“Any idea where they live?”
“Somewhere in England . . . ?”
“Letters from anyone? Return address from anything we might be able to trace him to?”
She shook her head, looking around the room. “Do you think he made that up, too?”
When no one answered, her face crumpled. “But he said he loved me!” She covered her eyes with her hands, sobbing.
“Ah, geez,” Carillo said on an exhale. He walked over, put his arm around her shoulder. “How about you go lie down. Take a nap, okay?”
She nodded, allowing him to help her from the chair, then walk her into the spare bedroom. “I can’t believe . . . what an idiot I am . . .”
“Nah, trust me. There’s way bigger idiots out there.”
Sydney, glad to see Carillo finally coming round, waited until they disappeared into the room before asking, “Wouldn’t he have had a visa when he flew out here with Carillo?”
“We already checked. His ID was American. Driver’s license only with his aka. So whoever facilitated his U.S. stay did a damned good job of getting him some good old-fashioned American ID to get into the country and out of it.”
“He wasn’t on the same flight as Micah and Eve?”
“The only one we can even place on a flight is Micah,” Tex said. “And yet we have all three passing through airport security around the same time. Since they couldn’t get past there without a ticket, we have to assume the worst. They’re gone. Right along with our lead to wherever this money is disappearing to.”
Carillo returned, picking up his coffee cup.
“How is she?” Sydney asked.
“A mess. And here I thought Trip was the one.” He sipped his coffee, made a face, then walked over to the sink and dumped it. “My impending alimony aside, what now?”
Griffin leaned back in his chair, sliding the photo back into the folder. “Donovan’s meeting up with a local MI6 agent as we speak.”
“Donovan?” Carillo asked.
“Donovan Archer. Another ATLAS agent,” he replied, and Sydney recalled the man from the last operation she worked with Griffin in France.
“So what does this mean?” Carillo said. “They think Micah’s in on it with Eve and Trip?”
Griffin shook his head. “According to what we can find, he’s clueless, not only about the high volume of money being funneled out, but that any of it is making its way into terrorist hands. Right now, finding Trip and Eve are our best leads. We can use your help.”
Carillo poured a fresh cup of coffee. “As much as I’d love to put one between Trip’s eyes on the government’s dime, someone’s gotta babysit Sheila until we’re sure no one’s coming after her. Take Sydney. She’s better at that international stuff.”
“I think she’s better off here,” Griffin said.
She wanted to ask why, but the bedroom door suddenly opened and Sheila came out. Her eyes were bloodshot, her nose red and running. Her expression was one of hope as she stood there, focusing on Carillo. “If you thought I was in danger, you’d do everything you could to protect me, right?”
“Sheila—”
“I think Trip would, too. Protect me. Even if it meant leaving me behind. That means his heart’s in the right place.”
Carillo’s chest expanded as he inhaled deeply, probably trying to keep his temper in check. “Yeah. Sure it is.”
“If you heard him talking to his niece Emmie, wishing her a happy New Year, you’d see what I see. He’s a good man. That’s why he left me. To protect me.”
“You think he would have said something,” Carillo muttered under his breath.
“He probably didn’t because he was worried I’d follow him. And for all your FBI intelligence, you think you’d ask the person he called from my phone right before he took off. Maybe I should go look for him myself. God knows you’re not doing any good.”
“What person?” Carillo asked.
“How the hell should I know? His phone was dead, so he borrowed mine.”
“You have the number?”
“Of course I do. How do you think I found out he was flying to England?”
18
Carillo was about ready to slam his fist into a wall as the meaning of the term “stir crazy” became abundantly clear. The moment Griffin and Tex copied every number from Sheila’s phone, they left. Sydney, tired from apparently having to stay up to make sure he and Sheila didn’t die in their sleep by aspirating on vomit, had napped all day, leaving him alone with Sheila, who spent the remainder of the day and night watching a Dr. Who marathon, crying at the English accents because they reminded her of Trip.
When Sydney finally emerged from her room, Sheila was demanding that Carillo take her home.
“I’d love to,” he said, “but you know damned well I’ve got my psych evaluation tomorrow afternoon. I can’t go back to work until they release me, and I’m sure as hell not going back home until that happens.”
“So what am I supposed to do in the meantime?” Sheila asked. “Sit here and twiddle my thumbs? I doubt whoever’s after Trip even knew I existed. Trip was a very private person.”
“Yeah. Kept a few secrets, didn’t he?”
“I want to go home, and you can’t stop me.”
“Be reasonable, Sheila.”
“I am being reasonable. And besides, we’re imposing on Sydney. It’s not fair to her.”
Carillo looked to Sydney, silently willing her to talk some reason into his wife’s head. “Tell her it’s not an imposition.”
“If she thinks it is,” Sydney replied, “you can both check into a hotel.”
“See?” Carillo said. “No imposition.”
“That’s not what she means, Tony, and you know it.”
To which Sydney said, “Maybe she could stay with Doc until you get back.”
“That’s your way of helping?” Carillo said.
Sydney ignored him, and Sheila said, “Can’t you at least call Doc? I could stay at the condo. Whoever was after Trip wouldn’t know to look for me there—if they were even looking for me at all.”
Knowing she wasn’t going to let up until he attempted, he called. Doc agreed, and Carillo made the flight arrangements.
Early the next morning he and Sydney personally escorted Sheila into Dulles International Airport and up to the security gate to stand in the long line of passengers waiting to be screened before being allowed into the terminal. Sydney moved off a few feet, giving them the illusion of privacy.
“Doc will be waiting for you when the plane lands,” Carillo said.
“I’ll be fine. They weren’t after me,” Sheila pointed out. “They were after Trip, and he’s gone.”
“Yeah, well, just in case, I’ll feel a lot better knowing that Doc’s with you.”
“I really don’t think he needs to stay with me at the condo, Tony. It’s not like they know where you live.”
“Just until this blows over, okay, Sheila?”
“Fine.” She leaned over and kissed him on his cheek. “If I didn’t say it before, I really do appreciate what you’re doing for Trip.”
“I’m not doing it for him.”
“I know.” She offered a smile, then handed her ticket to the guard, and Sydney and Carillo left her as she made her way through the lineup to the X ray and screening.
Carillo watched her until she slipped her shoes on, gathered her belongings, then walked off toward her gate.
“I think Sheila’s right,” Sydney said. “I don’t think she was ever a blip on their radar.”
“Surprising, considering the stupid moves she’s made since this whole thing started. Doc, at least, will keep her in tow.”
“Breakfast?”
“Definitely. Gotta gear up for that psych eval. This whole forced-leave-after-a-shooting-to-make-sure-you’re-mentally-fit sucks. I feel like going in and telling them exactly what I think.”
“That’ll get you a fit-for-duty. Not. They already think you’re stressed, Car
illo. Don’t push it.”
“I know how to play the game, Sydney. I’ll be released and I can get back to San Francisco and my nice boring life.”
“And sign those divorce papers?”
“I can practically smell the ink drying.”
Carillo held the door for Sydney, then followed her into the building and to the elevator. The shrink on retainer for their fit-for-duty interview was on the sixth floor. “You know why they make us come here, right?”
“I’m sure you’ll tell me.”
“Throw us off our game,” he said. “They do it on purpose. Home court advantage. Just like we do when we’re interviewing some dirtbag suspect.”
“Or maybe they just like being in their own comfortable office instead of one of our sterile interview rooms?”
“I just want to get back to work. I don’t like all this sitting around doing nothing. You know they’re out to get us.”
“Then don’t give them a reason to.”
His phone rang, and he pulled it from his belt. “Carillo here.”
It was Doc. “You did say your wife was set to arrive this afternoon?”
“Yeah. Why?”
“She wasn’t on the flight. I checked. She canceled at the gate and took the next flight to London.”
Carillo stopped in his tracks. “Please tell me you’re kidding.”
“With everything that’s happened? I wouldn’t kid about something like that.”
“Son of a bitch . . .”
“You want me to do anything?” Doc asked.
“I’ll get back to you. Thanks.” He disconnected, then hit the number for Sheila, wishing he could reach through the phone and strangle her. “Call me as soon as you land. Do not leave that airport.”
“What’s wrong?” Sydney asked.
“That idiot wife of mine made a slight detour on her way to San Francisco. By way of London.”
Sydney’s mouth dropped open. “What the hell are you going to do?” she asked when she finally recovered. “You haven’t even told them what’s really going on. It’s not like they’re going to let you go chasing after her.”
“First step, get through the damned psych eval.”
Carillo was not a fan of psychiatrists, psychologists, or any other medical professional who purported to know when an agent should or should not be allowed to return to duty, especially when he was the focus of that diagnosis.
“How are you today, Tony?”
And he especially hated it when they called him by name as if they personally knew him.
“Hunky-dory.”
The woman checked her notes, lifting up a sheet inside the manila folder. “I’m curious, since we don’t seem to have discussed it. Why is it you flew all the way out here instead of seeing the doctor they have on retainer in San Francisco?”
“Seemed like the prudent thing to do.”
She gave a neutral smile, as though waiting for him to enumerate.
He was good at waiting games.
“Why?” she finally asked.
“Couldn’t say.”
“Can’t or won’t?”
“Is there some magic phrase you need me to use so I can get back to work?” he asked, fast losing patience. “I’ve got a full caseload, and the way budgets are being cut right and left, the taxpayers will appreciate if they’re getting their money’s worth.”
“You seem a little stressed.”
“Seriously?” She didn’t know the half of it. And unfortunately it wasn’t like he could tell her. “Every day I’m kept from my job is another day these dirtbags get away with crimes because some misguided psychoanalyst feels like she knows what’s best for me. When she’s only met me twice, I might add. You can call it whatever the hell you want. Just get me back to work.”
She closed the folder and stood. “I think we’re done here, Mr. Carillo.”
So it was Mister Carillo now. “Then how am I supposed to go back to work?”
“I was going to suggest a couple more days. I’ll have to rethink that.”
“To something shorter?”
“When’s the last time you took a vacation?”
“I dunno. Couple years, why?”
She walked over, pulled open the door. “I’m recommending you don’t come back until you’ve had at least a week off.”
“A week? What the hell am I supposed to do in the meantime?”
“Take up knitting, for all I care. You have seven days. Use it.”
He grabbed his coat, headed out, then stopped in the doorway. “Do I stay home? Go somewhere?”
“I’ll leave that up to you.”
“I’ve never been to London. You think seven days is enough time to visit there and maybe some of the surrounding areas?”
“You want more time, call. Getting away from work is exactly what you need.”
“Thanks, Doctor. I’m feeling better about this already.”
19
Since Sydney’s agenda was quite the opposite of Carillo’s, she had no trouble getting her return to duty from the psychologist, and as soon as she walked out, she picked up Carillo from the lobby downstairs, then drove straight to HQ.
While Carillo was in getting his “vacation” approved from the powers that be, Sydney tried several times to get through to Griffin to let him know this latest turn of events. For whatever reason, he wasn’t answering.
Frustrated when she couldn’t even get Tex to answer his phone, she called Griffin back and left a voice mail. “Sheila took off to England. Can you call when you get a chance?”
“Maybe you should text him,” Carillo offered.
“If he’s in his office, the signal won’t go through. Besides, politeness dictates he should return my call. It’s not like this isn’t important.”
“Except he has a stubborn streak almost as wide as yours.”
“Wider.”
Carillo checked his watch. “You could always drive over there.”
“And how will you get to the airport?”
“I’m a big boy, Fitzpatrick. I can fend for myself.”
When she hesitated, he said, “Go already. We’re talking about my wife, and if anyone at ATLAS can find out what the hell she’s involved in or heading into, I’d like a heads-up before my plane lands in Heathrow.”
“All right. I’m going.”
She drove to ATLAS headquarters, telling herself that she was doing this for Carillo’s case, not because she wanted to see Griffin. What she didn’t expect was to be thwarted by the reception staff, who wouldn’t let her past the first floor of the Washington Recorder. It didn’t matter that they recognized her from past visits. Unless Griffin, Tex, or someone from the “editorial staff” floor gave permission, she was not getting on that elevator. They would, however, be more than happy to pass on the message that she stopped by.
Lovely.
If only she could remember exactly how to get in the secret back entrance, through the subway tunnels below, not that she’d have any better luck in that direction. The massive vaultlike steel doors that led into ATLAS headquarters via the underground could only be accessed by fingerprint and code. As she walked through the parking lot, she called Griffin one more time, got his voice mail, informed him that she was there at his office, then stopped short when she saw his black SUV. Turning, she looked up at the fifth floor, about where she thought his office was situated, knowing damn well he was up there. Maybe even watching her.
Why the sudden noncommunication thing?
She returned to the lobby and walked up to the receptionist. “Can you relay one more message to Mr. Griffin?”
It was about that point she realized that the man was looking at someone behind her. She turned, saw Griffin standing in the elevator, holding the door open. She didn’t even want to decipher the look on his face.
“You needed to see me?” he said, moving aside so she could step on.
“You didn’t return my phone calls,” she told him once the elevator door shut.<
br />
“I was in a meeting all morning. Did you think about calling the secretary to have her interrupt me?”
“You have a secretary?”
The elevator stopped on his floor, and he allowed her to disembark first. “Someone has to screen the calls from impatient FBI agents. What were you planning on telling him downstairs to get me there any faster?”
“That I’d follow you to England to investigate this myself.”
“England?” He gave her an amused look as he escorted her into his office. It was pieced together from a surplus warehouse of castoffs: scratched and scarred gray metal desk; one guest chair, also gray, with attached slate blue vinyl seat back and cushion, circa 1960s; another chair, dark wood with burgundy upholstery, looking like it hailed from the mid-1980s. The only luxury in these days of budget cuts was his ergonomic desk chair. “Quite a ways to travel just to get me a message.”
“I followed you to Rome, didn’t I?”
“Good thing I showed up when I did. Saved you from embarrassing yourself.”
“Why?”
“I’m not going to England. So what was so important you couldn’t wait for me to finish my meeting, check my voice mail, and get back to you?”
“Carillo’s wife took off to London after Trip.”
“How?”
“I’m guessing she walked up to a ticket counter, plunked down her credit card and said, ‘One flight to England, please.’ I’m pretty sure it didn’t occur to Carillo that she would do something that stupid.”
“Apparently he’s not the only one who underestimates the opposite sex.”
“I wasn’t really planning on taking off.”
He gave her a look that said he only half believed her as he took a seat, typing in his password to access his computer. She glanced across the room to a photo of Griffin and his late wife, Becca, both in ski gear on the slopes of some mountain.
“Looks like her flight’s already landed. We could have stopped her if we’d known earlier. Carillo’s going after her, I take it?”
“Yes. His plane leaves in about an hour.”
“Have Carillo call me on the landline before he leaves. I’ll fill him in on a few things.”
“What things?”
“There’s a bit of overlap on Trip’s charity and a case we’re working. I’ll call Donovan. He can put Carillo up at the safe house MI6 is letting us use.”
The Black List Page 9
