Tex, standing at the back of the room with the few other operatives who didn’t rate a seat at the table, saw the National Clandestine Service director glance over at the Special Activities Division director. Since both the NCS and SAD were divisions in the CIA, it was, he figured, a look worthy of notice. Especially if it turned out that Griffin’s wife, a CIA agent, wasn’t as dead as everyone had been led to believe. It wouldn’t be the first time a case agent was killed in action, then miraculously brought to life once the mission was over. That was assuming that, A, she wasn’t really dead, and, B, it was the CIA who had facilitated her “death” because there could always be a C, that she had done this herself for reasons he couldn’t even begin to fathom.
“His wife?” Santiago asked. “Would someone care to explain?”
CIA’s SAD director, Ian Thorndike, said, “Becca Price. One of our case agents. She was killed working a joint operation with ATLAS two years ago on the LockeStarr matter.”
Alan Adams, Santiago’s aide, leaned toward Santiago, whispered something in his ear. Santiago cleared his throat, looked down at the papers in front of him as though searching for something in particular. “And where are we on the murder investigation of Senator Grogan?” he asked Adams in a low voice.
To which Adams said, “Schizophrenic who went off his meds. Tragic incident all the way around.”
Santiago nodded, then glanced at Pearson. “Has the FBI confirmed this?”
“We’ve only just begun the investigation,” Pearson said. “But the initial information appears correct. As soon as we have something definitive, I’ll let you know.”
“Thank you. Back to the more immediate matter?” He looked right at McNiel. “How do you intend to bring in Zachary Griffin?”
McNiel, in turn, pinned his gaze on Thorndike. “If certain other entities who had information on Griffin’s whereabouts were to pass that on to us, we might make more progress.”
Santiago checked his notes, then looked at the CIA director. “Thorndike?”
“We had reason to believe that Special Agent Griffin might return to the Rijksmuseum to retrieve a package that had been sent to this informant who was murdered.”
“What package?”
“We don’t yet know what was in it.”
And Santiago said, “The same informant that Griffin is alleged to have murdered?”
“The same,” Thorndike said.
In two steps Tex was at the table. “There is—”
Marc grabbed him by the arm, pulling him back. “Now is not the time, amico,” he said.
Tex clamped his mouth shut as McNiel raised his hand, saying calmly, “Assuming you’re willing to believe the black propaganda that’s being spread about my operative.”
“Black propaganda?” Santiago repeated, looking around the room. “You’re accusing some entity of spreading disinformation about your operative?”
“I am,” McNiel said, and Tex resisted the urge to cheer. “This informant’s niece witnessed his murder, and in no way implicated my case agent to the police.”
“The same niece who was also killed, allegedly by your case agent?”
“Again, untrue.”
“When you find out who is responsible for the dissemination of this black propaganda campaign, let me know. In the meantime, I’d suggest you bring in Griffin before someone else does. They might not be as careful. Now that we have that taken care of, let’s start on the security plans for the upcoming global summit.”
Tex watched both CIA directors, noting that neither had looked up during the time Griffin was under discussion. Ever since the formation of ATLAS, CIA’s paramilitary SAD acted as though the two groups were in a pissing match, probably because McNiel had been handpicked from SAD to run ATLAS and had poached a few of his best men to come over with him, including both Tex and Griffin. The question remained, though. Would the CIA go after Griffin just over a turf war? Or was there something else going on here that neither he nor McNiel could see?
Hell. Of course there was. Tex had a photocopy of Syd’s damned sketch. The one that told him there was definitely something more going on. The drawing he couldn’t pull out at the moment without implicating himself and Sydney in this whole mess. And, taking a much needed calming breath, he stepped back against the wall, making sure he did not speak unless spoken to, and then only to give the vaguest answers on what Griffin might try or where he might go.
After the meeting, he, Marc, and McNiel were walking down the hallway, about to get on the elevator, when Pearson of the FBI caught up to them. Without turning or giving any indication that they were even having a conversation, Pearson said, “You let anything happen to my agent, and I will personally assist the CIA in blasting your little kingdom from here to eternity. Are we clear?”
“Very,” McNiel said.
The four got onto the elevator and rode it in silence. On the ground floor, Pearson exited first, strode off without looking back.
McNiel put his hand on Tex’s arm, stopping him. “You had better be right about Griffin’s matter tying into LockeStarr.”
“Griffin just needs some time.”
“That’s something we’re running out of. And fast.”
Chapter 24
December 9
National Counterterrorism Center (NCTC)
Washington, D.C.
Even before the meeting was over, Miles Cavanaugh realized that he needed to salvage things before they got out of hand. Thorndike was still in his camp, or rather Thorndike thought Miles was in the CIA camp. Either way, it needed to stay that way. Miles couldn’t afford anyone looking at him too closely. Not now, when there was so much at stake, he thought, striding toward the elevator, then hesitating when he saw that the ATLAS director, his two agents, and the FBI’s Pearson had beat him out the door. He slowed his pace, waited for them to step on the elevator, then he took the next down. By the time he made it to the ground floor, he saw the ATLAS agents talking as Pearson stormed off. And as desperately as he wanted to hear what they were saying, he wasn’t about to put himself in a position that left him alone with either. He didn’t trust them. He didn’t trust that they wouldn’t be able to see right through him and know that his career, hell, his life, hung on their investigation.
Squaring his shoulders, he stepped off the elevator, walked past them, not stopping until he hit the street corner. And then all energy fled and he stood there, not moving.
He had to pull it together. He did not claw his way this far up to lose it because some agent had never gotten over his dead wife. Good God. He’d heard that at the time of the explosion, Griffin’s wife was in the process of divorcing him, and the man still couldn’t let it go.
Miles hailed a cab, not even bothering to wait for his driver. He had it drop him off outside the restaurant he frequented for lunch, dismayed to see that his hands were shaking. He needed a drink and he needed it now. He walked in, barely able to see in the dim light as he made his way to the bar, and sat at the counter. “Vodka martini, please.”
The bartender, a red-haired man in his mid-twenties, nodded, then proceeded to make the drink. Miles watched, envious of the man’s job, wondering where he’d be if he hadn’t had his own political aspirations . . .
“A bit early to be drinking, isn’t it?”
Miles stiffened at the voice. He looked into the mirror over the bar, saw the shiny bald head of Chet Somera looking back at him. “If you’d left the meeting I just left, you’d be drinking too.”
The bartender dropped an olive in the martini glass, then slid it over to Miles, who dug some money out of his pocket to pay for it. He took the drink and walked to a table far from the bar, Chet following. “What are you doing here?” Miles asked.
“I followed you from the meeting.”
Miles acted as though this didn’t bother him. “Worried I wouldn’t show?”
“Just following orders,” Chet said. “The boss wants to talk to you.” He held out a cell phone.
Miles took it, noting that the call had already been placed. He didn’t like that he was being followed, and said so into the phone.
“You are one of my best investments, Mr. Cavanaugh. I don’t want anything to happen to you. But if the pressure is too much . . .”
“I’m fine.”
“Then tell me what transpired at the meeting.”
“A woman was seen helping Griffin. They want to know who she is.”
“And does anyone know?”
“If they do, they’re not saying.”
“Could it be the FBI agent your men lost at the airport?”
“Could be,” he said, growing more uncomfortable with each question. “But if it was, she flew out of the U.S. under a different name.”
“Any mention of Grogan’s murder?”
“I know the FBI’s brought in some agent from San Francisco.”
“Who?”
“Some guy named Carillo. I don’t think we need to worry about him too much. At least from what Thorndike said the other day.”
“Why is that?”
“The way Thorndike put it, if the guy put as much effort into working his cases as he does trying to get out of working them, he’d be a top-notch agent. I’m still trying to figure out how it is that the CIA managed to get any input into who the FBI put on it.”
“Do not underestimate Thorndike. He did not get where he is by being careless.”
“Thorndike is too wrapped up in finding Griffin. Trust me.”
“So no rumblings about appointing Senator Grogan’s replacement until the special election?”
“It’s business as usual. I really don’t think they’re looking beyond the immediate murder, due to the suspect’s mental health—certainly not about appointing a replacement. Unless of course you’ve heard something from the governor’s office?”
“They’ve tossed a few names out, but want to wait until after the funeral before saying anything publicly. In the meantime, keep me informed. I want to know what this San Francisco FBI agent finds—if anything—on his investigation.”
The boss disconnected, and Miles handed the phone back to Chet, saying, “Tell me you found this Izzy from the electronics store.”
Chet dropped the phone in his pocket. “Not yet. But we may have found another friend. The girl whose picture was on the computer.”
“May have?”
“Missed her the first time around, but we’ve got something in the works. Apparently she’s been in touch with this Izzy, which makes it convenient for us. Take them both out at the same time.” He grabbed a handful of peanuts and stood. “Having second thoughts?”
Miles took a deep breath, but said nothing. He didn’t dare.
Chet gave a shrewd smile. “That’s what happens when you sell your soul to the devil, eh?”
Miles watched him go, thinking that was exactly what he’d done, sold his soul. And he had no way out. No way at all. With a sigh of resignation, he finished his martini, then promptly ordered another.
Chapter 25
December 10
Washington, D.C.
Izzy waited until the next afternoon to open Maddie’s e-mail from his laptop, then sent her a response: “Meet me at Central Café at 2.” Once that was done, they drove straight there, even though the meeting wasn’t scheduled for another two hours. The café location was across the street. Izzy and Maddie were viewing it from the second floor window of a bookstore and coffee house that had an entrance to the shopping area on the opposite side of the block. This way, he figured, he could be sure of the area, then contact this FBI agent to meet them before the bad guys showed.
Izzy bought a couple of magazines from the bookstore, and he and Maddie sat there, drinking coffee, pretending to read, just to be sure the area would work. Deciding it would, he was just about to ask Maddie for the FBI agent’s number when he noticed a white van drive by on the street below. It was marked “Ander’s Catering,” but looked an awful lot like the florist van. Izzy researched the name on his laptop, while Maddie kept watch. No such company in the area. It circled the block twice. There were other white vans, but none drove past more than once. A few minutes later, they saw two men walking down the street, nothing notable about them, except when they got to the coffee shop, one man walked in, while the other stayed outside the door.
“You think that’s them?” Maddie asked.
“Yeah. I think it is. We should make that call now.”
Maddie pulled the business card out from her pocket, handing it to Izzy. “The agent wrote his cell number on the back.”
Izzy took out his phone, eyed the card, saw the agent worked out of San Francisco. The cell phone also had a San Francisco prefix. Since anybody could have a card printed up and write his own cell number, he verified the San Francisco office main number from the Internet and called that instead. Someone answered, “FBI. San Francisco. How may I direct your call?”
“Yeah, hi,” he said, his gaze out the window on the coffee shop across the street, and the man standing in the front. “I was wondering if you have an Agent . . .” He glanced at the card. “Tony Carillo.”
“He’s away from the office.”
“Is he working in Washington, D.C.?”
“Please hold.”
Elevator music played. He turned the phone onto speaker, then set it on the table, saying, “They’re checking.”
Maddie kept watch out the window. Suddenly she reached over, grabbed his hand, her face turning white. “I think they see us.”
He peered out across the street, saw the man in front of the store, looking up. “Oh my God . . .”
Too late. The man turned into the shop, called out to someone, then pointed. Maddie put her cell phone up to the glass. “Maddie! What are you doing?”
“You wanted proof? I’m getting it.”
Izzy watched the two men dart across the street. “They’re coming! We have to go!”
He grabbed his laptop and backpack, then Maddie’s hand. It wasn’t until they reached the stairwell that he realized he’d left his phone and the card for the FBI agent on the table. He glanced back, decided it wasn’t worth the risk, then hurried Maddie down the back stairs on the opposite side of the building, hoping like hell the two men would not split up to cover both exits.
Chapter 26
December 10
FBI Headquarters
Washington, D.C.
Carillo had just typed in his password unlocking his computer when his cell rang.
It was Doc Schermer. “Any chance you’re looking for a Maddie?”
Carillo stopped on hearing the name. “Maddie Boucher? She called?”
“Not exactly. One of the secretaries said some guy called the main office line, asking if you were working in D.C. She knew you were out there on some hush-hush thing, so she transferred him to my line.”
“He leave a name?”
“Never got a chance to talk to him. It sounded like something happened, because he called out her name. And then he said, ‘They’re coming. We have to go.’ The line stayed open for quite some time.”
“You hear anything else?”
“After about a minute of nothing, I hung up. Unfortunately the number comes back to a prepaid phone. I checked, because the guy definitely sounded scared.”
“With good reason.”
“Any idea who it was?”
“If I had to guess, my missing link. Izzy. I better find out what’s going on.” He disconnected, called MPDC, identifying himself and asking for Records. Amber Jacobsen answered. “Any chance you can run a moniker check for me?”
“Sure. What’s the name?”
“I-Z-Z-Y. That’s what it sounds like. Not sure
if that’s how it’s spelled.
“That it?”
“That’s all I got. Wait. He’s into computers. Maybe hacking.”
“Hacking? I’ll see what I can dig up.”
“Thanks. I’ll be in the field.”
He left his number, disconnected. She called back a few minutes later. “I found a possibility,” she said. “If it’s the same Izzy, he was arrested as a juvenile for ripping off some computer cables about five years ago. His real name is Alvin Isenhart.”
She gave him the address, and he drove straight there. No one answered his knock. The front door was locked, and he walked around the unit, finding a gate to a patio door, which was also locked. No broken windows, but some interesting tracks in the snow behind the apartment, right below a bedroom window. He inquired with a neighbor, found out that Izzy worked at an electronics superstore a few miles up the road; he drove there, checking with the manager.
“Izzy?” the manager said, when Carillo gave him a spiel about running a background check. “Not really sure what happened to him. Left here suddenly the other day. Looked like he was gonna hurl, and asked to go home. One of the clerks up front thought maybe he was having relationship problems, because someone tried to deliver flowers here to him.”
“Flowers? When was this?”
“A few minutes after he went home sick. It was right after the senator got shot. On every TV in the place, so it wasn’t like you could’ve missed it.”
“You don’t by chance happen to have the kid’s cell phone number, do you?”
“Got it right here.” He pulled a Rolodex from his desk, flipped through until he found the numbers. Carillo jotted both his cell and home number in his notebook.
“I appreciate your time,” Carillo said, giving him his card. Calling his office, he put out a BOLO on both Izzy and Maddie and made sure it was forwarded to all the surrounding agencies.
In the car, Carillo checked with Doc, found out the cell number was the same.
Not that it did him any good, since no one was answering it. He didn’t leave a voice mail, and thought about the coincidence of the kid taking off right after the senator’s murder. Add to that the call that Doc overheard, and it meant one thing.
The Dark Hour Page 13
