by Jack Slater
But she’d seen a whole lot more than that. Whoever Leo Conway’s mysterious handler was, he had only contacted him when he arrived back home. Did the handler know that Conway was being tailed that morning? It was unknowable, but it was the only thing that made sense.
“So what do we do?” Eliza asked, floating the question everyone was thinking.
“Let’s start with what we know,” Pope announced. “We know that Leo Conway is in way over his head. He’s a problem gambler, and as far as we are aware, his wife has no idea. And we know that both before and after the attack, he’s been passing information to a highly-skilled individual we suspect to be his handler. We don’t know what data he’s passed along, or to whom.”
“Maybe he’s having an affair,” Trapp posited, not because he believed the proposition, but because he knew from long experience that it was better to test every hypothesis, no matter how far-fetched. “That would account for the cloak and dagger shit. DC’s a liberal town, but he’s got a wife and kids. We could be misreading this whole thing.”
“It wasn’t like that,” Kelly immediately interjected. “You don’t do a brush past with a hook-up.”
“And you don’t hang out outside the Hoover building like a lovesick teenager either,” Eliza added. “Like you’re waiting for someone to come out and arrest you. But Leo did. He feels guilty about something.”
“Not guilty enough to turn himself in,” Trapp remarked.
“That’s nothing unusual,” Pope said.
“Most crooks aren’t sociopaths. They feel remorse and shame just like everybody else. It’s just not powerful enough to overcome their desire to save their own skins. Or live out their days in comfort. Especially guys like Conway. He’s an Ivy League lobbyist type. Had his whole life mapped out from the day he was born. Fancy suits, nice cars, the right kind of parties. Going to prison doesn’t fit with that mental model. He might feel real bad about what he’s done. But he’ll rationalize it in the end. And I’m guessing that since he didn’t turn himself in this morning, he already has.”
The room fell silent. “Then what?” Eliza said.
Another pause.
“He made his bed,” Kelly intoned coldly. “He had a choice to turn himself in, and he clearly didn’t take it. He’s trying to save his own skin, fine. Let’s make it happen on our terms.”
Trapp raised an eyebrow at the unprepossessing yet entirely self-assured young FBI agent. She was quite impressive. He suspected she would go far.
“What do you suggest?” Pope asked.
“Conway will be a dead-end. He’s a desperate man looking to line his own pockets, not a mastermind. His handler is our only link to the people who attacked the DOJ press conference. So let’s squeeze Leo. Bring him in and give him a simple choice: his freedom for his handler’s.”
“We don’t have enough for a warrant. And most of what we do have is circumstantial,” Pope warned. “If he’s smart, he’ll know that. And we’ll only blow our cover. Right now, that’s all we’ve got going for us.”
“Maybe there’s a middle ground,” Trapp murmured, his brow furrowed as he turned the problem over in his head. “A way to get him to come to us, rather than the other way around.”
“Go on…”
“Kelly’s right. We need to squeeze this guy, get him feeling the heat. But not to bring him in. We want him to run right to his handler to spill his guts. And when he does, we’ll be watching.”
“And then what?” Pope wondered aloud. “We follow the handler? Conway’s no expert, but this guy definitely is. He’ll notice a tail if it’s only four of us, and the op will be just as blown. So how’s your idea any different?”
“Well—” Trapp grinned. “What if we could put a tail on him without ever getting close?”
“What are you getting at? Hook into the camera network? We don’t have the manpower for that. And he’ll know better than to show his face. It’s a dead-end.”
“That’s part of it.” Trapp nodded. “But back when I went through the Farm, years ago, I remember one of my instructors mentioning this trick the Soviets used to use, back in the Cold War days. Usually if they were tailing someone, they wanted them to know it. Not real subtle, the KGB. But not always. When they were trying to be coy about things, they’d dust a target’s shoes with radioactive dust. It’s invisible, bug detectors won’t pick it up, and there’s no physical tail to detect. But we would know everywhere this guy went, and everyone he saw.”
“So what?” Pope asked, wrinkling his nose in a way that didn’t indicate he was particularly impressed. “You want us to run around downtown DC with Geiger counters? That doesn’t seem real subtle either.”
“No need.” Trapp smiled, evidently self-satisfied. “DARPA already did the hard work for us. There’s a Geiger counter on every street corner in the District, remember? Part of the SIGMA program. They’ve been working on it ever since 9/11, and I guess a couple years ago they decided it was ready for prime time. Rolled it out to DC and the tri-state area first. So we’re in luck.”
Pope opened his mouth, looking like he wanted to object, then closed it. Then opened it again and went through the process several more times before finally settling on a response. “It won’t work.”
“Why not?”
“If it did, wouldn’t someone have thought about it already?”
“This is the federal government, Nick,” Trapp chuckled ruefully. “We don’t get paid for good ideas. Look, I’m not saying this is going to lead us right to the guy’s front door. But if we can squirt him with some nuke juice, we’ll be able to narrow down our search grid to a couple blocks, maybe less. If he’s got other sources, we’ll find them. And he won’t have a damn clue.”
“It’s an idea, I guess…” Pope finally muttered, though judging by the expression on his face, his doubts were at least beginning to fade away.
“Thanks accepted,” Trapp said. “The radiation source won’t need to be strong. Just enough to trigger the sensors.”
“How do we paint him?”
“That’s where Leo comes in. We need to arrange a meeting on our terms. I’ll leave that up to you.”
23
Hector Alvarez León’s forearms ached with exhaustion as he guided his sedan back home. He hadn’t slept in thirty-six hours and hadn’t showered in at least twelve more. He was wearing a fresh uniform shirt in Marine blue, sleeves rolled up to just below his elbows. The faint outline of a bloodstain still lingered on his knuckles.
His face, still youthful, looked significantly less so that afternoon. A day’s thick black stubble decorated his chin and jaw line, though as usual entirely avoided the middle of his cheeks – a family trait.
He turned left on to his home street in a leafy suburb of Toluca, tired eyes still darting back and forth across the scene in front of him, as always searching for anything that looked out of place. Mostly, his neighbors’ cars were parked in their driveways, but a few families owned more than one vehicle, and those were pulled up neatly by the curb.
He recognized each, cross-referencing their registrations with the list stored in his mind. All except one.
The vehicle in question was parked several houses down from his own. It was a nondescript white Ford sedan, recently washed, though already kissed by a thin layer of the yellow dust that was endemic to the region. The license plates began with the letters MEX, indicating that they had been issued by the State of Mexico.
Had one of his neighbors purchased a new vehicle? It wasn’t impossible. He lived in an area that was comfortably middle-class, and the car didn’t look particularly expensive.
The license plate on his own vehicle began with the same three letters, as did pretty much every car on this street. The region wasn’t known for significant cartel activity, though the previous day’s events had demonstrated that wasn’t nearly the whole story. And besides, even if a hired gun was here to kill him, they would hardly drive their own car.
Hector frowned. His paranoia
wasn’t worth the energy it drained from him. He indicated into his own driveway, and after glancing in the mirror to check that he was in no danger of colliding with any of the local youths who often played soccer in the street, he made his turn.
As he did so, in his peripheral vision he spotted a man seated in the driver’s seat of the parked Ford. The revelation instantly put him on alert. His thoughts, dulled by lack of rest, entered a paranoiac spiral which only steepened as adrenaline spiked in his system.
María and Gabby, he thought. Are they home?
At this time of day, they would be. María would have just returned from the school run. His daughter would be inside, probably inhaling a snack as she did every day. The thought of his beautiful girl suffering because of him stiffened Hector’s resolve and snapped him out of his panic.
He killed the engine of his sedan and casually leaned forward, pulling open the car’s glove compartment. Inside was a pistol, along with two magazines. The weapon was unloaded – a concession to María, in case their child somehow came across it – but that was easily remedied. As was the safety.
Hector repositioned the rearview mirror using the tiny joystick in the center console. An electronic motor hummed for a few seconds as he manipulated the angle. The slight movement was essentially invisible from outside the vehicle, and as the sound from the motor decreased the image settled on the parked Ford now illuminated by the late afternoon sun.
A thump from outside confirmed what his eyes had already told him. The car’s driver door, which just a few seconds ago was wide open, had just swung shut. The man previously sitting inside the vehicle was now walking toward his car.
Hector knew he had to move fast. If this guy was after him, he had no choice but to fire first. Any other course of action endangered his family.
In one smooth motion, he pulled his door open, stepped onto solid ground with his left foot, and twisted his torso, all as he brought his weapon up in a solid two-handed grip. His frame was at least partially shielded behind the chassis of his sedan, and his right elbow came to rest on its roof as he barked a command.
“Down!”
The man in the middle of the street looked strangely familiar, though with adrenaline running through his veins and the angle of the sun partly obscuring his vision, Hector couldn’t be sure. Besides, familiarity meant nothing. Perhaps he’d even arrested this criminal before.
The oncoming shape stopped, hands rising above his head with a deliberate lack of haste as he descended to his knees. “Hey buddy, chill!”
“Face down on the asphalt, or I shoot,” Hector growled in Spanish.
He frowned. Why the hell was that relevant? Something the guy had said?
Or how he said it.
“I’m DEA. We met yesterday. Raymond Burke, remember?”
“Stay down,” Hector called out, switching to English. His brain seemed to be operating on half-speed, hearing what the man was saying but completely unable to actually process his meaning.
“That’s what I tend to do when a guy pulls a gun on me,” Agent Burke grumbled from the asphalt, his voice an octave higher with tense, wry humor. “My badge is in my back left pocket. I’m unarmed. I was there yesterday at the prison.”
Hector said nothing, but stepped fully out of the vehicle and walked slowly toward his captive. Although he was as physically exhausted as he was mentally, the barrel of his weapon stayed entirely level as he closed on the figure still prone on the street in front of him. As he got within a couple of feet, he issued another command. “Palms down flat, legs apart.”
Agent Burke complied without attempting another witty rejoinder.
“Stay nice and still,” Hector said, crouching down and retrieving the DEA agent’s ID from his back pocket with a pickpocket’s two-fingered grip. He took several steps back before looking at it and didn’t take his eyes off the man on the ground before there was plenty of distance between them.
Only then did he open the leather case, which felt lighter than they looked in the movies. And cheaper. The badge looked legit, although he hadn’t worked much with American federales in the past. The identification photo on the top right of the credential section, though, showed the man he knew as Raymond Burke. A little younger, a little paler in the flare of the flash, but undeniably him.
“What are you doing at my home?” Hector grunted without apology, dropping the weapon to his side and the ID to the ground. His arm felt heavy, and he cast an anxious glance over his shoulder to see whether María was watching. She wasn’t, but he stuffed the weapon into his waistband anyway.
“Can I get up?” Burke asked.
“Yes.”
The DEA agent did exactly that, pushing himself up onto his hands and knees first before resuming a vertical stance with a quiet groan. He rolled his eyes at Hector. “Not as young as I used to be…”
“How did you find me?” Hector demanded, no more amiable than he had been when holding the gun.
“I’ll take that as an apology.” Burke grinned without any evident display of offense on his affable face. “I asked around. Turns out the guys at the embassy know quite a lot.”
Hector felt somewhat lightheaded as the adrenaline drained from his system, and he felt an unaccountable urge to take a swing at Burke. He gritted his teeth at the smiling American, and his intentions must have been written on his face.
“Look,” Burke said, taking a half step back at the same time as he extended his hand in greeting. “I think we got off on the wrong foot. We never got a chance to be properly introduced yesterday. I just figured it might be worth catching up, that’s all.”
“By showing up at my house unannounced?” Hector replied curtly. “I could have shot you.”
“Yeah.” Burke grinned, ruefully shaking his head. He glanced down and started dusting off his front. “I see that now. You don’t look like you’ve slept.”
It wasn’t phrased as a question, but Hector shook his head anyway, starting to regret the way he had treated his visitor. Not particularly the drawing his weapon part, just everything that came after. “Not much, no.”
“You should try it,” the American observed, ostentatiously eyeing Hector from head to toe. “I find it does me a world of good. So – how about that chat?”
Hector grimaced, still strangely reticent to give this man what he had come for. But he recognized that his reaction was mostly a chemical one, driven by some ancient evolutionary pathway. He bowed his head, sighed deeply, and gestured toward his house. “Outside. My wife is in there.”
“I get that,” Burke replied. “And no hard feelings, okay?”
He nodded, leading the American to the front step before muttering, “I’ll be right out.”
Hector unlocked his front door and slipped inside. He could hear his daughter’s burbling laughter coming from upstairs, accompanied by the sound of splashing. She was in the bath, and María was singing her a lullaby.
Thank God she didn’t see, he thought, briefly closing his eyes and resting his forehead on a cool interior wall. He only allowed himself a couple of seconds of self-pity before levering himself off and walking to the refrigerator. He pulled out two screwtop beers, dumped the caps, and walked back outside, offering one to his guest.
Burke nodded his thanks. “Only one. I gotta drive. But you look like you could use a beer.”
Hector was halfway finished with his own by the time Burke lifted the bottle to his lips. He grunted with wry acknowledgment. After a few seconds of silence, he asked, “So why are you here, Agent Burke?”
“Looks like your neighbor saw the show,” Burke remarked, gesturing at a man anxiously peering out of the window from across the street.
“I’ll apologize later,” Hector said, thrusting out his fist and shooting a tired thumbs-up.
“Sorry to make a rod for you.”
“A rod?” Hector squinted.
“For your back. Causing you all this trouble,” Burke added. “I assure you, it wasn’t my intention
.”
“Oh, that… Not your fault. I was – how do you say it in English?”
Burke grinned. “Tense? On a hair trigger? Real fucking angry?”
“All three.”
“I’m not surprised,” Burke murmured, eyes scanning the street appraisingly. “Is this area safe? For your family, I mean.”
Hector let out a bitter laugh. “Is anywhere? I’m sorry. I’m tired, and I shouldn’t be unloading on you. I don’t even know you. This place is as safe as any. A few officers from my unit live around here. It’s only fifteen minutes from work, and the policia patrol frequently.”
Burke raised his eyebrows at that, though he said nothing. Hector heard him anyway. And is that safe?
What a thing it was to live in a place where another country’s police judged your own. What a humiliation. And yet it was true, wasn’t it?
Apparently the flood of emotion, of anger and shame showed on Hector’s face, for the American agent gestured an apology, raising the palm of one hand and the bottle with the other. “I didn’t mean that.”
“You did. And it’s not your fault. Very few of my countrymen can resist a bribe, not when the alternative is a bullet in the back of their head, or a car bomb taking out their children on the way to school. It doesn’t matter if they are police or military or government. The cartels get to everyone in the end.”
“But not you, Captain León,” Burke grunted. “I saw the way you fight. The way your men follow you. You’re no turncoat. You’re a patriot.”
“Maybe.” Hector shrugged, draining his bottle of beer. “Why are you here, Agent Raymond Burke?”
The DEA agent paused before he answered, as a thoughtful look kindled first at the creased corners of his eyes. “Because it is my fault.”
Hector squinted, somewhat confused.
