by Gene Riehl
He grabbed the files and hurried back through the door into the file room, replaced them in the stacks, then shot back to Betty’s desk and turned off her computer. Making sure her desk was exactly as he’d found it, he moved to the office door, cracked it open, peered out into the semi-darkness, and saw no one. He stepped through the door, shut and locked it behind him, then walked swiftly to the corridor and from there to the elevator that would take him to the garage.
Oh, for God’s sake! Jack Bryant thought. Now what?
Someone had just gotten into the elevator on the third floor.
Still sorting mail, Jack checked the elevator monitor. A tall man stood inside, facing the door. Dark red tennis shirt, tan cotton pants. Jack didn’t recognize him, but that didn’t mean much. He hadn’t been here long enough to know even a third of the people who worked in the field office. He looked instead for the ID card that should be hanging down the man’s chest, but he couldn’t see one.
Jack stepped over to the monitors and watched the screen that would show the man coming out of the elevator into the garage. A moment later he saw the elevator doors slide back and the man step through. Jack touched the button at the bottom of the monitor to zoom in with the camera. He still couldn’t see an ID card. He reached for the microphone to his left to challenge the man. He lifted the mike as the man turned his back for an instant to look around at the closing elevator doors. Jack lowered the mike. There it was, the ID card, hanging down the guy’s back.
Damn it, that had been close.
The last thing he needed was to piss off some agent who had to be dog-tired.
He stepped back from the monitors, turned toward the mail slots again, then realized he’d forgotten something. Jesus, what was the matter with him? He’d almost forgotten the security log, another good way to get your ass fired. Jack knew he was overly scrupulous—that the other night clerks laughed at his constant concern about crossing t’s and dotting i’s—but it was his life, his career, and he wasn’t about to lose it through carelessness.
He went back to the clipboard hanging near the monitors. He jotted down the time, added the words, “unknown agent entered third floor elevator, exited into garage and drove out. ID badge verified.”
There, Jack Bryant thought, as he initialed the log and returned to his mail. Any problem now, it wasn’t going to be his. He picked up a letter, glanced at it, turned to fire it into a pigeonhole, then stopped with his hand in the air as he realized what he’d seen … or what he hadn’t seen.
The agent had been on the third floor, working on the third floor, but Jack hadn’t seen him. He’d just come back from walking through every squad room on that floor, and he hadn’t seen a soul. Jack began to wonder if he hadn’t made a mistake with the goddamned security log. Maybe he shouldn’t have made any kind of note at all. Especially one that said he’d had an unidentified person on the third floor, a person he hadn’t even bothered to identify. Shit. People had warned him the FBI was a dangerous place to work, but they had no idea.
He didn’t need five seconds to decide what he had to do next.
His supervisor might chew his ass for failing to identify the agent, but the bureau would fire him if they found out he didn’t report his mistake promptly. He was fucked if he did, but he was really fucked if he didn’t. If he wanted to get his degree, to move up the ladder and become an FBI agent, there was only one way to go here. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly, then reached for the phone.
Back in the Volvo after her failed attempt to determine from the lights in the FBI building’s windows which floor Monk had gone to, Sung Kim watched his Saab as it swung up the ramp and turned into the street. She waited for him to get far enough away that he wouldn’t notice her, then pulled out of her parking place and followed. There was virtually no traffic, and she warned herself to be careful. She didn’t have to risk exposure. She knew where he lived. She knew where he worked. She knew about the barnlike structure by the river. It was better to stay back tonight, better to lose him now than blow her assignment altogether.
Monk was too wired to sleep, so he drove around the deserted streets until the adrenaline level in his body had returned to something resembling normal. It was shortly after five o’clock when he finally made it back to the loft. Lisa was waiting for him. Sitting up in bed as he came through the door, her eyes on him as he approached.
“Where were you?” she asked. “I woke up about four, and you weren’t here. When did you get up?” She frowned. “And where have you been all night?”
“My pager went off around two. You didn’t hear it, and I didn’t want to wake you.”
“You had to work?”
“You sound like you don’t believe me.”
“The SOG? You and your team were out on the street?”
Damn it, she’d made a phone call to check. “I didn’t say that at all.” He paused. “What I said is that I had to go to work.”
Lisa sat up straighter, her dark eyes narrow. “What were you doing? What were you working on?”
He stared at her for a long moment, but said nothing. Lisa knew better than to ask a question like that.
“I didn’t know what to think when I got up to use the bathroom and you were gone.” She paused. “You should have called me if you were going to be gone all night.”
“I should have. I should have called, but I just got busy.”
Lisa shook her head. She looked like she wanted to say something, but she didn’t.
“What’s wrong?” Monk asked her. “What do you imagine I was doing?”
“Why don’t you tell me?” She shook her head. “Or is that something else I don’t have the need to know?”
Monk stepped over to the freestanding wardrobe they used as a closet and began to unbuckle his belt, then stopped and turned to her again before approaching the foot of the bed.
“When did you go back to being a prosecutor again?”
Lisa looked directly into his eyes. “Were you with her?”
“Her?”
“Damn it, Puller, don’t even start. Don’t run one of your games on me.”
“I’m not running a game. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Bethany Randall,” she said. “That’s what I’m talking about … That’s who I’m talking about.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“I watched the two of you walking across the street together, going into the bar. You were gawking like an altar boy at her legs, she was touching your arm … brushing something off your sleeve.” She paused, and when she continued her voice was different. Lower now, and sad. “She was brushing your sleeve like a lover.” Lisa hesitated again. “I guess what I’m trying to say is that I worry, Puller. I see you with her and I worry.”
Monk looked into her wounded eyes. He bent over the bed and spoke directly into those eyes.
“I was at WFO tonight. Checking on some stuff that I really can’t talk about.” He paused. “Bethany Randall was engaged to a friend of mine. We used to hang out together, the three of us, but that’s it.”
Lisa’s voice softened. “Are you going to see her again?”
“I don’t know why I would. I hadn’t seen her for five years as it was.”
He moved back to the wardrobe, pulled off his shirt and pants, and hung them up. Then he slid his shorts and socks off, opened the wicker hamper next to the wardrobe and tossed them in, before returning to the bed and sliding under the covers. He reached for Lisa, but her body stiffened as she edged closer to her own side. He followed her, nuzzling against the curve of her back.
“Lisa,” he said into the back of her head. “I should have let you know I’d be working all night. I shouldn’t have left without telling you. I’m a jerk and an asshole … but I love you.” He put one arm around her and pulled her close. “Can we be friends again? Can I weasel my way back into your arms?”
She turned over, her face only inches away.
“You are an asshole
,” she said. “Sometimes you are a real jerk.” She rolled away from him, got out of bed, and started for the bathroom. Halfway there, she turned back. “We’re going to talk about this some more, Puller. I have to go to work now, but trust me, we will discuss this later.”
THIRTY-EIGHT
“I hope,” Roger Carmody said, “you can tell me you found Lyman Davidson’s Madonna.”
The short and gray-bearded Renaissance curator at the District of Columbia Museum of Art smiled as Monk sat down across from his desk in Carmody’s narrow office at the museum in northwest Washington.
“I’m afraid I can’t. Not yet.”
Carmody’s thin lips curled with distaste. To a curator of fine art, the idea of thieves stealing the very finest art was abhorrent.
“But you’re getting close,” he said.
“We have heard something, Mr. Carmody. Nothing definite … more like a rumor.” He paused. “It could be nothing … I’ve got to emphasize that. It’s important not to make too big a thing of it.”
“But it’s a break. It’s still a break.”
“Break might be a stretch.”
“Germany,” Carmody said. “You’re going to tell me the Madonna’s in Frankfurt, or Berlin.” He gestured toward the full in-box on his desk. “Interpol sends me a new bulletin every other day.”
Monk shook his head. “I’m more interested in Americans. Private collectors like Lyman Davidson.” He hesitated. “I know some of the names, but you’re the expert.” He paused again, longer this time, as though wondering if he should continue with this. “Who are the serious collectors, Mr. Carmody? I need your help with identifying more of them.”
Carmody stared at him. “Wouldn’t it be quicker if you just told me the rumor?”
“I can’t do that.” Once again Monk hesitated. It was important to get this right. “Besides, it’s purely generic information. A collector, that’s all I’ve got. No name.”
“You’re suggesting a collector would buy a stolen da Vinci.”
“I wish I knew enough to suggest anything.”
“There’s a black market for art, just like everything else, but a possible da Vinci Madonna? Who could fence it? Who’d dare display it?”
“What about a really private collection? There are people who need to own something more than they need to share it. If you know what I mean.”
Carmody blew out a breath past pursed lips. “There are indeed such people. Certainly there are collectors who have a reputation for not bothering with provenance.” He looked away for a moment, then back at Monk. “But you put me in an awkward position. I deal with rich people, extremely rich people. Privacy is an obsession with them. If they found out I gave their names to the FBI—that the FBI was targeting them because of me—I’d be finished as a curator.”
“What if I give you a name?”
“That’s different. I guess I’d feel obliged to comment.”
Monk studied the desktop. Easy now, he told himself. You won’t get a second chance at this.
“Clayton Stevenson,” he said. “Lives in Los Angeles. A real recluse with enough money to buy almost anything he wants.”
Carmody shook his head. “He must be a recluse, I’ve never even heard the name.”
“How about Peter Bridges? Detroit auto money. Big into Renaissance stuff.”
“Bridges? Peter Bridges?” Carmody frowned. “No … I don’t know that name, either.” He smiled. “I guess I’m glad I don’t, if this Stevenson and Bridges are connected to your rumor.”
“No assumptions, I said. These are just names, nothing more.” And fictitious names, at that. “I only have one more.”
Carmody nodded.
“Franklin,” Monk said. “Damn it, I’m drawing a blank on his first name. Joseph, I think, or Edward, maybe.” He grimaced. “You’ve got to know him. He’s local. Lives in—”
“Gettysburg,” Carmody said. “Of course I know him. He’s on our board of directors, as a matter of fact. And it’s Thomas, by the way, Thomas Franklin. He’s a huge collector. Every museum in the world is after his stuff.”
“Have you ever bought anything from him?”
“He won’t deal with us while he’s a director. But in a few years? Ask me again when he’s not on our board.”
Monk paused. This had to be put just right. Carmody had to understand perfectly what he was about to say. Franklin had to hear exactly the right words.
“I understand,” he said, “that Franklin’s got a private collection at his farm in Gettysburg. A collection nobody’s ever seen.”
“You’ve done your homework, but give me a break. Thomas Franklin stole the Madonna? You might as well go after the president himself.”
“Does Franklin collect da Vinci?”
“Not that I know of. But I can ask him.”
Of course you can, Monk thought. “If it’s convenient,” he said.
Carmody glanced at his watch. “I’m afraid I have to run. I’ll call Mr. Franklin this evening, and get back to you tomorrow.”
THIRTY-NINE
Christ, I hate running!
Some days, Sung Kim admitted, it felt like she was dragging tree stumps.
A little more than halfway through her daily five miles along the shore of Reston, Virginia’s Lake Anne, she was tempted to stop and walk the rest of the way back to her car.
What she needed was a break, and not only from running. She’d been working too hard for too long. She needed to get away for a few weeks to recharge her batteries. She would insist on a vacation, just as soon as this Japanese thing was over. Somewhere she could lie around and do nothing. Bermuda, maybe, or the Costa del Sol. Distracted by visions of sun and sand, she was halfway around the last long curve on her way back to the car when she realized it was time to quit daydreaming and pay attention to business.
She ignored the lake on her left, intent instead on the familiar grouping of boulders coming up on her right. A dozen yards from the rocks, she slowed down to take a good look at the base of the boulder nearest the trail. Her eyes focused on the chalk mark, the six-inch line of white chalk her contact had drawn on the rock to signal that the dead drop was ready for her to clear. She glanced at her wristwatch. She had one hour to get to the drop. The fatigue vanished. Her long legs kicked into a higher gear, eating up the trail now as she sprinted for her car.
Twenty minutes later, still sweating from the run, Sung Kim drove her Volvo wagon west out of Reston to State Highway 28, then caught Highway 50 east for twenty-five miles to the turnoff for Highway 734 at the hamlet of Aldie, Virginia. She drove through Aldie on 734, and as she passed the city-limits sign reached to the dashboard and pushed the trip-meter button next to the odometer. Keeping a close eye on the trip-meter, she pulled over to the side of the road and stopped when she’d covered exactly seven-tenths of a mile.
Out of the car, Sung Kim walked around to the shoulder, then peered up and down the country road, saw nothing out of the ordinary, and turned to the grassy ditch that ran alongside the road. She didn’t see the soft drink can she was looking for, so she started walking back along the road toward Aldie.
She hadn’t gone a dozen yards before she did see it. She stepped into the ditch, reached down, and picked up the empty red Coca-Cola can. She carried the can back to the Volvo, opened the door, then turned to stare up and down the road again before sliding behind the wheel and dropping the can into the passenger seat. Satisfied she hadn’t been seen, Sung Kim made a quick U-turn and headed home.
Inside her safe house, she used her one-time pad.
She sat at the desk in the bedroom she’d converted into a home office. The empty Coke can sat on the desk in front of her. She opened a drawer near her right hand and pulled out a short-bladed kitchen knife with a serrated edge, then used the blade to remove the top from the can. The inside of the can was bone dry, and when she turned it upside down a white card fell out onto the desktop. She picked up the blank card and turned it over. The other side bore a
long sequence of hand-printed numbers. Sung Kim reached to switch on the lamp over the desk, then bent to examine the numbers.
73918526186469128473
Twenty numbers. A simple substitution code, but without the use of a one-time pad, impossible to break.
She opened the center drawer of her desk and backed her chair far enough away to pull the drawer almost all the way out. She reached in, groping for the very rear wall of the drawer, and applied pressure at the far right end. The wall slid to the left, exposing a cavity the size of a deck of cards. From the cavity she pulled her one-time pad: a two-by-three-inch pad of gray paper that—together with the numbers on the white card—would contain her new orders. She set the pad on her desktop next to the card.
Her controller in Pyongyang had used an exact duplicate of her onetime pad at his end, bearing these same numbers. When he’d finished writing this message, he’d torn off the top page and burned it, then disposed of the ashes. When Sung Kim finished decoding her orders, she would tear off her top page and burn it. A simple, unbreakable method, and inexpensive as well, an important consideration for a country just now beginning to lift itself out of destitution. Sure it was slow—the almost primitive method of hand delivery they were forced to use—but the FBI had made utilizing the Internet simply too risky. The bureau’s Magic Lantern program, an extension of the original Carnivore, now enabled the FBI to download every keystroke of an individual computer. It was a hazard Pyongyang was determined to avoid.
She began to decrypt the message, and ten minutes later sat staring at her orders, at the Korean characters that spelled out the specifics. Damn it, she thought. Did this give her enough time? She read the orders twice, just to make sure, then tore the paper into narrow strips, set them in an ashtray near her right hand, and used a cigarette lighter to burn them. She watched the small flames destroy the evidence, then gazed out the window at the clouds beginning to form in the sky to the west.
FORTY
