Justin glanced at the car. Sergei had not come out of the BMW. No one was shooting at the car, but a guard was firing single shots from his AK from across the lawn.
“Cease fire, cease fire,” Justin shouted in Russian. “They’re all dead.”
There was at least one gunman alive, but he hoped his words would draw him out.
Nothing happened in the first few seconds, then someone climbed over the gazebo’s wall and slid down the stairs. Before Justin could pull his trigger, the guard with the AK let off a short burst. Bullets cut the man down to the lawn.
Two guards moved forward from the other side of the yard. Justin came out from behind the tree. Taking careful steps, he swept the grounds for surviving gunmen. The cold night was silent, but for the crunching of guards boot on the grass.
Justin reached the BMW. Sergei was leaning over the steering wheel. Two gunshot wounds were visible in his back. Justin let out a deep sigh. He looked up at one of the guards standing by the car.
“He’s gone,” Justin said.
The guard cursed in Russian, then kicked the BMW’s door.
Justin marched toward the gazebo. A dead gunman was lying on the lawn. His was on his back, and his left arm was twisted underneath his body. He had a black thick beard and was wearing a military camouflage jacket and pants.
“Do you recognize him?” Justin asked one of the guards who just came up behind him.
The guard crouched and looked at the dead man’s face. He rummaged through the man’s pockets, came out empty, then nodded. “I think he’s a Chechen rebel.”
Do Chechen rebels have ties to al-Shabaab? Justin thought. Or is Johnson directly contacting these men, sending them to finish al-Shabaab’s job?
“Justin,” Carrie called at him.
He turned around and saw her standing a few feet away.
“I’m fine,” he said. “They’re not.”
She walked to the bench where the guards had placed the body of another dead gunman.
“He’s definitely a Chechen terrorist,” said a guard. “I’ve seen his face on television.”
Justin nodded. He pulled Carrie to the side. “Let’s check with McClain and see if this bait worked,” he said. “I’m pretty sure Johnson is behind this.”
“I think so too. How did it go with Romanov?”
“He completed our puzzle. I’ll tell you everything on our way out.”
Chapter Twenty-two
Initially, McClain had not liked Justin’s plan to take down Adams. It was true the man was a crook, but he was still the Deputy Director of NCS. It was not McClain’s job to straighten things out in CIA. This was not his problem. Adams was taught to erase, not cover, his tracks. An earlier CIA investigation of Adams, based upon the same evidence provided by Romanov, had turned out unsuccessful. The case against Adams was weak. The result of another investigation could prove to be the same. And McClain could not have that.
But Adams had misled him and his team, putting them in danger, using them as blind tools. Adams had convinced him Justin and Carrie were going after a terrorist, when he was, in fact, a rogue CIA agent. Documents obtained from Romanov showed Adams had lied to his face when McClain had asked him about the American weapons in al-Shabaab’s hands. Such actions could not be tolerated and would not go unpunished. So McClain had accepted Justin’s idea and had authorized the plan. McClain was prepared to deal with any fallout from this operation.
Justin arrived early at Walter E. Washington Convention Center. The conference on “Safety, Security, and Proliferation of Small Arms and Light Weapons (SALW) in the 21st Century” was taking place in one of the conference rooms in Level 2 of the center. It was hosted by one of United Nations programs addressing the issue of illegal light weapons in Africa, with the participation of various US government agencies. Ironically, Adams, was one of the keynote speakers. His presentation was going to give the audience — which included an unusually large number of journalists from reputable news networks — an update on US efforts to curb the illegal gun trade in war-ravaged areas of the world. The opportunity was too good for Justin to pass up.
The guards at the main entrance and throughout the halls glanced suspiciously at Justin’s media badge, but they did not stop him. A freelance journalist was just another body in the room they needed to keep an eye on. But they had nothing to worry about, since Justin was not plotting a direct confrontation with Adams or anyone else from NCS who may have come with him. Everything in his plan had already been set in motion over the weekend and earlier that morning. Justin was here to simply enjoy the show.
He followed the signs and found the large conference room. He picked up a few brochures from one of the tables in the hall outside the doors. A couple of guards in gray suits — whom he pegged as CIA agents — checked his credentials once again before they allowed him to get inside.
Justin threw a sweeping glance at the audience sitting around round tables, chatting or picking up coffee, tea, and cookies from a long table at the end of the room. Then his eyes fell on the glass enclosure hosting the multimedia equipment station. Behind a vast array of panels, cables, and other gadgets stood Ellis Dalton, one of the best technical experts of CIS and pretty much the executor of this operation. He was wearing the uniform of Media Logistics Incorporated, the multimedia company responsible for running the video and audio equipment for this conference. The man who was supposed to have worn that uniform was still in his house, sleeping off a couple of pills.
Ellis gave Justin a slight nod. Justin returned it, then found a table with a couple of empty seats, right across from Ellis, at the end of the room. He had a great view of two gigantic television screens on both sides of the podium. Two projector screens rigged from the ceiling showed the same picture as the television screens for the benefit of people sitting at the side tables. Justin sat with his back to the wall and buried his nose in the brochures, feigning deep interest in the conference topic.
Things got under way at exactly nine o’clock, with welcoming remarks by organizers. Justin suffered through a series of commendations and applauses, followed by a long report on the scope, reasons, and consequences of illegal gun trade in the world. The report was dry, boring, and overflowing with statistics. Justin doubted the speaker had ever set foot on any of the areas he was so expertly covering in his prolonged lecture. But he knew all motives why ten- and eleven-year olds in poor slums of Sudan and Somalia picked up AKs instead of textbooks.
Justin was tempted to raise his hand, interrupt the speaker and ask a few pointed questions. But he kept his mouth shut, his head down, nodding occasionally and taking notes on his notepad. A couple of women at his table had engaged him in conversation moments ago, and now he was getting frequent glances from them. He had to look busy and interested in the lecture.
A few simple questions followed the report, and the speaker sat down. It was time for Adams to take the floor. After his introduction and a calm round of applause, he stepped up to the podium.
Justin glanced toward Ellis. He was flicking switches and tapping buttons. Adams’s face appeared on one of the screens, the one on the left. He was smiling, enthusiastic, playing to the crowd. A copy of his presentation became visible in the other screens.
Adams began his presentation, speaking softly and clearly, in a well-practiced tone and manner of delivering public speeches. “The proliferation of SALW is a big problem and a big concern for everyone, not just the people living in these African countries, people who are affected directly by this illegal trade. The world cannot be safe and secure if millions of people live their lives under constant daily threats of robberies and rape, of being killed on their streets and in their homes.”