“Well, we agree on that,” Tolman said. “So the CIA paid Gray to steal that map from the French. But you knew nothing about Napoleon’s letter? The letter and the map are worthless separately, but together—”
“You see, then. I wish the Agency had known about the letter. Together they are apparently quite valuable.”
“What’s still missing?” Tolman said, almost to herself. “Somehow, the map and the letter came together, and Gray wound up with both of them. How else do you explain Panhandle Mining and all that money going—”
“Going where?”
The sentence died, and Tolman looked at him, his face carefully impassive, the sun glinting off his glasses.
The CIA didn’t know about the White House connection. They didn’t know about four billion dollars in silver sales. All they knew was they had Ann Gray steal a map—a map they determined was worthless, until now.
And now … they wanted to know.
It never ended.
“That money went into someone’s pocket,” she finally said.
“That’s not what you were going to say.”
“You don’t think so?”
“No.”
“Well, tough shit, Mr. Denison. And Ann Gray is part of April 19. I don’t know what the game is, or exactly what Barry Cable found, but she’s part of it. They’re going to try to break these guys out today. She said they were going to ‘free their brothers.’”
“Ann Gray is not a terrorist,” Denison said. “She’s the ultimate professional. If she said something to you about April 19, it’s because she wants you to think she’s a part of it. Ann is all riddles and rhymes … she’s a master of sending people in circles. It’s how she’s stayed alive doing what she does, for over twenty years.”
They reached a side gate to the FTC, then turned around and worked their way along the strip of grass between the fence and the street. Denison’s phone rang, and he reached into his suit jacket. He listened, then hung up and looked at Tolman again. “That was Langley. The French are recalling their ambassador.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means that one of our strongest allies in the international community is about to break off diplomatic relations with the United States. And they’re threatening legal action in international court to force us to pay restitution, with interest, on royalties for money earned from this place in Texas.”
“They’re breaking off relations? The French are breaking off relations with us?”
“They are going to close their embassy. They’re already in a financial crisis that has the entire European Union teetering. This is not Greece or Ireland we’re talking about. This is France, the eighth largest economy in the world. It’s about to be a diplomatic problem, too—other EU countries may follow the French, just for the sake of a united Europe, standing against us. The French government of today is about as desperate as Napoleon III was one hundred and fifty years ago.” Denison looked straight at Tolman, unflinching. “And while they may be playing a game of diplomatic chicken, so to speak, they may not even think they really ‘deserve’ those funds. But they are certainly going to make a great deal of noise about it. They are showing the world their moral outrage and indignation and they are going to do everything they can at this point to make the United States look bad on the world stage. Now … are you sure you have nothing else to tell me, Ms. Tolman?”
Tolman’s head was spinning. What had started with Dana Cable’s murder had become an international crisis.
“Are you sure you have nothing else to tell me, Mr. Denison?” Tolman said.
For the first time, Denison showed his exasperation. He blew out a breath. “America is in flames. I don’t know what you think Ann Gray has to do with that, but be that as it may, it is a fact. And we’re about to lose one of our longest-standing political allies in the world. At this stage of the game, the French will do anything to prop up their economy, and if they think there’s an opportunity to squeeze money out of this situation, they will. So don’t play games with me, Ms. Tolman.”
“Games? Don’t talk to me about fucking games, Denison. You guys stole that map from the French, then when you decided it wasn’t worth your time, you chucked it aside. Well, apparently someone knew it was worth the time … and you are screwed. You set this mess—all of this!—into motion when you hired Ann Gray to steal that map. And you say I’m the one playing games.”
Tolman turned and strode toward the main gate of the FTC.
“Ms. Tolman?” Denison called after her. His voice was soft, but carried well.
She turned.
“The GSA sold the map to a private collector, a wealthy elderly gentleman named Noah Brandon.”
“Where? Where do I find this guy?”
“I have no records. The GSA informed the Agency as a courtesy—”
“Goddammit, Denison!”
Denison folded his hands together in front of him, as if he were about to pray. “As of six years ago, I understood that Mr. Brandon lived in Wilmington, North Carolina.”
CHAPTER
35
Bart Denison watched Meg Tolman walk to the guardhouse, pass through the checkpoint, and disappear inside the Federal Transfer Center. A plane took off from a nearby runway, and he watched it lift into the clear Oklahoma sky.
Oklahoma, for God’s sake, he thought.
Then Denison pulled out his phone and punched in a number. When a man answered, he said, “This is Bart Denison.”
“Go ahead,” growled the voice on the other end.
“Do you recall asking me some time ago if a short young blond woman who works on a certain river had ever asked about a certain mutual acquaintance of ours?”
“You heard from her?”
“Oklahoma City,” Denison said. “The Federal Transfer Center at the airport.”
“What the fuck’s she doing there?”
“She is under the impression that our mutual acquaintance is somehow connected with some prisoners who are being housed here.”
“You must be kidding.”
“I don’t kid.”
“Well, hell. No, you don’t. I still have assets in the area. Thanks for the call. I’ll remember it.”
“I’d rather you didn’t, Mr. Zale,” Denison said. “This was only a professional courtesy to a former employee of the Agency. We never talked.”
“I know the tune,” Victor Zale said.
“So you do. But, Mr. Zale, if I may ask … exactly what is going on?”
The line went dead, and Denison began to walk across the street toward his rental car. He slid into the seat, waited a moment, then placed another call.
When a woman answered, he said, “Run a full scan on a former Agency employee, Victor Zale. He’s been retired for a few years and is supposedly in private business. He was in the Operations directorate. Had a reputation for doing things no one else would do, and on occasion he surfaces and asks the Agency for certain professional considerations. I want to know everything. I want access to his communications. No paper on this. It’s strictly an internal matter, but I must know as soon as possible.”
Denison ended the call and sat with his hands on the steering wheel. What are you doing, Zale? What do you have to do with all this?
And what can I do about it? he thought as he dropped the car into gear.
* * *
A TV was on in one corner of the vacant office, with CNN cutting back and forth between burning federal buildings, protesters descending on Grant Park in Chicago for tomorrow’s competing rallies, and the scene right outside the FTC’s window—the tarmac where the April 19 killers would soon be transferred. Tolman glanced at the screen once, then looked away, filling the others in on what she’d learned from Denison.
“Wilmington,” Journey said. “Wilmington again.” He was sitting at a desk with Andrew, working a puzzle from his backpack. Andrew was very vocal, and FTC officers had checked the office several times.
“Ever been th
ere?” Tolman said.
“No, can’t say that I have.”
“You might be going soon.”
“Meg,” Journey said.
She looked up at him.
“Andrew needs to go home. This has been a lot for him to process. He needs familiar surroundings.”
Andrew screamed, then shot up out of the chair, both hands waggling and flapping furiously.
“I know, son,” Journey said, keeping his voice level. “We’ll go home soon.”
“But, Nick—,” Tolman said, then broke off, thinking of all Journey had done for her on this case. Things he didn’t have to do. She cut her eyes to Sandra, who sat quietly in the corner, reading a magazine and looking very tired. She’d dragged all of them through the mud in trying to find the truth of the Silver Cross … which was really about understanding the dying words of her friend.
“You’re right,” she said. “I’m sorry. When we’re finished here, we’ll figure out a way to get you home.” She glanced at Sharp. “But I still want Darrell to stay with you until we know what’s happening.”
“Meg,” Journey said, and Tolman looked up at the tone. “Don’t misunderstand me. You’re not getting rid of me.”
“But you said—”
“I said Andrew needs to go home. It’s a detour, but I’ll be back. I can’t walk away from this now. You should know me better than that.”
Tolman shook her head. “I guess I don’t. Just when I think I have you figured out, you surprise me.”
“Then you should stop trying to figure me out. I’ll see that Andrew is safely at home and cared for, then I’ll go.”
“Who’s going to look after him?”
“Haven’t gotten that far yet, but I’ll think of something,” Journey said. “You’re always trying to get me to talk about myself, so here’s something you might not have found in any of your databases: when I was pitching, I led my conference in complete games all four years of college. After I signed with the Tigers and was playing in the minor leagues, I led the league in complete games three of the four years, until I injured my arm.”
“Complete games. In baseball, that means—”
“Just what it says. It means I like to finish what I start.”
Tolman nodded, then glanced toward Sandra, who was looking at Journey with a vague, tired smile on her face. She cut her eyes to Tolman, and the two women looked at each other for a moment. “Looks like he’s made up his mind,” Tolman finally said.
“Looks like it,” Sandra said. Tolman thought she detected a note of something like pride in her voice.
Tolman moved to the desk and began working her phone and laptop. Journey sat down beside Sandra. She touched his hand. “These April 19 bombings,” she said. “All those buildings, all those people…”
Journey looked at her.
“It’s all mixed up with this, with the Silver Cross and Meg’s friend and the Civil War. Those people … all those people died because of this.”
It was a statement, not a question. “I think so,” Journey said.
“Dear God, Nick. I mean—for a while there, it could be academic, a puzzle, a series of questions to answer. Even after you were attacked, I still didn’t get it. But these people are blowing up buildings, all over the country … because of this. There’s an international crisis with France … because of this.”
“Yes,” Journey said, then went silent. Across the room, Andrew laughed loudly.
“I don’t know.…” Sandra let go of his hand, and folded her own back into her lap. “It isn’t academic anymore. It’s buildings on fire and people dying. God, Nick, it’s real, and no one seems to be able to stop it. It was three buildings on Friday, six last night. How many next time? Twelve or twenty or fifty?”
“We’re going to stop them.”
“How? We still aren’t even sure who they are. We’re a couple of history professors, Nick.”
“True. But you know that the answers to the present are often in history. And Sandra”—she looked into his eyes when he spoke her name—“no one else can do this. No one else knows as much of what is happening than the people in this room.”
Sandra waited, then nodded. She closed her eyes. “I should have taught summer classes this year.”
Journey smiled.
“I wish I didn’t know about all this,” Sandra said. “I should be working on my Eugene Debs paper. I shouldn’t know anything about how the world works. I should be blissfully unaware and watching TV like everyone else. You know that, right?”
“I know.”
“This is so much more than you first thought.”
“Yes.”
“You can’t walk away. We can’t walk away.” Sandra pulled her hair away from her face. “Man, I could tell some stories to my cousin the former federal marshal. I thought she was the one in the family who dealt with the dangerous stuff.”
There was a sharp knock on the door, and the warden entered, staring at Andrew, then looking at Tolman. “They’re in iron and we’re about to take them to the SOAP plane. If you want to talk to them, it’s now or never.”
“Thanks, Warden.”
“I do this under protest, Ms. Tolman. But because you’re federal, I guess I have to.”
“Doing my job. I won’t keep them long. Come on, Nick.”
The warden pointed at Andrew. “The boy can’t come. No minors in there. I won’t bend that regulation, even for RIO.”
Tolman looked at Andrew, then the warden. “That’s a good regulation, Warden.” She glanced at Sandra. “Can you—”
Sandra closed her magazine. “Of course I will.”
“We won’t be long,” Tolman said. “Darrell, will you stay with Sandra and Andrew?”
Sharp nodded.
“Now,” Tolman said, “let’s go meet April 19.”
The warden led them down a series of hallways, through metal detectors—Tolman had already checked her SIG when she entered the facility—and a series of heavy metal doors, until they found themselves in a long, narrow hallway. It was the last section before prisoners at the FTC were taken on to the jetway and put on board the airplanes.
As they approached the end of the hallway, they encountered more officers. The aviation enforcement officers, or AEOs, wore tan pants with U.S. Marshals shirts and caps. ASOs, aviation security officers, were contract employees, in blue shirts and uniform trousers. Tolman counted over a dozen in the hallway.
“You still think there’s a threat of someone trying to break these guys out?” the warden asked Tolman.
“That’s why I called and had you double the security. You have armed people on the tarmac?”
“Six men with shotguns,” the warden said. “This is a hell of a lot more than we’d usually do for four prisoners, even SOAP prisoners like these.”
“I have credible information that members of April 19 are going to try to break them out,” Tolman said.
“Thought these assholes were busy blowing up buildings,” said one of the ASOs as they passed.
“Yeah, that’s why all the damn TV reporters are out there,” said another. “If these guys had stayed quiet like they were before, this wouldn’t be such a circus.”
Tolman started to snap out a reply, then the sentence faded away.
“If she said something to you about April 19,” Denison had said, “it’s because she wants you to think she’s a part of it. Ann is all riddles and rhymes … she’s a master of sending people in circles.”
Tolman stopped in her tracks, so abruptly that Journey bumped into her.
“Meg?” he said.
“She wants you to think she’s a part of it.”
“Riddles and rhymes … sending people in circles…”
She wasn’t part of April 19. Ann Gray was April 19.
Except April 19 wasn’t what it claimed to be.
“Son of a bitch,” Tolman whispered.
“What?” Journey said.
“Nothing’s going to happen here,”
Tolman said. Her words sounded thick as she said them, as if she’d been shaken awake from a strange dream.
“What?” Journey said again.
Tolman looked at him, blue eyes boring into his brown ones. “No one’s going to try to break these guys out of here. April 19 freeing their ‘brothers’? It’s a con, a fake. Gray sent us here. She wants us to see something.”
“What are you talking about?” the warden said.
“What’s she telling us?” Journey said, ignoring the warden. “The CIA, the map, the French … what? The collector in Wilmington? These guys, the terrorists?”
“They’re not terrorists,” Tolman said.
“Are you out of your mind?” the warden said.
“Murderers, yes,” Tolman said. “Terrorists, no.”
They reached the holding room off the long hallway and the warden opened the door. Surrounded by officers, the four men were dressed identically in tan shirts and elastic-waistband pants, similar to hospital scrubs. They all wore slip-on tennis shoes, and all were shackled at their feet, chains looped around their midsections. Their hands were cuffed in front of them, at waist level.
Tolman recognized them from the famous picture of them being arrested outside the GAO building. The one in front was Jeremy Rayburn. This was no crew-cut Timothy McVeigh with ramrod military posture and cold eyes. Rayburn slouched, had a bit of a belly, and long, stringy hair. He was looking straight at her.
As she walked up to him, she remembered Ann Gray on the phone, when talking about April 19 freeing its brothers: “The leader will not be silenced.”
“The leader.”
She wants me to talk to him, Tolman thought.
“April 19 isn’t real, is it?” Tolman said to Rayburn.
Rayburn laughed in his throat. “Here we are,” he said. “Don’t we look real?”
“Ann Gray hired you to kill Barry Cable, to take out the GAO building and make it look like an antigovernment terrorist group,” Tolman said.
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