She’d only ridden a motorcycle a couple of times, with some friends during college. She could handle it, but this bike had a level of power she knew she’d have to respect. Still, as she crunched over gravel, she was aware that she was about to do something foolish and a little dangerous. Petty, but necessary.
She gunned the throttle, lurching forward, and then turned the bike so she could throw a shower of gravel over the body of the man. A symbolic burial, maybe. She was the first to throw dirt on his grave.
She kept the bike under control, kept her balance, and righted herself as she raced forward, through the open gate of the construction site and onto the city streets.
15
FBI OFFICES, MANHATTAN
Kotler left the sedan in front of FBI headquarters. He’d take flack for it later, once this was over and Denzel had recovered. First this had to be over. Kotler was up against the clock.
It had taken over ten minutes to get to the building, eating into a third of Kotler’s time. He needed to expedite the rest of this, to make up for the time, somehow.
Inside the building, he had to go through security, like always. He scanned his ID, nodded to the guard on duty, and emptied his pockets before stepping through the scanners. The whole process, from entering the building to getting through security, took less than two minutes, but felt like an eternity. The elevator ride up to Historic crimes only exacerbated the feeling.
While in the elevator, Kotler started sending messages to everyone he could think of, cc’ing half the department to say he needed the manuscript and the decoding packed up and ready to go, and it was an emergency. He gave as much detail as he was able, including the fact that Agent Denzel was injured, and that Dr. Ludlum’s life was in jeopardy. It was the first opportunity he’d had to alert the FBI, and he felt he was botching it, fumbling through frantic emails and texts.
By the time the doors opened, he was already getting questioning responses.
Several agents were waiting as he stepped out into the Historic Crimes floor.
“Dr. Kotler, where is Agent Denzel?”
Kotler rushed past them. “He’s at the government sealed building. I have less than 20 minutes to get the manuscript and the translations, or Liz Ludlum dies.”
“Dr. Kotler!” One of the agents raced to cut him off. “I can’t let you do that, sir.”
Kotler halted, staring.
He knew this agent. She was one of Denzel’s picks. She’d been one of the first that Denzel had recruited when he was assembling Historic Crimes.
“Agent … Brown?”
“Yes sir,” Agent Brown said. “Now, calm down and explain to me what’s happening.”
“If I don’t deliver the manuscript, Liz dies.”
“I understand that sir, but we don’t do that.” She was firm, adamant. Direct.
Kotler opened his mouth to say something, to argue, and stopped.
She was right.
Giving the manuscript to this man would accomplish nothing good, and could potentially put a lot of people in danger. There was no way to know what this man was really after. He was smart, connected. He had access to things Kotler could only guess at.
Kotler blinked.
The man in the balaclava—he couldn’t be the one running things behind the scenes. He didn’t fit.
Whoever was behind this had managed to stay hidden from the start, to manipulate Denzel and Kotler and the entire Historic Crimes division with only a few well-timed messages and hints. The man who had attacked Denzel was an enforcer, operating on orders.
We will know when you have it.
“Dr. Kotler?” Agent Brown asked, peering at him curiously.
He looked around at all of the agents gathered, staring at him.
He couldn’t blame them. He’d rushed in here like a lunatic, causing quite a commotion.
Or a distraction.
“I need to get to Liz’s lab,” he said, moving in that direction.
Brown stepped in front of him again, putting a hand to his chest. “Dr. Kotler, I told you …”
“I’m not taking anything,” he said calmly, reaching up to touch her arm. “I don’t think there’s anything to take.”
She gave him a curious look, and then followed him to the lab.
The tech team was hard at work as he entered, still deciphering the rest of the manuscript. “Dr. Kotler!” One of them smiled up at him. “We put together a program that uses OCR to spot the encoded text and …”
“I’m sorry,” Kotler said, holding a hand up. “I need to see the manuscript.”
The man nodded and turned his laptop around, showing the scan of the document.
“No,” Kotler said. “I need to see the physical manuscript.”
The man frowned, exchanging glances with the rest of the team and with Agent Brown.
Brown nodded. “Show him.”
The tech shrugged. “I don’t know where it is. We’ve been working from scans all this time. I assumed it was in the archive room.”
Kotler turned and hurried to the door of the archive room, swiping his badge on the panel and entering as soon as the door was open.
There were myriad items in this room, artifacts and documents the FBI was studying in pursuit of a dozen open cases. Each piece was tagged and placed on a shelf, in a cataloged location. Kotler knew the spot for his great-grandfather’s paper. He navigated directly to it and stood in front of it.
The space was empty.
He turned to Agent Brown. “Who isn’t here?” he asked.
“I’m sorry?” Brown replied.
“Out of the agents, tech staff, and forensic team who had access to the manuscript, who isn’t here right now?”
Brown shook her head. “I don’t know. I can find out.”
“Do it,” Kotler said. “And fast. Restrict your search to anyone who has left the building in the past half-hour.”
“That’s a narrow window, shouldn’t be too hard,” Brown said, already taking out her phone and calling building security. “What’s going on?”
“I’m a distraction,” Kotler said. “Liz, Roland, all of this. It’s all smoke and mirrors.”
“What do you mean?” Brown asked.
“The manuscript has been stolen. It’s what they were after all along, and they used us to get it.”
“How?” Brown asked.
Kotler shook his head. “There’s a mole in Historic Crimes. And they just got what they were after.”
16
NEW YORK-PRESBYTERIAN HOSPITAL
Kotler stood just outside the door, peering into the hospital room, watching Liz Ludlum sleep.
He felt someone step up beside him, and looked up to see Denzel, with his neck in a brace.
“Doctors say she’s fine, just needs some rest,” Denzel rasped.
“You sound like you could use some rest yourself,” Kotler replied, smiling. “How’s your throat?”
“Bruised,” Denzel said. “But fine.”
They stepped into the hall, leaving Ludlum to sleep. Kotler would talk to her later. He was anxious to hear her voice. He wanted to hear her story, but more importantly, he needed to hear her voice.
They made their way to a waiting room that had been commandeered by the FBI. Unofficially. The number of off-duty agents and members of Ludlum’s forensics team had simply overwhelmed any other presence on this floor of the hospital. Agents had lined up to volunteer for guard duty. The rest were there running support, bringing in coffee and food and reading materials. Ludlum was beloved in the department, Kotler knew. But she’d also been nabbed right out in the open and right under their noses. There was a feeling of guilt and responsibility among the agents. Kotler understood it perfectly. He felt it.
Kotler and Denzel grabbed coffee and sat in two plush chairs in one corner of the room.
“What did you find out, about the man Liz took down?”
Denzel took a ginger sip of his coffee; a move made a bit awkward by the neck brace.
After a moment, frustrated, he yanked at the Velcro straps and pulled the thing off, discarding it in a corner of the room. He rubbed his neck with one hand and sipped coffee freely.
“His name was Cameron Ryba. He has a juvenile record, a couple of minor smash and grabs. He was carrying an unlicensed .45 that we recovered from the scene.”
“So just hired muscle,” Kotler said.
Denzel shook his head, winced slightly, and replied. “I don’t think so. The kid came back as a relative nobody, but his brother has a file. A big one. His name’s Redmond Ryba. Goes by Red. He’s a suspect in more than a hundred hits, worldwide.”
“More than a hundred?” Kotler said, his eyes wide. “Wait, just a suspect?”
“He’s good,” Denzel replied. “Makes things look like common street crime. Muggings, B&E’s gone bad, that sort of thing. Never leaves any real evidence behind. Nothing anyone can use against him. But he has a reputation.”
“What kind of reputation?” Kotler asked.
“Hundred percent success rate, for a start. He has a business built on referrals. He only takes on clients referred to him by other clients. That’s the rumor, anyway. It’s hard to find anything solid on the guy. Only a couple of his clients have ever talked, and they met with mysterious, tragic circumstances.”
Kotler sipped his coffee, thinking. “So he’s a hired hand. Definitely not the mastermind behind this. What about the agent who took the manuscript?”
“Agent Lee Patterson,” Denzel sneered.
Kotler thought, struggling to remember. He’d met Agent Patterson a few times. Did he know anything about him? He couldn’t recall any deep conversations, anything beyond the work. Kotler occasionally got an icy reception from the agents in Historic Crimes, who sometimes saw him as a power. Or maybe they felt he had too much influence over their boss. As a result, not everyone in the department had warm feelings toward him. There were plenty of people in Historic Crimes that he’d never quite bonded with. Patterson was one of them.
“Do we know his motive?” Kotler asked.
Denzel shook his head. “Not yet. We’re looking at his financials, his extended family, that sort of thing. He had a thorough background check before coming in, though. I made sure of that. Not much showing up now.”
Kotler considered this. Could Patterson have played a long game? For two years Denzel had built his team from the ground up, vetting everyone, even Kotler himself, well enough to weed out most threats. But there had been breaches before. One of the tech team had been sharing information with Gail McCarthy, as an example. The screenings weren’t perfect.
Kotler knew that this would be a wound for Denzel. The agent was likely already kicking himself over imagined failings and dropped balls.
“All of this,” Kotler said, shaking his head. “It had to take a lot of planning.”
Denzel nodded. “He had this set up pretty well. It must have taken months to pull it together. He knew everything that was happening, and when. While I was getting choked by Red Rybas, Patterson was already out of the building and off the radar, manuscript in tow.”
“How did he get it?” Kotler asked.
“When we brought in the tech team, they took over Liz’s lab. He checked the manuscript back into the archives, but it never actually made it there. Best we can figure he had it tucked into his coat or something as he left the archive and the lab. He went to the lobby and waited.”
“Waited?” Kotler asked, confused. “For what?”
“For you,” Denzel said. “When you came through, you sent some messages, and things got moving. The building went on alert. People started to scramble. And Patterson used it as a distraction to get out and get moving. He was miles away by the time you figured out it was all a distraction.”
Kotler lowered his chin to his chest, closing his eyes, breathing. “I’m an anthropologist,” he said, then looked up to Denzel. “How do I keep ending up in situations like this?”
Denzel chuckled. “I’ve been asking that question for two years, Kotler. Just face it. This is what you do.”
Kotler smiled at that and turned his attention to the room. He intended to stay until Liz was awake, to chat with her for a bit and then go home. He hadn’t been back to his apartment in some time, and he could use a shower and a hot meal, maybe some solitude.
It was a hard thing, facing the fact that they’d lost this one—that the bad guy had gotten away.
No less difficult for Denzel, he knew. His friend had been meticulous about vetting the members of his team, sussing out their backgrounds and determining not only who was best suited for work in Historic Crimes, but who could be trusted. After the events surrounding the former Director, Matt Crispen—the man who’d actually brought Kotler and Denzel together by betraying the Bureau and his country—Denzel had become a zealot about screening. Kotler knew that Denzel would take this hard, that he’d blame himself, that he’d …
Sit quietly and serenely, sipping coffee as if nothing had happened.
“Roland,” Kotler said, cautiously. “Why aren’t you yelling or cursing or demanding the heads of your enemies?”
Denzel laughed. “Well, my throat hurts. But … ok.” He turned to Kotler, leaning in, and spoke in a quiet, conspiratorial tone. “There’s something I didn’t tell you. In fact, only Liz knows.”
“Secrets?” Kotler said in mock surprise. “From me?”
“From everyone,” Denzel said, grinning. “There’s a dot on the manuscript.”
Kotler blinked. “A dot?”
Denzel smiled and nodded. “A GPS dot. I had it made to look like one of the brass brads. Patterson wouldn’t have known it was there. Liz and I put it there after the first round of tests, while she still had exclusive access to it.”
Kotler shook his head. “Why?”
“Saw this coming,” Denzel said. “Or, well, I figured it might happen. All the spy stuff, the codes and the NSA connection,” he waved a hand as if swatting away gnats. “Made me paranoid. I started thinking about why anyone would want to get me into that room, to find that paper, and to see your name on it. They had to know a lot about me, about you, and about FBI procedure. Not hard. You’re kind of famous, in your way ...”
“Thanks,” Kotler rolled his eyes.
“... and there are tons of ways to learn how the FBI works. I figured whoever was behind this must know me, though, and would somehow have access to the archive.”
“Because it would be inevitable that the manuscript would go in there,” Kotler said, eyes wide in surprise. “They would know its location, and all they’d have to do was wait. Brilliant. Roland … I’m sorry. I underestimated you!”
Denzel shrugged, leaned back, and sipped his coffee with a slight wince. “It happens a lot. I find it’s kind of useful to let you think you’re the smartest guy in the room. Helps me prove my own theories.”
Kotler laughed, shaking his head. “Ok, smart guy. So you’re tracking Patterson? You know where he is?”
“I am. I do.”
“But you aren’t circling up, trying to bring him in?”
Denzel shook his head. “I’m waiting. I want to see where he ends up. Who he ends up talking to.”
Kotler thought about it. “So, you don’t think Patterson is the person behind the scenes?”
Denzel shrugged. “Maybe he is, and maybe he isn’t, but he’s on the move, I know that. I don’t know what he wants with that thing, or where he’s taking it. But I think he’s just a fish. I think there’s a whale out there, so I’m giving him some play in the line.”
Kotler huffed. “You’re brilliant,” he said, holding his coffee cup up as a toast. “Who knew?”
“Well, I’m not a fancy-pants anthropologist, but I get by,” he said, meeting the toast.
Part II
17
UNDISCLOSED LOCATION
Red watched from a distance, peering through the scope of a rifle to see his brother’s body laid to rest.
He had managed to vis
it the scene, where his brother had fallen, and had avoided the police and the FBI while performing his own sweep. He needed to know the details, to correct for any such failures in the future.
He needed to know how his brother died.
Inside the survey trailer, he found the wire that had tied the woman’s feet. Red had tied the wire with the knot accessible to her hands. He should have knotted it in front, where her shins met the top of her feet. More difficult and more painful to reach.
That was his mistake.
He looked then at the desk. A cardboard tube, an open drawer, a pair of nail clippers and a shred of wire insulation. The severed wire had been taken as evidence, though Red was uncertain why the rest was left behind.
He shook his head. The woman was clever. He had underestimated her. Another mistake.
The clippers had been the key to her freedom. Something he had overlooked. A foolish mistake.
He couldn’t deny it. He had caused all of this. He had sent his brother into a scenario in which certain variables had not been accounted for, and it had led to Cameron’s death.
This was on Red. While he had enjoyed a movie, his brother had died because of careless mistakes.
It was unacceptable. It gnawed at him, made him question himself and his methods. He had maintained his 100% success rate, had come through exactly as the contract had demanded, but had lost a valuable asset—his brother—in the process. Just as the boy was becoming better at this, too. It was a shame. It was disgusting.
When he was a soldier, Red had observed certain rituals after losing a brother in arms. He observed these now. A bottle of Kentucky bourbon sat on the table of the hotel room. He opened it, poured two glasses, and drank one. The other he would leave, along with the rest of the bottle. A toast for his brother, wherever he may be.
He took out his wallet and removed a hundred-dollar bill.
In his military days, Red had done this with ones or fives or tens—sometimes the odd twenty, if he had one. The largest denomination he could manage, in a single bill, at the time. Giving the most to someone who had given everything.
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