Page 77 of Blind Trust
A single second of hesitation on his part, and her eyes filled with so much hurt it felt like a knife through his chest.Tell her she’s wrong.But he couldn’t. Because she wasn’t. Not entirely.
26
Tom pulled out of the Acacia Building’s subterrane garage and onto M Street. Frustration laced with growing concern had his stomach clenched in a twisted knot of anger. He wasn’t angry at Lyla. She was right. Under ordinary circumstances, they would most definitely continue the investigation into the claims being made by Ammar El-Din and Roger Colthorpe. And most certainly by Eamon Flannery.
But these aren’t ordinary circumstances.
And he couldn’t have her looking into something he’d been protecting for decades.
Tom dialed the number and prayed he could stay one step ahead of Lyla. The fire in her eyes when he told her to drop the assignment was a mixture of confusion and hurt. But there was also that familiar spark, reminding him she wasn’t one to back down. He hoped sharing the message his pastor had delivered on Sunday would reach Lyla, or at least give Garcia a fighting chance to convince her to be still—trust.
“Answer the call.” His voice echoed back to him as the ringing sound continued. “Come on, Bob.”
Tom didn’t know if this was the right call to make, but he needed to know if what Lyla had found was ... intentional.
He drove past the National Mall, normally his favorite part of leaving work, but this evening the streetlights filled his car with an ominous flickering glow. Maybe he should’ve called the FBI,found out what they were doing to find the person responsible for Genevieve’s murder and the attack on Lyla and Garcia. Or pressed Kekoa harder to find the journalist behind the articles—stirring the pot.
Connor Murphy.
Hearing his name come out of Lyla’s mouth had nearly stopped his heart. It took every ounce of self-control not to react, because if she saw it, even caught the slightest hint that the name meant anything to him...everything would be for nothing.
The call clicked, and Tom glanced down to see that it had been answered.
“I had a feeling this call was coming.” Bob Perkins’s voice cut into the car and jarred Tom from his thoughts. “Should’ve known it wouldn’t come during office hours.”
Tom snickered. “Office hours are for bankers.”
Bob sighed. “I should’ve chosen my profession more carefully.”
Bob Perkins was division chief for the CIA, but Tom knew him when they were lowly intel analysts. At least until their assignment in Ireland went south and decisions were made and lives were changed.
Tom circled back to Bob’s words. “You were expecting a call from me?”
“I just got off the phone with the station chief in Belarus who informed me that they discovered the dismembered body of a Lebanese man. A man who was in prison a week ago. A man who has suddenly garnered a lot of attention for a conversation he was recorded having with an American journalist a few weeks ago.”
Tom clenched his teeth. “Ammar El-Din.”
“When we learned your team was looking into him, I figured you’d call. My question is why were you looking into him, and what do you know about his unexpected death?”
“What makes you think we know anything?”
“Come on, Tom.” Bob laughed, but there was no humor in it. “Your team is good, but their work doesn’t go unnoticed no matterwhat your cyber techie thinks. From the second he proved NSA was weak, those guys won’t let him step out of the house without someone keeping tabs on him.”
Agitation clawed across Tom’s skin. “Are you telling me we’re under surveillance?”
“No. I’m telling you that your agency, while beneficial to the overall welfare and security of the American people, doesn’t get to probe into characters like this El-Din and not expect red flags to pop up. We’re all working toward the same goal here.”
“We can agree on that.” Tom was still rattled by Bob’s off-the-cuff remark that his team might be being monitored. He’d check into that, but right now he needed different answers. “But I’m not calling about Ammar El-Din. I figured his life span became limited when he gave that interview to R.D. Leto.” He flipped on his blinker. “What do you know about Eamon Flannery?”
The sound of a keyboard clicking filled the car, followed by Bob’s familiar humming that he did when he was reading. “Eamon Flannery was arrested in Belfast for his role— Tom, what’s this about?”
“Eamon Flannery was running the Real IRA when we were there, Bob. He was arrested for the Omagh bombing, and his name came up in an investigation my team was running.”
“What kind of investigation?”
“Oh, you know, just weapons trafficking, money laundering, smuggling counterfeit supernotes.”
“Bah.” Bob snorted. “That all?”
