Swamp had known Hallory in his previous life as a director in the Secret Service, when Hallory had been an up-and-coming headquarters staffer. He had a reputation for being smart and thorough, if not overly imaginative. More than a plodder, but not someone Swamp would have put in charge of an extremely dynamic situation. He was surprised at how much Hallory had aged over the intervening years, and he almost felt like apologizing for intruding.
“I can give you three minutes,” Hallory said, looking pointedly at his watch. “Hopefully, you’re gonna tell me this Nazi thing is a firefly.”
“Actually,” Swamp began, sitting down, but Hallory cut him off, waving a piece of paper at him.
“C’mon, for Chrissakes, Mr. Morgan, I’ve seen this so-called transcript. Sounds like some kind of drug addict coming down off bad dope. Heil Hitler? This is a nutcase, not a terrorist.”
“Mr. Hallory? You read the papers this morning? See the story about that Homicide lieutenant getting his throat cut last night?”
Hallory stopped his protestations. “Yeah?” he said warily.
“This is going to take more than three minutes,” Swamp said. “And, no, I don’t think it’s a firefly.”
Hallory just looked at him for a moment, then picked up his telephone, punched the intercom button, and waited for a couple seconds. “Find Lucy,” he ordered. “Get her in here ASAP.”
“Who’s Lucy?” Swamp asked, a little surprised at Hallory’s hostile tone.
Hallory ignored the question. “You’re a retiree recall, right, Mr. Morgan? Headquarters DAD for intel before you left?”
Swamp nodded. As if you didn’t know that, he thought.
“No offense intended here, but I have to tell you, I don’t think this recall program’s such a great idea. In my experience, retired guys who get recalled try too hard. Especially senior guys. See shit that isn’t there to justify being back in the game. With all due respect, sometimes it gets a little pathetic.”
Swamp took a mental deep breath and composed the expression on his face. “If the active-duty guys could handle the job, then I don’t suppose anyone would be recalled,” he said calmly. “As it was, they called me.”
“Yeah, I believe that,” Hallory said, either missing or ignoring Swamp’s barb. “But that was all nine-eleven panicsville. Over three years ago. We’ve got things a little better organized these days.”
An argument broke out in the next office, the voices carrying over into the hallway through the thin partitions. Somebody banged something on a desktop to make his point. “I suppose,” Swamp said. “But listening to this place for the past half hour, I have to wonder.”
As Hallory’s face reddened, the door to his office opened and a tall blond woman stepped in. “Yes, sir?” she asked. She appeared to be in her mid-forties, with bright blue eyes in a distinctly Nordic face. Her erect posture emphasized her trim figure.
Hallory kept staring at Swamp, but then he answered her. “Mr. Morgan here has himself a theory. About a firefly. Unfortunately, he says he can’t summarize it quickly for me, so I want you to take him down to the conference room and let him…expound. Then maybe you can summarize it for me. Assuming it makes any sense. Okay, Lucy? Mr. Morgan?” He passed her the piece of paper he’d been waving at Swamp.
Swamp gave him a broad smile and followed the woman out of the office. She led him back to the conference room. The argument was still noisily going on, so she pushed the door partially shut and sat down at the head of the table. She was wearing a tailored gray business suit and round gold-rimmed glasses. Her ash-blond hair was done up in an elaborately woven bun, confined by a gold clasp. Swamp offered his hand. “Swamp Morgan, OSI,” he said.
“Lucy VanMetre,” she replied, taking his hand briefly. Her fingers were as cool as her expression. “What did you say to provoke that interesting color?”
Swamp smiled and sat down. “I was the deputy assistant director for intel a few years back,” he said. “Before I retired. Got recalled into Homeland Security, Office of Special Investigations, after nine eleven. Mr. Hallory apparently doesn’t care much for recalled annuitants.”
“Secret Service?” she asked, cocking her head to one side.
“Yup.”
“Right,” she said. “You’re that Morgan. Well, well. It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir. I was doing an exchange tour across the river when you were DAD intel. You were very well known over in Langley.”
“You mean notorious, probably, but thanks for the compliment. And don’t call me ‘sir’—I’m just an anonymous working stiff these days. Serving very much at the pleasure of—hell, I’m not sure anymore. Somebody important, I suppose.”
“And apparently chasing fireflies?”
“For my sins,” he said. “PRU’s been farming out some of the weirder stuff to federal LE offices all over town, what with the inauguration looming in just over a week.”
The argument down the hall reached a climax of sorts and then went quiet.
“I do appreciate the strain everybody’s under here,” Swamp continued. “But this one, I’m afraid, may have some legs. The good news is that it’s aimed at the president’s address to a joint session of Congress, so there’s time to work it.”
“Based on Mr. Hallory’s expression, working it may or may not be an option. Walk me through it?”
Swamp did, beginning with the initial report from D.C. Arson all the way up to the events at Connie Wall’s house the previous night. She did not take notes, but she listened carefully, and he had the impression that under all that spun platinum hair, there was a big brain soaking up every word he said.
“On balance,” he concluded, “I think there’s something going on. By all rights, that woman shouldn’t have bolted like that, not once the cops got there. But she did. And this unknown individual apparently pursued her down the hill.”
“And your theory is that this individual was a patient at the clinic, who’s now trying to erase everyone who laid eyes on him?”
“Yes,” he said, getting up to stretch his legs. The only government furniture that had ever been big enough for his bulky frame had been his executive chair when he was a supergrade. And those days were gone forever, as the choleric Mr. Hallory had so kindly pointed out. Standing, he realized he was towering over her, so he sat back down.
“Evidence?” she asked.
“Damned little, and some of that’s in code. Or in German.”
“Yes, I see that,” she said, glancing at the paper. “‘It will rain dead people.’ That’s fairly specific.”
Smart, and reads German, Swamp thought. Maybe not Scandinavian. “My next step, of course, is to identify which patient made that little speech. We can’t know that it’s the guy in the bushes out there in Cleveland Park until we get our claws on that nurse again. But if we can get an ID, we might be able to tap some databases.”
“We,” she said, raising her eyebrows at him.
“Well, I’ve been tasked to pull the string on this,” he said. “By my boss, who’s supposedly doing your boss a favor. My unofficial title is intel liaison.”
“Which translates into doing whatever OSI wants to shove your way,” she said.
“Precisely,” Swamp replied. “And PRU, as well, right? What’s your background?”
“Math and linguistics at Columbia,” she said. “Started out as an Agency analyst, Eastern European division. Got tired of research, so I did a lateral into the Secret Service. Did my probationary tour in New York, then the protective detail, an exchange with the DDO at Langley. Then here. What exactly did you want from Mr. Hallory this morning?”
“Normally, fireflies die in the grass. When they’re not fireflies, they come back to PRU for threat analysis. I was bringing it back to PRU.”
“Where it bounced, from the looks of it,” she said, frowning. “Everyone’s under a lot of pressure just now, as you observed. Please don’t take it personally.”
“I never do,” Swamp said. “Especially from people
who are in over their heads.”
“You think?” she asked, tilting her head again. It was somehow a charming move, but there was a glint of anger in her eyes.
“How many days until the big event?”
“Too few.”
“Well then, a properly aimed security survey would have been locked down by now and everyone would be in the ‘polish the weapons’ mode at this juncture—in my opinion, that is.”
“In your opinion.”
“Yes. Sounds to me like you’re still stuffing snakes back into the box.”
As if to make his point, a second argument erupted next door, followed by a slamming door and then a strained silence. Lucy VanMetre looked down at the table for a moment.
“I guess what I’m asking now,” Swamp said, “is for PRU to leave this one open for the moment. Won’t cost you anything to have OSI gnaw on it some more. We find the hole in my theory, there’s lots of other work to do back over at OSI.”
“Is that what you want me to tell Mr. Hallory?”
He paused for a moment. He still didn’t know what her job was here at PRU, nor had she told him. She might be Hallory’s executive assistant, or even his deputy, for all he knew, trotted out in all her splendor to humor the old guy.
“Why don’t you tell him that you just…took care of it? Then don’t do anything. Don’t shitcan it, but don’t push it, either. I’ll give it another week. Trust me, I’ve chased enough fireflies to know one when I see one.”
She nodded and folded the piece of paper in half, then in half again, making sharp-edged creases. She stood up and fished a business card out of her jacket pocket. “Call me if you develop anything, Mr. Morgan,” she said with a professional smile. “And it’s been a pleasure to meet you finally.”
“Me, too,” Swamp said, suddenly feeling awkward, while at the same time fully conscious that he was being dismissed. He didn’t bother to give her one of his cards.
She escorted him back to the security desk for that floor, signed in his visitor’s badge, shook hands politely, and sent him on his way. He kept seeing her face as he rode down the elevator. Now that, he told himself, is one smooth operator. He carefully slipped her card into his own card holder.
As he walked down K Street toward the Old Executive Office Building, he wondered again if he’d simply been given a semipolite brush-off by Hallory and his Slinky. But in a way, it didn’t matter. He’d come in to alert PRU officially that there was something out there in the woods bigger than a phosphorescent insect. If they chose to ignore it, well, shit on them if it blew up on them later. He made a mental note to back-brief his boss on Hallory’s reaction, give him a quick memorandum of the conversation. Do it in writing, just for the record. Then he grinned. Once a bureaucrat, always a bureaucrat.
He’d given himself a week back there. There was, of course, always the possibility that Hallory’s instincts were right and that his were wrong.
“Nah,” he said out loud, startling a woman who was walking past him on the street.
Connie Wall began to get cold feet, literally, the closer she got to the clinic building. Suppose the cops had it under surveillance? Suppose the District Arson people were there right now, probing through the ruins? Wouldn’t that be an inconvenient surprise! She turned down Kalorama Road and slowed her pace, almost not wanting to cover the three remaining blocks. The morning was gray and blustery, and she was very grateful she’d been able to trade off that UPS jacket. She imagined that the entire city was looking for a woman on foot, wearing one of those distinctive brown jackets. But her legs were cold and her feet were freezing.
Two blocks from the clinic, a police car came down Kalorama. She turned into the railing in front of an apartment building and pretended to tie her shoe, but the cop car went right on by, the officer in the shotgun seat busy with some paperwork. Once it was out of sight, she resumed her approach to the burned-out building, only to stop at the final corner. She could see the building, which was still decorated with fluttering yellow tape all over the front entrance. Two men in suits and overcoats were standing on the front steps, going through some papers. She immediately turned around and retraced her steps back up Kalorama. So much for that plan, she thought. She had no idea of who the men were—insurance adjusters, arson investigators, Secret Service. But she wasn’t planning to find out.
So now what, Einstein? The wind hit her full in the face as she went back up Kalorama Road. Her toes were beginning to get numb and she knew she had to get somewhere inside before she developed hypothermia. It was going on noon, and she needed a public place that was warm, dry, and, most of all, free. A movie theater? Nothing open at this hour, and definitely not free. Go back downtown to one of the Mall museums? But that would mean being on her feet, and right now, her feet weren’t working so well. Then she spotted the public library, right across the street. Hallelujah! Warm, dry, and free. With chairs and a bathroom. Perfect. Stay there until closing time, rush hour again, dusk. Then go back to the clinic. Where there had better be some petty cash left in that safe, or she was going to be in real trouble. She thought about jaywalking but then hurried to the corner to cross the street. This was no time to attract cops. There’d be newspapers in there. Maybe she could find out about Cat. From what she’d seen of the back porch, she wasn’t sure she really wanted to know.
Upon returning to the office, Swamp reviewed procedures with Gary White on how to turn on the federal fugitive machinery, which was done primarily through the FBI headquarters. Then he had Gary call the District police to get a status on their search for the missing nurse and anything else he could find out about the incident the previous night. While Gary was dialing through that maze, Swamp called an old friend, Bertram Walker. He’d been surprised to run into Bertie at Caruso’s, Swamp’s usual dinner spot, only a week ago. Swamp learned that Bertie had been detailed secretly to the campaign staff of the new president when the Agency’s Director read the tea leaves and decided the Democrats were going to win this one. He’d been on the road with the presidential campaign for months, and his wife had tired of it, so now he was recently divorced and just beginning to find his way around the solitary dining scene in northern Virginia. Since he was still on active duty in the counterintelligence operations directorate over at the CIA, Bertie was a natural contact for Swamp to pull the string on Lucy VanMetre.
“Hey, Swamp, it’s been a week. OSI hasn’t fired you yet? Sent you off to work at the Social Security Administration?”
“Up yours, Bertie. Although OSI, SSA? Sometimes hard to tell the difference.”
“Well, if it’s any comfort, I feel my homeland is a lot more secure with you riding herd on all that fervor and industry. What’s up?”
“Tell me what you know about a lady named Lucy VanMetre. Used to work for you guys?”
“Ah, yes. Currently at nine-five-oh H Street, your old headquarters, if I’m not mistaken. Where they call her ‘La Mamba.’”
“La who?”
“La Mamba. As in black mamba, the very dangerous African serpent.”
“She’s hardly black, Bertie.”
“Technically, neither is a black mamba, Swamp. But that’s inconsequential when one rises up in front of you on the jungle path and you find out that its front half is taller than you are.”
“Yeah, I guess I got a little of that, although I think you’re being a bit extreme. She told me she started her government service over there.”
“That she did. I met her back then, and she was formidable right out of the gate. Came here with a Ph.D. in math from Columbia, said she’d been recruited by NSA but thought the Agency would be more ‘suitable.’ I think that’s the word she used.”
“I can’t feature her as a street agent.”
“Which means she could probably surprise you. But basically, she’s never been street. This is one blonde who gets hired for what’s above her neck, not below it. So what’s shakin’ that you’re consorting with dangerous creatures like our Lucy?”
Bertie was suddenly serious. “Full-scope identity changes? Let’s go secure.”
Swamp switched his phone, waited for the electronic handshake to subside, and then Bertie was back. “You been to the Bureau with this?” Bertie asked.
“No, I’m staying in Secret Service and OSI channels for the moment. Keeping it in DHS. Our tasking came from PRU. They’re up to their hairlines with inauguration preps, and they’ve been farming out everything they think might be a firefly. I went back there this morning to tell them this one wasn’t. Guy named Hallory’s running security for the inauguration. He sloughed it off, and I got the Lucy treatment for my troubles.”
“What’s she do there, exactly?”
“Don’t know. Hallory’s deputy or EA, maybe?”
“Carlton Hallory? He’s been giving us daily gas pains with that inauguration security task force. He and I have some history, not all of it pleasant.”
“Well, he basically didn’t want to hear it when I said his firefly was refusing to go gracefully into the night. And, of course, I can’t prove shit right now, so suddenly Lucy appears to make me feel better while easing my ass smartly along to the ee-gress.”
“Yeah, maybe. But listen: Lucy VanMetre is always running her own agenda, no matter where she goes. You think this is for real, you call her back when you get something solid. Despite some of the career casualties bobbing in her wake, she’s first and foremost a cryogenic brain. You convince Lucy, she’ll get it in front of the director.”
The Firefly Page 15
