Witness To Death. Dave White

then proceeded to give Callahan a history lesson on the war before handing out the first assignment. The man was verbose, often drifting off into long tangents about movies, history, or making up code phrases before meeting up with agents, even though they’d already met before. He never rushed. He never complained. And he always acted like National Security was a fun job.

      So, when Callahan met up with Weller on the corner of First and First, Weller’s intensity was what really worried Callahan. No preamble, no history lesson, just right into the problem.

      “You don’t have much time. Somebody gave you up. You need to find Omar Thabata.”

      “That’s what I was trying to do,” Callahan said. “He was surrounded by guys with guns. He ran off, but I know he saw me. He yelled out my name. He knows who I am.”

      Weller nodded and scrolled through his Blackberry.

      “I understand you had to go through outside sources.”

      “How else would I have found him?” Callahan asked.

      He watched two people pass him on the street, halting at the corner to check traffic. He felt his muscles tense. When the street was clear the two people crossed.

      “My contact heard about the meeting. Put it up on the server. I’m going to have to ask her if she’s heard where he’s run off to.”

      Weller looked up from his Blackberry.

      “No. Don’t talk to her. She might be the one who gave you up. You’re going to have to earn the spy title this time. You find him on your own. And he better be alone when you find him.”

      Callahan didn’t say anything. Across the street, someone hailed a cab. Three teenagers ambled up from the south. Callahan figured he could make it to the next block and disappear in the crowd in less than ten seconds if he needed to. He’d already memorized the nearest subway station on the way there.

      “I don’t know where to begin looking,” Callahan said. “Tonight was our chance.”

      Weller smiled. “Who’s the genius? The man who knows everything? Or the man who knows how to find everything?”

      Callahan didn’t bother to respond. Just another one of Weller’s catch phrases.

      “You need to hurry,” Weller said. “There’s been a lot of chatter lately. They’re talking about another attack on the city. We’re talking within the next week.” He gestured toward the skyline.

      “I think that’s why the meeting with Omar was set up.”

      “Good guess.”

      “You going to put the city on orange?”

      “Not my call,” Weller said. “You know the higher ups. They don’t want to worry anyone. Gotta keep getting people out shopping at F.A.O. and Macy’s.”

      The wind funneled down the street, burning Callahan’s ears. The city was a wind tunnel in the middle of the winter. He wished he’d worn a scarf and a hat.

      Weller said, “Give me your Blackberry.”

      Callahan did, and Weller pulled a short wire from his jacket pocket, connecting his Blackberry to Callahan’s.

      “I’m loading the security codes for Jersey City morgues for you. Doreen Duffy got the codes for me. Find out who these guys you killed are.”

      “What about Omar?”

      “I also put the address of the last place he was spotted about two weeks ago. A mosque in Jersey City. Check that out too, if you don’t find anything out from the treanchcoats.”

      “A lot to do. Little time.”

      Weller shrugged. “All part of the job.”

      “Maybe I should talk to Duffy,” Callahan said.

      “You know that’s not possible,” Weller said.

      “Things have changed. People are dead. I need to come in. Discuss.”

      “No.”

      “I told you to pull me out of this weeks ago. Made a mistake, and now I’m too close to this. I can’t be impartial,” Callahan said.

      “Come on, you’re better than that. Forget all the other personal stuff. Find Omar.”

      Callahan didn’t say a word.

      “If Duffy knows about you and you have to do something—” Weller twirled his finger in a circle, “—bad, then the DHS has plausible deniability. The press would be all over us if we made a mistake. She knows nothing.”

      Callahan took his phone back and then tucked his hands in his pockets. His knuckles were stiff from the cold air. In his pockets he opened and closed his fingers, trying to get circulation back. Weller hardly flinched with each gust of wind.

      “Funny thing about my assailants,” Callahan said. “The guy I killed on the train, I recognized him.”

      Weller raised an eyebrow.

      “He was a Blackwater guy from back when I was in the CIA.”

      Blackwater was an outside company the CIA had used to train CIA agents to assassinate high ranking Al Qaeda officials. They also supplied the CIA with private agents to carry out some of the assassinations and interrogations of terrorists.

      “I thought that started in ’04. After you left.”

      “It’s the CIA. That’s what they wanted you to think.”

      Weller shook his head. “You sure it was the same guy?”

      “I was there for the interview. Part of my training, to ask the right questions, make decisions on guys like this. And test my ability to keep secrets.”

      “Did you hire him?”

      “I don’t remember exactly. We had a lot of interviews. But my gut says no.”

      “Glad you didn’t,” Weller said.

      “Why’s that?’

      Weller shrugged. “You guys may have fought to a tie. I’ll look into it, talk to some of my CIA pals. Who was the guy you were with tonight? Did you bring backup?”

      Callahan shoved his hands in his pockets. “Who are you talking about?”

      “The guy all over the news. Someone got his picture on a cell phone. They’re pasting it all over the place. The news, the internet. They say he’s responsible for all the deaths. Nice move, deflecting the attention.”

      Callahan squeezed his hands into fists, inside his pockets. He’d sent John right to the police.

Chapter 7

      The cell phone rang as Christine Verderese slipped the cookie tray into the stove. After taking off the oven mitts, she picked it up. Her Uncle Tony was on the other end of the line, and that meant only one thing.

      A job.

      Her last job was three months ago, and she was starting to get antsy. Since then she’d had to work small jobs, waitress in a coffee shop, handle collections for her uncle, even sign up with a Temp Agency. It was like leaving the business. Her uncle told her to keep the faith, that she’d be needed again. But at this point, she felt like she was living a normal life.

      But now the phone was ringing, and she felt the fire in her veins.

      “I need you,” her uncle Tony said.

      “It’s about time. What’s the job?”

      “Come over and make me meatballs. I’m hungry.”

      “You better be joking.”

      A rustle of paper on the other