The Export by J.K. Kelly (read along books txt) 📕

The next morning, he checked out of his suite and caught an early morning commuter flight back to Washington. He could have chartered a private jet directly to D.C. but opted to fly commercial for a slower, less comfortable ride home.

By two o’clock, he was sitting very comfortably on the stern deck of Bella, beer in hand, preparing for the race to be broadcast on his laptop. He checked his phone again and again for a text from Eve, but none came. It was time to put her in the rearview mirror and get ready for what would most certainly be an uncomfortable debrief with his beloved Clydesdale the next morning.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Monday mornings in the nation’s capital were always hectic. Traffic and the underground metro were jammed at rush hour, but Matt had allowed for that and had gotten moving early so his pit stop at the coffee shop wouldn’t be compromised. Getting to Dale’s office 10 minutes ahead of their scheduled meeting was the plan. Matt was always punctual, a habit that had been driven into him by his late father. Plus, he always liked to visit with the receptionists and admins whenever possible. He never knew what he might learn in the small talk but this morning he needed the men’s room but once he took a spot on the long line of white porcelain urinals he immediately regretted his choice.

“How’s that boat of yours these days,” a familiar voice with a Boston accent asked from his right.

“God, it smells bad in here,” he answered.

“Develop any leaks yet?” the man continued. It was former colleague and FBI Special Agent Andy Bruce. The two had worked together at the bureau until Matt’s investigations ruffled too many feathers and Bruce chose career advancement rather than doing the right thing - at least that’s the way Matt saw it.

“She’s fine. Guess I could ask that about the wife, oops, ex-wife I mean – developed any new leaks herself?” Matt responded. He knew which buttons to push. Bruce had been written up for suspected spousal abuse but was cleared of the charges when the ex testified her black eye was the result of a fall and not her husband’s fist. He got to keep his job and she got the house, and the car, and the dog out of it. As the two men zipped up, they stood back and readied to square off, once and for all. Luckily, for Bruce, an FBI Assistant Director entered the room and upon seeing their postures told Bruce to find something better to do with his time. As Matt began to follow Bruce out the door, the AD suggested he wait and wash his hands. “He’s an asshole but he has friends in the building. Give him a few minutes to go away before you wind up having to kick everyone’s ass.” Matt agreed, waited, and then headed to his meeting.

Once he logged in to the FBI building’s secure Wi-Fi on his phone, Matt did a quick search of Montreal city news. He was hoping there wouldn’t be stories of a woman throwing a man off a downtown rooftop, or perhaps two women being beaten and left for dead. To his relief, there was nothing of the sort. As he began to scroll through his favorite Instagram accounts, Dale’s assistant called his name.

“They’re ready for you now, Matt,” she said. “Good luck.”

Matt had known Dale’s various assistants over the years, as she’d brought them over with her when she transferred agencies and left the CIA, and he had been friendly with all of them. So much so that the ‘Good luck’ was taken as a heads-up, just as she had meant it to be.

As he stepped into her office, Matt’s cheerful greeting to Dale aimed at disarming her expected fury over the Tilton incident was shut down before he could get out a word. Theirs was a complicated arrangement. They had trained together at Quantico and Langley, and both had fast-tracked their way up the FBI ladder until Matt’s ‘against the stream’ and bad behavior had led to his demise. It had been her suggestion to the director that they maintain Matt as an asset with contractor status.

Over time, as the political winds and office nameplates in Washington changed, Matt’s rise to fame as a valuable jack-of-all-trades had allowed his assignments, his challenges, to come from the CIA and NSA as well. What had complicated things greatly, at least within the J. Edgar Hoover Building, was that Dale and Matt had been sharing a luxurious condo at the District Wharf in D.C. and, as a result of his formal separation from the FBI, their relationship too had ended somewhat abruptly. His refusal to play politics, among other things, had driven them apart. But it was Coleman who had been able to step in and weave the complicated relationship that now existed between them all. When Matt’s pursuit of criminal activity led to the addresses of some of the most powerful people in the country, they framed him for a crime he didn’t commit and it carried a prison sentence. With the help of Helene Coleman, the Director of National Intelligence, Matt received a get out of jail card but it came with caveats. Matt would never forget the words the Attorney General offered as he and Coleman left the man’s office. “You can flash that badge anywhere you want, just not here,” he’d said.

“Matt Christopher,” Dale stated, “meet Jules Miller. He’s with the CIA.”

Matt turned his attention to the man sitting at the small, round meeting table to his right. Miller stood up and extended his hand. After a few minutes of obligatory, benign small talk, Matt joined him at the table.

“I’ve got a hard stop at the bottom of the hour,” Dale stated, “so let’s get to it.”

Matt nodded, forced a smile, and turned his attention to the CIA staffer.

“We have two issues to discuss, Mr. Christopher,”