by Brad Thor
“And with the tidal wave of money that flooded into the intelligence community after 9/11,” Harvath stated, “I assume they were able to fund almost any bizarre programs they wanted.”
“That’s right,” said Wise. “A lot of the money that flowed in did so via black accounts with no accountability and no congressional oversight. The only thing requested was that the money be used to ‘make America safer.’”
“You can hang a lot of ornaments on that kind of Christmas tree.”
“Don’t misunderstand. There were some excellent programs the Agency pursued. There were also, unfortunately, some less than excellent programs.”
Harvath thought about Claire Marcourt and everything that had now happened in Boston. “Did the program you’re talking about have a name?”
“It’s code name was Swim Club. Rumor had it that it came from the CIA’s desire to see how deep the psychological pool was for these types of candidates. They had begun by trolling state mental facilities, but then realized they needed a much bigger net. They created one of the first electronic medical record software companies, which allowed them to sift through reams of patient information, but even that wasn’t enough.
“They couldn’t monopolize the EMR industry, so they simply hacked into medical databases from insurance companies, psychiatry and psychology practices, addiction and recovery centers, even hospital CT scan departments.
“They hit a thick vein in the criminal justice system, but the real pay dirt came when they conned the military via a phony counseling organization to deal with not only psychologically unbalanced applicants, but also existing service members who snapped or suddenly became psychologically unfit for service.”
Whiffle, a military-style crew cut. Harvath could feel himself gripping the phone tighter. “Are you saying vets who needed counseling were purposely not getting it?”
“On the contrary, if you made it into the Agency’s program, you’d be getting exceptional counseling. The problem was that you’d also be getting sized up for membership in Swim Club.”
Harvath wasn’t sure he had heard the man correctly. “You think the Agency is behind the attacks on the Fed?”
“Why not? The CIA may be overflowing with bureaucrats, but it still has plenty of Americans concerned with the survival of the country.”
While there were lots of bureaucrats in the intelligence community whom Harvath didn’t care for, there were also many exceptional Americans who risked everything day in and day out for their love of the United States. But to kill otherwise innocent people just because they disagreed with what the Federal Reserve was doing? That didn’t make sense.
But what if Wise was correct? What if it was elements within the CIA that were behind the attacks on the Fed? “You said these were rumors. Can they be substantiated? Is Swim Club legit? Is it a live program?”
“As of last year, yes, it was a live, black program, but then the new CIA director allegedly caught wind of it. He not only didn’t like it, he also didn’t like its potential for disastrous PR fallout if word ever leaked, and had it shut down. Staff were either moved to other projects or dismissed entirely,” said Wise.
“How did you find all of this out?”
“I made a couple of phone calls and ended up getting plugged back into an old colleague of mine named James Gage. Jim’s a Ph.D. who had worked on my project for a while before being transferred. I didn’t see him much after that, but guess where it turns out he was transferred to?”
“Swim Club,” said Harvath.
“Yup. When they let him go, he was pretty bitter. He probably talks more than he should, but old friends do that, right?”
While Harvath was careful about discussing classified operations, Wise had a point. There were more than a few people who talked out of school. He’d seen it in the military and intelligence worlds and had no reason to doubt that scientists or researchers were any different. Old friends, especially those expected to keep similar secrets, did talk.
“Jim filled in several blanks for me,” Wise continued. “The ones he didn’t were easy enough to figure out. A couple of times, it was nothing more than the look on his face. His silence on some of the information spoke volumes.”
“Wait a second. You met with Gage in person?” Harvath asked.
“Of course. Why not?”
“Did anyone see you? Does anyone else know you were with him?”
Wise could tell something was very wrong. “No, no one saw us. No one knows. But something is bothering you. What is it? What’s going on up there?”
“Our killer struck again overnight,” Harvath replied. “Twice.”
CHAPTER 35
Harvath gave Wise a full rundown of everything that had happened. The man took copious notes on the other end of the phone. When Harvath was done filling him in, Wise was in full clinical mode.
“So what does all of this tell us?” he asked rhetorically. “Our man is professional, at least when it comes to his work. As far as we know, there were no clues left at the Marcourt murder scene on Jekyll Island, or at the Penning murder at the Liberty Tree Building. But in what we’ll call his personal life, he’s appearing impulsive, less careful. Perhaps he is even losing control.”
Harvath let out a long breath.
“What is it?” said Wise. “You disagree?”
“Not necessarily. I’m just trying to process all of this. Listen, I don’t like to underestimate anyone, especially someone this dangerous, but I also don’t like to overestimate them, either.”
“You think I’m giving him too much credit?”
“What I think is that the guy screwed up. Whether he is a sociopath or a psychopath or whatever, I’m not a doctor and I don’t care. What I know is that as good as he’s been, he’s finally made a mistake. Is he losing control? Maybe, but when he grabbed that girl’s wrist in the Granary Burying Ground, I don’t think he could have known that he would go on to kill that night, that he’d kill a friend of the girl he grabbed, or that we’d tie it all together.”
Wise agreed. “That makes sense, but keep in mind that not only are we potentially dealing with someone who is not rational and who does not make sense, but he’s now killed three people. If I’m right and he is losing control, he may become more dangerous.”
“He may also make another mistake,” Harvath replied. “Speaking of which, what do you make of how the body of the young girl was left in the Charles River? Does that tell you anything?”
“It tells me several things. The first is that this was likely an impulsive crime of opportunity. The woman made herself available to him and he struck. Once he did, though, he had a decision to make. Presumably, he could have left her right where he killed her. But instead, he risked the added time to steal the things he needed, weigh her down, and then drop her in the water.”
“Which means what?”
Wise took a few moments to reflect before answering. “Whoever this girl was, I think we can safely assume he hadn’t come to Boston to kill her.”
“But he cut her ears off like he had with Claire Marcourt. Why?”
“Without interviewing him, it’s hard to say for sure. He may have simply enjoyed it and wanted to relive it, or he may have rushed Marcourt’s murder and wanted to take his time with the prostitute. Remember, for a lot of these killers, the act is all about the power they wield over their victims.”
“And weighing the body down in the Charles?” Harvath asked.
“Perhaps he was ashamed of what he had done and wanted, symbolically, to be rid of it, or maybe he realized on some level that this impulsive act was a mistake that could not only jeopardize him, but also his operation. Therefore, he had worked to cover it up as quickly as possible.”
Processing information from Bill Wise was like drinking from a fire hose. Harvath was still trying to wrap his mind around the fact that there could be even a remote CIA component to the attacks. Circumventing alarm systems like the one at the Registry of Motor Vehicles, as
well as looping CCTV footage, though, was straight out of the Agency’s playbook.
“Could the killer have weighted the body down simply because he needed to buy time?” Harvath asked.
“For what?”
“He killed Marcourt in Georgia then came up here for Penning. Maybe he’s traveling by air and didn’t want the body to be found until after he had made it safely away to wherever he was going next.”
As he waited for the man to respond, Harvath ran the list of remaining kidnap victims through his mind: Betsy Mitchell — Seattle, Jonathan Renner — San Francisco, and Peter Whalen — Chicago. Since getting the call to come to Boston, he had been racking his brain trying to zero in on locations in the remaining kidnap cities that would be symbolic for the group behind the killings. The only thing he could come up with was that they all had Federal Reserve branches. But would the killer be that obvious, especially after the choices of Jekyll Island and the Liberty Tree site?
“There is another possibility,” Wise said, interrupting Harvath’s train of thought. “What if you’re right? What if the killer was trying to buy more time, not to get out of Boston, but rather because his work in Boston wasn’t complete?”
Harvath was about to comment when his other line rang. “Bill, I have another call. Stand by for second.”
“Will do.”
Harvath clicked over to the other line. It was Cordero back at police headquarters.
“The crime lab just called,” she said. “They finished processing the wrist cuff.”
“Did we get any prints?”
“We did. It looks like a thumb and a partial that may be an index finger. They’re working up the report now. How soon can you get back here?”
“I’m only a couple of blocks away,” he said. “I’ll be there in less than five minutes.”
“Ten-four. Hurry up. As soon as we get the prints, we’re going to start running them through the databases.” With that, she said goodbye and hung up.
Cordero and the FBI could run every database she had access to, but he doubted she was going to get a single hit. If this guy was who Harvath was beginning to think he might be, there was only one place that would have a record of him and even then it would be guarded like Fort Knox.
He clicked back over to Wise. “We got a hit on the wrist cuff from the girl accosted at the Granary Burying Ground. We believe it’s a thumb and a partial index finger.”
“That’s terrific.”
“Do you think your Swim Club pal, Gage, can do anything with it?” asked Harvath. He could sense Wise’s hesitation before he even responded.
“At the CIA when you’re gone, you’re gone. They watch you clean out your desk, and then they go through everything, and I mean everything, before you’re escorted off the property. All of your access is canceled and the only information you’re leaving with is what’s between your ears. He’s not going to be sitting on reams of data, much less the jackets of the people Swim Club was spinning up to place in the field. There were a bunch of them and most were freelancers with lives entirely separate from the Agency. They just got called up when Langley needed them.”
“Wait,” said Harvath. “You’re telling me they can lead normal lives? How the hell is that even possible?”
“Think of them like alcoholics. Some were exceptional at hiding their illness. With treatment, they were quite functional.”
“And the others?”
“With time, the others lost the fight and fell over the edge.”
It was a chilling analogy. Harvath wanted as much information as he could get. “Reach out to Gage,” he said, “and lean on him as hard as you can for whatever he can give you.”
“How much are you comfortable with me revealing to him?”
“Right now, limit it just to the killer,” Harvath replied. “You can use the partial description we have and feel free to talk about his MO as much as you want, but keep the names of the victims and any mention of the Fed out of it.”
“Understood,” said Wise. “Email me the prints and I’ll let you know if I find out anything.”
“Sounds good. There’s just one last thing.”
“What’s that?”
“Be very careful who else you talk with beyond this Gage fellow. And make sure to keep a pair of eyes in the back of your head.”
“Same goes for you,” Wise said. “Our killer isn’t done yet. Not by a long shot. He not only likes to kill, he’s compelled to. And if he did come out of Swim Club, he’s very, very good at it.”
“So am I,” said Harvath, ending the call and slipping the phone back into his pocket.
Stepping out into the rain, he opened his umbrella and headed back toward 1 Schroeder Plaza and Cordero’s office. As he walked, he was haunted by several of the things Bill Wise had said, not the least of which was that their killer might still have work left to do in Boston.
CHAPTER 36
Detective Cordero was on the phone trying to make child-care arrangements when Harvath hung up his coat and set the umbrella she had lent him in the corner.
“Okay, I understand. Thank you,” she said and then hung up. Looking at Harvath she stated, “I’m definitely in the wrong business.”
“Why?”
“The day-care center where I have my son charges a dollar a minute for every minute after five that you’re not there to pick him up.”
“That’s pretty steep.”
“It is, but I understand. Too many parents are irresponsible these days. If they didn’t have some sort of penalty, people would be leaving their kids there until midnight. What about you?”
“What about me?” asked Harvath.
“Are you married? Do you have any kids?”
He smiled. “No.”
“Divorced?”
“No.”
“I knew it,” she said. “The haircut and suit were a dead giveaway.”
“A dead giveaway to what?”
“Don’t be so defensive. Boston’s a very progressive city. We’ve got a few gay cops on the force here.”
Harvath laughed. “I’m not gay. And by the way, this is a Brooks Brothers suit and I’ve had the same haircut since college.”
Cordero looked at him for several seconds.
“What are you looking at?” said Harvath.
“You’ve gotta be what, in your mid, maybe late thirties?”
That was a heck of a compliment and one he had no intention of correcting her on. “Give or take,” he replied.
“So what’s your problem? Never grew up? Peter Pan syndrome?”
Boy, is she direct. “Just never met the right girl.”
“Your first mistake,” said Cordero, “was looking for a girl instead of a woman.”
Brutal, too. “And my second mistake?”
“Allowing yourself to get to this age without realizing you’re the problem.”
“Wow. This is turning into a heck of a beating. I hope your paramedics respond faster than your crime lab.”
Cordero smiled. “What? No defense of your lifestyle? Isn’t right about now the time you’re supposed to stand up for confirmed bachelorhood? You know, trot out that old don’t hate the player, hate the game line?”
“My bad,” Harvath replied. “I didn’t know there was protocol for this sort of guy-bashing. Speaking of which, why isn’t Mr. Cordero helping you figure out picking up your son?”
The smile faded from her. “Because he’s deceased. He died shortly before Marco was born.”
Harvath felt like a total asshole and winced at her response. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”
“It’s not your fault,” she replied, attempting to bring back a small smile in order to take the sting out of the exchange. “How could you?”
“Was he a cop?”
“No, stockbroker. We’d known each other since grade school.”
“So Cordero is your married name?”
“It’s my maiden name. He had this long Eastern European name with a bi
llion consonants that nobody could ever pronounce. I decided to keep my name.”
“Marriage is all about give-and-take. That’s what they say, right?” said Harvath.
Cordero rolled her eyes. “I know nothing about you, yet I get this sense — and I hope I don’t hurt your feelings, but — you’re a real idiot. You either have yourself convinced that it’s easier to just drift from one casual thing to the next in a state of perpetual adolescence, or you’re looking for that perfect ten. That sort of thing doesn’t exist. If you’re hitting on five out of six cylinders, or even four out of six with someone who truly cares about you, you should run, don’t walk, all the way to the bank with it.”
“If it’s that easy, how come you’re not remarried?”
“I never said it was easy,” she corrected him. “It’s hard work, but along with raising a child, it’s the most rewarding hard work you’ll ever do. Even better than being a SEAL, if only you knew how to swim.”
“And if I was—”
Cordero rolled her eyes again. “And if you were smart enough. I got that part the first time, too.”
“Any chance we can talk about something other than my love life?”
The detective slid the crime lab report across her desk.
Harvath skimmed it and eventually said, “So based on the elimination prints they used from Brittany Doyle’s arrest record, the crime lab is certain this other full and partial print belongs to our killer?”
“No. That’s not what they do. That’s our job. All they can tell us is the two prints we have been given do not belong to Ms. Brittany Doyle of Southie. The additional prints belong to someone else.”
“So what’s the next step?” he asked, knowing already what her answer was.
“We begin searching the databases. We already sent a copy of the prints to the FBI, so we’ll start with state and local. If we don’t come up with anything, we’ll go international. Sound like a plan?”
“I think I’d rather go back to getting lectured about my love life.”
“Don’t worry. I can walk and chew gum at the same time. We’ll do both.”
