Lauren had hoped that with a good night’s rest would come a fresh perspective. After lying in bed for an hour and a half, she had finally fallen asleep. Her thoughts had quickly turned to her father, and in a dream she recalled a long-forgotten conversation she had once had with him.
The roses were in full bloom, and their garden was awash with a full bouquet of sweet scents. Her father sat in his wheelchair at the edge of the concrete path that wound through the garden. He watched over Lauren’s shoulder as she carefully troweled the dirt around the plants.
“Every living thing needs someone to care for it,” he said. Lauren continued to work with the dirt, gently patting it around the base of a rosebush, seemingly oblivious to what her father was saying.
“It doesn’t matter if it’s a bush or a tree or a dog or a person,” he said. “We all need someone to care about us.”
Lauren looked over at her father, the dirt-encrusted tool in her hand. “I know, Dad. You’ve got me and Mom.”
He leaned forward, trying to let the seriousness of what he was telling her penetrate her gaze. “When you get older, and I’m no longer around, you’ll have to choose who cares for you. It’s important you make a good choice.”
She turned back to her garden and moved to the next row of plants. “Do you think these need watering? The soil looks a little dry.”
“I think a little water would be good.” He wheeled a few feet forward as Lauren moved to her right. “Do you know how to choose? A companion has to be someone you can always trust to do the right thing for you. Someone who’d help you no matter what, even if it meant doing something that could hurt him.” He stopped, looked at her, and waited for an indication she was paying attention. “Lauren Rose, are you listening to me?”
“I always listen to you, Daddy.” She dug the trowel into the hard ground. “Definitely needs water. This spot is even worse.”
Her father sighed and wheeled backward to grab the nozzle end of the garden hose. “I just want to make sure you’re taken care of, that’s all.”
She let the water run into the irrigation canal she had made between the aisles of roses. She patted down the moistened dirt around each bush, her head tilted in thought. Finally, while still fiddling with the soil, she said, “You’ll take care of me, like you always do.”
Her father shook his head. “I may not always be around, pumpkin. But you’ll learn to trust your heart. That’s how I’ll be there for you. I’ll be there in your heart.”
When Lauren had awoken, she remembered the dream instantly. Her mind had fallen back on what it trusted—her father’s wisdom—for a solution to her current predicament.
In the morning, as she had pulled on her sweater, she realized that, in view of the cold send-off she had given Bradley the night before, he might already have returned to Sacramento. But now, when she walked out of the room, he was standing there sucking on his See’s lollipop as if nothing had happened. And, she had to admit, seeing him standing there made her feel secure, comfortable in that she was not alone. Her father’s advice echoed in her head: you’ll learn to trust your heart.
She decided to listen to her father... to go with her instincts and let last night’s incident pass without further discussion.
“I wonder how far away he is,” Lauren said. She swallowed a lungful of cool air and thought of Michael. This was the longest she had been away from him since he took the job at Cablecast. She tried to think of it as his having gone on vacation, but she could not get past its being nothing like that. When someone goes on vacation, they are expected back on a certain date. Though Michael could physically be somewhere nearby, she had to acknowledge the reality of the situation: he was actually further away from her now than he had ever been since they had first met.
“So are we all right?”
Bradley’s voice yanked her from her thoughts. She kept her gaze straight ahead and shrugged. “I guess so.”
“Good, because we’ve got some work to do.”
Lauren took one last look at the brightening sky, and then walked back into the motel room. Bradley followed her in, picked up the phone, and dialed a number.
He turned to Lauren and cupped the phone. “They have some coffee and Danish in the lobby for breakfast if you want. Coffee’s like mud, but—” He quickly removed his hand and brought the handset to his mouth. “Yes, you sure can. Can you connect me to your emergency-room administrator, please?”
While Bradley waited on hold, Lauren sat down on the edge of the bed, removed Michael’s photo from her wallet, and stared at it for a few moments. Where are you? ... Who are you? ... I’m trying to find you. She touched his lips with her fingertips. “I’m trying,” she said aloud.
“Trying what?” Bradley asked, hanging up the phone.
“Nothing. What did you find out?”
“We have an appointment with the Virginia Presbyterian ER administrator in half an hour. She was out sick till yesterday. I convinced her we needed to see her this morning.”
“Then what?”
“I figured you’d return to the mall and I’d continue to beat a path around town, showing Michael’s photo, talking to law enforcement. Someone’s bound to have seen him.”
Lauren shoved the snapshot of Michael back into her purse and nodded. “I guess.” She rose from the bed and slung her purse over a shoulder. “I walk around malls and you ask strangers if they’ve seen my husband.”
“Exactly.”
“Well,” she said, heading for the door, “we’ve got to do something. Let’s go.”
40
Harper Payne slammed his fist down on the desk. “Damn it.” He stared at the screen, which defiantly displayed an error message: “Internet Explorer cannot locate a networking device. Check your settings and try logging on again. If unsuccessful, contact your network administrator or try restarting your computer.”
He clicked START-SHUT DOWN-RESTART and waited while the laptop cycled through its boot-up sequence and restarted Windows. A moment later, he tried resending his message to Lauren. Again he received an error message: “Internet Explorer cannot locate a networking device. Check your settings or...”
He clicked on CONTROL PANEL, went into the NETWORK folder, and selected the DIAGNOSTICS tab. It indicated there were no modems or networking devices installed. What? Payne ground his teeth, staring at the screen. That didn’t make sense.
He rebooted the computer, drumming his fingers until the desktop reappeared.
He again tried opening the browser. The error message’s shrill tone was like nails on a chalkboard. Internet Explorer cannot locate a networking device.
After having decided to send a return message to Lauren, he was anxious to establish communication with her. He wanted to re-read the e-mail she had sent him. At the very least, he could call the phone number she had given him and leave a message. But without internet access, he would be unable to view it.
He sat there and thought a moment. The laptop worked, and now suddenly it didn’t. Had someone modified it so he would be unable to communicate with Lauren? He tilted the PC on its side and looked for tool marks, which would indicate it had been tampered with. Nothing.
What was going on?
He considered who would have access to his room. The list could be long, from maintenance and cleaning personnel to Waller and Haviland. But no one would have a motive to prevent him from contacting his wife.
Or would they?
Waller had brought him the computer in the first place; he seemed to want to help. Haviland would not have any more reason to move against him than Waller would. If not them, then someone else.
He suddenly noticed the time and rose from the chair. He had missed his last class and wanted to get to the lunchroom before Waller did. Forty-five minutes ago he had been handed a message that they were to meet there at noon. He shut down the computer and headed out the door.
The dining hall was an upscale, high-ceilinged cafeteria-style eatery that was brimming with m
ovement. New agents milled about in their blue polo shirts and khaki pants, leather belt holsters fastened to their sides holding mock rubber guns, and laminated ID tags hanging from their necks. A cacophony of noise—voices, silverware, dishes—echoed off the tile flooring and wood paneling and hung in the air as a low roar, with no means of escape.
Payne walked in, nodded to the cashier—Waller had arranged for him to receive his meals free of charge—and grabbed a tray. As usual, there was an abundance of food—from hot sandwiches to meat and potatoes, pastas, salads, several types of breads and muffins, orange, grapefruit, and apple juices. For dessert, there was fresh fruit, coffee, cake, and ice cream. If an agent was not careful, it would be easy to gain a whole lot of weight here in a short time.
He helped himself to a plate of pasta, a large salad, and a glass of juice. Finding a seat at a table that was occupied by a group of DEA agents, Payne set his tray down. He started to move the newspaper that someone had left on the table, but the Washington Post’s headline screamed at him from the page:
Key Scarponi Witness Stricken with Amnesia
(AP) Washington—Sources close to the FBI indicated late last night that the Bureau has located former agent Harper Payne, their key witness in the original and ongoing investigations of international assassin Anthony Scarponi. According to the source, who spoke on condition of anonymity, Payne is suffering from amnesia.
This development drew snickers from experts in the legal field, particularly defense attorneys, some of whom went so far as to speculate that the government’s key witness was unwilling to cooperate and return for a replay of the stress and death threats that peppered Scarponi’s original trial.
Ronald Friedkin, lead attorney for the Scarponi defense team, stated in a hastily called news conference in front of the federal courthouse in New York City that in view of this development he would be asking presiding judge Richard Noonan to formally dismiss the open case against his client....
Payne tossed the newspaper down onto the table. How could this happen? Who would tell the Post that the Bureau had found him—or worse, that he had amnesia?
He sat down amidst the commotion of new agents, who were milling about the table just behind him, laughing, discussing their latest class. Dishes clinked and silverware rattled. But Payne heard none of it.
Both fists were clenched, and the veins in his temples were bulging. He felt the drubbing of his heart and an intense pressure building inside his head.
“Sorry I didn’t get here sooner.”
Payne looked up, his eyes glassy and bloodshot from lack of sleep. It was Jonathan Waller. “What is this?” Payne asked, grabbing the Post and shoving it into Waller’s chest. “What the hell is this?”
Waller took the paper and placed a hand on Payne’s shoulder. “Calm down. I realize this is upsetting—”
“Upsetting?” Payne’s voice had risen in both pitch and volume. The DEA agents seated at his table turned and were now tuned in to the commotion. “This is my life we’re talking about. I’ve worked my ass off to make this thing work, and this is how I’m thanked?” Payne was now unaware of what he was saying, as if he were standing a few feet away, a bystander to his own rantings.
Waller looked around at the men and women in the room, which had suddenly become eerily quiet. “It’s okay, people,” he said. “Everything’s under control.”
“Control?” Payne shouted. “What’s under control?”
“Come on, this is not the place to be discussing this.” Waller led Payne by the arm out of the dining hall and into the corridor, where Haviland was approaching. Waller shook his head at his partner, then looked at Payne. “This is bad, I’m not gonna lie to you. We need to do some damage control—but we have a goal and we have to remain focused on that goal.”
Payne felt his heart rate decreasing, some semblance of order descending on him. “I don’t understand. No one knew about me outside the Academy. Just you and Scott, and Director Knox. Nobody else knows.”
“Not true,” Haviland said. “We’ve got people in records who pulled your file and the trial transcripts. The firearms manager who assigned you your Glock and holster, and the property clerk who ordered your new credentials. Sure, your creds say Richard Thompson, but even still, all this activity is a little unusual, not to mention the timing. I mean, where did Agent Thompson suddenly come from? They know you aren’t in the current new-agent class. They have to think something’s going on. Maybe they talk to each other, put two and two together. No matter how you package it, or what you name it, it still adds up to four. Even though we don’t want them to figure it out, they’re capable people. And that’s not to mention the two doctors who examined you, and every member of their staffs who came into contact with you. You understand my point? There are a lot more people involved than you think.”
“But that still doesn’t explain the leak,” Waller said to Haviland. “With the exception of Noble, everyone else is internal to the Bureau. And Noble and his staff are thoroughly cleared because it’s a naval hospital. Noble saw Harper only because Knox asked him to, as a personal favor. They’re buddies dating back to his time with the Select Committee. He certainly wouldn’t leak anything.”
“Then who?” Payne asked.
“Knox is looking into it,” Haviland said, “which means we are, too. As soon as we know something, we’ll let you know.”
“And in the meantime?”
Waller shrugged. “In the meantime, we just do what we need to do.”
The cameras were aimed at Douglas Knox in the large press room at the Hoover Building. A blue, floor-to-ceiling curtain provided the backdrop, with a large, round, navy-and-gold “Department of Justice, Federal Bureau of Investigation” seal mounted behind the podium.
Knox placed a pair of gold wire glasses on his nose and glanced down at his notes. “Thank you all for coming. I’ll read for a few moments from a prepared statement and then I’ll answer some questions.” He cleared his throat. “As you’re well aware, the Washington Post has published an article in today’s edition that makes certain assertions about the Bureau’s ongoing investigation of Anthony Scarponi. While I can’t and won’t comment on those particulars of the case that would jeopardize the nature of that investigation, I will state that the news report is factually flawed.” He looked up from his paper and faced the reporters. “Now, I’m not going to go into which facts are wrong—because it would take too long.”
A slight chuckle rumbled from the crowd of reporters.
“Suffice it to say that we do know the whereabouts of Agent Harper Payne and that he will be testifying against Mr. Scarponi, as he did six years ago when Mr. Scarponi was convicted. I want to assure the people of this country that this offender will again be locked up behind bars, where he will be of no danger to anyone. That’s all I’ve got. Thank you.”
A sea of hands shot up from the crowd, along with shouts of “Mr. Director!” and “Director Knox!”
Knox scanned the journalists and chose a friendly face, Marta Henninger from CNN. “Sir, is there any truth to the report that Agent Payne is suffering from amnesia? And if so, wouldn’t that affect his performance on the witness stand?”
Knox let a thin smile spread across his lips. “That’s a compound question, Marta, and I know better than to answer two questions at once. Let me just say that Agent Payne is in excellent health and nothing—amnesia, the Asian flu, or a bad case of food poisoning—is going to prevent him from taking the stand and testifying effectively against Anthony Scarponi.”
Hands shot up again. Knox chose another ally from the past: Steve Carter from NBC News.
“Director Knox, does this mean that you’re going to have the attorney general apply for a court date for Scarponi’s trial?”
“As a matter of fact, I just received word that we’re on the docket for March fourteenth.”
“Why was Agent Payne so difficult to locate?”
The question pulled Knox’s attention back to the
present. “In view of the circumstances at the time, Agent Payne’s identity and location became a closely guarded secret following his testimony six years ago. It took a while to find him and make sure it was safe to transport him to a secured location. More than that I can’t say.”
“Is it true,” a reporter from the New York Times blurted out, “that he’s being held at the FBI Academy in Quantico?”
“As you can understand, I can’t answer any question that would even provide a hint of his whereabouts. So, my answer will have to be no comment.”
Knox continued to “no comment” a number of questions in rote responses until one struck him across the face.
“Is it true, sir, that a member of the FBI leaked this story to the press?”
“No, that would not be standard Bureau procedure, as I believe you’re well aware if you’ve got any time in journalism under your belt, son.”
Shouts for more questions went up, but Knox held up his hand, leaned close to the microphone, and said, “Thank you all for coming.” He turned to his right and was escorted off the podium to the exit, with the cries for him to answer but one more inquiry continuing even as the door slammed shut.
41
“He was pretty pissed,” Waller said.
“Great. Just great,” Knox said, pacing his office. “First Scarponi, then Melissa, then Stanfield... and now this.” He stopped to hold his temples. “I swear, I’ve got sledgehammers inside my head and they’re working overtime.”
Waller shifted in his seat. “I think he’s okay now, sir. But I’ve never seen him so upset. He nearly lost it. I don’t think he’s been sleeping too well.”
“Sleep deprivation, according to Noble. It can make you depressed, paranoid, even delusional. He was given Valium. You know if he’s taking it?”
The Hunted Page 22
