Murder on the Metro

by Margaret Truman

  Not surprisingly, he met resistance at the main entrance. After initially being turned away, he identified himself, falsely, as a State Department operative and produced his SITQUAL ID to establish his credibility. Of course, if the guards ran anything beyond the most cursory of checks, they’d find he was ex-SITQUAL and he could be arrested then and there for impersonating a federal officer.

  Brixton breathed easier when it became clear the guard behind the thick glass fronting the caged entrance he’d just been passed through had no intention of contacting anyone, accepting both his ID and his intentions at face value. Brixton could feel his heart rate slow back down, as a result, and was escorted to the security station by one of the guards behind the glass.

  “Who are you here to see, sir?”

  “Sister Mary Alice Rose,” Brixton said, without hesitation.

  This was the point where things promised to get dicey, given that the old nun was under no obligation to talk to him or to any other federal officer, apparent or otherwise, who simply showed up. He’d learned over his years of working as a quasi federal law enforcement agent that the last thing inmates wanted was to speak to an official like him in a traditional interview setting like a meeting room. Word would get out that the prisoner was talking, giving someone up to get their sentence reduced, and they would be summarily ostracized, or much worse, by the prison population. While Brixton expected nothing of the kind when it came to an eighty-five-year-old nun, he knew the possibility existed that he’d be placing her in some jeopardy, if the proper precautions weren’t taken.

  The guard behind the desk consulted his computer. “You sure you have the name right, sir?”

  “Maybe I’ve got the spelling wrong.”

  “Not a lot of ways to spell Mary Alice Rose,” the guard noted.

  “Is there a problem?”

  “There’s a mistake, because we don’t have a prisoner at this facility by that name.”

  “The Bureau of Prisons says otherwise,” a flummoxed Brixton told him, not bothering to add that his source was a Secret Service agent.

  Or maybe that explained things a bit, since Kendra Rendine would have access to databases that ordinary officials might not.

  “I’m here on behalf of the State Department,” he added, flashing his SITQUAL credentials yet again. “This is a matter of national security.”

  “It doesn’t matter what kind of matter it is, sir. She’s not here.”

  Brixton recalled some of the domestic cases he’d worked on behalf of SITQUAL. His prisoners in the federal penal system had occasionally “disappeared” from visible records, kept off the books in order to bury them from the outside world through the duration of their sentence, which could then be extended indefinitely, in wholly arbitrary fashion, since for all intents and purposes they’d ceased to exist anymore.

  Such treatment was normally reserved for political prisoners, mostly terrorists, who didn’t qualify for the rigors of Guantanamo but needed, effectively, to drop off the grid. At the age of eighty-five, Sister Mary Alice Rose didn’t fit that description.

  “Do I have to come back here with a warrant or judge’s order?” Brixton asked him, not even sure either was possible.

  “You can come back with anything you want, sir. You can have the president phone down here personally. I can’t produce someone who’s not an inmate of this facility.”

  While exasperating, this was all starting to make a degree of sense to Brixton. All he’d been able to learn about Sister Mary Alice Rose was that she was eight-five years old, had been a nun for sixty of them, and had spent the last two years at this facility after being arrested on federal trespassing charges.

  That was the whole of it. No matter how deeply Brixton probed or how much he Googled, he could find no further details on just how a woman long past retirement age had ended up incarcerated in a federal penal institution for more than two years, nor could he locate anything more about the charge—no trial, plea agreement, nothing. It was almost as if she was a Josef K–type figure from the Franz Kafka novel The Trial, where a man finds himself on trial for an undisclosed charge.

  Again, not entirely unusual or unprecedented, but a fate reserved for federal prisoners the government believed it had good reason to keep off the books, which clearly was not a policy to be employed lightly.

  “Check under ‘Jane Doe,’” Brixton suggested, recalling the protocol he’d witnessed a few times while with SITQUAL.

  The guard behind the desk did, or least seemed to. “We’ve got a few Janes but no Does.”

  The frustration over what should have been a simple procedure began to nag at Brixton. Then again, this woman’s federal prisoner number had been in the possession of a reputed black ops specialist, the reason for which likely explained Sister Mary Alice Rose’s being disappeared from the system.

  “Tell you what,” he said to the guard, realizing he was getting nowhere, “I’m going to come back with some higher authorization.”

  “You can get it from God himself and she still won’t be here.”

  CHAPTER

  43

  BROOKLYN, NEW YORK

  Brixton walked to a nearby Dunkin’ Donuts to collect his thoughts and plan his next move, if there was one. He took one of three weather-beaten outdoor tables, using some napkins to clean off the chair before sitting down with a large regular.

  Halfway through his coffee, with no other option, he called the number for the man he’d come to know as Panama.

  “Brixton,” the man said, by way of greeting.

  “How’d you know it was me?”

  “Because I don’t recognize this number. You’re using a burner.”

  “I am.”

  “And you’re in New York—Brooklyn, it looks like.”

  Brixton didn’t bother asking Panama how he knew that. “Know what the weather’s like up here?”

  “Give me a second…”

  “Don’t bother. Give me an update on those schematics instead.”

  “I would if I could. But so far we’re drawing a blank.”

  “What happened to that unlimited access to everything you told me you had?”

  “Meaningless. The one thing I can tell you is that they’ve been tampered with, just enough to keep us from identifying what we’re looking at. So far, we’re looking at around a thousand possibilities.”

  “You haven’t been able to narrow it down?”

  “We started at fifty thousand. Whoever altered those plans knew exactly what they were doing. Next best thing to spontaneous combustion, in the event the wrong person opened that mailbox. To say we’re in the dark would be putting it mildly.”

  Brixton shouldn’t have been surprised. “Then allow me to shed some light. That number scrawled at the bottom of those schematics you found in Brian Kirkland’s mailbox was a federal prisoner ID.”

  Panama didn’t respond right away.

  “Nearest facility to your location,” Panama said finally, “would be the Metropolitan Detention Center.”

  “That’s where she is. Sister Mary Alice Rose.”

  “Did you say Sister?”

  “She’s a nun.”

  “Never heard of her.”

  “Convicted, or pled guilty, to federal trespassing charges.”

  “How’d you come by this information?” Panama asked sharply.

  “I do have a source or two.”

  “And you decided to pursue this on your own, without alerting me?”

  “I’m alerting you now,” Brixton told him.

  “A while after you learned something you should have made me aware of immediately.”

  “I’m still trying to figure out if I can trust you.”

  “Likewise, Brixton, and this doesn’t represent a positive step in that direction.”

  “Why would Kirkland have the federal prison ID number for a nun?” Brixton asked Panama.

  “The better question is what she’s doing in federal prison in the first place.”


  “She’s eighty-five, incarcerated for two years already on that trespassing beef.”

  “Give me a second.”

  Brixton did, and it stretched into a minute.

  “She’s not in my system,” Panama said, when he came back on.

  “Maybe you spelled her name wrong.”

  “I’m not talking about the federal inmate database, I’m talking about my system, one accessible by a select few, listing persons of interest.”

  “Because they’re dangerous?”

  “Because they’re persons of interest, Brixton, for one reason or another. Persons we’ve got eyes on, have wired, or are on our radar for one reason or another. Come on, you’re supposed to be a pro. Figure it out.”

  Brixton felt a layer of sweat beginning to work its way through his shirt, making him wonder if he should have opted for iced coffee instead of hot. But it was more than just the temperature of the coffee that had suddenly left him unsettled.

  “You’ve got your own people. What do you need me for?”

  “Because you are one of my people. Now. And you were motivated, already wound up when we met on the waterfront. All I had to do was point you in the right direction.”

  Being more of a “fixer” than a spymaster, Panama wouldn’t have troops of his own to call upon. Instead, he would rely on the likes of Brixton to do his dirty work, because Brixton was professional while being disposable at the same time.

  “Do your job, Brixton,” he finished.

  “My job?”

  “You’ve been waiting for this opportunity for five years, since your daughter died in that suicide bombing. Your greatest misfortune was not meeting me sooner. So focus. I’m going to make a call. Go back to the facility in one hour and ask for Captain Donovan.”

  “Captain Donovan,” Brixton repeated, committing the name to memory.

  “He’s my guy there. This isn’t the first time I’ve needed to arrange an ex parte meeting with a prisoner, just the first nun. Donovan will make the proper arrangements. If she’s there, he’ll make sure you get your meeting.”

  “She’s there, all right. The question is why they would make Sister Mary Alice disappear within the system.”

  “So she wouldn’t be in a position to speak to somebody like you. Or me. Which means there’s something they don’t want her telling anyone.”

  “Aren’t you one of the ‘they’?” Brixton asked Panama.

  “If I was, we wouldn’t be talking right now, would we? Stay in the system too long and it rots you to the core. Just ask Brian Kirkland.”

  “A difficult task, under the circumstances.”

  “That was my point, Brixton. And here’s another one: I don’t have to tell you what it means to be on the radar of a man like the late Mr. Kirkland.”

  “Speaking of which, can you text me his picture to this number.”

  “Why?”

  “I’m playing a hunch,” Brixton said, not elaborating further.

  “Doesn’t matter anyway, because there aren’t photos of men like Kirkland on file. He’s a ghost, remember?”

  “A dead ghost, remember? You told me his body had been recovered. So you’ll be able to get me his photo after all.”

  CHAPTER

  44

  WASHINGTON, DC

  The Watergate Hotel’s Kingbird Restaurant had been a fixture in the city long before the Nixon years made the whole sprawling site infamous, a popular haunt for politicos and diplomats.

  Ali Shadid, cultural attaché to the Saudi ambassador to the United States, dined there frequently, always alone and always at the same table, nestled in the shadows, out of sight of anyone who might be peering through the glass wall that looked out into a courtyard on the restaurant’s southern side. Shadid’s server had just set his dessert, the house specialty of lavender-infused crème brûlée, before him, when a woman took the chair on the other side of the table.

  “Excellent choice,” Lia Ganz said, everything in her demeanor suggesting she’d been expected, a ruse she intended to continue. “Although I’ve always favored the chocolate tart.”

  “I had that yesterday,” Shadid managed, forcing a smile.

  “I hope it was as good as I remember, General,” Lia followed, addressing Shadid by his former rank in the Saudi military. Now he was a high-ranking officer with the General Intelligence Presidency, that country’s equivalent of the CIA, also known as al Mukhabarat al ’Amma al Mamlaka al Arabyah Saudihya.

  “That depends on when you were last in Washington, Colonel.”

  “It has been a while.”

  “I thought it would likely be forever, given your retirement.”

  “Circumstances forced me to rethink my plans.”

  “So I heard,” Shadid said, ignoring his dessert and the espresso that had been placed alongside it. “I trust you’re not here to blame my country for that drone attack.”

  “Not at all, General. Quite the opposite, in fact. I’m here to give you the opportunity to help me prevent a potentially much greater attack.”

  “Since when did Israel’s problems become my problems?”

  “Since this particular attack looks to be aimed at the United States.”

  Shadid’s deep-set eyes, laden with heavy bags beneath them, flashed. “The problems of the United States are not my problems either.”

  “This one will be. And I’m giving you the opportunity to be either the country that helps save the day or the country that will suffer the bulk of recriminations if this attack isn’t stopped.”

  “So why am I talking to an ex–Israeli intelligence officer instead of an active American one?”

  “Because I was on that beach in Caesarea, Ali, and I tracked down the bomb maker behind those drones. Perhaps you’ve heard of him: Dar Ibrahim al-Bis.”

  “I’ve heard of him. Hamas.”

  “But he was born in Saudi Arabia. Turns out he’s also been implicated in the Metro bombing and, by connection, the bigger attack yet to come. How do you think the Americans will respond to a national of yours being party to something like that?”

  Shadid’s expression curled into the semblance of a snarl. “Al-Bis hasn’t been to Saudi Arabia since he was four years old.”

  “The newspapers are likely to leave that out of their headlines, especially after Mossad offers proof of Saudi collaboration in that major attack.”

  “Lies!” Shadid said, loud enough to draw the attention of diners from nearby tables.

  “Lies are dangerous things, Ali,” Lia told him. “You know what’s even more dangerous? Well-funded terrorist operations. Saudi Arabia managed to survive the recriminations that followed nine eleven. You won’t survive this time.”

  Shadid softened his expression and spooned out a small bite of his dessert. “This is the way you treat a friend?”

  “We were never friends, just colleagues. This is the way I treat colleagues, and friends, when lives are at stake.”

  Shadid leaned back in his chair, espresso and crème brûlée forgotten for now. “What do you want from me, Colonel?”

  “We’ve fought many battles, General. Some on the same side and some against each other. This is a battle you can’t afford to see lost.”

  “Even though it isn’t our fight.”

  “It’s yours as much as it is mine. Mine because of Caesarea. Yours because your country will be the first America targets in her crosshairs, if indications about the magnitude of the attack are proven true. Your future king can kill all the journalists he wants, but he won’t be able to kill that particular truth. And there will be no future in Saudi Arabia for him to preside over.”

  “I ask again, Colonel, what do you want of me?”

  “Everything, General, points to the fact that whoever’s behind the Metro bombing and whatever’s to come is going to make Islamic terrorists the fall guy. I don’t know whether they want a rationale to start a war, to invade the Middle East, or if something even more nefarious may be afoot.”

 
; “You don’t consider starting a war or invading a region to be nefarious enough?”

  “Everything’s relative,” Lia told him. “I don’t have to tell you that.”

  “No, you don’t.”

  “Something else I shouldn’t have to tell you. I have meetings already set up with the Turks, the Egyptians, the Syrians, and the Iranians. The message I intend to pass to all of them is the very same one I’ve given you. I came to you first, out of courtesy and respect for those times in which we’ve fought on the same side. Make no mistake, though—I will go elsewhere, should you disappoint me.”

  Shadid leaned forward, lowering his voice ever so slightly. “And what do I need to do to avoid disappointing you?”

  Lia let him see her smile. “Glad you asked, General. Glad you asked…”

  CHAPTER

  45

  WASHINGTON, DC

  Thank you for seeing me, sir,” Kendra Rendine greeted the director of the Secret Service, after he’d closed the door to his private office behind him.

  Clayton McGrath escorted her to a sitting area set off to the right of his desk, by the window overlooking H Street, his expression looking as compassionate as it was concerned. “When are you going to start calling me Clayton, Kendra?”

  “Maybe when I take your place, sir.”

  “Sooner rather than later, I fully expect,” McGrath said to her, forcing a smile.

  It was the “forced” part that concerned Rendine, something off just enough to be cause for concern. In the wake of their meeting the night before, Teddy Von Eck had secured a meeting for her with the director of the Secret Service himself, in his office at headquarters, located on the top floor of the stately nine-story postmodern low-rise on H Street NW. Even though the agency’s origins dated back to the Civil War, when it was founded to combat the then-widespread counterfeiting of U.S. currency, it didn’t get a dedicated home of its own until the Memorial Headquarters building opened in 1999, marking the first time all Secret Service personnel had actually been housed under a single roof. The service had previously rented space throughout Washington, DC, as far back as the 1901 assassination of President William McKinley, after which its agents had assumed full-time responsibility for presidential protection.