Fletcher sighed. “Who else is working on this with Cattafi?”
“His mentor, David Bromley. Bromley is one of the preeminent virologists in the country. His specialty is hemorrhagic fevers. He’s in Africa right now, trying to find more evidence of this cover-up. So now you understand why we can’t lose Thomas.”
“Why smuggle in the vaccines? If that’s what they are, I mean.”
“Well, goodness, it’s not like Mr. Cattafi can walk into the CDC and ask for samples of these diseases and viruses to work on in private. They’re closely controlled, closely monitored. Anything Amanda could get out was done in great secrecy. She put herself at great risk. But without Tommy, and without Amanda’s notes, there’s nothing more for us to go on. We won’t be able to stop the attack she was so sure was coming.”
Fletcher pushed a pad of paper toward the undersecretary. “I assume you have a list of suspects. If she’s been digging around this case for a year, surely you have names of the people who’d want to stop her, people who might kill to protect their secrets? Write them down. I’ll go talk to them all and get to the bottom of this.”
“Amanda had the names, not I. We were trying to keep the information safe, and that sometimes means not sharing.” Girabaldi sighed. “We need to protect Mr. Cattafi. And the best way to do that is to put out word he’s died, and hopefully whoever was after her will leave him be. And you have to find Amanda’s computer. Her killer must have taken it, and we truly can’t afford for word of this investigation to get out.”
Fletcher sighed and scratched his forehead like he was getting a headache. “At the very least, I’ll have to bring my boss into the loop. There is no way I can do this without his express approval. Especially now. The media saw the HAZMAT team, they’re already talking.”
“Certainly, tell your immediate superior,” Girabaldi said. “But you’re going to have to work with me on this. Find out who killed Amanda, and do it quietly. Right now, we can’t trust anyone. I didn’t even want to bring you into the case, but a friend told me you could be relied upon to cooperate. No offense meant.”
“None taken. What friend?”
She didn’t answer.
Fletcher sighed heavily. “Madam Undersecretary, I’m sorry, but there’s no way this is going to happen the way you want. We aren’t the State Department. I’m D.C. homicide. We are accountable for all of our actions.”
Her eyes narrowed, but she didn’t take the bait. “Oh, Lieutenant, I think you’ll find a way. Amanda’s work will be for naught if word gets out what she was doing. Someone wanted her stopped. And if the killer finds out Cattafi is still alive, he’ll assume the boy knows everything, and come after him again and again until they have a dead body to parade through the streets. And don’t think they won’t.”
“This is D.C., ma’am, not Mogadishu.”
Girabaldi smiled her vulpine grin, and Sam felt a chill go down her spine. “You don’t get it, do you, Lieutenant? I’ve been very forthcoming with you. I’m no longer asking.”
“Be that as it may, telling me to shelve an investigation into a possible double murder is out of bounds. I won’t be able to make it happen.”
Sam recognized Fletcher was at the boiling point. He wouldn’t be diplomatic anymore. Now was the time to step in.
“Madam Undersecretary, what do you expect the FBI’s role to be in this investigation? I know Ms. Souleyret was our operative, though she reported to you. I need to know what you want us to do here. I can’t imagine the director is going to stand back and allow a cover-up to happen.”
Girabaldi took a breath, swiveled her gaze, touched her hand to her brow. Her entire demeanor changed. She became downright maternal.
“John Baldwin is a particular friend of mine, and he knows Amanda. I asked him to be here today because Amanda was technically an FBI employee. As such, Dr. Baldwin’s vision and discretion is necessary. He understands the intricacies of what’s happening. He spoke very highly of you, said you and Lieutenant Fletcher both possess a keen sense of...imagination when it comes to law enforcement.”
In other words, Souleyret liked to break the rules, and they were going to uncover all sorts of irregularities that would require a lot of looking the other way.
“I see.”
“Do you?” Girabaldi’s mouth thinned, the gentle manner disappeared. “We need to find out who killed her, and where her notes are. This is a matter of grave importance. Time is running out.”
Sam wasn’t about to let the older woman back her down. “So you keep saying. I don’t know how you expect us to do our jobs with only half the information. We don’t even know where she was in the past few weeks. I assume—”
Girabaldi checked her watch, a heavy gold Rolex, and stood up. “We can’t afford to assume anything, Dr. Owens. Thank you for your help. I must leave you now. I’m sorry for the circumstances that have brought us together, but I look forward to your report. I’ll make sure my people get you what you need.”
They’d been dismissed.
Girabaldi stood and nodded, then left the room. De Lete and Kruger had been waiting outside the door; they went with her like puppies following their mama.
Shannon Finders, the counterterrorism lead, came back into the room, as did the PR contact, Ashleigh Cavort. Wanting to make sure anything said or done was politically correct, for sure.
“Do you need a break?” Finders asked, all smiles. Her voice was deep and soft, gentle even, completely at odds with her intense, important title. Sam guessed she shouldn’t make assumptions. Just because the woman sounded like a kindergarten teacher didn’t mean she wasn’t tough as nails. Indeed, the juxtaposition probably worked well for her. Kill ’em with kindness and rip their heads off when they were least expecting it.
Sam shook her head. “No. Let’s keep moving forward. Undersecretary Girabaldi said you’d have information for us?”
“I need to be in another meeting.” Finders handed them both business cards. “You can call me directly if you find anything of note. I’ll pass it on to the undersecretary.” She glanced at her watch. “We all want the same thing, Dr. Owens. I’ll do all I can to help. Please excuse me.”
Cavort followed the counterterrorism chief out of the conference room, stopping for a moment by the door to say, “Just hang out. I’ll be back in a moment.”
Great, Sam thought. Now we have even more questions than answers.
Fletcher stared after them. “What the hell are they up to?”
“I don’t know,” Sam said.
“Well, I’ll tell you something, Doc. I do believe we’re being played.”
“Are you going to play along?”
Fletcher shoved his hands in his pockets, shoulders hunched. “I don’t know that I have a choice at this point. If there’s even a hint of the possibility of a terrorist attack, and we didn’t do everything we could to stop it? No. They’re up to something.”
Sam tapped her fingers on the table. “I think you’re absolutely right. They’re being way too up-front. There’s something else going on here, something they aren’t telling us.”
Fletcher grinned. “I knew I liked you, Owens. Always willing to see the dark side of things. I agree, they are setting us up. But for what?”
Sam got up and poured a second cup of coffee. “And why? Why us?”
“Because we don’t matter. We’re expendable. If this operation has been ongoing for over a year? If as much is at stake as they claim? They need someone to throw to the wolves when and if it all goes south. That’s the only reason I can fathom that we’re here, being given the white-glove treatment.”
She knew he was right. It would be easy to put blame on Fletcher’s head in the media if things went south. Hers, too. She was a nobody in this world, easily scapegoated if necessary. She wondered, though, what exactly Girabaldi had
planned if John Baldwin had been in the room. Because if there was ever someone who couldn’t be compromised and shot down, it was him.
“These aren’t dumb people. Why in the world do you think they assume we’ll cooperate?” she asked.
“Because they can make my life very difficult if I don’t.”
“Then how are we going to pull this off? Can you run a dual investigation—closing the case on one hand but still investigating?”
“I can, yes. Do I want to? Hell, no. I just got this job, and I like it. I don’t want to get run out on a rail because I’m bending the rules to accommodate State.”
“Will you tell Hart what you’re up to?”
His face stilled. “They asked me not to tell anyone but Armstrong, and I aim to please.”
She saw the message in his eyes: we’d best not talk here. We don’t know who’s listening.
She nodded once, brief and curt, to let him know she got it.
Outside the glass walls of the conference room, Sam saw heads begin to turn. Television was a fundamental part of every government office, where 24/7 news channels ran continuously. As she watched, several people in the offices across the hall started getting to their feet and staring at the television screens.
Fletcher caught the movement, as well. “Uh-oh. Something’s up.”
“Shall we go see? Are we even allowed? I don’t want to get shouted at for leaving the conference room without an escort.”
“I don’t know why not. What’s the worst that can happen? They ask us to cover up the fact that we left the conference room without authorization?”
She laughed, and they made their way to the nearest television. A huge red banner scrolled along the bottom of the television: Assassination Attempt Thwarted at Teterboro Airport.
Sam felt her heart race. She hurried back into the conference room and grabbed her cell, speed-dialed Xander as she returned to the television. His phone rang unchecked.
Fletcher shot her a glance. “What is it?”
She stared at the TV. “That.”
Xander was crossing the screen, looking exceptionally grim, arms behind his back, being walked toward a building.
“What the hell?” Fletcher asked, then turned to a worker bee standing near him. “What’s happening?”
“The dude in cuffs shot a man at Teterboro.”
“He’s a professional. He didn’t just shoot a man for the fun of it,” Sam snapped, voice hard, and the worker bee paled and nodded.
She tried Xander’s phone again. Nothing. It had been turned off. Not even the voice mail came on.
Oh, God, Xander. What have you gotten yourself into?
Chapter 21
Teterboro Airport
New Jersey
XANDER FINISHED HIS story and sat back, taking a long drink of water. Lawhon had taken copious notes; he now read through these, marking bits here and there. After a few minutes, he looked up, eyes bright with excitement.
“Great. This is all great. We’ll be able to craft a media story no one will question. The court of public opinion will be on your side by nightfall, I promise you that.”
“A media story? No. No way. I’m still not comfortable taking this to the media.”
“Xander, trust me. You aren’t going to have a choice. They were swarming the place when I drove up. Footage has leaked on Twitter. You’re already in this, my friend. And the court of public opinion can make or break you.”
The door opened, and Arlen Grant stuck his head in. He looked queasy, like the news he was about to impart had left a bad taste in his mouth. At Lawhon’s gesture, he came in and set Xander’s cell phone and gun on the table gently.
“You’re free to go, Mr. Whitfield.”
Lawhon hopped to his feet. “You aren’t pressing charges?”
Grant shook his head. “They’ve identified the shooter. He’s wanted in a dozen countries. Congratulations, Mr. Whitfield. Seems like you managed to kill a professional assassin who has a serious body count and is on every watch list out there.”
Xander didn’t know whether to be relieved or more worried. If the would-be assassin wasn’t a crazy, and he’d killed a pro, there would be more coming. He thought about the sniper rifle the man was carrying, which was standard issue for the US Army.
“What’s the man’s name? Who is he working for?”
“No idea,” Grant replied. “And who knows what his real name is. He was traveling under a Spanish passport with the name Hector Senza on it. Real picture, but that’s not his real name, or I’ll eat my hat. We’ve contacted the Spanish consulate. So far, they’re disavowing the man.”
Xander stood. “And you’re just letting me go. I can leave, head home, and all is forgotten?”
“Less paperwork that way. Mr. Denon wants a word first. Then yes, you’re free to go. I’m sure the feds will have some questions for you, but I’m done with you. Good luck out there. Try not to kill anyone else.”
And he turned and walked off.
Xander glanced at Sean Lawhon, who looked disappointed, to say the least.
“Good for you, bad for me,” he said with a shrug. “It would have been a great case. I’m not kidding about the media, though. We should make a plan, decide who you’ll talk to, who you’ll do interviews with.”
“That would be no one. There’s no way. I can’t go out there and drum up publicity, not with what I do. And I certainly don’t want to put a bigger target on myself than is already there.”
“Target?”
“If Grant is right, and this Senza character is an established pro, I killed someone’s pet. I doubt that will go over well. These are the type of people who hold a grudge, and won’t stop until they get their revenge. Chances are, whoever took the contract out on Mr. Denon will try again. And then they’ll come for me, too.”
“You don’t think you’re exaggerating a bit?”
Xander shook his head. “No, I don’t. I’ve lived in this world for a very long time. I’ve carried a gun by my side day and night for the past eighteen years. I know how they think, and I know how serious they are. Denon has enemies. And now, so do I.”
Lawhon paled a bit. “You keep my card in case anything else goes down. You may still need some media training. You’re going to be approached by all the networks. I’d be happy—”
“Sean, no offense, but I won’t be giving any interviews. All I want is to get back to D.C. I can handle the media from there.”
Lawhon shook Xander’s hand. “Luck to you, then. If you need a proxy, you give me a call. It was good to meet you, Xander Moon.” He grinned, lifted his bag and grandfather’s pen and left, as well.
Xander took a deep breath, picked up his phone. It had been turned off. God knew what they’d done to it. He didn’t want to be paranoid, but it was possible there was tracking software newly installed, allowing the New Jersey Staties to watch his every move. For the moment, he didn’t care. The call would be expected; if he didn’t make it, they’d know he was onto them. He dialed Sam, and she answered on the first ring.
“Xander. Thank God. Are you okay? You’re all over television.”
Great. So it had already begun.
“Hi, babe. I’m all right. It’s all a big misunderstanding. They’ve just released me. I’m going to get back down to D.C. before anyone changes their mind.”
“What happened?”
“Not on the phone, okay? It hasn’t been with me the whole time.”
“Ah.”
He heard her intake of breath, sent up a prayer of thanks that he’d found himself an extremely intelligent woman who understood his world so completely.
“Give me two hours,” he said. “Meet me at the house?”
“I’ll do my best. Baldwin called me in on a case. I can’t tal
k about it, either,” she said wryly.
“All right. Keep in touch, should anything change. I love you. See you soon.”
He hung up, feeling much calmer. Her voice did that to him. Level-headed, strong, smart. God, he wished she’d agree to marry him already. He made up his mind to pursue this line of thought the moment he was home and she was home and this whole mess was over. Took his cell phone apart, removed the battery and sim card. He tossed the battery in the trash can, pocketed the remaining pieces and stepped out into the corridor.
Grant was standing anxiously by the door, a grimace on his lean face. Xander realized this was the man’s standard look, like the world was coming to an end.
“Mr. Denon’s waiting.”
I bet he is, Xander thought. “Thank you. Is he...?”
“There’s a plane on the tarmac.”
“Ah. I see. Well.” He strode past Grant without further comment. There was a small Gulfstream outside the glass doors, stairs lowered. Chalk was at the base of them. His face lit up when he saw Xander. Slapped him on the back and said, low, “Get the fuck on the plane already, before they change their minds.”
Xander climbed the stairs two at a time, Chalk on his heels. He pulled up the stairs and the door closed with a thunk.
James Denon was inside the plane, sitting midcabin. His three-person team, looking startled, were scattered through the back of the plane. They eyed Xander with everything from fear to awe. He nodded at them, then took a seat. Chalk sat opposite him, and they were wheels up in another two minutes. Xander began breathing again, not realizing he’d been holding his breath.
What a morning.
Denon pulled a decanter out of the wall, and three glasses. Poured, handed them out. It was a fine single-malt; Xander recognized it as one of Sam’s favorites—Lagavulin.
Xander tipped his glass toward the two men and threw the whiskey against the back of his throat. Set the glass down. “Thanks. Now. Someone want to tell me who the hell Hector Senza is, and where we’re going?”
Denon smiled. “Relax. I’m flying you back to D.C. I’ve arranged for another plane to take us back tomorrow. In light of what happened, Mr. Worthington felt it best I alter my plans. It will give my people in the UK time to make contingency arrangements.”
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