The Dark Hour

by Robin Burcell

  The snow came down faster and the wind from the North Sea gusted, swirling the powdery crystals about the darkening air. Except for the two of them, the street seemed deserted until they neared the grand arch leading into the museum grounds, its wrought-iron gate standing open. Looking through the arch, just inside the grounds, Griffin saw a man walking toward them, his camel overcoat flying open in the wind as though he hadn’t had time to button it against the biting cold. Suddenly the man stopped, turned from the path, and looked at something or someone behind a tall conical topiary. The bush blocked Griffin’s view.

  “Isn’t that your uncle?” Griffin asked.

  “He shouldn’t be here. We were supposed to meet him inside the museum.”

  “Maybe he misunderstood.”

  “No. He was very clear.” She quickened her pace, yelling, “Uncle Faas!”

  Faas looked their direction, stepped backward, holding something close to his chest. And then he stumbled toward them, his breaths rushing out in short, fast vaporous bursts. Whatever he held against him, it seemed he wasn’t about to let go. His gaze flicked from Petra to Griffin, and he gave a slight shake of his head, trying to warn them off.

  Petra ran straight toward her uncle. Griffin tried to stop her. Failed.

  “Go,” Faas said. “Get out of here.”

  “What’s wrong?” she asked him.

  “Go!” he said, then lurched past her directly to Griffin. With his free hand he grasped Griffin’s arm. “It was I . . . I . . . sent her. The both of you.”

  Griffin’s pulse pounded in his ears. This was not what he’d expected. “What are you talking about?”

  “You . . . wanted to know . . . about Becca? How you two . . . ended there . . . the explosion? She had to die . . .”

  Griffin felt the world closing in on him. “Why?”

  Faas said nothing.

  “You know?” Griffin grabbed him by his shoulders. “Tell me.”

  Only then did Griffin notice the ashen tone of the man’s skin. The stress in his eyes.

  Faas looked down, lowered the hand he’d been clutching to his chest. And Griffin saw the slender hilt of a knife lodged beneath the man’s sternum, the upward tilt of the weapon. In the lamplight Griffin saw the hilt’s intricate pattern of gold on ebony. Faas had been holding the dagger in place as he walked.

  “Don’t let them get it,” Faas said, wrenching the knife from his chest. He stumbled and fell against a statuette of a lion, the blade slipping from his hand into the bushes. “I dropped it. Find . . . Before they kill . . .”

  “Kill who, Uncle Faas?” Petra asked.

  “Everyone . . . This . . . from Atlant . . .” He grasped at the sculpture, then stumbled toward the gate. Griffin caught him.

  “Oh my God!” Petra cried, spinning around, looking for someone to help.

  Griffin lifted the slight man, carried him to the street corner, then lowered him to the ground. The bell of an approaching tram rang out as Petra knelt by her uncle’s side, sobbing. She looked up, saw the tram, crying out for someone to call an ambulance.

  But Griffin saw the blood on Faas’s shirt, saw it spread, tiny snowflakes landing in it, melting. He wanted to scream at Faas. He couldn’t die. Not without telling Griffin what he needed to know.

  Petra looked at Griffin in disbelief. “Who? Who did this?”

  “Stay with him. I’m going to go look.” He returned to the garden grounds, walked under the arch, retraced the path that Faas had taken. He stopped at the topiary where he’d first seen Faas. And noticed the disturbed snow where someone had stood, lying in wait. Whoever it was had fled out to the street, probably when he and Petra had run up to assist Faas. The trail in the snow led straight to the wrought-iron fence that bordered the property, and Griffin followed it, hopped over the fence just as the killer had done. He stood there on the sidewalk, the museum grounds at his back.

  Footprints in a shallow snowdrift on the sidewalk indicated that someone had recently walked to the corner, starting from where Griffin now stood. He looked over in alarm, at the stopped tram, the group of passengers gathering around Petra and her uncle’s body. The snow swirled down from the sky, faster and faster. Distant sirens grew closer. And there, among the onlookers, was the man in the long black overcoat, his hat shadowing his face. The same man who had been lurking across the street from the restaurant. Suddenly he pointed at Griffin, shouting, “There he is! He killed him!”

  Chapter 7

  December 4

  FBI Academy

  Quantico, Virginia

  Sydney opened her office door, saw the twenty-five applications on her desk from various law enforcement agencies, and thought about turning right back around again. The packets belonged to officers and civilians who hoped to attend the next forensic art course, of which she was one of the instructors. Normally she would have had each one vetted by now, except that she’d agreed to assist Scotty on that bank surveillance job. The suspects they’d taken down on the afternoon of Grogan’s murder a few days ago denied trying to case banks for a robbery. The matter was still under investigation—one she was grateful wasn’t hers, she thought as her phone rang.

  Her mother. “Do you realize I just got a call from Angela’s teacher? That Angela got up in front of the entire class for show-and-tell, informing them that she witnessed Senator Grogan’s murder.”

  “Mom, I’m sorry—”

  “For God’s sake, she’s eleven. There’s already enough violence in the schools, and now every one of her classmates is probably running home, telling their parents what my daughter is being exposed to, and that we’re allowing it! What were you thinking letting her overhear something like that?”

  “How was I supposed to know she was eavesdropping?”

  “You know how she is when it comes to your job. You should have anticipated it.”

  Sydney closed her eyes, wondering how long it would be before her mother let her live this one down. “I don’t know how many times I can apologize, Mom. I’ll try to be more careful.”

  “Try?”

  “I have to go. I love you,” she said, then disconnected before her mother could think of anything else to say.

  Apparently she thought fast, because the phone rang not ten seconds later.

  “Mom, I’m really—”

  It was not her mother, it was Scotty. “Still pissed, is she?”

  “To say the least.”

  “I thought you were going home early today.”

  “I’ve got to finish reviewing these applications,” she said, tucking the phone beneath her ear, then picking up the pile of papers, shuffling them for effect. “Backgrounds to get through for the next forensic art course.”

  “Any chance you’ll finish in the next couple hours? There’s this new Thai restaurant I want to try.”

  Scotty, unfortunately, wasn’t good at the whole we’re-no-longer-dating thing, and as many times as Sydney had tried to reinforce the fact she liked him as a coworker—period—she’d failed. For all his tough exterior, he was vulnerable, and the last thing she wanted to do was hurt him.

  “Wish I could,” she said. “But you know what a stickler Harcourt is for getting these things done.”

  Not surprisingly Scotty changed gears, his usual tack of working his way back to his original quest by quizzing her about other areas of her life. Thankfully before he returned to the dinner option, the very supervisor she had blamed for having to work late appeared at her door.

  “You got a minute?” Harcourt asked.

  “Gotta go, Scotty. Harcourt’s here now.”

  “Call me.”

  She dropped the phone in the cradle. “I know you wanted these applications finished—”

  “Actually I’m not here about that. There’s a reporter asking to see you. From the Washington Recorder.”

  “Th
e Recorder?” That, she never expected. The Washington Recorder was a front for an extremely covert government agency called ATLAS. An agency she had no desire to work with again anytime soon. Harcourt wasn’t even aware of its existence, which showed how ballsy ATLAS’s operatives were, since this was the second time someone from ATLAS had entered Quantico under a false identity. On the first occasion a man she knew as Zachary Griffin had sauntered in, posing as an FBI agent. That encounter led to her assisting on a covert operation in Rome with Griffin, during which she’d felt as though they’d . . . formed an attraction of sorts. Apparently the feelings were on her side only, because he’d stood her up for a date a few weeks ago on Thanksgiving, not even bothering to call, and she hadn’t heard from him since. “Any indication what this reporter wanted?”

  “A sketch. Apparently one of their foreign correspondents witnessed a murder and they’d like your assistance as soon as possible.”

  “Are they bringing the witness here?”

  “No, they want you to go there. I’ve gone ahead and approved it, since they’re footing the bill.”

  “And where would there be?”

  “Amsterdam.”

  So much for worrying about how to avoid Scotty for dinner.

  James “Tex” Dalton was waiting in the lobby near the guard’s desk. Tall, blond, and broad-shouldered, he looked more like a linebacker than a reporter. His suit, however, was straight from the rack and just ill-fitting enough to pass muster for something an underpaid reporter would be wearing, and the touch wasn’t lost on Sydney. She well knew ATLAS’s attention to detail, which meant that Tex would also be acting as though they’d never met, when in fact he had worked closely with her and Griffin in Italy.

  She smiled as she approached him, holding out her hand. “Hi. You must be from the Recorder? I’m Special Agent Fitzpatrick.”

  “Nice to meet you,” he said, shaking her hand. “I’m assuming your boss informed you of our request?”

  “He did.”

  Tex nodded, his brows raised. “And?”

  “Why don’t we step outside.” She held her hand toward the lobby doors, indicating he should accompany her out. The moment the glass door shut behind them, Sydney said, “Are you serious? Do I even want to know what’s going on in Amsterdam?”

  “The basics?” he said, his breath visible in the cold air. He peered around her into the glass doors, no doubt to see if anyone was watching them. “Griffin and another woman witnessed a murder. He can’t identify anyone, but the woman he was with may have seen the killer’s face. It’s a quick trip. If you can sleep on the plane, you’ll be able to do the drawing tomorrow, enjoy a little Christmas shopping, then fly home the next morning. I’ve even booked you in first class.”

  “The answer’s no.”

  Tex gave her a thorough appraisal. “You’re not still sore because Griffin didn’t make it out for Thanksgiving, are you?”

  “Sore? Hardly.” Except that her mother had grilled her about the mysterious guest to no end, then wouldn’t let it go when he hadn’t even bothered to let them know he wasn’t coming. After all they’d been through together in Italy, Syd had been looking forward to seeing Griffin, was hurt when he’d failed to show. Since they weren’t dating, technically weren’t even an item, she’d done her best to downplay the matter to her mother. Griffin was now merely an event in the past, not someone she expected to see again. “But a phone call would’ve been nice. You know, something like, ‘Sorry I can’t make it to dinner.’ ”

  “I’d tell you he’s not worth it if that would make you feel better.”

  “It’s no big deal.”

  “Good. So you’ll do it?”

  “I’ll think about it.”

  “I’ll have a ticket waiting for you at the airport.”

  “I haven’t agreed.”

  “What if I told you someone’s trying to blame him for the murder, so he’s keeping a low profile?”

  “If I thought I could trust anything you guys say to me, I might believe it. But tell you what. I’ll check my schedule.”

  “One other thing you should know. This whole thing’s under the radar.”

  “Isn’t it always with you?”

  “Not like this one, darlin’.”

  He left, and she was annoyed at herself for not sticking to her guns. She looked at her watch, wondering what she should do. Fly off to Amsterdam, just because Griffin wanted her to? Hell . . .

  Shivering in the cold, she took out her cell phone and punched in Tony Carillo’s number, her former partner when she’d been assigned to the San Francisco field office, where he still worked. He was one of the few people who knew of her involvement with ATLAS. “Tony, you busy?”

  “Just about to order lunch. It’s Taco Bell, so not to worry.”

  “I need your opinion,” she said, then told him what Tex was asking.

  “A drawing for Griffin in Amsterdam?” Carillo said. “When the hell you two lovers gonna quit dancing around each other and get down to business?”

  “Since we’re not lovers, I’m going to ignore that question.”

  “Yeah, right. Either go or don’t. What’s the big deal?”

  “I don’t know. The way Tex said it was under the radar.”

  “That’s how it always is with government spooks. Standard disclaimer. It’s why you don’t see these things in any budgets when they’re making a report to Congress. It’d kill ’em in a tax audit. No one would ever be reelected. The question is: You want a free trip to Amsterdam or not?”

  She told herself that was the clincher. She’d never been to Amsterdam. Besides, it was only for a couple of days. A quick sketch, see a few of the sights, and fly home before the week was out, all on Griffin’s dime. No muss, no fuss.

  More importantly, as Tex said, she probably wouldn’t even see Griffin. What could possibly go wrong?

  Chapter 8

  December 4

  San Francisco

  No sooner had FBI Special Agent Tony Carillo disconnected from his call with Sydney than two CIA spooks walked into the restaurant. He had nothing against the CIA. Except maybe when they decided to show up unannounced at his favorite Taco Bell in the middle of his lunch break demanding a meeting that was off the record. The off-the-record part he had no problem with. The messing-with-his-lunch-break part really ticked him off. He liked his tacos piping hot. Even so, he was wise enough to put a congenial smile on his face and act like he was used to secret agent types showing up at the fast-food restaurants he frequented. “Taco?” he asked, waving to his tray.

  “No thank you,” one of the agents said. Carillo recognized Jared Dunning from a case he and Fitzpatrick had worked a couple of months ago involving her late father. “Trying to eat healthier these days.” Dunning’s expression remained neutral, not that Carillo could tell much behind the guy’s shades.

  “You realize it’s cloudy outside?”

  Dunning slid off his sunglasses, dropped them in the inside pocket of his impeccable black suit. “Helpful to the last, Carillo.”

  “Yeah. Part of my sweet nature. What are you guys doing here?”

  “You might get a phone call from Pearson over at FCI, asking if you’ll help look into the murder of Senator Grogan.”

  FCI, the Bureau’s Foreign Counterintelligence squad, was not something Carillo wanted any part of. He liked his cases clean, uncomplicated, and, more importantly, close to home and without the top brass looking over his shoulder. “Not to worry. I’ll pass.”

  “We were hoping you’d say that.”

  “See? We can play nicely.” He took a sip of his soda, eyed the two men. “What’s your interest?”

  “No interest. Just if you hear any familiar names, like ours, maybe act surprised.”

  Dunning and his partner left, and Carillo watched them walk out of the restaurant into the parki
ng lot. After a cryptic conversation like that, there was no way he was turning down the assignment, if for no other reason than to see why the CIA was so fired up to keep him off the case.

  And as he got up, dumped his trash in the receptacle, and left the tray on the counter, he knew he’d been played. A little reverse psychology to make sure he did take the case.

  No one could say his job wasn’t interesting.

  Pearson, who headed the Bureau’s FCI squad out of Washington, D.C., personally called Carillo at his desk that afternoon, asking him to look into the senator’s murder, not only because of Carillo’s experience in homicides, but because Carillo was as far removed from FCI as an agent could get. “We’d like to keep this low-key,” Pearson said. “Preferably someone not recognizable from our unit.”

  “Why me?” Carillo asked, leaning back in his desk chair, waving at Doc Schermer to get his attention.

  “Your name came up in a couple past investigations we’ve been following. In this case, your skills at bending the rules seemed . . . like an asset.”

  The only other investigations worth noting that he’d been involved in of late had to do with Sydney Fitzpatrick.

  Which told him everything he needed to know.

  This was no ordinary murder.

  Well, these days the act of murder might be ordinary.

  The victim sure as hell wasn’t.

  “When do you want me to get started?’

  “I’d like you on the first flight out you can get. I’ll clear it with your boss.”

  “The report?”

  “I’ll e-mail it to you now. And I’m sure it goes without saying, this is one rule that doesn’t get bent. Tell no one.”

  “I’m on it.” Carillo disconnected, just as Michael “Doc” Schermer walked up. “Well, look who’s here. No one.”

  “I’ve been called worse,” Schermer said, running his fingers through his white hair.