Somebody whistled. Sully nodded.
“Yes. And the shooter didn’t even take the safer shot and go for center-mass. I don’t know why, but he went for the head. You don’t have to be a marksman to know that a head shot at that range is one hell of a shot. There was some wind gusting around out there, and the bullet hit Muller’s face off-center, on its right, blowing away half his skull. If it had hit dead center, it would’ve probably exploded the whole head. Decapitated him.”
Annie stared at a pattern on her sleeve to block the image in her memory. She heard people stirring uncomfortably.
“Ballistics retrieved a piece of the bullet from inside the house. Way inside. After going through Muller’s skull, it passed through the outside wall, a kitchen cabinet, a coffee pot on the table, a hallway door, a sofa back, and another interior wall before lodging near the bottom of a bedroom wall. We were lucky to get a big fragment. We figured it had to be a. 50 caliber. But the lab determined it came from a Barrett. 416 cartridge. That particular cartridge propels a high-velocity, 400-grain, solid-brass, boattail spitzer bullet.” He noticed blank looks and smiled sheepishly. “Okay, sorry, that’s a sniper round, fairly new and relatively rare. It was designed by the Barrett Firearms Company in 2005. Currently, the only sniper rifle chambered to handle it is the Barrett Model 99.”
This was all Greek to her, but she noticed that Grant Garrett leaned forward.
The SAC flipped through the papers spread on the table before him. “Forensics found no shell casing. Obviously, he took it with him. No footprints worth a damn, either. It looks like he had some kind of covering, maybe canvas or plastic, over his shoes or boots. And no hairs or fibers. Probably wore a coverall, probably camo. From his stride and foot impressions, we guess medium-to-tallish-six feet, maybe a little more-weight not more than one-ninety, max. But those are just rough guesses, given the terrain. In sum, about as clean a crime scene as you could find-unfortunately.”
The CIA director shook his head slowly. “Great.”
Sully nodded and glanced down at his papers again. “Reconstructing the sequence of events, it appears he left his vehicle a short way down the far side of that hill. There’s a paved road up there, running in from Route 55. It leads south to some summer homes a couple of miles back in the hills. They’re vacant this time of year, so no traffic. Being a pro, our shooter no doubt reconned the area and knew that. He probably left his car or truck right on the pavement, knowing it wouldn’t be bothered by anybody. In any case, we found no tire tracks. So we have nothing to go on for a vehicle, either.”
He took another sip of water. “From where he set up, we figure that after taking the shot, he trotted down the slope to his vehicle. We clocked it and estimate he could’ve made it in less than three minutes-then be back on 55, or more likely 66, within another minute or two.”
“You keep saying ‘he,’” Garrett broke in. “A single sniper? Not a team?”
The agent shook his head. “One set of footprints, in and out.”
Garrett grunted.
“Anything else?” the CIA director prompted.
“Our theory is that after the Russkies heard about Muller’s capture early yesterday afternoon, they guessed-or were told, or watched-where he’d be taken. Then they dispatched their shooter to the area. This guy could have set up and stayed in place overnight. Except then, his parked car might have been spotted by patrolling cops or neighbors. More importantly, we don’t think he would’ve wanted to risk a long-distance night shoot using an infrared scope, because he needed to positively I.D. his target.”
The FBI director interrupted. “So instead of staking out the safe house overnight, our guess is he waited to take position sometime before dawn. Which means he might have stayed somewhere nearby last night. On that theory, we checked local hotels and motels for anyone suspicious. Almost all the names checked out. We got two dead ends, though.” He nodded at Sully to continue from there.
“Unlike the rest, both of these men paid cash,” the agent continued. “One guy signed in as ‘R. Lasher’ at a cheap motel about ten miles east. The other guy registered in the Hampton Inn right off 66 near Front Royal, under the name ‘B.J. Stoddard.’ We ran both names through the databases. Nothing.”
“Annie-did you want to say something?”
Garrett, looking at her; he must have seen her react. Everyone else turned to her.
“I-I’m not sure. Something in what Agent Sully said. But I can’t put my finger on it… Let me think about it.”
“Maybe these were just guys cheating on their wives,” the FBI boss interjected. “Maybe not. We’re interviewing the hotel night staffs to see if we can get useful descriptions or leads.”
The meeting didn’t last long after that. After agreeing on an action plan and defining responsibilities, everyone got up and began to filter out.
Garrett caught up with Annie. “Let’s talk,” he said.
*
In his spacious seventh-floor office, they sat in big club chairs around a small mahogany coffee table, sipping from water bottles they’d brought back from the conference room. She detected the faint aroma of cigarettes-a Langley no-no.
“This stinks,” Garrett said eventually, staring at the carpet.
“Sure does,” she said, suppressing a smile.
“I don’t mean Muller selling us out. Or even getting whacked before he talked to us. I mean, how he was killed. It doesn’t add up.” He glanced up at her. “Look-would you rat me out if I smoked?”
She laughed and shook her head.
“Thanks.” He went to his desk, fetched a blockish, battery-operated ventilation gadget from a drawer, got it purring, set it on the coffee table. Then fired up one of his Luckies. The smoke drifted toward the contraption. He looked at her. “A toymaker buddy down in DS amp;T put this thing together for me.”
“Nice to know the right people.”
He sat back. “Let’s start with the gun.”
“What about it?”
“The Barrett 99 is American manufacture. So is the. 416 ammo. More significantly, that cartridge is uniquely suitable for very-long-distance sniping-I think even better than the. 50 caliber.” He flicked a look at her. “Don’t ask me how I know this.”
“I won’t. But what’s the significance?”
“One: The Barrett isn’t the Kremlin’s sniper weapon of choice. It’s only been around three years-not enough time for the Russkies to become really proficient with it, anyway. They train their people on the Dragunov SVD and the SV-98. Good enough weapons out to about six hundred meters or so. But our shooter nailed Muller through the face at twice that distance.”
He inhaled, leaned forward, blew a stream of smoke toward his humming little machine.
“Two: Russian snipers also tend to operate in teams, not as lone shooters. Almost everybody else does these days, too. The idea of a lone-wolf sniper, especially on an op this important, bothers me.
“Three: There’s the business of knowing where we’d be taking Muller. Annie, let me tell you, we’ve worked damned hard to keep the Linden site secret. Only a few people in the Agency, top people, and a handful of case officers and interrogators, knew about it. If Muller did find out about it and told Moscow its location, then it isn’t logical that he showed no hesitation about going there. Knowing they’d want to silence him, wouldn’t he have insisted on going someplace else?”
“Makes sense.”
“So we can probably rule that out. Four, and finally: I have to disagree with The Boss. I just can’t imagine our people could have been tailed transporting Muller there, not without picking up the surveillance.”
“You’re right. OS protective teams are just too good for that.” She paused a moment. “So then, exactly what are you saying?”
He leaned forward, tapped some ashes into a navy-blue Agency mug.
“I’m not entirely sure. Except that this just doesn’t smell like a Russian hit.”
She put down her water bottle. �
�Then who?”
“Damned if I know. Because the only other possibilities I can think of are insane. And scarier. Such as: Maybe there’s another mole here who tipped off the Russians about where Muller was being held. Or, even crazier: Maybe the hitter himself is somebody inside Langley. Maybe somebody from the Special Activities Division, who might have turned-”
She smacked her forehead. “I just remembered.”
“What?”
“Something that FBI guy, Sully, said. Remember those guest names from the hotels? A man registered as ‘R. Lasher,’ another guy as ‘B.J. Stoddard’?”
“What about them?”
“That second name. Grant, do you read thrillers?”
He scowled. “Little lady, I live thrillers. Why would I need to read them?”
“Well, I do. Love them, actually. And one of my favorite series is about this guy from Arkansas, named Billy Joe Stoddard.”
“Okay. B.J. Stoddard-Billy Joe Stoddard. I see it. But so what?”
She leaned forward, hands on knees, holding his eyes.
“Billy Joe Stoddard is a former American military sniper.”
He stared back at her. “Jesus Christ.”
*
Garrett draped his suit jacket across the back of his desk chair, then called the cafeteria to send up a fresh pot of coffee and chicken salad sandwiches. After these were delivered, the pair ate in silence. Beyond the window, flesh-colored clouds faded to gray, as if life were bleeding from the sky. He didn’t bother to turn on the office lamps. They sat in the gathering gloom as Garrett torched his way non-stop through the last of his Luckies. The periodic flare of his lighter cut deeper fissures into his stony features.
For an hour they discussed meanings, possibilities, ramifications. They didn’t like their conclusions.
“This is certainly going to blow away the task force at tomorrow’s meeting,” she said at last.
“Not so fast.”
The aging spymaster mashed out his last glowing butt in the mug, got up, moved to the window. He stood there, hands clasped behind his back, a dark gray silhouette against the lighter gray rectangle. He stared out past the parking lot, out somewhere into the shadow world surrounding the sprawling complex.
“Annie, we agree that we may have another mole. Somebody high enough in the pecking order here to know that we took Muller to Linden. Maybe somebody with the clout to send out someone else, maybe an SAD guy, to hit him. That would mean somebody right here on the seventh floor, right?”
“I suppose so.”
He turned to face her. “So, do you want to alert this person that we’re looking for him?”
She hadn’t thought of that. She shook her head.
“If we’re going to nail him, we can’t go through normal channels.”
She nodded. After a moment, she stood. Walked over to face him.
“You’re right,” she said. “I don’t want to alert him. I want to be the one to find him.”
“Oh?” The lights from the parking lot revealed a glimmer of amusement in his eyes.
“Look, sir. I did what you said. I slept on it. And I’d like to accept that transfer offer and work for you.” She hesitated, then added: “But only if my job is to hunt that son of a bitch, sir.”
He looked down at her and, incredibly, actually smiled again.
“Grant. Call me Grant.”
SIX
Washington, D.C.
Monday, September 1, 1:25 p.m.
“ Hell-o, Mr. Hunter!”
The pretty receptionist sang out the greeting as he entered the suite and approached her desk.
“And to you, Danika.” He had to smile back, in spite of his foul mood.
She pushed her lips into a playful pout. “I was thinking you forgot the address here. What’s it been? Two weeks?”
“I’ve been out of town. On assignment.” A half-truth.
She rubbed her chin, mock-serious, appraising him. “Now, that’s a bold fashion statement. Shades are nice, though.”
Hunter removed his Oakley sunglasses and followed her gaze down to his reversible windbreaker. He now wore it garish-orange-side out, the side with the snarling black panther leaping across his chest. He’d meant it to be a point of focus, a distraction. It seemed to be working.
“Well, Danika, I guess I just don’t have your taste and refinement.”
She tsk-tsked. “What you need is daily guidance from a woman of taste and refinement.” She leaned forward, the top two buttons of her pale-yellow silk blouse strategically unbuttoned. Whatever she wore underneath must have been spun from a single spool of gossamer.
“No woman of taste and refinement would possibly want me,” he said, careful not to let his eyes drift south.
“Don’t you be so sure, now.” She grinned, settling back and rocking her swivel chair so that he could get a good look at the rest of her. “You’d be an interesting project.”
“‘Project.’ How romantic. How’s Tyrone?”
She beamed. “He just had his fourth birthday party on Saturday. Ten neighbor kids showed up. They had a ball, but I spent all afternoon yesterday getting chocolate cake and ice cream out of the carpet.” She laughed. “That boy’s something. You know, before he opened his presents, he insisted on reading all his birthday cards out loud. Didn’t miss a single word.”
“Such a bright little guy. Takes after a lovely lady I know. And how’s Melvin treating that lady?”
She wrinkled her nose. “That man, he’s the most infuriating- Oh, don’t you get me started, now.”
“Any mail?”
“Nothing in two weeks. Just one call, this morning-Mr. Bronowski. That’s your editor, right?”
“So he believes.”
“He asked you to return his call today, if possible. And your one-thirty arrived early. Mr. Diffendorfer.” She tried to keep a straight face. “He’s occupying office number eleven.”
“All of it, I’m sure.”
She laughed, the dimples deepening in her smooth coffee skin. “You bad.”
“Danika, you have no idea.”
*
Hunter left her and headed down the hallway of the suite. It was a perfect set-up: a “virtual office” lease arrangement from a national chain that provided him a downtown address, mail and call-forwarding, and time-shared space whenever he needed it. Anybody who wished to find Dylan Lee Hunter could try to contact him here. But anybody whom he did not wish to find him would reach a charming but unyielding stone wall named Danika Cheyenne Brown.
The conference room was empty, so he ducked in. From the thigh pocket of his cargo pants he pulled a cell phone. It was one of the many cheap, prepaid models that he bought anonymously, with cash, from drugstores throughout Maryland and Virginia, then dumped after brief use. He reinstalled the battery, thumbed the number for the managing editor’s line at the Capitol Inquirer, then sat on the edge of the conference table as the call rang through.
“Bronowski.” The voice was harsh and harried.
“Hunter.”
“Finally! Dammit, Dylan, you’re harder to get ahold of than a virgin on a first date. Don’t you check your messages?”
“Annually.”
“Very funny. Why the hell don’t you give me a direct number where I can reach you?”
“I’ve told you. I don’t share my personal contact information.”
“But this is stupid. I’m your editor.”
“Not stupid. What I write upsets people. Powerful, nasty people. I need to protect my privacy.”
“What, you don’t even trust me with your number?” Silence. “Well. I guess not, then. Dylan, this whole goddamned arrangement is weird. You realize we still haven’t met, even though you’ve been working for me for a year?”
“Not for you, Bill. Not for anybody. I work for myself.”
“Know something? Even for a writer, you’re an uncooperative, egotistical, insufferably arrogant prick.”
“Hey-who are you calling ‘uncoope
rative’?”
Bronowski laughed in spite of himself. “Well, you’re right about one thing. What you write does upset people. Wanna know who you’ve pissed off now?”
“No.”
“The frickin’ governor of Maryland, that’s who. He was none too happy with your feature about his inmate commutation policy.”
“Tough. I’m none too happy about his policy. Neither are the victims of all the thugs he’s turned loose.”
“Yeah, easy for you to say. You weren’t the one who had to take the phone call last night.”
“Did you give the guv my regards?”
Bronowski snorted. “Call wasn’t from him. It was from Addison. Our dear publisher was not amused. You’ve simultaneously pissed off both a governor and our boss.”
“ Your boss. Remember?”
“Okay, my boss. Regardless. He wasn’t pleased about having his Sunday golf game down in Lauderdale interrupted by a call from Annapolis. He got an earful, and last night he returned me the favor. Now he wants to know what I’m going to do about you.”
He paused. Hunter said nothing.
“Don’t you care what I’m going to do?” Bronowski demanded.
“No.”
The editor dropped a cluster of f-bombs. Then stopped. Hunter heard a sigh.
“Dylan, what the hell am I gonna do with you? You know what kind of position you’ve stuck me in? Look, I’m not gonna lie to you. You’re the best investigative reporter I’ve run into in a long time. I don’t know where you got your training-but that’s the point! I don’t know a goddamned thing about you. Where you come from. Where you went to J school. Who you worked for before, where you live, whether you have a wife or kids or a dog-”
“Cat.”
He snorted again. “How nice. You know, after you started freelancing with us, I Googled your name. I figured, your talent, a thousand links would come up. But nothing. Not one. You’re like the Invisible Man.”
Hunter was studying a wall photo of the Washington Monument. He spoke quietly. “My past doesn’t matter to me. Why should it matter to you?”
Hunter dh-1 Page 3
