Hood looked across the table and said, “Wherever this leads me, you can be sure that I will take our words today and this document to my grave.”
“Good.” The president leaned back, satisfied with the answer. “Maybe you could help me with something.”
“Absolutely,” Hood said.
The president gestured toward the binder and said, “Why don’t you have a look at that first?”
Hood opened the binder and reviewed its table of contents. The president read the deputy director’s facial expressions as he flipped to the first document. It was a National Security Presidential Directive from February 2003 titled Intelligence Priorities: Eliminating Terrorist Risks on US Soil. He noted the deputy director’s brow crease as he read through the pages.
The document authorized and detailed the formation of a top-secret FBI team with the purpose of eliminating known terrorists operating within the United States’ borders. The directive included a detailed decision tree, which provided the necessary criteria to authorize a hit. The definitions meant the team could act on its own, providing a layer of deniability to keep the politicians out of the loop.
Cross reflected on the irony of the situation. The impetus for the NSPD was the very incident that delivered Frank Culder to the bureau’s top spot at the expense of his good friend. Now it had all come full circle, a sparkling example of the “what comes around goes around” theory.
Hood peeled his eyes away from the document and looked to the president. “Wow,” he said, before continuing.
“It was rescinded soon thereafter. We found a more suitable arrangement,” Cross said, referring to Island Industries. His tone grew angry as he considered what Culder had done. “It looks like our friend took dismantling the team as a suggestion rather than an order.”
Hood nodded without commenting and continued to read. The next page held the personnel details.
“So they were part of the team.” He shook his head in disbelief. “Jacob R. Sanders and Rudy M. Pagano. Unbelievable.”
“It was funded by a shell corporation called BlackRock.”
“Is that the redacted section?”
The president nodded slowly.
Hood exhaled. “He could have kept this going without anyone knowing? It’s like J. Edgar Hoover all over again.”
“I think so.” Cross thought out loud. “With some help.”
“Obviously, you weren’t pushing for this. Can you tell me who was?”
The president looked at the FBI man. The wet team, Culder, everything about the situation had been a prime example of a political power play. The sort of move that in his mind screamed for the introduction of term limits in congress and the senate.
“Senator Soller,” the president said flatly.
“So you think he’s in on this?”
“Let’s just say I think you’re on the right track. The effort was needed, but the risk with doing it this way, with Culder being Soller’s puppet, was too great.”
“The Stagehand program,” Hood said with contempt. “Culder makes sure everything that goes on there is well guarded. He keeps it a bit too close to his chest for comfort. I hear about some of what goes on secondhand, but only because everyone assumes I’m in the loop.” He thought for a moment and said, “Nothing too outlandish, but I’d guess they only paint a partial picture under the circumstances.”
Stagehand was the code name for the bureau’s program to outfit the FBI’s tactical operations teams. All of the individuals on the hit squad had once been a part of that team.
The president nodded. “Stagehand would be my guess too. Everything is hush-hush there anyway, so it’s the perfect place to get things done off the radar.”
Hood looked to the binder and then to the president as if something had occurred to him. “So the others involved — they might not even know the team had been ordered to shut down.” He took a measured breath and exhaled. “They probably think their operations are legit.”
The president nodded. “That’s a distinct possibility.”
Hood’s eyes met the president’s. “I need to find this Sanders guy,” he said, looking to the document and then back to Cross. “And what is it that is it that I can do for you, Mr. President?”
“I want what you want,” Cross said. “I want to know what Culder is up to, and I’ll need your help to get this under control.”
“That’s it?”
“Almost,” Cross said as he stood. “I want you to work with a close friend of mine on this. I’m certain you and your goddaughter will find the collaboration to be mutually beneficial.”
Chapter 97
He found the keys to the Chevy Impala under the visor. Traffic was light, so it took less than thirty minutes for Jake Sanders to drive the three of them to the hotel. He and Rudy Pagano had brought suits along and they had laid them out on the two beds. They were a requirement if they wanted to blend in with the attendees at the performance.
FBI Director Frank Culder was in rare form. His men had never seen him so anxious.
“We’ll go in after the show has already started,” Sanders said. “That way he’ll be in his seat and preoccupied with the performance.”
“Sounds good,” Culder said. “We need to try to get him during an intermission. Keep it as low-key as possible. Only the elite can afford to attend this event, so going in there hard and fast isn’t an option. Pissing off the wrong people could be problematic.”
Sanders reached into one of his bags and pulled out a small black leather case. He shook it and smiled.
“M99,” he said. “Pop him with this and he’ll be out cold. We can make it look like he’s sick and carry him out of there.”
“Good.” The FBI director clasped his hands together and said, “I’ll put in a call to get the two men from the local office to help.”
“We need four to cover the inside,” Sanders reminded him. His tone was edgy and it was clear he wasn’t on board with what they’d agreed to on the plane. “How will you cover the exits alone?”
“You four head inside,” Culder said, and pointed to the blueprint that was spread out on the table. “There aren’t too many exits, so if you make sure he doesn’t get out the front door, I’ll only have one exit to cover.”
Sanders studied the blueprint for a long moment. “That works,” he finally agreed. “We can squeeze him out the back if we miss him in his seat.” He gave the director a probing look and asked, “What do we know about the target? Trent.”
Culder’s face was full of disdain. “He works for Island Industries.”
Pagano rubbed his eyes and tried to remember where he’d heard the name. “Sounds familiar. Is that—?”
“It should.” Culder’s posture tightened. “It’s the company Admiral John Simpson founded after he resigned from the CIA.”
“Right,” Pagano said. “I suppose we still haven’t been able to get many details on their operation?”
“You suppose correctly,” Sanders said, now remembering. The director had been trying to dig up dirt on Simpson since the day they’d met. “He’ll be a pro,” he continued. “You can count on that.” He stood and began to pace as the details he had uncovered about their operation came back to him. “Don’t underestimate him, or you’ll find yourself pulling your head out of your ass. And that’s only if he decides not to turn you into a ghost.”
Pagano scrunched his nose. “Sounds awful,” he said, referring to the former. “I don’t know what I’d do if my head smelled like your breath.”
Sanders stopped pacing and smiled for the first time since he and Culder had butted heads on the plane.
“Anything else we need to know?” Sanders asked.