Chapter Forty-Four
Washington, D.C.
The plane touched down at Reagan National just after noon.
He moved fast, skipping the cab line and sliding into a waiting Bureau sedan.
The driver knew the route, straight to a nondescript federal building near Foggy Bottom where Leonard Fisk, his contact from the Joint Terrorism Task Force days, was waiting in the lobby.
Fisk was in a fitted suit and striped tie, his hair trimmed and slicked back, looking like a mid-level business executive aiming for the top floor.
“Fisk, good to see you,” Stanton said, extending his hand.
“Better circumstances than the last time, at least I hope so.”
“So far,” Stanton said.
Fisk did not offer any background on his latest assignment in D.C. and Stanton knew better than to ask. The CIA man led them through a labyrinth of hallways and buzzed them into the SCIF. “Put your phone in the box,” he said.
Stanton slid his phone into a small locker and took the key.
The room was bare and boring, consisting of a few chairs and a table.
“So,” Fisk said, settling in. “Trouble in the Big Easy? Our guy from the New Year’s Day attack have associates looking to repeat?”
“Something else has come up, closer to your world.”
“Important enough for you to fly all the way up here.”
There was a natural rivalry between the FBI and CIA.
Stanton respected the Agency and its people, but not its style.
There were too many instances where the intelligence service had blurred the lines not just between right and wrong but between legal and illegal.
From past experience, Stanton knew that Fisk liked to hang back and hold on to information.
As a data man, Stanton found that counterproductive.
Play the game, Alma’s voice whispered.
“A name came up in the federal employee database on a person of interest in an investigation in New Orleans. Drug related. He happens to be a former CIA contractor.”
“That so?”
“When I dug into his background, I ran into a brick wall. A file that was there but not there. Redacted.”
A faint expression of amusement curved Fisk’s face, as if he was relishing the idea that a senior FBI sleuth had been frustrated by Agency protocols.
“And?” Fisk asked.
“All it said was that he served in Afghanistan with the Agency.”
Fisk raised an eyebrow.
“From our conversations when we worked the Bourbon Street attack, I knew your Afghanistan time overlapped with his.”
The mild smirk evaporated. “Who are we talking about?”
“John Staub. A contractor with Ground Branch.”
Fisk shook his head slowly. “Staub’s dead.”
“I know.”
Fisk tilted his head. “What are we doing here, Jarrett?”
“We have two crime scenes in New Orleans that seem to be connected. One of the murder victims was John Staub’s widow, Leigh Ann Staub.
Somebody killed four bangers at the scene.
Then two cops were gunned down in a drug house in the same area where John’s son, Connor, died of an apparent OD. We think it was the same shooter.”
“I’m sorry to hear about John’s family. He was good. But not that good.”
“Meaning what?”
“Meaning he wasn’t good enough to come back from the dead to avenge his wife and kid.”
“How well did you know him?”
“Well enough, but we weren’t tight. I’m not Ground Branch. I was a case officer, operational level. Staub was tactical.”
“That’s what I’m after.”
“What?”
“Insight on his friends and associates.”
“Like I said, we weren’t close.”
Stanton pulled a file from his bag.
“John Staub was an assaulter at SEAL Team Six for ten years. Tight community. When they get out, some of them find a home here.”
“Here?”
“At the Agency.”
“That’s true,” Fisk confirmed.
“I looked through Department of Defense records and compared them to the federal employee database. I was able to identify twenty-three operators that Staub overlapped with at SEAL Team Six who went on to work with the CIA.”
“Like you said, it’s not uncommon.”
“But only one of them served in Afghanistan at the same time as Staub and you.”
“Chris Walker,” Fisk said.
“What can you tell me about him?”
“Some sort of amateur philosopher. We went through the Farm together, but he kept to himself. Issues with authority. He was always trouble.”
“That so?”
“Jarrett, if you came all the way here to confirm that Walker was Agency and that he was a problem, you have it.”
“I came all the way here to show you this.” Stanton opened the file and pulled out a series of still photos from the surveillance camera at the Federal Building in New Orleans. He handed them to Fisk.
“As you can see, not enough for facial recognition. I have the video on my phone out in the lockbox in case that might help.”
“I don’t need it.”
“You recognize him?”
Fisk dropped the photos back on the table.
“That’s him. That’s Walker. I can tell by his posture. He always moved like a fucking predator. I’m surprised he’s not dead by now.”
“Why do you say that?”
“He left the Agency under a cloud, angry. Operators like that with nowhere to go usually end up suck-starting a pistol. I figured he’d last a year on the outside, tops.”
“Why did he leave the Agency?”
Fisk shook his head. “That, my friend, is above your pay grade.”