by Jeff Lindsay
“You know what he’s after,” Macklin said, disbelief clear in his tone.
“Yes.”
Macklin sighed. “Okay. What?”
“The Crown Jewels of Iran,” Delgado said. “At the Eberhardt Museum.”
“Jesus Christ,” Macklin blurted, shocked in spite of himself. If anything at all happened to threaten the crown jewels while they were in the US, the international complications would be enormous, and mostly disastrous. And if Riley Wolfe was after them, it certainly rated sending someone to stop him. “And you know this how?”
“I know Riley Wolfe,” Delgado said.
Macklin again waited for more, and again there was none. He spread his hands in disbelief. “That’s it? You think he’s going to try because you know him?”
“Yes,” Delgado said.
Macklin looked at Delgado; then he sighed again and leaned back in his chair, lacing his hands behind his head. “Frank,” he said. “Even if you’re right—and I don’t believe you are, not without some kind of proof—but if you are right . . . why do you think you can catch him this time?”
Delgado sighed, the most emotion Macklin had ever seen from him. “I failed before because I didn’t know him well enough,” he said.
“You just told me you know him.”
Delgado shook his head once. “Not well enough,” he said. “Or I would have caught him.”
“And you plan to, what—to somehow get to know him better?”
“Yes.”
“But you already know him well enough to know he’s going after the crown jewels,” Macklin said, tapping his pen on the desk a little too rapidly.
Delgado nodded. “That’s easy,” he said. “I know what he will do—but to catch him, I need to know why.”
“Other than a few billion dollars?” Macklin asked dryly.
Delgado just nodded again. “Something happened to him. Something turned him this way. I find out what, I find a weakness.”
Macklin leaned onto his desk and rubbed the bridge of his nose, mostly to give himself a moment to think. It was clear to him that Delgado had gone a little buggy on the subject of Riley Wolfe. In fact, this was starting to sound borderline crazy. But a certain amount of tact was required here, with a special agent of Delgado’s talent and seniority, and Macklin could be very diplomatic when he needed to be. “Frank,” he said, after what he hoped looked like a reflective pause, “you’ve read the profilers’ report on Wolfe, right?”
Delgado shrugged. “It’s mostly wrong,” he said.
Macklin stopped himself from saying something he shouldn’t and took a deep breath instead. He let it out and said, “All right, fine, the finest profilers in the world are wrong and you’re right. But Frank—the crown jewels? Do you know how tight the security’s going to be at the Eberhardt?”
“Yes,” Delgado said.
“They’re bringing in some security technology straight from the DOD labs,” he said. “And they’ve hired Black Hat to stand guard around the clock. Those bastards are good, and they’re ruthless.”
“I know,” Delgado said.
“On top of all that, the Iranian government is taking their own measures, INCLUDING,” he said, wagging a finger at Delgado, “a full platoon of the Revolutionary Guard. And those bastards make our bastards look like tame kittens.”
“All right.”
“The Eberhardt will be under constant surveillance by every electronic and human means known to man, and some means that, in my opinion, have to be back-engineered alien technology,” Macklin said. “And you think Riley Wolfe is going to get around all that?”
“I know he’s going to try,” Delgado said.
“Goddamn it, Frank,” Macklin snapped, rocking forward in his chair. “It’s impossible!”
Delgado just nodded, twice this time. “That’s exactly why he has to try,” he said.
Macklin felt his control slipping. The way Delgado just sat there, stone-faced and so goddamn sure of himself—it would make Mother Teresa lose her cool. But he took a deep breath and leaned back again. “On the very small chance that you’re right—Riley Wolfe is going to get around unbeatable military-grade electronics, get past a bunch of trigger-happy hired killers, and somehow get out again with the jewels—what exactly do you plan to do to stop him?”
“I don’t know,” Delgado said.
“Well, that’s fucking perfect,” Macklin growled.
Before Macklin could say any more, Delgado opened a file folder and slid it onto the desk. “Look,” he said. “First arrest, sixteen years old.”
“All right, so?”
“There’s no record of a Riley Wolfe previous to this arrest,” Delgado said, and when Macklin just frowned, Delgado very patiently added, “‘Riley Wolfe’ is not his real name.”
Still frowning, Macklin pushed the folder away, leaned back, and crossed his arms. “Why does that matter?”
Delgado’s eyebrows twitched, as if he’d stopped himself from showing irritation. “It’s the key to his entire personality,” Delgado said. “Why did his birth name force him to change, and why change it to ‘Riley Wolfe’? What do those two names mean to him?” He frowned and spread his hands, a huge display of emotion for him. “If I know his real name, I know his real story,” he said simply. “If I know his real story, I know why he has to be Riley Wolfe and do impossible things.”
Macklin shook his head. It was the longest speech he’d ever heard from Delgado—but it wasn’t enough. “And you want to do what—track down Wolfe’s real name? So you can catch him before he steals the crown jewels?”
“Yes,” Delgado said. And then he just looked blankly at Macklin.
Macklin looked back, chewing his lip. What Delgado was saying was not, after all, completely nuts. But it also wasn’t an efficient use of a senior agent’s time. Being completely honest with himself, Macklin admitted that he could not think of a way to make this look good in his report to the AD, and that was maybe more important than it should be. Macklin wanted to be AD himself someday. And Delgado truly had nothing to back up his premise—that Wolfe was going to try for this impossible target, and that finding his backstory was the way to stop him.
“Help me out here, Frank. Give me something tangible. Anything at all—even an anonymous tip?” Macklin said, raising an eyebrow. Another agent might have taken this as a hint and perhaps made up something to justify the mission. Delgado stayed mute. “And you really think you can stop him by finding his real name,” Macklin said.
“That’s the only way,” Delgado said, with absolutely no uncertainty on his face.
Macklin just shook his head. “Even without one tiny clue, tip, or hint—even when it goes against what our profilers have said—you want to take off on some goddamn odyssey to find the real Riley Wolfe. Because you’re dead certain that’s the way to catch him.”
Delgado moved his head up and down about half an inch. “There’s not the slightest doubt.”
“No,” Macklin said. “Without any kind of evidence to back it up? No. I can’t justify the man-hours, or the expense.”
Delgado still showed no expression. He simply looked back at Macklin for an uncomfortably long time. Then he nodded and stood up. “I understand,” he said.
“Good, thank you, Frank,” Macklin said, surprised and relieved.
“I have six weeks’ accumulated vacation time,” Delgado said. “I’m taking it, starting tomorrow.” And he turned to go.
“What? Wait! Goddamn it, Frank!” Macklin said. But his office door was already closed, and Delgado was gone.
Macklin shook his head, sighed deeply. “Goddamn it,” he said again. Then he pulled the next folder from his in-tray and went back to work.
* * *
—
Dawn the next morning was gray, and a fine drizzle fell over suburban Virginia. Frank Delga
do didn’t really notice. He was up well before the sun, and by the time the first soggy gray gleams of light showed in the sky, he’d showered, shaved, and had his breakfast. And then he made one small gesture to his heritage and drank a second cup of Cuban coffee before he headed out the door.
He walked briskly down the front walk and threw his luggage into the back seat of his personal vehicle, an eight-year-old Yukon. There wasn’t much, just a small suitcase, a laptop, and a briefcase. He closed the door and climbed into the front behind the wheel. On the seat beside him he placed the file folder. It was a copy, but still technically a breach of regulations since he was on private time. It was exactly the kind of rule he tended to break routinely, and he wasn’t worried about the consequences. If he was successful, anything up to shooting the AD would be forgiven. Especially since Riley had apparently killed that billionaire Big Pharma guy in Chicago, and big money always makes big waves.
He flipped open the folder and studied the top page again. That arrest for B&E, the first official record of Riley Wolfe’s existence, had taken place in Syracuse, New York. Delgado knew the town slightly. He didn’t like it much. But that was his starting point. And he had a feeling he wouldn’t be in Syracuse very long. His instincts told him that Riley Wolfe had gone to Syracuse for a specific prize, and his trail would very quickly lead out of town to a more relevant locale, maybe even Riley’s hometown.
He could have made a phone call to the Syracuse cops, or sent an email. But Delgado was after more than bare facts. He wanted to put his nose down on the ground Riley had walked on. He wanted to get a true scent of this elusive criminal. He needed to poke around in the places that had formed Riley Wolfe. That meant going to those places, finding people who knew him, talking to them face-to-face. That was the only way to get an accurate picture of Riley and what made him tick.
So he would go to Syracuse, even though he didn’t like it. Finding the key to unlock this master criminal’s psychology was what mattered. Delgado would go anywhere to do that. And he had six weeks to get it done.
Special Agent Frank Delgado nodded. He knew what he was good at, and patiently tracking down a lead was part of it. Six weeks was enough time. He flipped the folder closed and started his car. Then he headed out the driveway and down the road to find Riley Wolfe.
CHAPTER
8
Michael Hobson was one of the top corporate attorneys in New York City. He had a practice that demanded a minimum of twelve hours a day. On top of that, like most rich and important men, Michael was also on a lot of corporate boards. So there were meetings, conferences, briefs to read—it all kept him very busy indeed. So busy that he seldom seemed to have time for distractions of any kind, which included, in his mind, his wife. So he was understandably peeved when his secretary buzzed him to say that a Mr. Fitzer, from the SEC, was here to see him. Michael spent a full three seconds looking out the large glass window that made up the entire back wall of his fifty-second-floor, mahogany-paneled office, and wondering if he should tell the man to make an appointment and come back later.
Three seconds was all it took. A man like Michael Hobson didn’t need a problem with the SEC. Besides, their officials were professional, smart, and competent and wouldn’t waste his time. So he said, “Send him in,” to his secretary and then swiveled his chair to face the door.
The man who came in a moment later was the very picture of a young and hungry attorney. He was average height, fit-looking, with medium-length brown hair and a hearing aid in his left ear. He wore rimless glasses and a fashionable stubble of beard, and his suit was good without being ostentatious. He walked in briskly and offered Michael his hand. “Mr. Hobson? I’m Bill Fitzer, from the SEC Division of Enforcement.”
His grip was strong but not overbearing, and Michael motioned him to a chair. “I didn’t realize you were from Enforcement, Bill,” he said.
“That’s right,” Fitzer said with a polite smile. “I’m afraid crime is something of a ruling passion.”
“A private practice would pay a lot better,” Hobson said, probing just a little. “And it would certainly give you more than enough exposure to crime.”
“I’m sure you’re right,” Fitzer said. “In fact, that’s what I want to talk to you about.”
Hobson was instantly on guard. “Really,” he said. “Is there some kind of problem with . . . one of my clients?”
Fitzer smiled, a brief professional expression that meant nothing. “I’m sure it’s nothing, Mr. Hobson. Probably an excess of caution. But if I might have a few moments of your time, I would like to ask a few questions about Elmore Fitch.”
“Elmore Fitch is not actually my client.”
“Perhaps not,” Fitzer said. “But it’s mostly for background? And I believe you’ve had some dealings with Mr. Fitch in the past two years?”
“Who hasn’t?” Michael said wryly. “Elmore is all over the landscape. It’s impossible to avoid him if you want to get anything done in this town.”
Fitzer nodded and reached into his glove leather attaché case. “So we have heard,” he said. He took out a small but very sophisticated digital recorder and placed it on the desk, closer to Michael.
Michael raised an eyebrow. “Really? You’re recording this?”
Fitzer nodded. “It guarantees accuracy, and it lets me concentrate on the questions. Do you object to a recording, Mr. Hobson? I can assure you it will not be used against you in any way, nor will its contents be shared with anyone outside our organization.”
Michael hesitated. He found the idea of a recording irritating, but he couldn’t say why. And since it made sense, he really couldn’t object. “A recording is fine,” he said. Then he glanced pointedly at the wall clock to his right. “Let’s get this done, Bill.”
“Very good,” Fitzer said. He leaned over and pushed the RECORD button, giving his name, Michael’s name, and the date, before pushing the recorder closer to Michael. “I’d like to start with a few questions about Mr. Elmore Fitch’s corporate structure—I believe you are on the board of one of his companies?”
“Two, actually,” Michael said.
Fitzer nodded and said, “Please state the names of those companies and how long you have been a director—oh, damn it!” He clutched at his hearing aid and yanked it out of his ear. Michael could hear a loud, high-pitched tone coming from the thing. Fitzer fumbled with it for a moment and then muttered, “Damn it,” and dropped it into a pocket.
“Problem?” Michael asked. Fitzer didn’t respond. Michael smiled, raised his voice, and said again, loudly, “Is there a problem?”
Fitzer looked up. “The battery is dead. I’m sorry, it should have lasted another day, but . . .” He shrugged. “I’m practically deaf without it. An IED in Afghanistan.” He pointed to the recorder. “I’ll have to rely on that thing. And possibly ask you to repeat once or twice?” He raised an eyebrow. Michael spread his hands in a what-can-you-do gesture, and Fitzer nodded. “Sorry for the inconvenience,” he said. “Let’s continue?”
Fitzer jumped right back into it, asking for names and dates and details as he led Michael through a series of increasingly complicated questions about Elmore Fitch and his corporate maneuvers, prodding Michael into giving longer and more detailed answers. Fitzer was an efficient interrogator, but he tended to be blunt, even confrontational, and with his hearing problem he would ask Michael to repeat his answers—more than the “once or twice” he’d promised. And as the questions got more aggressive and the request to repeat his answers got more frequent, Michael found himself getting closer and closer to losing his temper. When Fitzer asked about one of Elmore’s most distasteful forced mergers, Michael was on the very edge of anger.
“As an attorney, what did you advise Mr. Fitch to do about this merger?” Fitzer asked.
“I told him to get out of the deal,” Michael answered through clenched teeth.
“To
do what?” Fitzer asked, his head cocked to the side.
“To get. Out. Of the. Deal,” Michael said, nearly snarling.
Fitzer shook his head. “Sorry?”
“Get out!” Michael shouted. “I told him, ‘Get! Out!’”
“Ah. Uh-huh,” Fitzer said, and then he looked down at his notebook and moved on to the next line of questioning. He kept pushing, prodding, coming at his subject from every possible angle so that, among other things, Michael could not possibly guess what he was really after. That had to be deliberate obfuscation, and although Michael admired the technique, as an attorney himself he couldn’t help trying to guess what Fitzer was fishing for.
But after twenty minutes of questions, Michael still hadn’t figured it out, and he was very happy to see Fitzer go.
When the door finally closed behind the SEC investigator, Michael took a deep breath to calm himself. Then he glanced up at the wall clock and said, “Shit.” He had less than ninety minutes before he had to leave for the airport to get his flight to Zurich. So he put Fitzer and the SEC out of his mind, picked up a file, and went back to work.
* * *
—
SEC investigators don’t use parkour. So I had to go all the way back to Williamsburg by train. The whole way, I had to stand there holding the strap like I was just any old asshole in a suit. I let jerkoffs push me and step on my feet, because that’s what somebody wearing this suit would do. And in a funny way, I didn’t really mind. Because the last preliminary piece was done, and I was ready for the Main Event. Or anyway, I was ready to get ready for it. So when I got back to my crappy rented room, I went right to it.
The Sierra Club types like to say, leave nothing behind except footprints. That wasn’t good enough for me. Footprints are loaded with DNA. So if I left one behind, I was dead and fucked. So Riley’s Fourth Law states: Leave nothing behind. Clean up like your life depends on it, because it does.
I don’t mind. I’ve been cleaning up since I was a kid. Before she fell apart, Mom was always a real fanatic about keeping everything clean. She swept, she mopped, she scrubbed—and she taught me to do all that, too. I did it, and I got good at it. Not because I really cared but because Mom cared. I scrubbed the floors because it mattered to her.
