He saved the last images on a flash drive. Soon he would take the flash drive down to the hotel’s business center and print out the documents, three in all, and return to his room to prepare them for mailing. When the envelope was received at its destination, Collins knew, the effect would be devastating, his ultimate goal.
His obsession with Jake Pendleton had culminated into the brazen surveillance of the man earlier in the day. Collins followed the news stories of the tragic loss of two of Newnan’s most prestigious and influential residents from a fire caused by a gas leak. It was payback for the elderly politician’s interference that resulted in two bullets being shot into Collins.
He followed the procession of vehicles from the funeral home to the Oak Hill Cemetery and, at one point, actually joined the line of cars then pulled away as they entered the cemetery grounds. As the procession moved toward the gravesite, Collins stopped his car at the section known as the Confederate Cemetery and removed his high-dollar digital SLR camera with its zoom lens.
Collins viewed the funeral through the lens, snapping pictures of those in attendance, focusing on Jake. He made note of Jake’s stoic demeanor throughout the funeral. The man and woman sitting to Jake’s left seemed familiar, too familiar, then it occurred to him. He’d seen them before. They were with Jake Pendleton in the Friar’s Chamber in Ireland. They were part of the reason for Collins’ failure. He would deal with them later.
It was the young woman sitting next to Jake that piqued his interest. She leaned against Jake and held him with both hands. She appeared to be showing him more affection than compassion. This, he found interesting.
Another opportunity to seek revenge on the meddling Pendleton.
Collins used his hotel keycard to access the business center, logged onto a computer, and opened the files on the flash drive. He printed each document on the hotel’s laser printer, logged off, removed the flash drive, grabbed his copies from the printer, and returned to his room.
With the photos spread on the table in front of him, Collins carefully affixed a marker, his marker, to each. Their meaning would be clear and the recipient would triple their efforts to locate him. Perfect.
His web was being spun and his prey lured into it.
Jake Pendleton's next funeral would be his own.
Four miles east of downtown Atlanta in an old brick building on Ponce De Leon Avenue in Decatur was where Bentley told Jake to meet them. He parked on the street two blocks away and walked in the darkness of night to the field office. The building was non-descript other than the red brick. It could have been an office for anything, accountants, lawyers, realtors, or a field office of the Clandestine Services of the Central Intelligence Agency.
Earlier Jake had arranged for a limo to take Kyli and Mr. Wiley to the airport. They were returning to Belgium — Wiley for a few days, Kyli for good. It was a bittersweet moment for Jake. He hated to see her go, the moment at the cemetery still lingered fresh in his mind. But he needed to clear his mind and focus on Khan.
Jake entered through the front entrance, a small foyer enclosed in glass, only to be greeted by a CIA guard who introduced himself as Bruno. The human tank towered over Jake like an NFL linebacker. His arms were the size of Jake’s thighs. His intimidation didn’t stop with his size. His dark black skin was covered in black attire. Adorned in full bling, Bruno wore a chain-link gold necklace, a gold earring, gold bracelet on his right wrist, and three gold rings.
“You don’t look like a Bruno.” Jake quipped. “You look more like a bodyguard for a rapper or a bouncer at a nightclub.”
“I’m half Italian — satisfied?” He smiled, a gold tooth glistened under the lights.
“Depends on what the other half is.”
“You don’t want to find out.”
“No, I don’t think I do.” Jake smiled.
Bruno whispered into his sleeve and the door behind him buzzed. Bruno pushed the door open letting Jake walk through. “Director Bentley is waiting, second door on the left.”
“Thanks.”
The Atlanta operations center was a large room with a dozen men and women sitting behind computer terminals wearing headsets. Five flat-screen monitors lined the rear walls. Huddled in front of one monitor were Bentley, Hunt, and Kaplan. Jake recognized the image on the monitor; it was CIA analyst George Fontaine. Fontaine worked in the Clandestine Imaging Division of the Technical Service of the CIA. The CID’s responsibility was technical support to clandestine operations in the form of photography, secret writing, and video surveillance.
“What’s up with Bruno?” Jake pointed back at the door.
Bentley turned, “Malcolm? Good guy, but I wouldn’t get on his bad side.”
“I could’ve used that intel earlier.” Jake said.
“George and I briefed Mr. Wiley on this earlier.” Bentley motioned to Jake to take a seat. “You’re just in time to hear what we found out.”
Jake walked over and stood next to Bentley. “Hey, George.”
“Hello Jake.” Fontaine was known to be thorough and all business so he wasted no time beginning his presentation. “It took some doing but I think we caught a lucky break.” The monitor adjacent to the image of Fontaine showed the streets of Paris after the bombing of the Louvre. “If you’ll notice the white van.” The picture zoomed in on the driver.
“Khan.” Jake said.
“That’s right, Jake. I tracked his movements through the use of traffic cams, and found where he abandoned the van. Using the same cams, I verified his identity and followed him to the Metro.”
Jake watched the monitor change pictures following the sequence of events as Fontaine explained Khan’s movements.
“The French government, at least in Paris anyway, made it easy to track Khan’s movements along the Metro lines. They even have cameras in the Metro cars. I followed Khan until he exited the Metro at the Porte d’Ivry station. I used traffic cams again until Khan disappeared into a nearby garage. Five minutes later, this black Audi drove out. It took a few minutes but I finally snagged a traffic cam photo of the driver and guess who?”
The picture on the monitor revealed Hashim Khan.
“The rest was a piece of cake…at least for a while anyway. By now, with the explosions at the Eiffel Tower and the Louvre, every satellite with an angle was aimed at France. He never changed plates so I tracked him to Bordeaux where, it appears, he took a tour of a winery.”
“You’re kidding, right?” Kaplan asked.
“Trying to look like a tourist, was he?” Jake imitated a European accent. “Bet he even bought a couple of bottles of wine.”
“How could you know that?” Fontaine asked.
“Lucky guess.” Hunt said.
“He actually bought three bottles and placed them in the back seat which eventually gave away his identity.” Fontaine continued his presentation. “I tracked him to Bayonne, France, near the coast where I lost him. The car disappeared into a structure and never resurfaced. It’s still there as far as I know. The trail went cold. No movement. No pedestrians. No traffic cams to monitor. I thought we were at a dead end unless his plans were to stay in Bayonne, which didn’t make any sense. He knew he was being pursued. He must have seen you two in Trappes when he evaded you.
“At ten minutes intervals, I pulled photos, checking every road out of Bayonne and then I noticed it. A red convertible driving toward the Spanish border. The car had Spanish plates and the driver had black hair, but so does half the population.”
“How could you be sure it was Khan?” Kaplan asked.
“The wine bottles are on the seat and you matched the labels to the winery.” Jake said. “You already told us that.”