If stopped, he’d show his passport, and if questioned, answer in perfect English. He hadn’t yet shared that he even knew the language. There had been no need, and wouldn’t be until he reached the border. He did not, however, know any Spanish, and had managed this far not understanding a word of the language by pretending to be deaf. If someone spoke, he pointed to his ears. They nodded in understanding, then pantomimed in exaggerated movements and spoke louder, gladly helping him past any obstacles, getting him food, water, whatever it was he needed.
Playing deaf was how he’d learned to get by in the orphanage, a place where he’d spent most of his childhood, a place where the sound of American bombing was a constant reminder of the explosions that had killed his family. Although he’d been surrounded by other orphaned children, he always felt alone. They were not his sister and brothers, who had died beneath the rubble of what was once his house. These children had each other.
He had no one.
Until the insurgents arrived. That night, they dragged all the boys, screaming, crying, from their beds, herded them into a truck, and took them to a camp where they taught them to fight, hold a gun, rig a bomb. They gave them purpose, a reason for living, at least in Yusuf’s mind. And one of the men had discovered his ability to mimic sounds he heard, changing his voice to match that of whoever he was around.
This was a particularly useful skill in one so youthful, one of the leaders said, and so they taught him English and had him watch movies until his accent was no different than that of the Americans who’d invaded their country. The other boys, those who had sense, were envious at his newfound status. While they huddled around fires at night, trying to stay warm, he was taken into the leader’s tent to show off what he had learned.
Even then he found that he did not belong. The other boys shunned him. And when he tried to make friends with the older fighters, they pushed him away. Only the leader talked to him, made him practice his English. According to him, Yusuf would change the world. He would change history and be able to reach Paradise.
And so it was that when the insurgents came once again in the middle of the night, this time tearing down the walls of the prison, Yusuf was the first to volunteer for the assignment that would take him to America for the supreme sacrifice.
The old truck bounced along the dusty road, and as the American border drew closer, he knew without a doubt that this was what he had been trained for.
What he’d waited for his entire life.
7
Griffin scanned the reports one by one, searching for anything that might lead them not only to where Yusuf might gain entry into the country, but also where this cell he was allegedly activating might be located. McNiel had, rightly, redirected every operation to the location and capture of the man they considered to be a major threat to U.S. security. CIA had warned that ever since he’d been kidnapped from the orphanage in Somalia by a terrorist group looking to enhance the numbers of their army, he blamed the U.S. for the deaths of his family, and had nursed that grudge into hatred.
Tex walked in with a new stack of paperwork. “Not a lot here, but the FBI forwarded a theft report from National Nuclear Security Administration. Some hospital in California that closed down after an earthquake is now missing a radiotherapy unit. They’re not sure if it was stolen, or maybe moved to another facility. Still trying to track down the records, which were lost in the earthquake.”
“Where in California?”
“North of Los Angeles. And according to the report, it was a couple months ago. Nothing’s been seen or heard since.”
“Let’s hope it’s not related. The thought of Yusuf with nuclear anything isn’t one I want to entertain.”
Tex dropped the reports in Griffin’s In basket. “Here you go. More of the same. Like looking for a needle in a haystack.”
He left, and Griffin glanced over at the photograph of his late wife. She’d always excelled at this sort of thing. Looking for the missing puzzle piece, the bit of information gleaned from seemingly random reports that clinched a case. She’d loved the work more than him, which had doomed their marriage from the beginning. That still didn’t take away the pain when she died, and he kept her photo as a reminder of the good times, not the bad. Hers was a senseless death that made little difference, because the world would never know her sacrifice. How could they, when the government would never acknowledge that she even worked for them . . . ?
“Zachary . . . ?”
He looked up, saw one of the secretaries from downstairs, watching him from the doorway. “Sorry. A little lost in thought.”
She glanced at the photo as she walked in, and he could tell it made her uncomfortable, probably because she didn’t know what to say. She handed him an envelope. “This came by courier.”
“Thanks.”
It was addressed to the editor of the Washington Recorder. He opened it, finding two tickets to the documentary fund-raiser Dorian had talked about, From Sticks to Bricks. There was a typewritten note, stating that they were extending press passes to a few select newspapers. Scrawled in blue ink below it was a message reading: “Thought you could use these.” It was signed, “Dorian.”
Griffin set it aside, since McNiel had made it clear he’d rather they didn’t involve themselves, their priority now being the hunt for Yusuf. So be it. An hour later his phone rang and he was surprised to see it was dark out.
It was Tex.
“I just got a call from Dorian Rose. He says he’s changed his mind. He wants to talk now, but only if I come alone.”
Griffin glanced at the envelope. “He sent you tickets.”
“He mentioned it. Thing is, there was something off about his call. The cadence. Like maybe someone was telling him what to say.”
“Where are you?”
“A couple blocks from his apartment building.”
“I can be there in fifteen minutes.”
Dorian Rose lived in a middle-class neighborhood filled with brick-fronted elegant apartments worlds apart from the slums they’d found him in that first day. His window faced the front, and Tex had already driven past. “There’s a central lobby with an elevator,” he told Griffin when they met up. “Dorian lives on the second floor. It looks like there’s a fire escape on the side that you might be able to use to access his unit and see in.”
They split up, Tex driving to the front, Griffin driving around to the back of the unit, then walking to the side. As soon as he got there, he realized the futility of trying to get up on the fire escape and called Tex. “Too high. I’m going to have to get—”
A gunshot pierced the night, echoed off the brick wall.
“Tex?” he said, running toward the front of the building.
“Hell. Tell me that wasn’t Dorian’s place?”
Momentary relief flooded through Griffin on hearing Tex’s voice as he pushed open the lobby door. “Sounded like it. Where are you?”
“Just up the street. No goddamned parking out front.”
The elevator pinged as the door opened, and Griffin saw a woman standing within, digging through her purse, seemingly oblivious to his presence as he entered and she exited, pulling her keys out as she walked toward the lobby door. Griffin hit the stop switch on the elevator, then ran to the stairs, taking them two at a time.
“Elevator’s waiting,” Griffin said into the phone. He’d made it to the first landing when Tex announced he’d arrived. By the time Griffin made it to the third floor, Tex was stepping off the elevator.
“Stairs were clear,” Griffin said.
They moved to either side of Dorian’s apartment door, their guns drawn, just as the door across the hall opened and a woman, gray hair, her face a network of wrinkles, poked her head out, eyeing them and the weapons they held. “My you’re fast. I only just called 911!”
“Might want to close that door, ma’am,” Tex said. The moment she did, he nodded, and Griffin reached out, turned the knob. It was unlocked and Griffin pushed the doo
r with his foot, peered in, smelling the sharp scent of tobacco from a recently burned cigarette. He entered, followed by Tex.
They found Dorian lying in a pool of blood on the kitchen floor just beside the dinette table, a gun nearby, and a note on the table next to an ashtray filled with cigarette butts. Cold air swept in through the kitchen window, probably cracked open because of the smoking. It was undoubtedly the reason for the clarity of the gunshot when Griffin was standing outside.
He and Tex searched the rest of the apartment to make sure no one else was present. Something about the place bothered Griffin, but he couldn’t put his finger on it. They returned to the kitchen, both men standing over the body, as sirens sounded in the distance.
“You better get out of here before the cops come,” Tex said, peering out the window.
“What are you going to do?”
“Talk to the old lady across the hall and find out what she saw.”
Griffin took one last look around, noticing the distinct demarcation of dust on the bookshelves in the front room . . . “They were looking for something.”
Tex was snapping photos of the suicide note with his cell phone. “Will you get out of here?”
He left, rushing down the three flights of stairs, guilt weighing heavily on him, even though he knew better than to think that Dorian’s death was his fault.
Taking the last few stairs two at a time, Griffin skidded around the corner into the lobby, then stopped cold at the sight of several uniformed officers blocking his way, weapons pointed at his chest.
“Police!” one of them shouted.
Griffin raised his hands. “I’m a cop,” he said. “I have a gun.”
“That right?” one of the officers replied. “You got any ID saying so?”
Which is when he realized he’d left his Department of Justice ID in his desk, because he’d been on a mission in Mexico. There was no ID for ATLAS; it didn’t exist on paper. “No. I’m working undercover with the FBI.”
“You and every other crook. Meantime, lock your hands behind your neck and don’t make any moves.” The officer nodded to his partner, who stepped up behind Griffin, gripped his hands as he searched him, removed his weapon, then cuffed him.
“And who is it at the FBI you want us to contact?”
“Special Agent Sydney Fitzpatrick. Quantico.”
They led him to a waiting patrol car, put him in the back, then slammed the door closed.
Back less than a day and things were already starting to go wrong.
8
Tex heard the heavy steps of the police in the stairwell, then knocked harder on the neighbor’s door. “C’mon, c’mon,” he urged.
Finally, the sound of a lock being turned, and the door opened slightly, a chain still securing it from the inside as the white-haired woman peered through the crack. “Oh, hello.”
“I was hoping to ask you a few questions about what happened.”
“Is everything okay with Dorian? He’s such a nice young man.”
The footsteps grew louder, and he eyed the small placard on her door beneath the apartment number where her name was printed out: Edna Davis. “Mind if I come in, Mrs. Davis?”
“Oh, of course. Here. Just let me undo the chain.” She fumbled with it for a few seconds. “My fingers don’t work as well as they used to.”
Tex attempted a patient smile, all the while silently willing her to move faster. If the cops rounded that corner and saw him . . .
“Here we go,” she said as the chain fell, rattling against the frame, and she pulled the door open. Tex stepped in, and he heard the footsteps slowing as they reached the top of the stairwell, preparing for the entry onto Dorian’s floor.
Timing was everything, he thought as she closed the door. Outside in the hallway, he heard the commotion of the police across the hall, and he hoped she wasn’t paying attention.
“Is Dorian okay?” she asked again. “I couldn’t tell if it was a gunshot or a firecracker.”
He had a feeling she’d be too upset to talk if she knew the truth, and so decided a partial truth was best. “We believe it was a gunshot.”
“Oh my. I hope no one was hurt.”
“We’re checking into it. I’m just wondering what you can tell me about him.”
“Very polite, that boy. Would you like something to drink? I was just about to make a cup of chamomile tea.”
“No, thank you, ma’am,” he said, following her into the kitchen, taking in the layout of the apartment, cookie cutter to Dorian’s. Peering out the window, he saw no sign of the police on this side of the building. “You were saying about Dorian?”
“Was I? Oh, yes, nice young man. Worked at that charity that everyone’s so keen about these days. The one on the news?”
“Sticks for Bricks?”
“Something like that. He talked about it a lot, but he wasn’t extolling its virtues.” She opened the cupboard and sighed. “My daughter-in-law is six inches taller than me, and when she visits, she always puts my favorite mug on the top shelf. I think she does it on purpose. Would you mind?”
Tex walked over, saw the upper shelf filled with assorted mugs. “Which one?”
“The one that says, ‘Queen of Everything.’ ” He handed it to her and she proceeded to fill it with water from the sink, saying, “Ironic, since I don’t have anyone to lord it over, but my husband gave it to me before he passed. Are you sure you don’t want some tea?”
“No ma’am. You were saying Dorian was unhappy at the charity?”
She put the cup in the microwave, pressed a button, and while it heated up the water, she tore open a bag of tea, saying, “Maybe unhappy wasn’t the right word. But when I suggested leaving my money to it instead of my no-good son, Dorian made me promise to leave it to the Red Cross instead. Odd, don’t you think?”
“They’re a good organization.”
“Yes, but they don’t have Micah Goodwin, do they? Very handsome, that one.” The microwave dinged, and she removed the cup, then dropped the tea bag in, saying, “Dorian was always going on about Micah. At first saying how wonderful he was, but these last few weeks, well, I gathered that something was wrong. That’s when he told me to leave my money to the Red Cross.”
“Any idea what caused his change of heart?”
“He said they weren’t spending the money they were given. All very confusing. And then tonight, when he helped me carry up my groceries, he asked what I would do if I knew something bad was going on that was hurting a lot of people. Before I could even ask him what he meant, that tall black man showed up at his apartment again. He’s from Africa, you know. I heard them arguing, and the man told Dorian that he would pay for breaking his promise and not talking to the landlord. He said they were all going to protest, and Dorian begged him not to do anything foolish. That was it. Scared me half to death, they were yelling so loud, and I ran in here straightaway and bolted my door.”
“Do you think that’s who fired the shot?”
“I don’t believe so. I saw him drive off when I went back down to get my mail.”
He heard the police radios outside in the hall. “I don’t suppose Dorian or this man mentioned any names?”
“No, but I gathered the man might have worked for Dorian at the charity,” she said, just as there was a knock at the door. “More officers?”
“Probably. May I use your bathroom, Mrs. Davis?”
“Of course. Just down the hall, to the right.”
“Thank you. Don’t forget to look out the peephole.”
“Who’s there?” she called out.
“Police.”
He heard the sound of the door opening, then Mrs. Davis saying, “I was just talking to one of your detectives.”
“What detective? We haven’t called them yet.”
“The one in the bathroom,” she said. “I’m sure he’ll be out in a moment.”
9
It was well after ten P.M. by the time Sydney made it to the police depart
ment and asked to see the watch commander. Tired from her flight out from California, she wasn’t sure that she was the best person to try to pull this off. First, she was technically still on administrative leave for the shooting in California, and would be until the Bureau’s psychiatrist cleared her for duty. Second, she had no way to explain why a covert agent that didn’t exist on paper was allegedly on the FBI payroll. She only hoped the ID Tex had provided her, once he made his way out the neighbor’s fire escape, would pass muster, since she really didn’t have time to look at it. Her only saving grace was that she knew a number of MPDC personnel from her years working in the capital.
When she saw Lieutenant Thomas Sanchez standing at the counter, it was one of those Thank God moments, and she searched her memory banks for a thread of something pleasant to break the ice. He owned a pristine 1960 Cadillac, last she recalled. She smiled and held out her hand. “Lieutenant Sanchez. Good to see you. How’s that pink Cadillac of yours?”
“Champagne pink.”
“Right. How could I forget?”
“Running like a dream,” he said, shaking her hand. “What brings you to my humble digs?”
“Heard you’ve got one of my people in custody.”
“He’d be the guy they caught running from the building? The one working undercover?”
“Correct on both counts.”
“Interview room down the hall. Don’t suppose you have ID for him?”
“Of course,” she said, figuring he wasn’t going to simply let Griffin walk out of there without an explanation. Now all she had to do was think of one, and she slid the packet Tex had given her across the counter.
He opened it, pulled out the FBI credential and badge. Looked like the real thing. Hell, it probably was, knowing ATLAS. “So,” he said, examining the ID. “Why didn’t he have this on him?”
“Deep undercover. So we’d appreciate it if his name didn’t pop up in your report. Or mine, either, for that matter.”
The Black List Page 4
