“Of course she told me what Agent Savich said. It’s absurd, my wife wasn’t even close to Agent Sherlock when she fell to the porch outside the front door. My poor Cyndia was very upset.”
“So you’re denying what happened, what your wife is capable of?” Griffin asked.
“Cyndia is insightful, excellent, really, at understanding people, reading their emotions. Everyone who’s met her knows it. It can sometimes make people wary of her, uncomfortable. Yes, some people have claimed there is more to it, that she has some kind of psychic power, but of course, she’s never made that claim. It’s patently ludicrous. I would hardly expect it of the FBI.
“Tell me, why is this woman with you, Agent Hammersmith? She is not any kind of law enforcement. She is in fact a journalist from New York, here, she’s stated, to interview Dr. Alek Kuchar.”
“That’s right, Mr. Bodine,” Carson said. “I was here to do an interview, and your son attacked me.”
“I asked why she’s here with you, today, in my office, Agent Hammersmith.”
“In truth, Mr. Bodine? Here it is: I’m afraid to leave her alone in Gaffer’s Ridge. Someone, probably a Bodine, might try to kidnap her again.”
To his surprise, Quint Bodine drew back and laughed. It was a magnificent full-bodied laugh, an expensive brandy sort of laugh. “Kidnap her? In order to what? Sell her to a white slaver or something equally ridiculous? Isn’t that somewhat melodramatic, Agent Hammersmith? I’ll tell you what her coming here with you is about—it is harassment. You’re out to harm my reputation and that of my family. What with your making that public announcement to all the bank customers about the kidnappings when everyone knows you believe my son is guilty.”
Quint Bodine slammed his palm on his desk. “You know it’s not easy to sue the FBI, but I can sue Dr. DeSilva for slander. And believe me, my pockets are very deep.”
Carson gave Bodine her own shark smile. “Really? Well, my publisher’s pockets are so deep you’d get lost in them, Mr. Bodine.” She rose and leaned over his desk. “Bring it on.”
There was dead silence. Carson drew a deep breath, calmed herself, and sat back down.
Bodine was eyeing Carson with too much interest for Griffin’s peace of mind. As if he was assessing her, considering how best to deal with her, as if she baffled him.
Griffin then realized Quint Bodine had been playing them, and doing a good job of it. Griffin had to get the control. He decided he would try to goad Quint into losing it, maybe giving them more information. He sat back in his chair, swung his foot. He said with a sneer, “So you’re comfortable with the knowledge your son may have murdered three young girls.”
Bodine nearly levitated out of his ergonomic chair. Then he drew a deep steadying breath, even smiled. He slowly rose, shot his French cuffs, looked his fill once again at Carson, and said, “I invited you into my office, I have even been polite, answered your questions. But I want no more to do with you. It’s time for you to leave. Do not come back to this bank again. You may contact my lawyer if you wish, but not me, and not my son.”
He’d gotten too much of a rise out of Bodine.
Strained silence followed them out the door. Griffin took Carson’s elbow as they walked back down the narrow stairs to the bank lobby, where all eyes followed them again, watching.
Griffin nodded and gave a little finger wave to the citizens of Gaffer’s Ridge gathered in the Wild West lobby. Once outside, Griffin paused, looked back. “Quint Bodine knows, Carson, he knows everything.”
“Yes, you’re right, he does.”
He stopped at the corner to let cars pass. “I didn’t like the way he was looking at you.”
Up went an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”
“Like you were prey.”
49
* * *
LANGLEY, VIRGINIA
CIA HEADQUARTERS
FRIDAY MORNING
Savich had tried his hand once at solving the fourth clue on the Kryptos sculpture in front of the CIA’s New Headquarters Building—the NHB—at Langley. The first three had been solved, but not the fourth. Every once in a while the fourth would hit the news, and cryptanalysts, both amateur and professional, would try yet again to decipher it. So far, the brain behind the codes, Jim Sanborn, had given out two intriguing clues. Still, no one had managed to make sense of the seemingly random jumble of letters.
Maitland waved toward it. “When you have a spare minute, figure that out, Savich.”
He sounded perfectly serious. Ah, what faith. Savich only smiled.
Sherlock said, “That sounds like an order to me, Dillon. Maybe when this is all over you can amaze the world.”
That drew him up. Savich looked down at her. “You really think I could solve the clue, do you?”
“Mr. Maitland seems to have no doubts and he is your boss, he ought to know what you’re capable of, right, sir?”
“That’s right,” Maitland said. He still didn’t know how to treat her, what to say, what to do. How did the two of them handle it?
There was nothing he could do about her amnesia, but it was time to remedy something he could. He grinned ferociously. “Time for me to throw my weight around.” He marched into the lobby, right up to the large security desk, and held out his creds. “I’m here to speak to Assistant Director Claire Farriger. Right away.”
Surprisingly, within five minutes they were facing a man with thick dark hair, maybe forty, wearing a stylish brown suit that barely contained his body builder’s bulk. He introduced himself as Lance Armstrong, of all things, and Assistant Director Farriger’s personal assistant. He took each of their creds, studied them like it was a final exam and they’d failed. He finally said, his voice clipped, “Many people here call me the assistant director’s pit bull. They would be correct. Now, I realize you, sir, are marginally important in the FBI, but you did not call to make an appointment. Assistant Director Farriger is very busy. However, I doubt she would want me to show you out, given you are FBI, so I will inform her you are here.” He turned, gave a light knock on a door off a large entryway, and disappeared inside, closing the door behind him.
One of Maitland’s eyebrows shot up. “He’s the admin? He’s Goldy’s counterpart? Looks like an ex–field operative to me.” He huffed out a breath. “He’s certainly more buff than his namesake, but my money’d be on Goldy. She could take him in a New Jersey minute.”
Savich agreed. Sherlock only smiled, she had no clue.
Mr. Lance Armstrong came right back out and nodded. “Assistant Director Farriger will see you for five minutes. You may go in now. Please follow me.”
Sherlock giggled.
It was so unexpected, Savich stared at her. She hiccupped, splayed her hands in front of her. “Sorry. He’s so very formal and persnickety, like a butler, despite looking like a professional wrestler.”
Claire Farriger watched the three FBI agents closely as they walked into her office, James Maitland in the lead. He looked as he always looked when she saw him on Capitol Hill—hard, no-nonsense, impatient to get to whatever work was at hand. She respected that about him, on occasion. She’d also seen him so brusque she’d wanted to punch him out. She wasn’t surprised to see Agent Dillon Savich and his wife, Agent Sherlock, were with him. She’d not met Savich before, but had heard plenty, usually praise. He was much admired for his sheer doggedness. She’d even wished he’d worked with her at the CIA rather than at the FBI. Now she’d be squaring off with him. And yet again she marveled—what were the odds Justice Cummings would smash the windshield of Agent Sherlock’s car? She’d hoped to avoid a direct meeting, but it really didn’t matter. She knew how to treat their kind. She took the lead immediately and intended to keep the reins firmly in her hands. “Mr. Maitland? Agent Savich?” She paused, looked beyond the two men at Sherlock. She couldn’t help a punch of pride at what this amazing woman had done. Farriger came from behind her desk, shook Sherlock’s hand. “It’s a great pleasure to meet you. I heard you were in an
automobile accident on Tuesday and one of our own analysts was involved. All of America is relieved you’re all right. Do sit down.” She cast a glance at Savich and Maitland. “Gentlemen, you may sit, too.”
Statuesque, that was Sherlock’s first impression of Farriger, most likely a runner, long and lean. She was well dressed in a dark suit, white blouse, low black heels. Arrogance shimmered the air around her, and a formidable intelligence. She looked ready to handle anything the world dished up, and there was something else, something that eluded Sherlock. Was she worried? Anxious? From that moment on Sherlock never took her eyes off Farriger’s face.
Farriger sat down behind a very nice mahogany desk with a shiny matching credenza flanking it. There were no photos, no plants, nothing at all. “I assume you are here to discuss my missing analyst, Justice Cummings. A terrible thing he was involved in a traffic accident, he and Agent Sherlock. But why are the FBI here?”
Mr. Maitland said, “We are involved because Mr. Cummings is a federal employee and it is feared he has come to harm. That puts him in the FBI purview.”
Farriger said in a calm, clipped voice, “Obviously, it is not every day a CIA analyst gets struck by a car and disappears. Of course we have protocols in place, a number he was trained to call. We have taken precautions, of course, in case he’s been compromised. And we’re looking for him, out of concern for his well-being.”
Savich said, “As of this morning, there is still no word of his whereabouts. Neither you nor I have any idea if he is dead in a ditch or holed up somewhere nursing his wounds or under interrogation. I find it curious he’s made no contact with anyone here at the CIA, his place of employment. Am I missing anything?”
Farriger tapped her fingers rhythmically on the desktop, said nothing.
Maitland said, “I find it curious as well that he hasn’t at least contacted his group chief, Alan Besserman, or you, Ms. Farriger, tell you he was hurt, or in trouble, and he needed help?”
“That is disturbing, naturally, Mr. Maitland. We will discover the reasons for his actions once we find him and bring him in, if, that is, he is still alive.”
“Bring him in? It sounds like you believe he’s done something wrong,” Sherlock said. “He’s in the Russian group, isn’t he, ma’am? Is there anything related to his work that warrants investigation? Was he working with anyone outside the organization? Assets, perhaps, stationed in Moscow?”
Farriger waved her off. “Not that either I or Mr. Besserman know of. He’s a talented analyst, not a covert operative. But his work is highly classified. If you came expecting a briefing about his work here, we are at an impasse. You can continue to look for him along with us, and we can brief each other if we make progress. There is nothing more I can do for you. Now, if that is all, I need to prepare for a meeting with the director.” She rose.
Mr. Maitland sat back, began swinging his foot. “We already know a good deal about him. Justice Cummings is thirty-one years old. He came to you from MIT six years ago. He was immediately assigned to the Russian section, where he has excelled. He’s married, two children, and his wife and children are currently out of town, their specific whereabouts still unknown.”
Farriger didn’t sit down again. She stood tall, looking down at the three of them, impatience shimmering off her. “Of course you know his background, Mr. Maitland, it’s public knowledge. What is your point?”
Savich said, “We know he was running from someone he saw outside the Blaze Café off Elder Street. He ran into Agent Sherlock’s car, probably broke his nose, since his blood was all over the windshield, as well as possibly incurring other injuries, and went flying off the other side. He kept running. Who could he have been running from, Ms. Farriger?”
She gave an impatient shrug. “It seems highly possible to us this was a personal matter. I’m sure you’ve checked his finances—”
“As have you,” Mr. Maitland said. “We hope he contacted his wife, but as I said, we’re still in the process of locating her. Have you?”
“I believe Cummings and his wife are estranged, separated perhaps. That’s all we know.”
Savich saw it, even though she was fast, a microexpression, then her face smoothed out in an instant. She’d been in the CIA for twenty-three years, she’d been in the field, taken courses in how to dissemble. But she’d slipped. Why was she trying to push his personal life on them?
Mr. Maitland said, “We tried to contact Cummings’s group chief, Alan Besserman, but we’re unable to reach him. Is he here today?”
“I would assume he’s at his desk.”
Sherlock said, “Perhaps you can ask your Mr. Armstrong to check for us.”
Farriger gave her a stony look, picked up her phone, punched a button, and gave instructions.
Mr. Maitland said, “I assume Mr. Besserman can tell us at least something about what Cummings was working on?”
She smiled, a sharp raptor’s smile, showing lots of very nicely capped teeth. “As I said, you are not entitled to that information, Mr. Maitland. You doubtless admired the Kryptos sculpture—it’s Greek, of course, for ‘hidden.’ It was chosen to remind us we collect secrets here. If we divulged what we do, what we learn, what we suspect, even to the FBI, without a truly pressing reason, it would compromise our mission, and national security with it. Now, I have a question for you. Why doesn’t the FBI believe we are capable of investigating the disappearance of one of our own analysts?”
Mr. Maitland smiled. “We believe someone was out to kill him, or to take him. We believe he knows he’s in danger and that’s why he hasn’t contacted anyone. Perhaps the people who were chasing after him found him and are holding him. Not for ransom, there isn’t enough money in his family to tempt a kidnapper, so why else?
“We can’t ignore he works for the CIA, gathers information about Russia, their politics, their intentions. Perhaps he found out something so important he tried to capitalize on it. I suspect you share that same concern, Ms. Farriger, whether you’re willing to discuss it with us or not. Someone tried to take him in broad daylight, off the street. Why not wait until night, when he was home and in bed? It seems reckless, or desperate.”
Farriger nodded. “Which supports my point—this was not the work of professionals. And a foreign agency taking a CIA employee on U.S. soil? The blowback would be so severe, it’s never happened. As I said, I believe his disappearance is more likely to be some kind of personal matter.”
She gave him a hint of a tolerant smile. “Is there anything else, gentlemen? Agent Sherlock?”
Farriger’s phone buzzed. She picked it up, listened a moment, said, “Thank you, Lance.
“Sorry, but Mr. Besserman isn’t available for you today.”
“Does that mean he isn’t here? Is he at home?”
Farriger only smiled at Maitland.
Sherlock gave Farriger her patented sunny smile and yet again, Savich saw his Sherlock clear as day. She said, “We have already found the remains of Mr. Cummings’s cell phone in Alexandria, Ms. Farriger.”
Savich marveled at the fluency of that lie.
Farriger’s reaction was immediate, her voice sharp, too sharp. “Can you do anything with it?”
Sherlock nodded. “I’m sure we can, our best people are working on it. We’re hopeful we’ll be able to get his cell history. We can help you find Mr. Cummings. We can resolve this situation together.”
Farriger looked at the pale, pretty face of a woman she had to admit she admired. “I understand you have amnesia, Agent Sherlock. That must be very difficult for you. I realize you’re surprised I know, but then, of course, it’s my job to know—” She broke off, smiled again. “I realize you want to help, but you must understand I consider Justice Cummings my own responsibility. Naturally we’re aware that as an analyst, his job is a sensitive one. With that in mind, we have to be concerned he might have been compromised.” She looked at all three of them and walked around her desk, clearly dismissing them. “I will deal with it. If you ca
n manage to access anything on his cell phone, call me. Thank you for coming. Agent Sherlock, I hope you regain your memory very soon. As I said, it—it must be difficult.” She walked to the door and opened it, said nothing more.
Mr. Maitland slowly rose. “Ms. Farriger, there is one other thing, well, two other things, actually. The woman who struck Agent Sherlock’s car works as a security engineer at the Bexholt Group. Strangely, the body of a murdered woman was discovered this morning. She is—was—also an employee of the Bexholt Group. You must find that odd, if not downright suspicious. Have you worked with Bexholt?”
Of course he knew they had. She said easily, “Certainly. They’re a respected communications firm dealing mostly in the private sector, but there are occasional government contracts as well, including projects with the CIA. Why are you telling me this?”
Maitland shrugged. “Thought it might be of interest to you.”
Farriger waited silently until they’d filed out of her office.
Lance came in to see her standing at her large window, staring out at the hills. “It rained very hard last night,” she said, not turning.
“Yes, it did,” Lance said. He knew this mood, she was thinking, barely aware he was even there, and that meant the problem with Justice Cummings had escalated.
He walked up behind her, laid his hand lightly on her arm. “Is there anything I can do?”
She did turn now. “You have already helped immeasurably, Lance.” She nodded toward the door. “See that I’m not disturbed.”
Once her office door was closed, she picked up her cell phone and punched speed dial.
“Athena?”
50
* * *
GAFFER'S RIDGE
EAGLE'S NEST
FRIDAY, NOON
Rafer Bodine faced his mother across the dining room table, his roast beef sandwich between them. His wrist was in a cast, but it still hurt in spite of the three aspirin. The doctor had said he didn’t need anything stronger, even for the headaches, the idiot.
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