Page 142 of The Fourth Option
“I don’t understand how nobody knows who this guy is, I meanwas. Isn’t there a body?”
“The hit was a little more creative than that.”
“As long as we won’t be hearing from him anymore.”
“No chance.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
THE DEA FIELDOffice in New Orleans was a squat, windowless bunker tucked behind a chain-link fence off Tulane Avenue. It reminded Jarrett Stanton of the FBI’s district headquarters on Lake Pontchartrain. It had the same brutalist architecture and the same institutional gray, but the vibe was different. The agents here looked like they had crawled out from under a bridge.
Stanton clocked one after another, each with a badge swinging from a lanyard and a wardrobe that suggested they shopped at thrift shops.
He followed Alvaro Mendez’s administrative assistant down a narrow hallway lined with corkboards and wanted posters. Jennifer Jimenez was close behind, her heels clicking softly on the linoleum, a sound unusual enough in this building that several heads turned as she walked past.
They were led into a small conference room with a chipped laminate table and mismatched chairs. At the FBI, this kind of setup would have been replaced years ago.
Mendez was already waiting, cowboy boots crossed on a neighboring chair, a garish ceramic coffee mug in one hand and a cheap Naugahyde portfolio case closed on the desk before him. He didn’t move until J.J. entered the room. Then he popped up like a jack-in-the-box, smile wide, hand extended.
Stanton suppressed a grin and took his seat.
“Can I get you guys coffee? Water?” Mendez offered.
“I’m good,” Stanton said.
“J.J.?”
“I’m fine, thank you.”
“You make any progress on your mystery man?” Mendez asked, settling back into his chair and taking a sip of coffee. “What did the witness call him? Cyclops?”
Stanton slid a folder from his bag and opened it to a grainy black-and-white still from a security camera. The image showed the back of a man’s head as he exited the Federal Building.
“As a matter of fact, we did. Here he is at the Federal Building.”
Mendez leaned forward, squinting. “Can’t make out his face in these photos.”
“We interviewed the U.S. marshal who interacted with him,” J.J. replied. “The man refused to fill out the ID forms and bolted. The marshal remembered his vehicle, a VW van. A witness near the Staub home said the van was parked a block away. Another witness at the hit on the drug house in the Ninth gave us the sketch you saw.”
“That still doesn’t make him your Cyclops,” Mendez said.
“No,” Stanton replied. “For that, I had to make a trip up to D.C.”
The DEA agent raised an eyebrow. “Oh yeah? Bureau database? Far as I can tell from this, your man is looking away. Not enough for facial recognition.”
“I didn’t tap the Bureau. I tapped the spooks.”
Mendez sat up straighter, coffee mug forgotten. “What’s this guy have to do with the Agency? And, for that matter,thisagency?”
“His name is Chris Walker,” Stanton said. “Twelve years as a Navy SEAL before transitioning to the Special Activities Center’s Ground Branch. Served in Afghanistan. Picked up where he left off in the Teams.”
“And the CIA just handed you that info?”
“I know a guy,” Stanton said. “We worked counterterror together after the New Year’s attack. I handled domestic leads. He handled international.”
“The Agency isn’t known for playing well with others,” Mendez pointed out.
“We’re not always arm-in-arm, but a lot of the pre-9/11 barriers have come down.”
