Chapter Nineteen
Nineteen
Hampton Roads Commons is a collection of four two-story office buildings surrounded on one side by a concrete manufacturing company and on the other by a discount shopping district, all positioned just a half mile east of Hampton Roads Executive Airport in Norfolk, Virginia.
There was no other signage identifying the occupant here, but on the other side of the building sat an office annex of the Virginia Department of Health and an independent marketing group that sold small appliances to chain stores in Virginia and North and South Carolina.
The biker wore a black helmet with its smoked visor down, and he carried a small gray backpack. He wore an insulated raincoat and blue jeans, brown hiking boots and gloves.
The man parked his Yamaha, turned off the engine, and put his gloves in his backpack, but he left his helmet over his head, the visor still down, as he put the pack back on, kicked off the bike, and then walked to the door of the suite.
Court Gentry never expected he’d find himself at the office of Hanley’s new organization, but after returning from Nicaragua and then spending his first night on his boat docked at Bay Point Marina, he’d gotten a text from Hanley ordering him to report to a specific address for a meeting with his new team.
Hanley hadn’t instructed Court to keep his face covered here at the TerreCom Industrial Consulting office, but he didn’t assume he’d know most any of the other people Matt had working for him, so he wasn’t about to stroll around here on full display.
He pushed a buzzer by the door, then looked up at the camera on his right and gave something of a sarcastic “hang loose” gesture with his hand.
A moment later the door below the camera opened, and a woman stepped out. She was in her fifties or early sixties and wore her curly brown and gray hair down and slightly in disarray, but there was both a calmness and a confidence to her that the younger man easily picked up on.
She was professional but placid, easygoing.
“Good morning, sir.” She offered her hand. “I’m Erin Childers, Matthew’s assistant.”
Court shook her hand, but with the gesture came a challenge. “You just open the door to anyone with a covered face and a backpack?”
“I know who you are.”
“How’s that?”
“The motorcycle.”
“What about it?”
“I bought it for you.” She smiled; it was a motherly smile, good-naturedly indulging a child who thought he had outwitted her. “Plus, I know what you look like, Brian. I did your papers.”
She was telling him she’d forged the identification of his alias, Brian Webb.
He conceded the point, but still, he looked past her into the darkness of what appeared to be a small lobby. He said, “You’re the Subaru, right?”
She looked to the car, then back to him. “That is my Outback, right.”
“Hanley is the Suburban. Who drives the pickup, the Volvo, and the Camry?”
“We just have a few principals in the office today. People who already know what you look like. Matthew is waiting for you in his office. You’re the first of the assets to arrive. Follow me, please.”
With that, Court shrugged, took off his helmet, and carried it under his arm as he was led into the building by Childers.
Almost instantly, Court saw that there wasn’t much to TerreCom’s physical office.
A plastic fiddle-leaf fig tree covered in Christmas lights in the corner of a little lobby with old furniture, a reception desk behind glass, as if this were a bank or the DMV, the chair behind it unoccupied.
Low ceilings, fluorescent lights that were mostly off.
And a door with a keypad lock.
Childers tapped in a code—Court didn’t catch the numbers—and then they began walking down another hall, this one much more brightly lit.
Looking around, he realized this place clearly had been some sort of medical suite before Hanley had rented it. He wondered now if he was here to meet with his boss in an off-book spy shop or if he was here for a colonoscopy.
And he wondered if he’d really notice a difference.
A door opened at the end of the hallway, and then Matt Hanley emerged, wearing a blue sport coat, khakis, and black tennis shoes. Childers passed Court off to him, then disappeared up yet another hallway.
“Hey, Six,” Hanley said. “Welcome to my humble abode.”
Court looked towards the office behind Hanley. It was small and simple. A desk with two chairs in front of it, a couple of monitors on the desk. Paperwork in front of them.
Then he glanced back up the unadorned hall. Almost to himself, he said, “This is it?”
“This is what?” Hanley asked.
“I feel like I should get my teeth cleaned while I’m here.”
Hanley chuckled. “Close. It’s been dormant a couple of years, but it was actually a podiatry office before that.”
Court nodded. Again, almost to himself, he said, “This is a small operation.”
“Said the singleton,” Hanley quipped. Court had begun his career in the CIA as a member of their Autonomous Asset Program, much of the time working completely alone.
Court took Hanley’s meaning but said, “Yeah, but the intel, logistics, all that, it was done by others. I was just the dumbass on the pointy tip.”
Hanley motioned for Court to step back into the office, but they didn’t sit down. He said, “Same deal here. Agency directives come down to us, we evaluate and execute.”
“How do they come down to us?”
“Watkins himself makes decisions on what we do.”
“You trust him?”
“Not particularly.” After a pause, he said, “You know suits.”
To this, Court laughed. “Said the stiffest suit of them all.”
“Maybe once upon a time. But would you just look at me now?” He waved a hand around, indicating the spartan offices of TerreCom Industrial Consulting.
Court gazed around the room he stood in. “It’s a shitty office, yes, but it is an office. You’re making it out as if you’re manning a fucking pillbox on a beachhead.”
Hanley shrugged his big shoulders again. “Anyway, that’s the job. I’d say take it or leave it, but it’s not like I’d let you leave it.”
“I’m on board, Matt. I’m just whining.”
“I know.” He shrugged. “Wish I had someone to whine to.”
The intercom on his desk beeped, and Erin Childers’s voice came over the speaker. “Lyle is at the door.”
Hanley looked to Court. “Zack’s alias.”
He tapped the intercom. “Take him straight into conference room one. We’ll meet you.”
“Yes, sir.”
To Court, Hanley said, “Follow me. We’ve got a conference room. Coffee and donuts and shit. It’ll be fun.” The older man’s sarcasm was obvious, but Court just followed him back out the door.
—
A minute later Court and Hanley arrived at a conference room with a long table as voices came up another hallway to their right.
Court smiled as Zack Hightower’s booming voice filled the space; he was already deep in conversation with Erin Childers, and she was laughing at whatever he was saying.
Zack and Erin came around the corner; she was still chuckling, and then the two men saw each other.
“Six!” he said. “Good to see you.”
The men embraced. Court asked, “How’s the leg?”
“Okay, considering it caught a 122-grain boat tail just six weeks ago.”
“I was there, remember?”
“Barely.”
“I was worried it had clipped your femoral.”
“The doc in Kharkiv said five millimeters to the left and I’d have probably bled out before I got the tourniquet on. And thanks to you for sealing me up in the transport. Can’t say I remember that part, but I’ve heard accounts.”
Court knew Zack would have died in Russia if he’d not gotten immediate medical care. But the man seemed good as new now. He was a big powerful presence, exactly as always.
Hightower now asked, “How’s Anthem doing?”
“She’s recovering. Taking a break.”
“Cool…I want a break,” Hightower replied.
Hanley said, “You got a break when you got this job.”
The intercom on the table came alive again, and Childers said, “Matt, Jason is here.”
“Bring him straight in.”
“Who the hell is Jason?” Hightower asked.
Court said, “Well, you’re Lyle, and I’m Brian, so who knows?”
Hanley did not answer; he just ushered the men into the conference room. Hightower grabbed a donut out of a box on the table, and Court dropped his helmet in a chair, then walked over and poured himself a mug of black coffee from an urn.
He moved back over and began to sit down next to his helmet, but before doing so, he looked up; another figure stood in the doorway.
Hightower was across the table holding the donut in his mouth as he stared at the man; Court was frozen in place a moment himself.
A bald-headed man with a thick beard stood there, a green Patagonia jacket under his arm, a black button-down shirt over his fit frame.
Hightower pulled out the donut. “Travers? Are you kidding?”
Court followed with, “What the hell are you doing here?” Court had known Chris Travers for years, as had Hightower. He’d been CIA, was still CIA as far as either of the men knew.
The bald man came around the table, shook Court’s hand, then Hightower’s.
Zack said, “You can’t be seen with us, brother. You’re Agency.” After a pause, he said, “Unless I missed something.”
“You missed something,” Travers replied. With a deadpan look he said, “I got kicked down into the dirt with Matt and you two jokers.”
“Did you fuck up?” Court asked.
“Didn’t feel that way to me. My superiors disagreed.”
Court flashed his eyes over to Hanley. “Fucking superiors.”
Travers laughed a little. To Hightower and Court he said, “Damn good to see you guys. Staying out of trouble, I hope.”
“Would we be here if we weren’t in trouble?” Court said.
Travers said, “So you guys were in that shit in Russia, weren’t you?”
Hanley spoke up first. “They can neither confirm nor deny.”
“I was just testing them, boss,” Travers said.
He poured himself some coffee, found a place at the table, and then all three men sat down as Hanley stood at the head.
“Welcome to TerreCom Industrial Consulting. Let me explain what’s going to happen.
There are five people inside this office right now other than us.
You met Erin; you’ll meet Jill and Arnold in a second.
Earnest and Doyle are site security; they’re in a back office watching over the street via monitors, keeping an eye on the cams all over the office park.
You won’t meet them, and they won’t meet you.
“I wanted to keep the group small today, just because you operators are here, and not everyone needs to know you. But when you guys aren’t here, we’ll have more on staff.
Fifteen total. Every single one of them has been vetted by me and by the United States government.
There is only one employee here I’ve known less than ten years, and that’s only because ten years ago Jill was in middle school.
“All the cameras inside have been turned off for your visit, so don’t worry about that.”
He added, “Honestly, this might be the only time you three ever enter this building, but I wanted you to see how our operation is going to work.”
Hightower spoke up between bites of his donut. “I just want to know when I’m gonna get my teeth cleaned?”
“Violator has already made that joke,” Hanley said dryly, without turning to the man who’d said it. “Yes…this looks like a medical office. It was. It is no longer. It is where I work.”