“Why should I?” My voice cracked at the end and took the toughness out of my words. I’d seen Mike in pursuit of a traitor. He’d used that steely voice then, too.
“I’ve got a few questions for you,” he replied. “So you might as well sit down and see if we can straighten this thing out.”
“What thing?”
“Global Flight 500, for starters.”
I sat.
“What’s your interest in this?” he asked.
“I want to know who blew it up.”
“Yeah. Well, that’s the question of the hour, isn’t it? Everybody would like to know that. But you came all the way out here to extract the latest information from me. I’m curious why you’d choose to do that.”
There was a hook buried in that mild remark. I heard its barbed edge. Why are you searching outside normal channels for information you’re not supposed to have? Mike was treating me like a suspect. I didn’t need anyone reading me my rights to know I was better off remaining silent. I pressed my lips together and watched him.
Mike flipped open a manila folder. I recognized the passenger list for the downed flight.
He ran his finger down to the tenth name from the top. Then he asked, “Who’s Karsten Hansen?” The question was sharp.
Whatever wrongdoing Mike suspected me of, it had to involve Stefan. “Karsten Hansen?” I repeated warily. “Never heard of him.”
“No one else has heard of him either. His Danish passport had a number that hasn’t been issued yet. And no family member’s come forward to ask about him.”
My heartbeat was too fast and I wanted to gulp in air. But I knew better than to hazard guesses during what had taken on the rhythm of an official FBI investigation. “What’s that got to do with me?”
“Ticket agent at Heathrow thinks she remembers the fellow. Such a fine-sounding Danish name, but he didn’t have the looks to go with it. Dark hair instead of blond. Bony face instead of rounded. We showed her some pictures. She thought this Karsten Hansen looked an awful lot like your Polish friend.”
“A million Slavs look like him. Especially to a Brit handling a holiday crowd.”
“Maybe. But maybe you can tell us if Stefan Krajewski was on that plane.”
“I don’t make his travel arrangements.”
“But you were expecting him. We know you booked a room for two at the Highland Inn. We’re betting he was your date.”
The FBI had researched my holiday plans? Alarm sent a flush of heat across my cheeks. “You guys got nothing better to do than monitor my sex life?”
“We keep track of foreign agents. And we do a better job than you seem to give us credit for. So tell me: Were you expecting the Pole?”
“Maybe you better tell me where these questions are going.”
He paused, studying me. When he spoke, he’d softened his tone, added a note of apology. “We start checking out something like this, you know that one thing we’re eager to learn is who else is checking things out.”
New tactic, I realized. Badgering me wasn’t working.
“As soon as you started searching for intell on the flight,” he continued mournfully, “your name turned up on our list.”
“Your terrorist suspect list? That’s ridiculous. Why didn’t you tell them to cross me off?”
“You know, that was my reaction. When one of the guys ran it by me, I said, ‘Nah, you don’t have to worry about Casey Collins.’ ”
“You weren’t convincing,” I said. “He tossed my house, didn’t he?”
Mike didn’t answer.
“It had to be you guys. Nobody else goes around running a Dustbuster in reverse.” They’d searched my condo. For sure they’d also intercepted my phone messages. If I stayed quiet, Mike might reveal something I didn’t know.
He retrieved his handkerchief, blew his nose, then continued. “My pal came back empty-handed. ‘See,’ I told him. ‘Nothing incriminating in her pad.’ Then this morning he shows me your itinerary for the past few days. ‘Odd,’ I admitted. ‘But I don’t see any link to Lockerbie Two.’ Fifteen minutes later, you pop into my office asking questions about Global 500.”
“I must have missed something there. Counterterrorism is my job. Of course I’m interested in that explosion. Run it by me again, why the Bureau is bothered by that.”
“Maybe your interest isn’t job-related. Maybe it has more to do with the people you know off the job.”
“Come again?”
He held up a hand in a gesture intended to be soothing. “Let me tell you how it looks to my colleague. December twenty-first. You’re sitting in D.C. waiting for Krajewski. Then blam. Plane blows up. You go racing off to Denmark. Like maybe you want to ask your pal over there, does he know why someone blew away your boyfriend.”
“If Holger Sorensen knew anything about this, he’d tell you.”
“Would he, now? I’m not so sure of that. We’ve picked up a few facts lately, gave us a new slant on doings in that part of the world. The bodies won’t stay buried, if you catch my drift. Some funny business going on between that damn Father-Major and your Polish friend. That’s why you’re not on the task force, even though your boss raised a stink about the delay. Seems possible to us that anything you read could end up copied to the wrong people.”
“The wrong people? Holger Sorensen’s an ally, in case you’ve forgotten. You know he got six of our spooks out of Baghdad in 1990.”
“In 1990, sure—”
I cut him off. “Stefan did the fieldwork. He convinced some Poles working in Iraq to smuggle our guys into Turkey, right after Saddam invaded Kuwait.” I tapped my forefinger on the desk in front of Buchanan. “Holger doesn’t get his intelligence information from me. He’s cleared for Cosmic Top Secret or higher. He gets all his stuff through formal channels.”
Mike abandoned his soft approach. “You’re not that naive. But Holger Sorensen isn’t the main problem and you know it.”
I stood up. “If you want to talk to me, you’d better get a subpoena.”
“My colleague is with the judge right now. We should be ready to serve you by tonight. Might as well wait for us in your apartment. Save us the trouble of going back for an arrest warrant.”
“Arrest warrant? What’s the charge?”
“You figure it out.” He gave me a withering look. “Don’t try to leave the country. This time your passport won’t get you past the ticket counter.”
“I can’ believe I’m hearing this!”
“There’s only one reason why you went racing off to Denmark when loverboy didn’t show up. You think they know something about this bombing. If you’re smart, you’ll act like a loyal American. You’ll tell us where you got that idea.”
“But the attention—”
“Somebody blew up another planeload of people. It’s too damn bad if you don’t like the way we’re handling the investigation. You talk to us. Or you go to jail. Simple as that.”
4
“You guys belong at Buzzard Point,” I said. “So apt, given the way you do your jobs. Feeding on dead flesh.”
Mike didn’t raise an eyebrow. “Right. We go wherever we smell something rotten. Brought us straight to you.”
“It was you, wasn’t it? You blocked the upgrade of my clearance. You decided I couldn’t be trusted.”
His laugh was short. “Don’t have to be a rocket scientist to figure out you’ve had a major conflict of interest all down the line.”
“You’re wrong,” I said, reaching for the doorknob.
He jerked his head toward the adjoining case room. “See you in there. You can tell me all about it.”
I pulled the door shut with a defiant click. Nobody tried to speak to me as I left the building. Probably afraid of getting punched in the nose. My fury had to be obvious, from the tight line of my lips to the rough scrape of my boots against the carpet. Once outside, I strode over dirty gray concrete for ten indistinguishable blocks, until my legs ached and I was winded. Still mad
, but no longer steaming. Cooled off enough to realize I was feeling more than anger.
Surprise. Definitely. Kathryn Collins, an exemplary career Foreign Service Officer, is implicated in a terrorist bombing? A charge so ludicrous I’d have laughed if Buchanan’s misjudgment of me hadn’t cut such a deep wound. It felt like betrayal.
I took a back booth in a hole-in-the-wall sandwich shop and hunched over a mug of evil-smelling coffee. I was the only customer, the cramped space silent except for a droning television set.
I thought back to June when I’d last worked a case with Buchanan. I’d gotten no hint then he viewed my romance with Stefan Krajewski as a security issue. Something must have happened during the last six months to trigger FBI interest in me.
Stefan’s SB past and his current work for “that damn Father-Major” were two matters bothering Buchanan. Those concerns plus his mysterious “new slant on doings in that part of the world” had prompted him to block my promotion to the task force. Somehow, the FBI had obtained authority, to snoop electronically in my phone and credit card records. That explained how they knew my Christmas plans and unearthed the details of my travel so quickly.
I picked up the coffee cup, set it down again without drinking.
So far, Buchanan wanted only to question me about the bombing. But I couldn’t talk to him. What I knew about Global Flight 500, I knew from Holger Sorensen. If I submitted to Buchanan’s inquisition, I might jeopardize Holger’s investigation. And I had less confidence in the FBI than I did in Holger.
A chill started at the base of my neck, slithered down my spine. You talk to us. Or you go to jail. The first time he’d said “arrest,” I’d scoffed. All I’d done was make some inquiries, fly to Denmark, and visit an FBI agent. Nothing in that merited incarceration.
But I hadn’t thought it through. Someone had granted a search warrant for my condo. For reasons I couldn’t fathom, a federal judge was letting the FBI treat me as a potential criminal. I couldn’t explain Buchanan’s interest in me but I had to take it seriously. I’d seen the Bureau mistakenly pursue an innocent security guard after the 1996 Atlanta bombing. I shivered. I had to admit it. I was frightened.
I’d made a big mistake returning to the U.S. I had to go back to Europe. Tonight, before the FBI served me with its subpoena. A rash action, fleeing the country when I had no grasp on Buchanan’s case against me. Yet if I remained here, I risked spending the next month of my life struggling to stay out of prison.
I shoved the cup to the other side of the table.
No way. I wasn’t going to waste more time. I had a job to do. I tracked down terrorists. And the terrorist who’d engineered Stefan’s death was the one I wanted. I had to get to Holger. Once I explained the problem, he’d help me soothe the Feds. I felt a twinge of doubt. I ignored it. Holger had been wrong to send me away. This time I’d listen to my heart.
So how was I going to get out of the U.S.A. without showing my passport to an airline ticket agent?
I recovered my coffee and took a sip. Cold. I craned my neck, looking for the counterman. The TV screen caught my eye, hooking me with the standard shot of the State Department’s C Street lobby. In front of the row of foreign flags was a face I recognized. I rose in my seat to get a better view. I saw the diminutive figure of Lura Dumont, reporting for United Network News. Lura. She could get me out of the country.
Lura and I came from the same rural area of Oregon. Our elementary school’s tendency to arrange students in alphabetical order had guaranteed that Collins and Dumont would be seatmates. We decided on our own to be “best friends.” As girls, we raced our bikes down country lanes, pretending we were riding ponies bareback. Progressed from there to games with Ken and Barbie that got kinkier as we matured. I still remembered the day Lura got her first period. I’d walked a half step behind her all the way home to hide the stain on the back of her skirt.
At age fourteen, I suddenly shot up to my adult height, a skinny blonde destined to play center on the girls’ basketball team. Except that year my mother’s mental health problem worsened and she clamped down on my life like a vise. If I wasn’t in the house by three-thirty in the afternoon, she got hysterical. “I only want you to be safe,” she’d sob. “I only want to take care of you.” I struggled, but I had to give in. By then she feared strangers indoors, too. Trembling, unable to speak, that panicky look in her eyes—I couldn’t bear to see her like that. I stopped inviting other kids over.
Except for Lura. My mother was used to her. Lura was head cheerleader, wildly busy with school activities, no shortage of people wanting to be her friend. But still she came to my house every afternoon from five to six o’clock and we did our homework together. Looking back, I sometimes wonder if I would have survived those four years without Lura.
My tutoring improved her grades from a C-plus average to an A-minus. One reason, certainly, that she kept busting in on my miserable loneliness. She’d always had an unchildlike understanding of the increased payoff from long-term investments. Hard to sort one motive from another when it came to Lura. When I was eighteen, my father helped me escape to college. I lost touch with Lura.
I ran into her one week into my first assignment in the Foreign Service. I was trying to make sense of what was happening around me in San Salvador. Lura was there, ostensibly to do “local color” for National Public Radio. Her real assignment was an exposé on civilian massacres by U.S.-trained Salvadoran troops. She was a struggling media wannabe. I had the access that goes with diplomatic status. And I stayed on in-country after death threats forced her out. It was inevitable that she’d use me. I’d been lucky to lose only my dog.
I forgave her in less than a year. Her trenchant reporting helped put Salvador’s bloodstained Atlacatl Battalion out of business. She spoke for terror’s victims and I was glad I’d given her the words. Lura liked to claim that she’d shown me my mission in life. But I heard the irony in her voice. She knew she’d risked my life—not hers—to get her story. I’d forgiven her for that. But I liked her less and I didn’t confide in her anymore.
Her San Sal work won her the job with UNN. She’d been based in their Washington office for the past year. My girlhood chum worked for a network with its own fleet of planes.
I reached for my cell phone. Stopped. I didn’t want this call monitored. I spotted a pay phone on the wall beside the coffee-shop door. My fingers touched a quarter in my jacket pocket. At last, a good omen.
The UNN receptionist told me that Miss Dumont was in conference.
Damn. I didn’t have time for telephone tag. “Tell her Casey’s trying to reach her,” I said. “It’s urgent. I’ll call back in twenty minutes.”
I paid for my coffee with a five-dollar bill and asked for my change in coins. I headed up the street on foot. It was clear in Washington, the sky a washed-out blue. Office workers on errands pushed by; early-morning shoppers moved briskly around me. I stopped now and then to examine shop windows. And to identify anyone else strolling at my leisurely pace. Any FBI tail would become obvious fast.
What had happened to my life, that I was using my tradecraft to evade the FBI? I had to get out of this mess. I located a secluded phone booth in a hotel lobby and made myself comfortable. This time, the receptionist connected me to Lura at once.
Lura’s tone was apologetic. “She was supposed to put you through the first time.”
Puzzled, I said, “You were expecting to hear from me?”
“I’d given up hope. Okay, what do you say we plan for a long sit-down? Set things up where we have two or three hours?” She made a pondering noise through closed lips, then said, “Wednesday afternoon’s good for me. If you’re free then—”
“Lura,” I interrupted.
But she kept going. “We could do lunch—”
“Lura.” I waited for her to stop. “You’ve lost me. I didn’t call about lunch. I have something to ask you.”
“But I left a message—”
“I must’ve missed i
t. Listen, I need to hitch a ride with you to Europe.”
“That might be possible.” I heard her flipping pages in her appointment book. “The latter part of next week I might go to Rome. I’ll know something in a couple of days. Can I tell you for sure when we get together Wednesday?”
“Too late,” I said. “I want to leave today.”
“Not possible,” she said. “There’s no way I’m getting out of town this week.”
“You don’t have to come,” I told her. “Just get me on a plane.”
She laughed. “What am I, your travel agent?”
I shoved at my hair. Lura was making this too difficult. “I’m asking for a favor, that’s all.”
“And I’d love to do you one.” Her voice grew cajoling. “But what’s your rush? You meet me Wednesday, we can talk—”
“Lura,” I interrupted again. “I have to go today.” I said it slowly, punching each syllable the way newscasters do at the end of a story. Making my meaning clear without saying the words: You owe me.
Fifteen seconds of silence, a prohibitive amount of dead air for Lura. “Let me check what’s going out today.” Her voice was flat. I spent another minute on hold, listening to elevator music. She came back, all business. UNN had a backup crew leaving for Hamburg at three that afternoon from Dulles. There was room for me. Her admin people insisted that she ask—was my passport current?
The question was a good sign. It meant no one from UNN would be checking documents at Dulles. I told her my papers were all in order and she said she’d get my name added to the passenger list. She hung up while I was saying thanks.
I piled my coins in front of me. Harry had said my father was looking for me. I had to let him know I was all right. Cancer had claimed my mother four years before, and I was his only family now. He was seventy-five and he worried about me. Safe enough to call him. I doubted the FBI was tapping his line yet. And even if Mike Buchanan were that thorough, a quick hello wouldn’t give my flight plan away.
I got a busy signal.
I traveled by bus to Metro Center, then spent the next hour going in and out of hotels and stores, getting rid of any FBI tail I hadn’t spotted. I made my way to Western Union’s downtown office, where I paid cash to send my message to a cutout in Roskilde, Denmark, giving my travel plans and adding the pseudonym that signaled I was on the run. When we’d set up the code, I’d assumed my pursuers would be coming out of the Middle East—not from Buzzard Point. No matter. Holger would get the message. He’d know what to do.
12 Drummers Drumming Page 4
