Chapter 32 #2
“You need me, you call. Hear?”
“Always do.” She’s one of my closest friends. “And everything’s good with you?”
“It is, but I’ve got to run. Dorian’s shouting about something.”
“You’re not in the office?”
“No. We headed to Maine to get a break from the heat for the weekend.” Her voice goes lower, like she placed the phone against her chest. “In a minute!”
“Go,” I tell her. “Speak later.”
“Speak soon,” she says, and the call ends.
I try Hudson again, and this time, he answers.
“Parker. All okay?”
“Yes. I have an update.”
“Go ahead.”
I pause, glancing at the drapes, knowing that in the CIA what I’m about to say would mean dismissal. “I came clean to Rhodes. We can trust him. He’s going to work with us to determine if anyone within ARGUS is selling intel.”
“Are you emotionally involved?”
My fingers curl, but there’s no point in taking offense. The question echoes our academy instructor’s warnings about “agents and emotional compromise.”
“Yes.” I pause because stating my case too quickly undermines my cause.
“However, I’m eyes wide open. I also learned important information.
The Russian meeting wasn’t a business meeting.
Not exactly. They’re blackmailing him. They want him to buy the Forbes Intelligence database—obviously to use for their purposes. He hasn’t agreed to anything.”
“This database—did he mention what it contains?”
“No specifics, but it’s valuable enough that the Russians are risking diplomatic exposure to acquire it.”
“And you said he’s willing to work with us?”
“Yes. If there’s?—”
“Let me get back to you.”
The call ends and I look at the phone in my hand. That was odd.
I pull up a secure search window on my phone and type “Forbes Intelligence database.” Nothing relevant appears—either it’s highly classified or deliberately obscured.
A feeling of failure overwhelms me. I’m not one who fails, and yet I failed this operation.
I should go for a run. Take a cue from Rhodes.
I step past the bathroom and shout so Jake can hear over the shower, “I’m heading out.”
I toss the empty paper cup into a small bin and exit Jake’s hotel room. As I head down the hall, following the arrows to the elevator bank, I hear someone knocking on a door. The sound grows louder as I progress down the hall, and I slow when I hear a too-familiar voice.
I peer around the corner, instinctively pressing against the wall to minimize my profile. The hallway carpeting muffles my footsteps as I edge closer.
David Crawford stands in the doorway of room 714, his broad back to me, one hand gripping the doorframe. His posture radiates tension—shoulders rigid, neck muscles visibly taut. He’s speaking in hushed tones, but his clipped gestures suggest urgency or frustration.
The door opens wider and adrenaline surges. My periphery darkens, and I home in on the man in the doorway.
It’s the FBI agent from the bar yesterday; the one who tried to plant a tracker on me. His expression is deferential but firm as he responds to whatever the senator is demanding.
I lift my phone, frame the shot carefully, and capture the exchange—Crawford’s distinctive salt and pepper hair from behind, and the full face of his companion. The agent’s eyes shift suddenly, scanning the hallway, and I withdraw around the corner, pulse quickening.
How do they know each other? Crawford is a member of the Senate Intelligence Committee. Is Crawford staying in this hotel, or is this a dedicated meeting spot?
If it had been a female agent, I’d assume David was cheating on his wife again. But I’m certain he’s not gay. Bi? The conversation seemed heated.
I shoot the image off to Quinn.
Me
FBI agent from the bar yesterday. Can you verify facial recognition with his badge?
I’m down in the lobby when a text comes through.
Quinn
Zero facial recognition matches. No known bureau personnel.
Huh. Stolen badge credentials. What do you know?
Rhodes is under Russian pressure to acquire a database. A senator with intelligence clearance is meeting with someone using falsified FBI credentials. The same fake agent attempted to approach me after I was seen with Rhodes.
Could it all be connected?
If so, it has the hallmarks of a multi-pronged intelligence operation—the Russians applying direct pressure while simultaneously using domestic assets to monitor or influence the target.
Classic pincer technique. But there’s something off about the pattern.
If Crawford is compromised by Russia, why would the fake agent approach me so brazenly in the hotel bar?
That’s not how Russian intelligence typically operates.
Unless this isn’t a Russian operation at all. Unless there’s a third player I haven’t identified yet.
I check my watch. The formal event is in less than ten hours—a perfect opportunity for multiple intelligence services to converge around high-value targets. It would be helpful to identify the relevant players before the event.
Instead of hitting the pavement, I head back to Jake’s room. He opens the door on my first knock.
“We’re staying,” he greets me, freshly showered and awake. “Hudson called. He wants to know who’s behind the blackmail.”
“That’s pretty obvious,” I say, stepping inside, but not before doing a visual sweep along the hallway to ensure we’re alone. “The ops changing.”
“Tend to do that,” Jake says with a low-key shrug.
I pull out my phone and share the photo I snapped of a US senator and a man pretending to be an FBI agent. Jake’s expression changes instantly—the casual demeanor replaced by the focused intensity I’ve seen in operators in high-risk scenarios.
“This complicates things,” he says quietly, zooming in on the fake agent’s face. “I know this guy.”
“From where?”
Jake’s eyes meet mine, his expression grim. “Not from the bureau, that’s for damn sure.” He reaches for his secure phone. “We need to contact Hudson. Now.”