by Fiona Quinn
“I see that we must focus on some fundamentals, Lexicon. Remember that ‘the noble-minded are calm and steady.’ How can you hope to decapitate a Hydra if you exhaust your energy with the tornado of emotions you are dancing through?”
Huh. That was a good way to describe how I felt. Like life events buffeted me in one direction and then the next by the winds of change, and I was doing the quick-step to keep from toppling over. “Is that what I need to do, behead the Hydra?”
“You are not alone. But yes, when all is said and done, it will be you and I who resolve this problem. Come, the food grows cold; we can talk this through over lunch.”
“Not Strike Force?”
“At times we may need their expertise and support; however, their scope will be limited and always need-to-know,” he said as he dished tofu and vegetables onto the plates. “Our mission is classified and even Command wishes to be kept in the dark.”
“And the mission is ‘behead the Hydra.’ How many heads are on this monster?” I pulled chopsticks from their paper sleeve and set them across Spyder’s dish.
“There is the financial head represented by Sylanos. In the past, you puzzled through many crimes that helped to dismantle his infrastructure. But over the last months, he has moved the tiller. His ship has turned in a new direction, and he has taken on new cargo.”
“Did he change because he was influenced by the other heads?” I asked.
“Precisely. Then we have the head of political power.”
“The Assembly.” I lifted a long noodle with my chopsticks and slurped it into my mouth.
“Indeed. Their membership controls much of law enforcement and politics on both sides of the aisle, as well as the judiciary. They make prosecution difficult and longevity for the imprisoned very short.”
“Lest those who were arrested give away information?” I searched in the bags for napkins and, finding none, moved to the counter where I saw a roll of paper towels.
“I believe this to be true.”
“I understand from the Maria Rodriguez interrogation tapes that the money from Sylanos paid for political campaigns, vacations, and luxuries for the Assembly men, and the Assembly men in return made sure that Omega gets the contracts it needs to stay fat with cash. Omega then turns a blind eye to the crimes committed by Sylanos. In essence, Omega worked as the brawn of that triangle. But I thought that while Omega had no problem treading all over conventional ethics and foreign laws, they weren’t committing crimes in America. Is that still the case?”
“Omega balances on a very fine line. We will need to outsmart Omega to grab the flag and be crowned King of the Hill.”
“So taking down the Hydra—I’m not sure what that means, Spyder. Are you saying this is you and me up against Sylanos, Omega, and the Assembly? That’s what you’re saying?”
Spyder nodded.
I burst out laughing. “Yeah, right.”
We ate in silence. I turned ideas for stopping this coalition over in my head. I couldn’t think of any possible way that Spyder and I could succeed. But I also knew better than to underestimate Spyder.
“You know, when I was recovering from the plane crash at Striker’s house, I had a Skype conference with Mr. Spencer, and he said the Assembly was a Moby Dick. Do you agree?”
“Yes, if you follow thoughts in a linear pattern. But that is not how great minds work. Great minds. . .” His voice faded out, indicating that he was the master and the novice should finish the explanation.
“. . . work by allowing the subconscious to find a solution in the field of all possibilities.”
“Exactly.” He sat back and grinned at me. “Now we have a financial head, a security head, and a political head. There is one last head that we need to discuss.”
“Another one?” I pushed my plate aside and focused fully on Spyder.
“Yes. As you know, this has been a task that I have been working on for over a decade. Many, many of the puzzles that you have worked through since I began mentoring you, and in your work with Iniquus as well, have been tied together.”
“I’ve seen that.”
“It is my belief that all of this has been orchestrated by one man. They call him Indigo in their communications, but amongst themselves, he is known as the Puppet Master.”
My eyes blinked wide. “Jonathan Frith?” I asked with incredulity.
Spyder laughed his thunderous laugh. As he sobered, he patted my hand. “I read the transcripts when you pulled a confession from him. You did a most excellent job, Lexicon. I could not have been prouder. But Frith was not a puppet master.”
“Thank you, sir. But then, you know Frith thought in terms of Travis Wilson as his marionette and orchestrating. . .well, all the crap he made happen, with Tom Matsy and burning my apartment building to the ground. He called himself the Puppet Master.”
“Frith was a narcissist. His mental health made him delusional. In the case of Indigo, I do not believe this is true. I believe he hates very deeply and his hatred spurs him to try to control, manipulate, and destroy.”
“And there’s no way that Indigo and Frith could be one and the same?”
“None at all. Frith no longer exists. He was killed in jail.”
“Wait. What? When did that happen? How did that happen?”
“He was caught in the middle of a gang fight. They believe it was a Hellhound who snapped his neck.”
“Huh. So the Puppet Master is also Indigo.” I leaned back in my chair. “Neither of those names engenders fear.” I gave a half-smile.
“Fear saps your ability to think and react. I do not wish you to feel fear. I would wish you to exercise extreme caution. Indigo wishes to pull Iniquus from her throne. And you, my dear.” He reached out and tapped my head. “You are a jewel in the Iniquus crown.”
A smile played over my lips. “Ha. As if.” I stood and gathered our trash, then threw it away in the kitchenette. “Okay, where do you want me to start?”
“There is a charity ball this Saturday, benefitting arts outreach programs in the school systems. Many wealthy and connected people will be there. Many people from your past casework, as well. I would like you to go, enjoy yourself, look around and see what there is to see.”
“That’s it? Nothing concrete or specific? What about backup?”
“Iniquus operatives will be in the building.”
“But they won’t be assigned to me, right?”
“They have their own mission. Perhaps they will not even recognize that you are there. I cannot say that there will be no danger; I will say that you would be wise to exercise every caution. Remember your training.”
Alone at a ball. Undercover with no back up. I wondered just what training Spyder thought I’d need. I hoped I was as prepared as Spyder seemed to believe me to be.
Nine
I swiped my finger over the red disconnect symbol and held my phone in my hand. The Arts Council had sold all of its tickets for the ball. How was I going to get in? Iniquus would be able to easily produce a ticket for me. But if a mole burrowed in the dark corners of our company, I had to make sure not to feed it with my words and actions. I needed to guard my mission. I realized right away that not having access to Iniquus resources was going to be a problem.
Who did I know. . . ah, my friend Celia. Of course. I rang her number. When she didn’t answer, I texted. Have sudden urge to promote the arts. Understand there’s a ball Saturday at Smithsonian. Any idea how I can get a ticket?
Bubbles tickled over my skin, the effervescence of energy brushing by. It seemed to slide from the open file on my desk, past me. I moved through my door to see if I could sense a direction or path but got nothing. I stopped in front of the picture in the hall. This was different. Someone had changed the art.
“What are you doing out here in the hall?” Gater asked.
“This wasn’t here before.” I pointed at the black and white design in front of me, an ink drawing of a landscape, almost Japanese in its Zen-like rest
raint. It was more of the suggestion of a landscape than an actual undulation of earth beneath sky. The piece that had been here before had been intricate and mesmerizing, almost dancing off the wall as the lines swayed and leapt. This image was a total one-eighty.
“Yeah. The design team came in and did a bunch of rearranging. They changed all the art in the building.”
“All the art?” Fear prickled the back of my neck, sending off static sparks, igniting my heebie-jeebies into a blaze. “What happened next?”
“Huh?” Gater tilted his head as he looked down at me from his six-foot-three height.
The prickle turned into a shiver as I repeated, “What happened next – after they changed the art?”
Gater scraped his teeth over his lower lip. I couldn’t tell if he was moving through an internal timeline in order to answer me, or if he was considering how crazy my question sounded.
The clang of elevator doors sliding open turned both our heads. Jack walked out, only a slight limp in his gait.
Thank you, God. “I can’t believe it, miracle man. Look at you. How did they get you up so soon?” I hurried over and gave him a warm hug. “I didn’t think we’d be seeing you here for at least a few weeks.”
“Yeah, well, I’m coming right from the hospital. I have to go by for check-ups every day.”
I took a step back and considered him. “That sounds a little bit like you signed yourself out against medical advice.”
“I was completely stir-crazy lying there. The doctors and I had a chat, and this is our happy medium.”
“Because you probably intimidated the hell out them.” I cocked my head. “They said you could go back to work? I can’t imagine a scenario where that could be alright. You just got your chest tube out.”
“Lynx, I appreciate the concern, I do, but I heal fast. They said I could come in for an hour or so if I’m sitting.” He draped his arm over my shoulder as we moved to the Puzzle Room door. “I’d appreciate it if you kept this to yourself, though. Suz would blow a gasket if she knew I was here.” He stopped with his hand on the knob and gave me a conspiratorial wink. “She thinks I’m in respiratory therapy, but that’s not until later this afternoon.”
I could see the effects of Jack’s pain medication in his eyes. Even though I knew the hospital wouldn’t release him without a driver, I still needed to check that he had someone assigned until he was better. One traumatic event was more than enough.
“But the best therapy for me is getting my mind back on the job,” Jack continued as he pushed the door open and took halting steps into the Puzzle Room. “I need to know what the hell happened out there. Have you been able to figure it out, Lynx?”
“I think I figured out how the target and hostages died. The FBI gave the info to their hazmat analyst for confirmation. But I have no idea how the comms got screwed. Or how anyone would know how and where the team set up. The best I can figure is we have a mole.” I had to push those last words past a reluctant tongue.
My mind went back to the conversation I had overheard between Leanne and the secretaries. If they talked that way off-campus, someone might be gathering the pieces and putting them together. I thought of the World War II posters, “Loose Lips Sink Ships” and “Tittle Tattle Lost the Battle.” Maybe we needed those displayed in the elevators. Probably not a good look for visiting contractors, though.
“A mole here at Iniquus or at the FBI?” Jack asked, easing his giant frame down into my captain’s chair.
“My guess is here at Iniquus. Though it kills me to say it.” I held the roller stool steady as he propped up his foot.
Jack looked around to the corner where the dogs’ beds lay empty. “Where are Beetle and Bella?”
“Training. The Millers wanted to use them to help the dogs Axel brought up from Honduras learn faster. You know, dog-to-dog mentorship.” I grinned.
The door opened and the rest of the team swarmed in and set up shop. I wasn’t directly involved with the mission they were going to discuss. Mr. Spencer told Striker I was operating solo on a case. Apparently, that chat hadn’t gone well. Since I didn’t need to meet with Spyder until lunch, I offered to give the team my two cents as they planned today’s takedown. Another set of eyes and ears might help the mission succeed.
“Striker’s not coming?” I asked.
“Got hung up in the field this morning. He’ll be in soon,” Randy said.
Ah, “the field.” That meant he was somewhere with Vine. I wasn’t jealous. Or upset. I wasn’t. But he didn’t tell me he was doing fieldwork when he left early this morning. For a moment, I imagined our future lives together. “Hi, honey. How was your day?” “Classified. And yours?” “Also classified. Shall we grab takeout for dinner?”
“You okay, Lynx? You seem grim,” Randy said.
“Nope, just mulling.” My phone vibrated, and I glanced down at the text.
Graham says if you take his place Saturday, he’ll spring for a spa day that morning. xx C.
I typed back. Ha! Glad to give him the night off. So you two were already going?
Celia responded: I was going; he was being dragged, LOL. It’ll be fun to hang out together xx C
P.S. Dress at my house after spa. Have new gowns for you to choose, making appointments now.
Celia was going to be my date to the ball. Was that safe for her? Well, my assignment was to go, enjoy, and observe. That seemed harmless enough. And since Celia knew everyone, it might just make things easier. Good.
I unlocked my file cabinet and pulled out the envelopes with my different aliases. Depending on the circumstances, I needed to fill my wallet with supporting ID, credit cards, insurance cards, and family pictures. I chose “Leslie Snyder.” That way if Celia called me Lexi it would sound the same-ish.
Celia was well practiced with keeping her tongue from wagging. Her husband’s work made her ultra-aware that lives and welfare often depended on his diplomatic secrets. It was nice having at least one person outside of Iniquus who knew what my job entailed. Everyone else thought I did data entry. I caught Jack with his eyes hard on me. I gave him a little smile as I put the rest of the envelopes away, and stuck my alias in my back pocket.
Sitting down, I leafed through the data that ATF had collected. I focused intermittently at the videos that Axel showed on the main screen while the men took notes and discussed timetables and warrants. They posted their notes on the board, and started to discuss weak spots, what could go wrong, and what their responses could be.
Axel’s phone vibrated, and he confirmed the warrants were in house; they could roll. Everyone stood to gather their things.
“Stop. Just stop.” I scratched my fingers through my hair. “This is the wrong guy.”
There was stunned silence as my teammates froze, followed by an explosion of disbelief.
“It’s not him. I promise you,” I said.
“How could you know that, Lynx?” Jack asked.
I shifted through the photos and held one up. “Because the palm print on the wall is shoulder-height, left handed.”
“I’m not following you, Lynx,” Axel said, moving over to take the image from my hand and putting it in the DLP projector for everyone to see. Dusting powder showed a handprint on the wall directly in front of where the man had stood. Axel had said the print had been wiped, so while we knew a hand had been there, the identifiers weren’t conclusive.
“The guy rested his left hand on the wall for stability, which means he used his right hand for the retrieval.” I passed Axel another photo that he fed into the projector. “Bruising on the witness was to the left eye made by a right-handed hook punch. And look at this note.” I handed another photo to Axel. “The letters slant right, not left. The perp is right-handed. Goffman is left-handed.”
“Those clues could add up to the guy being right-handed, but not necessarily, especially the slant of his letters.”
“True, Axel. But look.” I moved to the front of the room and pointed to the screen. “
He uses a sarcasm stroke. A sarcasm stroke abruptly lifts the pen, cutting a stroke short when crossing a T. In right-handed people, it points right. On a left-handed person, it points left. These point right. And, if that isn’t enough, then look how the side of his paper is smudged on the right.” I gestured up and down the side of the image. “That’s where his hand picked up pencil graphite as he moved over the page. The criminal is definitely right-handed, and the guy you’re watching is definitely left-handed.”
“What?” Deep picked up the pictures of Goffman. “How the hell can you tell that?”
I pointed at the close-up. “Watch is on the right. And the setting pin is facing toward the hand, which means it is specifically designed to be worn on the right hand. And here.” I pointed at the next photo in the line. “Wallet is on the left. And here, he’s carrying his things in his right hand, using his left hand to make conversational gestures. Here, even though both of his hands are empty, he’s reaching across to open the door with his left hand, which is awkward and kind of rules out his being ambidextrous. And here, we see him switching his coat and briefcase to his left so he can shake hands. And here his keys are palmed left and here —”
“Got it.” Axel said, then exhaled loudly. “We’re back at the starting line.”
“Sorry.” As my whisper passed over my lips, Striker walked into the room. He stopped and quirked a questioning eyebrow.
“Lynx figured out we’ve got the wrong guy,” Gater said.
Striker leaned his head back and gave a full-throated laugh. He checked his watch. “One hour and eleven minutes, and Lynx undoes six months of work by seven ATF field operatives. Glad to have you back in the Puzzle Room, Chica.”
Ten
I stood in Celia’s closet, which was about the size of the entire top floor of my shotgun duplex on the blue-collar side of town, across the street from her cousin, Alice. When Alice introduced me to Celia, I moved to only one degree of separation in the Kevin Bacon proximity game. Celia and Graham had vacationed with him in the Mediterranean a few years ago. Small world.
