He shakes his head, eyes still on the screen. “Nope.”
“Progress?”
“A bit.” He glances up at me, shrugs. “I’m figuring out these forums. Where they communicate, you know.”
“Anything interesting?”
“It’s all encrypted.” He looks like he’s about to say more, but stops.
“And?” I prompt.
“Well, there’s a user…” A shadow crosses his face. Confusion, I think. Or maybe concern? “He has my name.”
“Your name?”
“ZacharyMaddox345.”
Same as the email address. “What’s he posted?”
“Nothing. His communications are all private. Direct messages, user-to-user. But I’m trying to hack in.”
I feel a quiver of trepidation, but I do my best to keep my face a mask. “Okay.”
I slip back out of the kitchen, let him concentrate. Pace the house, restless, and finally grab a broom. Sweep the hardwood floors, wash them, vacuum the carpets and rugs. My gaze keeps drifting over to Zachary, watching him work, watching the fierce concentration on his face. ZacharyMaddox345. I’m growing increasingly anxious.
Hours later, he’s still at it. I call the hospital, speak with Mom. To my relief, she’s starting to sound more like herself—her voice less raspy, more upbeat. I ask her again about her fall, if she’s sure she was alone in that stairwell. “I’m sure, Stephanie,” she answers firmly, annoyed with me. “No one pushed me. You know what a klutz I am!”
I change into workout clothes, get on the treadmill, start running. Three miles, then four. Trying to clear my head.
I stare at the chessboard as I run. He’ll move his rook, I’ll take it. Then he’ll move his queen, even though he’ll lose that, too. Protect the king, at all costs. Even if it means sacrificing the queen.
Unless I’m missing something. Unless there’s a move I can’t see, can’t anticipate. Panic flares again in my chest.
Seven miles, eight. At mile eleven, I hear Zachary’s voice. “Mom?” he calls. “I think I found something.”
I turn off the belt, hop off. Blot sweat from my face with a towel, then sling it over my shoulder as I walk to the table. I come up behind him, look over his shoulder. It’s a black screen, green writing, almost like it’s from another decade.
“What’d you find?”
“A file. It was sent to that user. ZacharyMaddox345. Haven’t opened it yet.”
He double-clicks and a file opens up. It looks like a PowerPoint presentation. The first slide is a red image on a black background. Looks almost like a skull, with three letters.
FSM.
Freedom Solidarity Movement. It must be.
He clicks. The next slide is black, too. No image, just a line of text, in the same red color.
The day is near.
He clicks again, and I feel this overpowering urge to tell him to stop, to tell him I don’t want to see what’s next.
Your assignment: Target #2.
Another click. Photos, five of them, one in the center and four surrounding it. A man, leaving his house, wearing a suit. A shot of him in running clothes, on a tree-lined street. Another of him opening a car door. And a fourth in front of an office building.
Reluctantly, my eyes settle on the center photo. This one is a close-up, the same one that graces the lobby of the building where I work.
I take a sharp breath.
It’s J. J. Lee. It’s the director of the FBI.
Chapter 30
“Holy shit,” Zachary murmurs, and I don’t chide him, because the exact same thought is running through my own mind.
These are surveillance photos. Of a target. Target #2. In the possession of an extremist group that wants to attack government officials.
This is a plot. A plot to attack—to kill—the director of the FBI.
I feel like I can’t think straight, like fury is keeping my brain from working the way it should. “Who sent this?”
He narrows his eyes at the screen. “Username DTaylor.”
DTaylor. Dylan Taylor.
“When?”
“Yesterday. Yesterday morning.” His voice is thick with fear.
“Who else has seen it? Can you tell?”
“I don’t know. It was a private message. Maybe no one?”
“But you found it.”
“I hacked in.”
Someone else could do that, too. The Bureau could do that, easily. Then what?
If the Bureau finds these slides, Zachary will be arrested. There’s no way he wouldn’t be. Whoever’s trying to make it look like he’s part of this group, like he’s part of a plot, they have more on him.
There’s a pounding in my brain, in my ears. I study the computer screen, the four surveillance shots of Director Lee, the headshot. Target #2. This would get Zachary sent to jail, no question about it.
“Mom? What do we do?”
It might not be a real threat. If it’s fabricated evidence, it could be a fabricated plot. And if not, surely Scott’s squad is already on it, running it down.
But what if it’s real? A real threat against the director of the FBI? There’s no way I can possibly keep this to myself.
I need to warn the Bureau.
But I need to find a way to do it without getting my son thrown in prison.
* * *
—
It’s a moonless night; clouds fill the sky. I hurry down the front steps toward my car, sidestepping a patch of ice, baseball cap pulled low. I’m in black track pants and a sweatshirt, bundled in a long black jacket. I slide into the driver’s seat and close the door behind me. No movement around me except a neighbor’s cat, slipping through the shadows.
I start the car and head off toward Northeast D.C., my eyes on the rearview mirror, alert for a tail. I take a roundabout route, double back several times, make a couple of stops: gas, coffee. Squarely in surveillance detection mode. But the streets are quiet. No one’s following me.
Twenty-six minutes later, I pull up to the curb in front of a 24/7 convenience store, one that I know from previous investigations doesn’t keep records, doesn’t have cameras. We can never trace prepaid phones from here, prove who bought them. And that’s exactly what I need right now.
I turn off the engine and wait for several minutes, watching. No cars, no people. The street is deserted. No one tracked me here; I’m confident about that. Finally I get out of the car, walk into the store.
It’s cramped inside, narrow rows stocked with snacks and drinks. I head to the register, eye the phones behind the counter, a selection of prepaid cells.
“That one, please,” I say, pointing to the one on the end of the row. I keep the hat brim low, but the clerk doesn’t even give me a glance, doesn’t care what sort of illicit business I’m involved with. Just rings up the phone, takes my cash, hands me the phone. And I know from experience that employees here don’t trust the cops, don’t say much when we come around. This guy won’t betray me.
I leave the store, get back into my car. Check the streets again—still quiet. I rip open the packaging and set up the phone, alert for any movement around me.
I dial the Bureau’s tip line. After two rings, the recorded message begins, instructs me to leave details after the tone.
When I hear the beep, I lower my voice. Leave all the details I know, as quickly as I can. FSM plot. Director of the FBI. Surveillance conducted, weapons obtained.
I press the end button and realize my hands are sweating. I pull the battery from the phone. Then I get out of the car, wedge both pieces under the front tire. My heart is thudding. There’s no actionable intelligence on those slides beyond what I just shared. The Bureau now knows everything about the plot that I know.
When I turn the key in the ignition and press down on the g
as, there’s a satisfying crunch as the tire crushes any proof that it was me who made the call.
I’ve gone barely half a block when I see headlights coming toward me. A black Suburban, darkly tinted windows. A government vehicle. Law enforcement, maybe. Or just someone who wants to look that way.
I can’t see the driver as the Suburban surges past. And I say a silent prayer that he can’t see me.
* * *
—
The parking garage is mostly vacant at this hour, just a scattering of cars here and there. The building, too, is hushed. There’s a single security guard at the post. She gives me a disinterested nod as I swipe my keycard and goes back to her iPhone.
I pass the pictures on the lobby wall. Director Lee, Deputy Director Jackson. My pace slows as I approach them, like usual. Today my eyes go straight to Lee. I stare at his picture, the dark green eyes, the thick black hair, and it morphs into the one on Zachary’s laptop. In my mind’s eye I see the four surveillance shots arrayed around it. Shit.
I continue up to my office, walking quickly through the sea of darkened cubicles. Boot up my computer, eye the growing stack of folders on the corner of my desk. I haven’t been here in three days, not since Mom fell. It feels like pressure’s mounting, like it’s only a matter of time until the investigation deepens, until Scott opens an investigation, until Zachary’s under a cloud of suspicion so thick it could smother him.
My agents won’t start trickling in for another two hours, at least. I spend the time searching for proof that Zachary’s not involved, that someone’s spinning an elaborate web around him. I read through everything I can find on FSM. Read through the case file again, the one that’s still in my desk drawer, at least for now. As soon as Scott lets someone else know about Zachary, about me accessing the FSM file, I’m sure I won’t have access to it anymore. I won’t have access to anything at all, probably.
I do some digging, as covertly as I can, on Halliday, and Torrino, even though I’ve done it before, periodically over the years. Looking for anything suspicious, anything that could tie them to that email, those slides, that gun.
Halliday’s made a couple of high-profile trips recently—Iowa, New Hampshire—and he’s reached out to a number of political action committees. Laying the groundwork for a national political campaign, no doubt. He purchased a second home last year, a beachfront one in Delaware, where his wife spends most of her time. When she’s not at charity events, that is—she’s on the boards of several philanthropies, mostly children’s ones. Gossip columns regularly report the couple is planning to adopt a child, and neither she nor Halliday shut down the rumors. Maybe it boosts his poll numbers.
Torrino earned another commendation for good behavior in prison. Guards are closely monitoring his outgoing messages; no sign of any concealed communications with the outside world.
I’m feeling increasingly desperate. Nothing proves Zachary’s just a pawn in a bigger game. I have nothing that would convince Scott, or anyone else, that he didn’t send that email, and didn’t do whatever else might be pinned on him.
I turn to the coffeemaker on the filing cabinets, pace as I make a cup. My mind drifts back to that call with Scott, the stretch of silence before the line disconnected. Someone was listening. Someone who’d have the power to be on that line.
My eyes shift down to the file cabinets. To one drawer in particular. Then, impulsively, I unlock and pull it open. I scan the files—agents I’ve investigated over the years, investigations I’ve overseen since I’ve been a supervisor—and my gaze settles on the last one, tucked in the back, no label. A plain file, cryptic notes inside.
The Suburban outside the convenience store. The presence on the phone line. What if…
Chapter 31
The next thing I know, there’s light flooding into the office from the cubicle bullpen, and I have the vague sense that it had been dark, that the light just went on. I lift my head, peer groggily out the windowed door, and there’s Parker in the bullpen, giving me a quizzical look. I sit up straight, smooth my hair, do my best to shrug off the remnants of sleep, try to look presentable.
Zachary. I reach for my cellphone. A couple of missed calls from him, a series of texts, increasingly concerned.
You gonna be home soon?
Is everything ok?
Hello? Mom?
I unlock the phone and type out a hasty reply. Sorry. Fell asleep at my desk. I’m fine.
I’m not fine, not by a long shot.
I call the hospital, check on Mom. She’s doing well; she tells me happily that her doctor even mentioned the possibility of a discharge soon, with outpatient rehab. I’m just hanging up when I see Scott walking through the bullpen, toward my office. I open the door before he can knock, greet him.
“Talk to me, Steph,” he urges. He doesn’t sit down.
I can feel his eyes on me, waiting for me to say something. Time’s running out and we both know it.
“I wish you’d tell me what’s going on.” He’s annoyed.
I close the door, turn back to him. But not before I see that Parker is watching us from his cubicle. “I can’t. Not yet,” I tell Scott.
He frowns. “First you say Zachary’s being set up. Then you insist your mom’s fall wasn’t an accident….” He shrugs, helplessly, like he’s completely confused. And a little angry, too.
“I’ll prove it,” I promise softly.
He stares at me a moment, then turns away, looks out the window, out at my agents. I watch him, see the frustration in the way he holds his shoulders. In the bullpen, Garcia and Wayne are getting to their feet, heading out on their coffee run.
“Steph…it’s going to get worse for Zachary, you know,” he finally says.
My heart starts to pound. “Why?”
“The plot. It’s real, I think.”
He turns toward me, away from the window. I see the unhappiness in his eyes. And I suddenly remember the day we broke up, the hug he gave Zachary before he left our home. See you later, champ. “Someone else reported a threat.”
“Yeah?” I keep my expression blank. He knows me so well. I can’t afford a misstep now.
“Yeah. Didn’t believe it, before. Source seemed like the type just looking for a big payday, hoping reporting a threat would earn him one.”
I nod, because I don’t trust my voice to work.
“Steph—this is enough to get Lee and Jackson involved. They’re going to be pushing for open investigations on FSM.”
Oh God. What have I done? Trying to do the right thing just made things a hell of a lot worse for my son. “Just give me some time. Please, Scott.”
“Time’s running out. Just talk to me, Steph,” he urges, but he’s moved toward the door, at least. “We can figure this out.”
Frustration gives way to anger. An open investigation on Zachary. What will happen then? What else will they uncover? I need Scott out of here.
I think of the presence on the phone line, and the black Suburban. In my mind’s eye I see Zachary, in prison. I open the office door.
“You’re never going to trust anyone, are you?” he says as he brushes past me.
* * *
—
Around noon, I pick up the phone and dial Scott. I’m going to ask, one last time, for him to delay opening an investigation. I’m going to ask for just a little more time.
He doesn’t answer, the call goes to voicemail. I try his cell; still nothing. I repeat the process after an hour, then again after two. Now I’m starting to worry. What if he’s already done it? What if he’s avoiding my calls? I grab my things and head out.
“Everything okay, boss?” Wayne asks, as I make my way through the bullpen. There’s an open bag of Cheetos in front of him. His fingers are stained orange.
“Is it your mom?” Parker chimes in.
“She’s doin
g much better,” I tell them.
“That’s great,” Parker says enthusiastically.
“Are you okay?” Garcia wants to know.
“Of course I am,” I snap. Flint and McIntosh exchange a concerned glance. Great. Now my agents are worried about me, too, just like Scott. Now they’re watching me extra closely. Just what I need.
Fifteen minutes later I’m at the Washington Field Office, walking down the hall toward Scott’s cubicle.
I round the corner, and at the sight of his cubicle I freeze. There are cardboard boxes on the desk, on the chair. Fear takes hold.
Scott must have heard me, but he doesn’t turn, doesn’t stop what he’s doing. He reaches for a frame on his desk. It’s a picture of his kids, three miniature blond versions of himself. He lifts a stack of folders, places them in a different box.
The television in the corner of his cubicle is on. CNN. A roundtable of political analysts, all jockeying to give their opinions. But the sound is muted; their efforts seem futile.
“What’s happening?” I manage to force out.
He doesn’t turn, doesn’t answer. A stapler goes into the box. A pair of scissors. The news commentators disappear from the television screen, and a shot of a political rally takes their place.
“Scott?”
“I’m being transferred.”
My brain struggles to make sense of this. There must be an understaffed squad in the field office. One that’s in need of a senior agent. Because there’s no other reason—
“To Omaha. Effective immediately.”
“What?” Scott’s one of those guys who isn’t supposed to go anywhere. Someone who’s served his time moving around the country, who’s earned the opportunity to stay in one place, who made it clear he intended to do just that. He has a house here. His wife’s career is here, his kids are in school. His whole life is here.
He’s finally looking at me, that implacable expression on his face. One I remember from that final argument we had, all those years before. I can’t be with someone who won’t open up to me, Steph. Who won’t trust me.
Keep You Close Page 14
