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