The woman with the Sig Sauer had credentials identifying her as a former Boston Police Detective, eligible to carry concealed nationwide. The woman with the Glock had no such credentials, but in the “Live Free or Die” state of New Hampshire it was legal to carry without a permit. Not that she would ever have had trouble getting one.
Seeing the name on her driver’s license, Tullis had instantly recognized her. She had made a lot of headlines when the President had elevated her to Deputy Director of the CIA.
The gun-carrying male victim had ID that claimed he was an active military member. United States Navy.
What the hell were they all doing here? the Chief wondered. And who had killed them?
He suspected the key might lie with the final victim.
Just off the dining room, facing a large TV, a hospital bed had been set up in the den. In it, shot once between the eyes, was a man who appeared to be somewhere in his eighties. He was the only victim Tullis and his team hadn’t yet identified. The Chief had some decisions to make.
Judging from the postmortem lividity of the bodies, they had been dead for at least two days, maybe more. The killer’s trail would already be going cold.
As a seasoned law enforcement officer, Tullis knew the importance of doing everything by the book. He needed to secure not only the house but also the grounds.
Going the extra step, he decided to shut down the lone bridge that connected the 504-acre Governors Island to the mainland and to request Marine Patrol units to cover the shoreline.
This wasn’t some murder-suicide where the husband had shot the wife and the pool boy before turning the gun on himself. And it wasn’t some drug deal gone bad. This was a high-profile case; exactly the kind of case no town ever wanted—especially a tourism-dependent town like Gilford.
Getting on the radio, the Chief told the dispatcher to send the entire shift. He then instructed her to call in all available off-duty officers. They were going to need as much manpower as possible.
The next step was to alert the State Attorney General’s Office in Concord. Per protocol, they would mobilize a Major Crime Unit team from the State Police to come up and lead the investigation. Before he made that call, though, he decided to place another.
It wasn’t a by-the-book move. In fact, Tullis was way overstepping his authority.
But if it meant protecting Gilford and the town’s hardworking men and women who so depended on the tourist trade, that was one scenario in which the Chief was willing to bend the rules.
CHAPTER 3
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* * *
LACONIA MUNICIPAL AIRPORT
GILFORD, NEW HAMPSHIRE
When the call came in to Langley, the Director of Central Intelligence, Bob McGee, happened to be in a meeting with the Director of the FBI, Gary Militante.
Though the DCI’s assistant was hesitant to interrupt, she knew she had to make her boss aware of the call. McGee put it on speakerphone. He and Militante were stunned by what they heard.
The FBI Director introduced himself, gave Tullis his personal cell phone number, and asked to be texted as many pictures from the crime scene as possible—pictures of the bodies, the IDs, the weapons, all of it. Minutes later, his phone began vibrating.
As the photos poured in, McGee kept his emotions in check. With professional detachment, he narrated who and what they were looking at, right down to the body in the hospital bed—retired CIA operative Reed Carlton, the man who had founded the Agency’s Counter Terrorism Center.
Militante had the same questions as Tullis. “What were they all doing in New Hampshire, and who would have wanted them dead?”
It was a long story, which McGee promised to explain in-flight. He wanted a look at the crime scene for himself—and the only way he’d have any legal access to it was if the FBI was attached.
Before he and Militante could leave, though, there was an additional person he needed to reach.
He tried three times, but his calls all ended up in voicemail. Why the hell wasn’t he picking up?
After sending a quick text, McGee grabbed his jacket and headed downstairs with the FBI Director and their security details for the two-minute ride to 84VA, the Agency’s helipad a mile west of Langley.
Once they boarded their respective helicopters, it was a short flight to Joint Base Andrews, where an Embraer Praetor 600 was fueled and waiting.
The jet was a recent addition to the CIA’s fleet. Fast and able to take off using less than five thousand feet of runway, it was perfect for the trip to Gilford.
When they landed, a phalanx of SUVs was waiting for them. The detail leaders hated movements like this—no warning, no planning, and little to no coordination with elements on the ground. Nevertheless, both directors had insisted that the trip was necessary and that time was of the essence.
From Laconia Municipal, it was only four miles to Governors Island. They were met at the airport by Gilford PD and given an escort through town and over the bridge to the crime scene.
Stepping out of one of the SUVs, McGee took a deep breath. The air was cold and smelled of pine. A hint of wood smoke drifted from a chimney somewhere unseen.
McGee looked like a marshal from an old Western. He was a tall man in his late fifties with gray hair and a gray mustache. A testament to his Army career, his shoes were shined, his suit was immaculate and his shirt was crisply pressed.
He wore no jewelry other than a Rolex Submariner—a gift to himself when he left Delta Force decades ago and signed on with the CIA’s paramilitary branch.
McGee was old-school, known for being tough, direct, and unflappable. He hated politics, which had made him a good choice to head the CIA.
The nation’s once proud intelligence service was being choked to death by bureaucracy. It was packed with talented people willing to give everything for their country, but they were being held back by risk-averse middle managers more concerned with their next promotion than with doing what needed to be done.
Familiar with the Agency from the ground up, the President had put McGee in charge of cleaning out the deadwood. And he had gone after it root and branch.
But McGee had quickly realized that mucking out the Agency’s Augean stables was indeed a Herculean task—one that was going to take much longer than any of them had envisioned.
In the meantime, the threats against America were growing—becoming deadlier, more destabilizing, and more intricate.
As red tape slowed Langley down, America’s enemies were speeding up. Something needed to be done—something radical.
With the President’s approval, McGee had agreed to a bold new plan, as well as a major sacrifice.
The plan was to outsource the CIA’s most clandestine work. It would go to a private intelligence agency outside the bureaucracy’s grasp. There, safe from government red tape, sensitive operations could receive the support and commitment they deserved.
It was viewed as a temporary fix while Langley was undergoing its gut rehab—a rehab that would have to go all the way down to the studs.
The private intelligence agency charged with taking over the darkest slice of the CIA’s pie was The Carlton Group, founded by the aforementioned, now deceased, Reed Carlton.
And as to McGee’s sacrifice, it was personified by another victim at the scene.
With his blessing, Lydia Ryan had left her position as CIA Deputy Director in order to run The Carlton Group.