by Stuart Woods
“The president has ordered the director of the FBI and the director of Central Intelligence to create a combined task force to find and arrest Teddy Fay. The people in this room are the task force, along with all the support personnel you require. The task force has two leaders: me, representing the CIA, and Special Agent Kerry White—stand up, Kerry—representing the FBI.”
Kerry White, at the other end of the table, stood briefly, waved and sat down again.
“I expect you’ve heard a lot about how American intelligence and American law enforcement need to be working more closely together,” Lance continued. “This task force is the result of that need. Each CIA officer will be paired with an FBI special agent, and you will work as coequal partners. You will both report to both Kerry and me. No CIA officer is to withhold any information from his partner or from Kerry. Does anyone here question that?”
Nobody said anything.
“Any of my people question that?” Kerry Smith asked.
Nobody did.
“Kerry is going to bring us up-to-date on the latest information on Teddy Fay,” Lance said. “Kerry?”
Kerry pushed back from the table. “The story of this bombing, as far as we know it, will give you a nutshell description of how Teddy is able to operate,” he said. “He somehow learned that the CIA was surveiling a townhouse where, it was suspected, a terrorist team was being sheltered, before a planned attack on the UN head-of-state conference that begins tomorrow morning and lasts two days. Teddy understood that, since most or all of the people in the townhouse had the diplomatic protection of Iran’s UN embassy, there was not much that could be done except to surveil them and hope to catch them in the act, so he took it upon himself to remove the threat. He did an outstanding job, though he was probably helped by the presence of explosives already in the building.
“First, though, Teddy had to obtain the explosives. This is how we think he did it: he hacked into the FBI’s computer databases to learn the locations of C-4 in New York City, then he hacked into CIA computers and created for himself FBI identification and letterheads, then created a letter from the director to the New York City agent in charge, directing that four pounds of C-4 be surrendered to an agent named Curry—this was Teddy, himself—for delivery to Washington as evidence in a federal trial. I’ve seen the letter, and it is perfect in every respect.
“He then built his bomb and hand-delivered it to the building. We don’t know why they accepted delivery or what they did to inspect the package before it exploded, but the thing worked. Everything Teddy does seems to work.
“The CIA has since changed the access codes to their computers, and so has the Bureau, so we will at least have robbed him of those resources. We have also been back and reinterviewed every person we first talked to when Teddy was killing right-wing political figures, and we have come up with one shred of information that might have some small importance: Teddy Fay loves the theater and the opera. That’s it. That’s all we have.
“I need hardly tell you that we are at a disadvantage; we are up against an opponent who is smarter than all of us, with the possible exception of Lance and me.” Kerry permitted himself a smile. “We cannot rely on him to make a mistake, because, to the best of our knowledge, he has never made a mistake.”
A man in a suit spoke up. “If he didn’t make any mistakes, how did you find him in Maine?”
Kerry sighed. “A federal prisoner, a former CIA officer, read about the murders and offered information in exchange for a pardon. The prisoner had a summer home on the Maine island that Teddy chose for his hideout, and several years ago saw him at the post office and recognized him. So, the prisoner got his pardon and the reward, and we got Teddy’s hideout. Unfortunately, we didn’t get Teddy. So, you see, Teddy didn’t make a mistake. We found him because of a coincidence.”
“Who here knows something about the opera?” Lance asked. Nobody moved. “Oh, come on. Somebody must know something about the opera. You’re not all philistines, are you?”
Holly slowly raised her hand. “I sometimes listen to the Saturday afternoon broadcasts from the Metropolitan Opera,” she said. “I like the opera; I just don’t know a lot about it.”
An FBI agent in a suit across the table from her raised his hand. “I sometimes listen to those broadcasts, too, and I’ll watch PBS if an opera is televised. I’ve been to the opera a couple of times. That’s about it for me.”
“Okay,” Lance said, “you two are partners; you’re the Opera Patrol. Teddy likes the theater, too, but there are too many theaters in New York for us to cover. The opera is pretty much contained in the New York City Opera company and the Metropolitan Opera company. Get on it.”
After the meeting broke up, the FBI agent approached Holly. “I’m Tyler Morrow,” he said, extending his hand. “How do you do?”
“Hi, Tyler,” she said, looking him up and down, at the sharply pressed blue suit and the shiny shoes. She judged him to be in his late twenties. “I’m Holly Barker. You’re going to fit right in at the opera.”
“Thank you,” he replied. “I hope you will, too.”
He didn’t crack a smile, but Holly thought she had just been speared.
TWENTY-TWO
AT EIGHT O’CLOCK on Monday morning, prior to his daily intelligence briefing, President Will Lee convened a meeting of the congressional leadership of both parties in the Oval Office, along with the director of Central Intelligence and the director of the FBI. When they had all been served coffee and pastries he welcomed them.
“Good morning, ladies and gentlemen,” Will said. “I’ve asked you here this morning to impart to you some news that you will not like, as I do not. You will recall that recently, at a White House press conference, I announced that the aircraft flown by Theodore Fay during his escape from Maine had exploded and that Mr. Fay was presumed dead. Not long after that announcement an examination of the wreckage of that aircraft revealed that Fay had probably parachuted from the airplane on the coast of Maine. Later, it was discovered that someone had broken into a nearby beach cottage and stolen some items, and still later, a parachute was discovered buried in the garden of that cottage. So it now seems clear that Mr. Fay is alive.”
“Why haven’t we heard about this on the news?” the Speaker of the House asked.
“That’s why we’re here today,” the president said. “The directors of the FBI and the CIA have asked that we not announce that Fay is still alive.”
“Why not?” the speaker asked.
“Bob, you want to explain that?” the president asked Kinney.
“Mr. Speaker, we feel that, because of the lack of photographs of Fay, along with his ability to disguise himself, it is unlikely in the extreme that an ordinary citizen could identify him, and we do not want to be flooded with false sightings by the public.”
“I concur in that opinion,” Kate Lee interjected.
“So why are we here?” the speaker asked.
“Mr. Speaker,” Will said, “I didn’t want you to think that I was withholding information from you.”
The majority leader of the Senate raised his hand. “Question for Director Kinney,” he said. “Does this mean that we can expect Fay to resume killing people in Washington?”
“I am not ready to draw that conclusion,” Kinney replied.
“Do we have to wait until one of us is murdered before you draw that conclusion?” the majority leader asked.
“It appears that Mr. Fay has taken up residence somewhere in the New York City area,” Kinney said. “We believe he was responsible for the bombing of the Iranian townhouse in New York yesterday.”
“I hope you’re right,” the majority leader said.
Will spoke up again. “Another reason for this meeting is to offer you all additional security, should you feel you need it. I’m prepared to go back to the security level we maintained before Fay was thought dead, if that’s what you want.”
“The previous security level didn’t help the previo
us speaker much,” the Speaker of the House said.
“What would you like me to do, Mr. Speaker? Call out the National Guard?”
The group emitted a low chuckle.
“It occurred to me,” the president said, “that some or all of you might feel that the appearance of additional security might be noticed and difficult to explain.”
“It wouldn’t be difficult to explain if you announced that Fay was still alive,” the speaker said.
“You’ve already heard the disadvantages of that,” Will replied. “However, if it’s the sense of this meeting that it is preferable to announce Fay’s resurrection, I’ll do so this morning. You can all come with me to the White House press room right now, and we’ll do it together. I’m sure the FBI will find a way to handle the resulting phone traffic.”
Nobody said anything for a long moment.
“No,” the speaker said, finally. “Perhaps it’s better to follow the director’s advice. Of course, Mr. Director, you’ve got confirmation hearings coming up, and it might reflect badly on you if that turns out to be the wrong advice.”
“I can only advise you to do what I think is best, Mr. Speaker,” Kinney said, “and not concern myself with the hearings.”
“Let the chips fall where they may?” the speaker asked, grinning.
“Yes, sir,” Kinney replied. “I expect I can find another job, if I have to.”
“Any questions, gentlemen?”
“You going to keep us posted, Mr. President?”
“I’m not going to issue bulletins, at least not until Fay is caught, but feel free to call either Bob Kinney or Kate Lee for an update, whenever you like. If that’s all, gentlemen?”
A lot of handshaking took place, and the group filed out, leaving Will alone with Kate and Kinney.
“Anything else, before we bring the others in for the security briefing?” he asked.
“Mr. President, there’s something I should mention,” Kinney said.
“Go ahead, Bob.”
“I was very surprised to learn that the CIA had in their computers templates of FBI ID cards and letterheads, allowing them to create convincing but bogus FBI agents and correspondence at will.”
Kate spoke up. “Bob, surely you can imagine that sometimes our field officers need to impersonate FBI personnel in order to further their work.”
“Quite frankly, Kate,” Kinney replied, “I can’t imagine that that would ever be necessary. However, should the need ever arise I think it would be best if you made a request for IDs directly to me, instead of printing your own.”
“Kate?” Will asked, when she hesitated.
“I would much prefer to keep things as they are,” Kate replied.
“Well, in that case, I’m sure you won’t mind furnishing us with templates of CIA IDs and letterheads, so that my agents can impersonate Agency personnel at will.”
Will was amused but tried not to show it. “Is that unreasonable, Kate?”
“All right, Bob, I’ll have the templates removed from our databases and destroyed, and I’ll come to you, if we need the IDs.”
“Thank you, Kate,” Kinney said, beaming.
TWENTY-THREE
HOLLY SAT AT HER LAPTOP at the desk in her room while Tyler Morrow looked over her shoulder.
“This is nuts,” Holly said.
“What do you mean, nuts?”
“There’s no way we can begin to cover opera in New York. You’ve got the Metropolitan and the New York City Operas, both at Lincoln Center, both running five days a week. What’s more, the same opera often plays more than one night during a week. Look at this: Carmen on Thursday night and Saturday night. Even if we knew that Teddy loved Carmen, which performance would we cover? And Carmen is on the following week, too. And we don’t know that Teddy loves Carmen. We can’t go to two operas five nights a week, either.”
“I see your point,” Morrow said. “After all, there are only two of us.”
“You don’t have to attend the opera to find out if Teddy does,” said a voice from the hallway.
Holly and Tyler turned to find Lance standing in the door.
“You just said that both the opera houses are at Lincoln Center. Why don’t you stake out both houses, one each, every night before the performance and watch the audiences go in? Look for men alone, fifty or older; Teddy is said to look at least ten years younger than his sixty-seven years.”
“Good idea,” Holly said, embarrassed that she hadn’t thought of that herself.
“And how about record stores specializing in opera?”
“I’ve spent half the morning going through those already,” Holly said, pleased to have anticipated him. “Most record stores carry opera, and the specialty stores don’t get much narrower than classical, which includes opera.”
“There’s a shop I visited once with a girl, years ago,” Lance said. “I can’t think of the name, but it’s something related to opera. It’s in the West Forties, between Fifth and Sixth Avenues, as I recall. Small place, but it had everything, even some quite obscure recordings. You might try that.”
“You can’t remember the name?” Holly asked.
“Do I have to think of everything?” Lance disappeared down the hall.
Holly went back to the laptop and had Google search for “opera record stores.” “Dammit,” she said, “I can’t get the search narrowed enough. It keeps giving me all kinds of record stores.”
Tyler opened Holly’s bottom desk drawer and took out the New York City Yellow Pages. “Let’s try the old-fashioned way,” he said.
“You do that. I’ll try Yahoo,” Holly said.
Tyler opened the Yellow Pages and flipped through a few pages. “How about this?” he said, pointing.
Holly followed his finger and saw a small ad:
ARIA
Opera, opera and more opera
LPs, CDs and DVDs
“It’s on West Forty-third Street, between Fifth and Sixth.”
“That took about a second,” Holly said, disgusted. “So much for computers.”
“We can’t go to Lincoln Center until tonight,” Tyler said. “Why don’t we go check out Aria?”
“Why not,” Holly said, grabbing her coat.
They took a cab to the corner of Fifth and 43rd, and got out and started down the block.
“Where are you from, Tyler?” Holly asked.
“Call me Ty.”
“Is that what folks back home call you?”
“No, nobody has ever called me anything but Tyler, and I’m sick of it.”
“Where are you from?” she asked again.
“Little town in Georgia, Delano, forty-five hundred people.”
“And they wouldn’t call you Ty?”
“Never. Just Tyler.”
“How old are you, Ty?”
“Thirty-one.”
“You look like twenty-one and dress like fifty-one.”
“You’re not the first to point that out.”
“The contrast is a little jarring.”
“Women usually say that.”
“You actually know women?”
“Not…exactly.”
“Why not? You’re a pretty good-looking kid, uh, guy.”
“Listen, if I knew…”
Holly stopped walking. “It’s across the street,” she said, nodding toward the shop.
“You mind if I do this alone?” Ty asked.
“Why?”
“I don’t know; there doesn’t seem to be any advantage in double-teaming them.”
“Okay, sure, go ahead. I’ll wait here. Holly turned and began looking in a shop window.
TY WALKED INTO THE SHOP, which was not very large but packed to the ceiling with recordings, and approached a girl at the sales counter. She was dressed entirely in black, had long, black hair and wore black spectacles. “Excuse me,” he said.
“Yes?” she asked pleasantly, smiling at him.
Ty produced his ID. “I’m Special Agent Morrow
, with the FBI, and I’m looking for someone who may be one of your customers.”
Her face fell, and her brow furrowed. “FBI? You think I would rat out a customer for you federal pigs? You made a friend of mine’s life hell for two years, and I wouldn’t give you the time of day. Now, unless you’ve got a search warrant or something, get out!”
Ty took a step back, stunned by the reception he’d received. “I’m very sorry,” he said. He turned and left the shop.
HOLLY SAW HIM COMING. “That didn’t take long,” she said. “Did you have a look around?”
“Not exactly,” Ty replied.
“You’re all red in the face. What happened?”
“The lady in the shop wasn’t exactly receptive to a visit from the FBI,” he said.
“What did she say?”
“You don’t want to know. Apparently, a friend of hers was once hassled by the Bureau.”
“You flashed your ID?”
“Of course; we’re trained to…”
Holly burst out laughing. “What have you been doing since you got out of the FBI Academy?”
“Working in Washington, coordinating bank robbery investigations.”
“In an office?”
“Well, yes, kind of.”
“You need to get out into the world more, Ty. Everybody hates the FBI. Didn’t you know that?”
“Well, no, I didn’t. Why would they hate us?”
Holly sighed. “Come on, Ty, let’s get some lunch; this is going to take a while.”
TWENTY-FOUR
TEDDY WAITED A COUPLE OF DAYS, then phoned Irene.
“Hello?”
“Outside,” he said.
There was a pause, and then she said, “I’m outside, and I’m glad you called. Something’s come up.”
“What?”
