The young man looked at Jonathan’s hand, and then cast a glance over Jonathan’s shoulder, out to the door. “And who is that?”
Jonathan knew without looking that Boxers had taken up a position in the jamb, scanning the yard for any trouble that might arise. “He’s a friend of mine. His name is Richard Lerner. Is Father Perón here?” Jonathan opened the door wider to cast more light on the man.
“You are American,” the man said. “I can tell by your accent.”
Jonathan felt disappointed. He’d thought his Spanish was flawless. “Sí,” he said.
“Federales Americanos?”
“No,” Jonathan assured. “I’m not military, and I’m not with the government. I’m just a private citizen in need of help.”
The man took a second look at Boxers. “An American private citizen with many guns and a bodyguard.”
“If I could speak with Father Perón, I—”
“I am Father Perón,” the man said.
Jonathan cocked his head. “Really?” as soon as the word left his throat, he knew that he’d insulted the man, but good Lord, he looked like a college student.
“Loyola University,” Perón said in English. “I assure you that I look younger than I feel.”
Jonathan felt himself blush. “I meant no offense.”
“None was taken. Yet you still have guns in my church. I don’t allow that.”
This was a tough spot for Jonathan. There’s a cliché that covers moments like this that involves the phrase, when you pry it from my cold dead fingers. He didn’t want it to come to that. “Can we sit for a minute?” he asked. “I think when I tell you what is happening, you’ll understand why I’m hesitant to give up my weapons.”
Perón put his hands on his hips and considered the request. He nodded with his chin. “We’ll talk outside.”
The note was written in a woman’s hand on a plain piece of white paper:
Dom,
Follow these directions precisely. Walk to the L’Enfant Plaza Metro. Take the Green Line to Fort Totten. Transfer to the Red Line and take it to Union Station. Go to the front of the building and find the chauffeur waiting for Fr. Carlino. He works for me and will take care of you. I’ll explain when we meet.
Best,
I
Including the fifteen-minute delay in the beginning, and the long interval between trains at this time of day, it took nearly an hour to make his rendezvous with the chauffeur, who was standard-issue FBI, from the glossy shoes to the gray suit that was cut a bit too large in order to accommodate his gun. The only difference was that this guy was a little older than most. He held an eight-and-a-half-by-eleven-inch piece of white paper with Fr. Carlino laser printed in large bold type.
Dom approached cautiously, unsure of the protocol. Should he call himself Father Carlino? How far was he supposed to carry the charade? He decided to walk with confidence and let his collar speak for him.
As it turned out, the guy knew exactly who he was waiting for. When Dom closed to within a few feet, the chauffeur lowered the sign and closed the distance with an outstretched hand. “Hi, Father,” he said. “I’m Paul Boersky. I’ve worked with the director for a long time. Follow me.”
Boersky led the way out the front of the station and across two lanes of traffic picking up and delivering passengers. As they closed in on a Lincoln Town Car, the vehicle beeped as it unlocked, and Boersky opened the right rear passenger door for Dom.
The priest stopped short. “We’ve never met, and this feels suspiciously like a slow-motion kidnapping. Do you have ID?”
Boersky smiled. “Was wondering when you’d get to that.” He produced a creds case from his suit coat pocket and flashed his gold badge. “Really, I’m a good guy.”
As he slid into the offered seat, Dom tried not to think about how many times Jonathan had used false credentials to get his way.
During the drive through progressively more frightening city streets, Dom fought the urge to ask questions. Given the cloak-and-dagger prelude, he harbored no hope for straight answers anyway.
The trip ended after ten minutes at a place that Dom knew well. “You’re kidding,” he said. “Here?”
Boersky threw the transmission into park. “No one can ever say that Director Rivers doesn’t have style,” he said. He looked at Dom through the rearview mirror. “I’ll be waiting here to drive you back to the Metro.”
St. Matthew’s Cathedral was a far cry from St. Peter’s in Rome, but it was likewise a far cry from St. Kate’s in Fisherman’s Cove. Most famous, perhaps, as the site of John F. Kennedy’s funeral Mass, St. Matthew’s had little of the golden grandeur of its Roman father. It was dwarfed in size not just by Saint Patrick’s in New York, but even the Episcopalian Washington National Cathedral just a few miles away in Upper Northwest. Still, Dom’s heart beat a little faster as he entered.
Following his final instructions from Paul Boersky, Dom turned left as he entered the nave and headed for Our Lady’s Chapel. Again, he spotted Irene’s security detail first, chiseled men in dark suits standing just outside the chapel. Once you know what to look for, these guys might as well wear T-shirts that read BODYGUARD. Only in Washington were such teams so commonplace that they were barely noticeable.
Irene sat contemplatively in a pew near the stunning sculpture of the Blessed Mother reaching down toward her children and stared straight ahead, her hands folded in her lap. She still wore her ubiquitous pantsuit, but this one was a green print instead of the monochrome navy blue she’d worn outside the Ripley Center. She wore her strawberry-blond hair pulled back in a tight ponytail.
Dom sat next to her. “Good afternoon,” he said. “You changed clothes quickly.”
“Hello, Father. I was going to call you if you hadn’t called me. And the last me you saw wasn’t really me. She’s my body double. It’s a security thing. Her unofficial, entirely impolitic alternative job title is my bullet catcher. May it never come to that.”
Dom didn’t know if that was highly likely or virtually impossible. Throughout her career, Irene had had a reputation for getting involved in firefights, and being named director hadn’t done anything to change it.
“I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t a little unnerved by all this,” he said.
“Join the club.” Irene moved only her head to look at him. “I have it on good authority that I’m being watched.”
“By whom?”
She shrugged. “I have my thoughts, but I was hoping perhaps that you could tell me.”
Dom recoiled. “How would I know who’s following you?”
“Call it a hunch. My security detail picks up an electronic tracking device, and then a physical shadow on me on the very day that Digger goes on an alleged shooting rampage in Mexico. As you know, our mutual friend would be the first to disavow the validity of coincidence.”
“All due respect, you’re director of the FBI. Aren’t you followed all the time?”
“Not so much as you might expect. And when Scorpion is caught in a crack, all other ancillary events take on special meaning.”
“Can’t you just arrest the followers?”
Irene laughed. “Not in the United States, you can’t. If they don’t make a threatening move, they’re within their rights to follow anyone they want.” She waved her hand, as if swiping an invisible marker board. “Enough about me. Tell me what Digger has gotten himself into.”
“It has to stay off the record,” Dom cautioned.
“As do all things Digger-related.”
Dom related all the details he knew. “Frankly,” he concluded, “our biggest shock was when we came to realize that the FBI is gunning for him.”
Irene’s jaw tightened at the mention of her Bureau; then she smiled, albeit without humor. “We’ve known each other too long for a shot like that, Dom.”
“Are you saying that you’re not out to arrest him?’
“Of course we’re out to arrest him,” Irene said. “Or at least our border
field offices are. But that’s not because of anything I did. That’s because the Mexican police labeled him a mass murderer and reported him to Interpol. I have pull, but I can’t keep the country from complying with its international treaties.”
Irene steeled herself for something, and when she looked at Dom again, the sadness in her eyes pained him. “Don’t you need to put on a stole or something? I want you to hear my confession.”
The question startled him. “Oh, my goodness, Irene,” he said. “I had no idea.” They’d played the confession ruse so many times that it never occurred to him that she might be seeking absolution for real.
He pulled a leather pouch from his pocket and removed from it a square of purple cloth. When he shook it, the square fell away from itself to form a clerical stole. “Are you sure you wouldn’t prefer to do this in a more private place?”
“This place is fine,” she said.
“But you’re such a public figure. If people eavesdrop—”
She held up a hand. “I’ll share a secret with you, Father. This spot—these few pews in this tiny chapel—is one of the most acoustically dead spots in Washington. If someone’s not within, say, ten feet of us—and my detail will make sure they’re not—they couldn’t hear a word we say.”
Dom felt his jaw drop. “How can you be so sure?”
There was that tired smile again. “Because I oversaw the project to make it so. We sweep for listening devices twice a day on random schedules.” What she saw in Dom’s face made her laugh. “This is Washington, Father. It’s a spooky town. Truly private meeting space is essential. Even the NSA doesn’t know about this spot, and the CIA is the reason we have it in the first place. The Agency has been paying a lot of attention to us recently.”
She nodded to the stole in Dom’s hands.
He jumped a little, brought back into the moment. “Of course,” he said. He kissed the stole and draped it around his shoulders.
Irene crossed herself. “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It’s been a long, long time since my last confession.”
“And what are your sins?”
“Well, that’s the thing,” she said. “It’s not so much about what I’ve done as what I’m about to do.”
Dom felt a pang of paranoia. Was it possible he was in danger?
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Father, I didn’t mean it that way.”
Tension released from his shoulders.
Irene scowled, looked genuinely hurt. “One day we’ll have to discuss how you could even think such a thing. No, the sins I’m about to commit are of the national-security variety.”
Something snagged in Dom’s gut. “Irene, I can’t absolve sins for which you are not repentant.”
Her face darkened. “Oh, I’m repentant, Father. I am also appalled and ashamed that it’s come to this. In the end, I submit that absolution is your call, but the act of confession is mine, and Father, I need you to listen.”
Dom had learned over the years that no two confessions were alike—except for adolescent confessions, of course, which were entirely alike—and that when dealing with powerful people, the plea for absolution frequently sounded like a demand. It was the way those egos were wired.
“Very well, then,” he said. “I’m all ears.”
“I’m going to need more than your ears, Father. I’m going to need your whole person. You remember All American Industries, don’t you?”
“One of the big-money contributors to the Crystal Palace Cathedral,” Dom said.
“Exactly. Now pay attention because this gets complicated. Based on the information you gave me in your first call, my people did a thorough background check on them.”
“So did Venice. She came up with nothing. Such a nothing, in fact, that Gail hypothesized that it was a government cutout.”
“Good for her,” Irene said. “Because she’s exactly right. CIA, in fact. Even we couldn’t put meat on the theory until we did complete backgrounds on the members of the board of directors. We hit pay dirt with a guy named Dennis Hainsley. Do you want to take notes?”
Dom shook his head. “I never document confessions. Runs counter to some pretty important vows. Besides, I’ll take what you tell me to my grave.”
Irene gave a frustrated sigh. “Okay, Father, I’ll be blunt. You’re going to have to reveal some of this. Lives are at stake. I expect you never to reveal who gave you the information, but I’m going to need you to act on it.”
Indeed, no two confessions were alike. “In that case,” Dom said, “I’ve got a good memory. Still no notes.”
“Your call,” Irene said. “Our computers pinged on Dennis Hainsley. The name showed up on the same kind of list that Digger’s name comes up on. A covert list. We had to dig pretty deeply, but ultimately, we tracked it to the Agency.”
“CIA.” Dom was pretty sure that’s what she meant, but given the stakes, it was worth clarifying.
“Exactly. In the 1990s, Dennis Hainsley was the official cover for Trevor Munro, who, until recently, was the CIA station chief in Caracas.”
“Venezuela, right?” Geography had never been Dom’s long suit.
Irene smiled. “Yes, Father. Caracas, Venezuela.”
“All respect, Irene, Dennis Hainsley sounds to me like a pretty common name. Couldn’t this be a different one?”
“I’m getting to that. Trevor Munro, aka Dennis Hainsley, has spent most of his career on various Central and South American desks. He goes all the way back to the Contras-Sandinistas mess. Hell, he goes nearly to Noriega’s rise in Panama. From the very early days of his career, the drug trade has been front and center on everything he did. Those were the days when America chose which drug lords were successful and which ones suffered, depending upon the degree of cooperation with Uncle Sam’s priorities du jour. Are you following me so far?”
“I’m not confused,” Dom said, “but I’m not connecting any dots yet, either.”
“Well, then get ready. One of Munro’s primary points of contact for getting leverage against the drug lords was an American named Mitchell Ponder. Ring any bells?”
Bells, no. Brass gongs, yes. Mitchell Ponder had been instrumental in the kidnapping of two children from Resurrection House not too long ago. During the mission to get them back, Jonathan and Boxers killed Ponder and destroyed one of Colombia’s most profitable cocaine rings, literally burning up tens of millions of dollars in product and processing equipment.
“Since you’re mentioning his name, I’m assuming there’s a connection,” Dom said. “I mean, between that incident in Colombia and what’s happening now.”
Irene nodded. “We think there is, yes. I just learned that at the time of Digger’s adventures in Colombia, Trevor Munro was on Mitch Ponder’s payroll, offering protection to Ponder’s operation in return for serious cash.”
“How serious?”
“Does it matter? Serious enough to justify retribution.”
Dom took some time to process the details. “So the CIA is behind all of this?”
“Not behind it,” Irene corrected, “but complicit in it. It turns out that Mitch Ponder was a manufacturer of product, not a distributor. His primary customer was a very bad guy named Felix Hernandez—one of Mexico’s big three drug lords. When Digger stopped the music by killing Ponder, Hernandez was the one left without a chair, and he was not happy about it. Beyond the economic loss, he was doubly pissed because he was convinced that Digger’s mayhem was an Agency operation. He thought Munro had betrayed him.
“Munro denied it, of course, but an angry drug lord is a very scary animal. Fearing for his life, Munro got himself transferred back to Langley, where, typical of the Agency, they promoted him to bigger and better things. As we speak, he’s one retirement away from being named ADD/CIA.”
Dom showed confusion.
“Oh, sorry,” Irene said. “Associate deputy director of the CIA. Number-three guy. Just south of requiring Senate approval.”
“How do you know all of thi
s?”
“I’ll get to that. Bottom line, all of this has convinced Hernandez even more that he’s being betrayed. And I can’t prove any of it. Yet. We have a source inside Hernandez’s cartel, though, who’s been working with us in return for future asylum. She tells us that Hernandez has been leaning hard on someone inside the U.S. intelligence community. She doesn’t know a name, but she knows it has something to do with betrayal and an Agency op gone bad. Hernandez keeps talking about having an important spy’s balls ... um, sensitive parts in his hands.
“Now this comes up. A lot of the rest is conjecture, especially the connection to the Crystal Palace, but really, what is the likelihood that a CIA cutout company would give a surprise donation to a troubled church just weeks before that money would be needed to pay off a ransom that happened to be delivered by the very team that caused the original mayhem? That’s a coincidence that comes as close to impossible as any I can think of.”
There was no arguing the point. “It just seems to be the long way around the barn to get three million in ransom.”
Irene made a shooing motion. “I don’t think it was about the ransom. I think it was about killing Digger and his team. I think Munro threw him under the bus.”
“Then why go through the whole charade of the kidnapping and Mexico? Why not just kill them on the street?”
She smiled. She’d been waiting for this question. “Again, I have to conjecture, but my guess is that Munro doesn’t know who he’s looking for. That’s why the Interpol alert is for Leon Harris and Richard Lerner. Dig and Boxers have used those handles for a long time, but because the covers are buried so deep, the names have never meant anything. Are those the names they used on their Colombia op?”
Dom had no idea.
“Let’s assume that they were,” Irene continued. “To get them, Munro had to stage a kidnapping and get the Crystal Palace to hire Security Solutions—again, not by name, but by the operators’ aliases.”
Damage Control Page 9
