“Yes. The security guards that died . . . they worked for Hector Global.”
Pritchard paused for the barest moment. “Yes.”
“Hector Global’s based in Dallas. I should stop by and extend my condolences.”
Pritchard shook her head. “Best to keep a distance. I’m getting massive grief for hiring contractors for security, but when you’re hunting dirty dogs in your own yard, they’re easier to trust.”
“Forsberg said Sam Hector was a major client of his. Hector might be able to give me some insight into Forsberg.”
Pritchard shook her head again. “Sam Hector’s going to be under a press microscope because his people were killed. I don’t want you showing up on his doorstep and creating more questions for the media. Stay out of sight. Focus on what I’ve asked you to do. Hector will provide us information if needed.”
“All right. I feel the need, though, to clear up a problem before you set me loose.” She crossed her arms. “I’m not Kidwell.”
“How so?”
“He was crossing lines with Forsberg. I don’t want to criticize the dead . . . but he was threatening Forsberg’s family, friends, with arrest. Threatened to destroy his career, get all his contracts canceled.”
“Threats can work wonders. We have a mandate, Joanna. Shut down all illicit covert operations. If I have to bend a few laws to catch the lawbreakers that we normally have little to no chance of catching otherwise, I’m not going to worry about it, and neither should you.” Pritchard put steel in her stare. “You wanted to come to work for me, Joanna, because you were tired of these people doing dirty work and not being held accountable. Don’t complain now.”
It wasn’t an argument she was going to win. “This Choate guy . . . what will he do to Ben?”
“Depends on how useful Forsberg is.” Pritchard shrugged. “Choate’s been rogue for ten years. I doubt that has inculcated loyalty in him. Forsberg could be dead real soon.” She put on her sunglasses. “Kidwell’s service will be in a few days. I’ll let you know the arrangements. Hopefully our dirty dogs will be brought to heel by then. And call your mom. Give her the new number. I doubt you want her chatting with a man like Choate.”
Pritchard’s small and secretive group of “dirty dog hunters” lay tucked in a back corner of the Homeland Security department. Given their low profile, they were not about to tip a hand by asking the CIA for Randall Choate’s file, if the man in the parking garage photo was the Agency’s not-so-dead former agent. But Pritchard’s worker bees had put together a rushed dossier for Vochek since the face match had been tentatively made, and she studied it in detail as the Homeland jet made the fast flight to Dallas.
Born Randall Thomas Barnes, thirty-six years ago in Little Rock, Arkansas. Randall was his mother’s maiden name, Thomas a grandfather’s name. Father died, drunk behind the wheel when young Randall was age two. Mother moved around taking a variety of secretarial jobs, from Arkansas to West Virginia and finally to Lafayette, Indiana, where her fortunes took a considerable leap upward when she got a job working as a secretary in the foreign languages department at Purdue University. One of the junior professors, Michael Choate, who specialized in Russian literature of the nineteenth century, took an interest in the young widow and her son. Randall soon acquired a stepfather, who eventually adopted him, encouraging the boy to apply his considerable intellect to school. His stepfather also taught him Russian from an early age. Randall double-majored in Russian and history at Purdue, graduating with honors. The file included a scattering of old photos of Randall from the Purdue student paper and yearbook.
Randall was a nondescript boy, pale, but with a strong body and those eyes of certainty, of intensity. In most of the photos, he was alone or standing off from the group. In one photo taken at an intramural football game, his teammates had arms around him; Randall Choate smiled like he’d rather go play the game all on his own. She recognized the smile—same as the one he’d given her after he’d knocked the baton from her hand, one of amused respect.
At the suggestion of a faculty colleague of his stepfather’s who had contacts at the Agency, Randall applied to the CIA and was accepted. And there the file ended, except for the note that he was reported killed while escaping prison in Indonesia four years later. The mission he’d supposedly botched remained classified and the busy bees at Homeland were working to glean more details without directly asking the Agency.
Personal details: His mother and stepfather still lived in Lafayette. His wife Kimberly, daughter Tamara, were all unaware of his status as an assassin. Wife had remarried five years ago, the new stepfather adopted Tamara. History repeating itself. Family told that he had been involved in drug smuggling in Indonesia, died during a prison escape. A nasty story for the disavowed. No evidence of contact of the family by Choate in the intervening years.