimly lit, the shades closed, only a small light in the corner pointing up illuminating it. A figure was seated in the chair behind the desk but that was all Gant could make out. He had memories of meeting Nero in his dimly lit underground chamber.
“Deputy Director Roberts?” Gant asked.
“Yes.” The voice was low, almost a whisper.
Another father in pain, Gant thought. He couldn’t see Roberts’ face as the man was deep in the shadow of his chair.
“My name is Gant. I’m from the—“
“The Cellar,” Roberts interrupted. “I’ve been waiting for someone to show up from that place.”
“If you’ve been waiting,” Gant said, “then you know who they are.”
“I’ve been getting reports,” Roberts said. “Lutz, Paine and Forten. We thought they were dead.”
Gant walked forward and sat down in one of the two seats in front of the desk. Golden took the other. He hoped that as a shrink, she would appreciate the importance of silence and waiting, letting the other person do the talking. So far, she seemed to.
Roberts reached forward and turned on a desk lamp. Gant wasn’t surprised by the man’s appearance. His face was long and drawn with deep, dark pockets under his eyes.
“My wife — ex-wife — is making all the funeral arrangements. I’m not invited.” He sighed deeply. “She doesn’t know, but she does know. She knows this had something to do with the job. I loved that about her when we were first married. That she knew things without me having to tell her. You know. Because I couldn’t tell her much at all about what I was doing. Now I hate it.”
Roberts reached out and picked up a letter opener, a miniature Samurai sword that he began to play with, flipping it through his fingers. “Yesterday I wondered if this was some sort of, I don’t know, mis-direction mission. A test. To see how I handled things. I’ve seen some strange shit in my time here at the Agency. But when my ex called me, I knew it was real. She was with the body in Alabama. I knew she’d never go along with anything about Caleigh. I knew then she was indeed dead.”
Gant glanced over at Golden. She looked thoughtful and concerned and he realized she was slipping back into her therapist mode. He turned back to Roberts. The man wasn’t looking at either of them. His eyes were on the flashing metal blade of the letter opener as he moved it about under the light.
“She’ll never forgive me.” He laughed, a dry, forced noise. “Not that it matters with Caleigh dead. I guess Caleigh will never forgive me either.”
Gant stirred. The waiting thing was all right, but it was time to get on task.
Roberts looked up. “Which one of them killed her?”
“We don’t know,” Gant lied. “One of them is dead now. Lutz.”
Roberts looked surprised, lifting ever so slightly out of his despair. “I didn’t hear that.”
“He died this morning,” Gant said, “trying to attack Lewis Foley of the State Department and his wife. Unfortunately, Foley and his wife were killed in the attack. As were two State Department security people. And two FBI HRT team members were killed today trying to find another girl who was kidnapped by these guys.”
Roberts slumped back in his seat, dropping the letter opener to the desktop. “Fuck.”
“Yeah,” Gant said. “So tell me what happened so we can get the other two.”
Roberts lowered his head, putting his hands on either side, rubbing his scalp. When he spoke it was so hard to hear him that both Gant and Golden had to lean forward in their chairs.
“It was relatively straightforward. Columbia. Drug trafficking. The DEA got the village elders in a major transport hub for the Cartel to turn. Promised them lots of cash, lots of aid. And protection from the local warlord. That was the key. So the team was sent in as protection. They were to take out the local warlord who was moving the drugs. We had a tip when he would be showing up to punish the villagers.”