Wet Work

by Dayton Ward

  “Hard to say at this point,” Baldwin said, knowing what his supervisor meant.

  The Wraith?

  Known only by the sensationalist nickname for nearly a decade, the otherwise unidentified international assassin was a logical suspect. Indeed, the FBI’s Behavioral Analysis Unit had picked al-Diladi’s visit to Baltimore as a possible target for the mysterious shooter, and twenty-seven agents had come up from Washington to supplement the local field office as the date for the cleric’s arrival drew closer. In keeping with the notorious killer’s methods, no hints or any sort of advance warning had been detected in the days leading up to the rally. Now, in the aftermath of al-Diladi’s murder, there also was a notable lack of evidence being found to justify pointing the finger at the Wraith, and Baldwin was nowhere near being ready to make that kind of speculation. Junior FBI agents two years out of the Academy did not normally posit such theories—not if they wanted to become senior agents.

  Over the past several years, the Wraith had been linked to dozens of killings all over the world. Political leaders and powerful heads of business as well as known and suspected terrorists numbered among those believed to be victims of the assassin, about which virtually nothing was known but who appeared on the Most Wanted lists of nearly every intelligence and law enforcement agency on the planet. A global manhunt had been under way for years with no success. While leading theories pointed to a professional, contracted killer, no clues or leads as to his or her identity or location had been found. Likewise, no information regarding any potential employers had surfaced. Every avenue of inquiry reached a dead end, every question asked begat yet more questions, and investigators assigned to the case had long ago found themselves chasing their tails.

  Maybe I should’ve brought my running shoes, Baldwin mused.

  The June heat and humidity was forcing its way through the open window and threatening to overpower the inadequate air conditioner. Reaching up to wipe sweat from his forehead, McIntyre asked, “What do we know about the renter?”

  Consulting the memo pad on which he had been scribbling several pages of hurried notes since his arrival on the scene, Baldwin replied, “Name’s Jennifer Black. Single, been living here a couple of months.” Though he was certain he had not read or heard it before today, he felt that there was still something odd about the name. “The detective running the investigation for Baltimore Homicide, Pembleton, gave me a quick background check he’d run on her when I asked. No record, nothing from DMV, and he’s still trying to track down job info and all of that. I’ve already relayed everything back to the office and called in for the whole nine yards.” He glanced at the watch he wore on his right wrist. “Should have something by the time we get back.”

  “And this is the broad we think beat up the cop downstairs?” McIntyre asked. “What’s his name? Jenkins?” Shaking his head, he added, “Man, that guy’s buddies are going to give him hell for the next year.”

  Suppressing his own chuckle, Baldwin shook his head. “No way to be sure without an ID. Officer Jenkins says he only got a glimpse of whoever clocked him before his nose was broken, but he’s pretty sure it was a woman. Blond hair, black running suit, white shoes, wearing some kind of backpack.” All-points bulletins already had been issued for police to detain anyone matching the woman’s description but Baldwin knew that was a long shot. Other agents were canvassing the apartment building, but only a few of the other residents had ever seen the person living in this unit. Still, they were able to verify that a slim blond woman lived here, alone, and kept mostly to herself. It all was adding up to a big fat zero, Baldwin knew, something for which McIntyre’s superiors would have little enthusiasm. That in turn would translate to more chewing out from McIntyre to his subordinates, Baldwin included.

  While this was by far the most high-profile case to which he had been assigned during his brief FBI career, Baldwin was one of hundreds of agents assisting in the investigation. As such, he was only slightly less removed from the upper echelons of the case’s chain of command than the janitor who cleaned Ted McIntyre’s office each night. As a junior agent, it was likely that he soon would be given another assignment, perhaps even sent to a different field office elsewhere in the country, long before this case either was concluded or fell into limbo as leads dried up and no further evidence presented itself. In the meantime, Baldwin knew that other, more experienced minds were at this moment sifting through every flimsy piece of evidence collected in the wake of al-Diladi’s death. Would any of that lead to a suspect, perhaps even the mysterious Jennifer Black?

  What is it about that damned name?

  The question rattled around in his mind as he scrutinized his notes, circling where he had written down the name with his pen. What was it that bothered him? He ran his free hand through his hair, sighing as he felt the first hints of fatigue teasing the edges of his mind. The letters seemed to dance on the paper in his hand, as though trying to convey something more to him.

  Jennifer Black. It was simple, unassuming, unremarkable. On a list of names, it would possess nothing to distinguish it from…

  A list of names.

  “Son of a bitch,” Baldwin said, beginning to scribble on the notepad. When he looked up again, McIntyre was staring at him, a perplexed look clouding his features.

  “What?” asked the senior agent.

  “Jennifer Black,” Baldwin said. “That’s the name on the lease, right?” He held up his notepad for McIntyre to see. “Scramble the letters around, and look what you get.”

  His scowl deepening, McIntyre shrugged. “Ken F. Jacelbrin. So what?”

  Baldwin grunted in mild irritation. “Nineteen-eighty-nine. The hotel in San Francisco where they found that CEO drowned in the pool? The guy who ripped off his company’s retirement funds, whatever the hell his name was? There was a Ken F. Jacelbrin registered at the hotel on the night of the murder, but he disappeared before he could be questioned.”

  It was more than a little satisfying to watch McIntyre’s face go slack and his eyes dawn in realization. “Jesus. You’ve got to be kidding me. He’s a she, or she’s a he?”

  “Maybe,” Baldwin replied, shaking his head and feeling his heart beginning to race as he recalled the relevant data from one of the Wraith case files he had studied months earlier. The name was listed among the handful of registered guests from that night who had been sought out for questioning but never found. Follow-ups were attempted, but he had read nothing in the files detailing any results from those efforts. As for the Wraith, since no conclusive evidence identified the assassin’s gender, it was logical to assume he—or she—might use both male and female aliases to preserve his or her anonymity.

  Could this be it? Had the person who killed that corrupt businessman three years earlier actually rented this very apartment and murdered Miraj al-Diladi, to say nothing of at least two dozen others and perhaps more around the world? If so, had a relatively inexperienced agent, the same guy who had given up a sports scholarship to study criminal justice before applying to the FBI, just stumbled onto an innocuous clue that might well be one of the very few solid leads in this case?

  Don’t get ahead of yourself, rookie.

  As though reading his mind, McIntyre said, “Let’s not get too excited. When we get back to the shop, run both names and see what the computer spits out. Go back to the ’Frisco file and pull out whatever they have on this Jacelbrin guy. Let’s find out if he’s really a ghost. Add whatever you find to the new file you’re going to start on Jennifer Black.” Almost as an afterthought, he added, “Nice thinking, Baldwin.”

  Nodding in appreciation for the unexpected compliment, Baldwin reminded himself to keep his enthusiasm in check. If the Wraith’s past was any indication, the trail he was about to follow with this new information likely would lead to yet another dead end. The assassin—he or she—had spent many years covering his or her tracks. Baldwin doubted he would get so lucky as to trip over some loose end left unattended. That sort of thing
only happened in the last ten minutes of TV crime dramas.

  Then again…

  For a moment, Baldwin allowed himself to consider the possibility that, somehow, the Wraith finally had made the key mistake that would lead to his or her eventual downfall, and that it was he who had chanced upon it. Most long-term cases were solved in a similar fashion, after all. Might this bit of happenstance be just what was needed, and possibly even end up as a defining moment in the career of an up-and-coming FBI agent?

  Only time would tell.

  RETURN

  AUGUST 2004

  THREE

  NEAR MOUNT RAINIER, WASHINGTON

  WHITE LIGHT FLOODED her vision and the wind howled in her ears. She felt neither heat nor cold and, though she was not in pain, every nerve ending tingled as if ready to overload. Voices echoed in her head, and she was certain she heard other cries of confusion and fear from all around her. There was no immediate sense of movement, but Lona Callahan still felt as though she was falling.

  Then the light and the noise faded, replaced in the space of a heartbeat with an abrupt silence.

  Gone were the narrow, dirty streets and dilapidated buildings of old Baltimore, and replacing them were snow-covered mountains to either side of her. Looking around, Lona realized that she was standing on the sandy shore of a massive lake. There was a chill on her exposed skin and she could see her breath, all of which was inconsistent with summer on the Atlantic coast. Judging by the topography, Lona guessed she was somewhere in the Pacific Northwest—Washington State or perhaps Canada.

  And she was not alone.

  Hundreds, thousands of other people—men and women of varying ages and representing every ethnicity she might immediately recognize—milled about wearing expressions of bewilderment that no doubt mirrored her own. No one spoke, each person seemingly stunned into astonished silence. An elderly woman to her left stumbled and nearly fell before Lona caught her by the arm, holding her steady until she regained her balance. They made eye contact and Lona found herself offering what she hoped was a small smile of reassurance. She did the same thing with a young blond girl who also stood nearby. To her credit, the child seemed calm and composed, as though at peace with or at least accepting the bizarre situation she and the others faced.

  Lona was cold. Folding her arms across her chest in an attempt to warm herself, she looked down to see that she still wore the Lycra running suit—but something was wrong. With a start, Lona realized she was no longer wearing her red backpack. It was nowhere to be found, having somehow disappeared along with its damning contents. Reaching up, she felt that her blond wig also was gone, her natural, short red hair now revealed. What had happened to her?

  A dense fog surrounded her and the group, but as the wind pushed it away Lona became aware of dozens of other people standing farther up the shoreline. She recognized police and military uniforms, as well as the portable video camera equipment wielded by field journalists. Helicopters, some carrying law enforcement and others bearing news reporters, descended from the dusky, overcast sky and hovered directly over the odd assemblage.

  “Where am I?” Someone called the question out from behind her, and Lona listened as a chorus of similar queries began to fill the air. She then noticed some people had moved away from the water and toward the party of onlookers. A number of police officers responded by fanning out to form a line, holding up their empty hands in an attempt to keep the group corralled on the beach.

  Near the center of the line, a lone woman stepped forward. She was slender, her fair complexion contrasted by dark hair pulled into a knot at the back of her head, and dressed in black pants with the hint of a red sweater visible beneath her long coat. She stared at the group with amazement rather than fear, though Lona also saw the uncertainty in the woman’s eyes while at the same time sensing her intelligence and strength. Was she in charge? Might she have the answers to the hundreds of questions being shouted in ever-increasing volume by the people around her, or even those harbored by Lona herself?

  A police officer handed the woman a bullhorn, and she aimed it toward the crowd. “Ladies and gentlemen,” the woman called out, holding up her free hand in a gesture for everyone to focus their attention on her, “my name is Diana Skouris. Please just stay where you are and our people will do everything they can to assist you.”

  She was making it up as she went along, Lona decided. Skouris—and by extension everyone with her—had no idea what was going on here, who Lona or any of these people were or how they had come to be here, wherever this place might be. As the woman, likely some variety of federal agent, issued instructions for anyone in need of medical attention to step to the front of the group, someone beside her repeated her directions in Spanish. Police officers started moving into the crowd, some carrying notepads and pencils, while others cordoned off the beach from the area beyond it by deploying bright yellow caution tape. Everywhere, men or women in civilian attire, most likely plainclothes police or other government agents, were yammering into cellular phones, undoubtedly reporting to superiors or requesting additional personnel and equipment. Meanwhile, reporters and camera operators jockeyed for key positions along the yellow tape, each of them vying for the best angle on the beach and the bizarre collection of people currently crowding it. Whatever was going on, it was quickly evolving into a massive effort.

  With as casual an air as she could muster, Lona allowed herself to blend back with the rest of the group while forcing herself to remain calm. Though her true identity was known only to a precious few individuals—to the best of her knowledge, anyway—she saw no need to take unnecessary chances. What she needed now was information. Once in possession of that vital data, she could formulate a plan for what to do next.

  Yes, she decided, that was it. That felt right. Already she could feel her inner calm reestablishing itself, her instincts quelling as experience and training took over. She had long ago grown accustomed to working on her own, armed only with her skills and wits and without benefit of support from her handlers or even her most trusted allies.

  Until she determined otherwise, this was just like any other mission.

  FOUR

  NATIONAL THREAT ASSESSMENT COMMAND (NTAC)

  PACIFIC NORTHWEST DIVISION

  SEATTLE, WASHINGTON

  3,085.

  The number rolled about in Lona’s mind, intruding upon and obscuring her other thoughts. Since the moment a federal agent had assigned it to her six days ago, the series of digits had dominated her life. Of the 4,400 men, women, and children who had appeared on that beach—from thin air, if the agents and the news reports were to be believed—she had been number 3,085 to receive a cursory, preliminary interview.

  It had happened while she and the rest of her fellow “newcomers” still stood on the beach, and Lona quickly had realized that one of the benefits of being examined so late in the process was that the agents had been able to refine their questions in order to improve efficiency. By the time she sat down in front of the young, freckle-faced man with the bad haircut and poor fashion sense even for a government employee, one who obviously had tired of this task at least three or four hundred sessions ago, the routine seemed practiced and even complacent. Lona had provided a name, Social Security number, and date of birth as well as what she believed to be the current date, and where she had been on that date. Those last data points had at first seemed odd, even taking into account the fact that she most likely was missing at least some portion of time since the mission in Baltimore.

  Instead, it gave birth to the other number dominating her thoughts: 12, being the years that had passed since her apparent disappearance. It had taken Lona several moments to fight the initial, automatic denial that had arisen in response to hearing such an outlandish assertion. Indeed, she still found it difficult to believe, even after nearly a week of being inundated with evidence to support what she had been told. Still, try as she might, Lona was unsuccessful in recalling anything that might have happen
ed between her last seconds in Baltimore and her abrupt appearance at that mountain lake. So far as she could tell, the transition had been all but instantaneous, yet twelve years seemed to have passed in that blink of an eye.

  Her story was not unique. According to the continuous news broadcasts, each of the other “returnees,” as she and the others now were being called, was someone who had vanished from locations around the world and—as incredible as it sounded—from different points in time, some as far back as fifty years. Most were listed as missing persons, mysteries that had remained unsolved and in many cases all but forgotten as the years passed.

  And now, all of them had been collected together, waiting for someone, anyone, to figure out just what the hell to do next. Hopefully, this also entailed finding out what had happened to them in the first place.

  Following the initial interviews at what she had learned was Highland Beach, near the base of Mount Rainier in Washington State, Lona and the other returnees were transported by military convoy to a government building on the outskirts of Seattle, only to be placed in what was politely described as a “quarantine ward.” None of the returnees were permitted to leave the ward, nor had they been afforded the opportunity to contact relatives or friends. The agency responsible for overseeing the quarantine had been gathering information on next of kin during the more extensive interview processes currently under way. Though Lona had no family, she still had what she hoped would be a viable plan for notifying a trusted friend when her time came.

  As for the ward itself, with its cinder-block walls and high concrete ceiling, all of which were painted in a bland, depressing shade of beige, to Lona the new accommodations resembled a fortified bunker or fallout shelter or, perhaps more accurately, a prison. It was an illusion that only strengthened as Lona took in the dozens of returnees around her, each dressed as she was in matching utilitarian khaki work shirts and pants.