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“I’ll see him. Send him in, Peters.”
“Very good, sir.”
Peters backed out of the room, and Sloane slathered his English muffin with butter. He glanced at his watch and saw it was just after seven. He had meetings that started at eight, and he was already dressed in an expensively cut suit the color of charcoal. Ruby cuff links glinted in the sun when he turned his wrists just right, and business documents sat neatly stacked at his elbow.
He was an affluent man, though a busy one, and nothing could ruffle the calm exterior and quiet determination that had made people give him the nickname of Bulldog over the years. He didn’t take his attention from the meal or papers in front of him as soft-soled footsteps made their way closer. He chewed quietly and looked out at the blooming gardens he’d had built in the back of his Georgetown home.
“Come in, Kimball. Have a seat.”
Sloane watched the large man out of the corner of his eye. Kimball reminded him of a hulking cat, ready to spring. Dark brown hair that always needed a cut and a body like a linebacker. But it was the coldness and pure evil in Kimball’s muddy brown eyes that had caused Sloane to hire him. And the fact that the man had a unique brain hidden under the obvious brawn. He was a man easily underestimated.
Sloane frowned as Kimball helped himself to a cup of coffee and propped a booted foot on one of the dining chairs.
“I take it you didn’t come to see me for breakfast,” Sloane said, not bothering to conceal his irritation.
“You told me to dig into everything Frank Bennett was involved in, retrace all of his steps over the last month. Have you changed your mind?”
Sloane still regretted that he hadn’t found out about Frank Bennett digging around in classified files before Frank stumbled across the Passover Project. If Bennett had waited even twenty-four hours to snoop around, all of the files would have been gone. But Bennetthadfound them, and taken all the information back to his home. It would have only been a matter of time before Bennett found out who was behind the Passover Project’s resurgence. Bennett had been a good man—a useful man. But Sloane didn’t regret for a minute having Kimball take him out, especially once Bennett started asking the wrong questions.
“Not at all,” Sloane said. “Did you find something?”
“Possibly. Bennett used the CIA courier service to have a package delivered to London. I don’t know what was in it, but it was signed for by an Edgar Harris.”
“What do you have on Harris?”
“Not a thing. On the surface Harris is a forty-four-year-old financial investor with a prosperous business, Worthington Financial Services, LLC¸ located on Chapel Street. He’s divorced with no children. Pays his taxes. Makes twice yearly visits to another home in the south of France.”
“What are you not telling me?”
“I had one of my men put the business under surveillance. The place is more secure than Fort Knox. It’s a hell of a setup, and it made my Spidey-senses tingle, so I’ve had my men following Harris to see what he’s been up to. He flew in on his private plane from a location that was undisclosed, and I couldn’t get hold of the pilot to try and persuade him to tell me the location. Most of Harris’s employees are former military intelligence, so they’re always on the lookout.”
Kimball grabbed a muffin from the basket in the center of the table and tossed it all into his mouth, scattering crumbs across the table and his shirt.
“Harris knew he was being tailed, and his driver lost my men, but I already had the address Bennett sent the package to, so I sent them on to do surveillance and watch the comings and goings. It turned out my Spidey-senses were right. My men emailed me a couple of photos late last night.”
Sloane took the photos from Kimball and stared at the two men leaving the financial firm. “Should I recognize them? Which one is Harris?”
“I don’t know, but I ran their photos through the database and got a hit. Jack Donovan is the second man. He’s a recently retired Navy SEAL commander. Served two tours in Afghanistan and was in charge of all the VBSS missions after 9/11. He’s a damned war hero and has gotten every commendation imaginable. He’s been a guest of the president twice. All of his classified files have been encrypted by someone outside the CIA. I have one of my men working on it.”
“Interesting that he’d relocate to London. What’s he doing there?”
“No clue. After he retired from the service, he fell off the grid. Traveled around a little, then seemed to decide on London. His mail is sent to a private post office box. But he has no physical address that I can find. His family lives in Texas, but he doesn’t get home often, though he does keep in touch with email.”
“Did Donovan know Frank Bennett?”
“Oh, yeah. The SEALs loaned Donovan out to the CIA on several occasions. Frank Bennett was always the DDO—Deputy Director of Operations—of record. And from what I could find out, they were also personal friends.”
“What about the second man?”
“No clue. I can’t find a likeness anywhere in any database. He doesn’t exist.”
“Not good,” Sloane said. “He’s got to be government of some kind to disappear like that. For now keep your sights on Jack Donovan. Maybe have your men detain him for questioning.”
“How much do you care about keeping Donovan alive?”
“I don’t want him dead. Yet. Just do what you have to do to get him to talk. I want to know what was in that package Frank Bennett sent. If it’s what I think it is, then I’ve got a big problem.”
“I’ll keep digging on the mystery man. Eventually, someone will know who he is. I may have to go up pretty high on the food chain to do so.”
