by Ian Smith
“Maybe because the money is new.”
“How new?”
“It started coming in three months ago.”
“She hit the lottery or something?”
“Or something. This is what my guys told me. Heidi's mother, Elga Vorscht, works as a secretary in the history department at the University of Stuttgart. Heidi's father was killed in a random robbery gone bad many years ago. They didn't collect much on his life insurance, and most of their finances have come from the mother's job at the university. A few months ago, wires started hitting the mother's account. Big wires. A hundred thousand at a clip. The mother then turned the money around into Heidi's account, keeping a little spending change for herself.”
“Drug money?”
Gilden shook his head. “I don't think so.” He turned on a reading light and reached into the backseat, pulling out a thick folder. The silence in the car was broken only by the cacophony of singing insects and pond critters calling into the empty night.
“Here's all the documentation,” Gilden said, handing the folder to Sterling. “Most of the faxes are legible enough to make the case.”
“So who's sending her the money?” Sterling asked.
Gilden nodded to the folder in Sterling's hand. Sterling opened it and pulled out the first batch of papers. Sitting on top were photocopies of several electronic transfer receipts in the amount of $100,000 per transaction. Sterling didn't recognize the signature at the bottom of the forms, but his jaw went slack when he spotted the name of the authorizing account. The Sunny Fields Company.
Sterling needed sleep. Lots of it. It was well past midnight when he dragged himself up the back steps to the parsonage. His room was tucked away in the corner of the house, which meant he could enter without waking the others. More than anything, he needed to be alone with his thoughts. This was how he always felt after pulling the snag on a long, complicated case—the deep ache in his muscles and joints could only be relieved by the darkness of sleep. He opened the back door and walked by the kitchen. He spotted a wrapped plate of food on the table, but was too exhausted to even think about eating. He opened the door to his room, eased the knapsack onto the bed, and rolled his neck in slow circles to release the cramps knotting his muscles. He removed the Glock 36 from his waistband, turned on the safety, and set it on the dresser.
He opened the window a little because he liked to sleep with the air blowing over his face. He propped the pillows and pulled back the covers.
“Don't move, Bledsoe.” The man's voice was quiet, but firm.
The streetlight cast a long shadow against the wall. But next to that shadow he spotted the man's silhouette. He was sitting in a chair against the wall, his left hand jammed in his pocket, his right hand resting on the table.
“Sit on the bed and don't make a move for your gun,” the man said. “You even blink and I'll empty a round in your ass.”
Sterling thought he recognized the voice, but his mind was oddly sluggish. The day had been long and hard and now this. He sat on the bed.
“Put your hands in front where I can see them and close them together.”
Sterling obeyed. He was vulnerable. He thought about Veronica and the Briggses and wondered if they had been harmed.
The light flicked on. Sterling stared across the room at Agent Lonnie Brusco. A silver-nosed Ruger P97DAO pistol sat on the table next to him. He looked unamused.
“I've been waiting all night for you.”
“I didn't do it.”
“If I thought you did, my gun would be in my hand, not on the table. But there's still some explaining to do. Let's start with your picture showing up in that e-mail, then assaulting and confining Wiley, and discharging a firearm at another agent. Innocent or not, you're in some deep shit, Bledsoe. Start talking. Fast.”
For the next half hour, Sterling ran through everything, starting with the blackbirds in Mandryka's secret basement storage facility to the video Wilson had taken of the carnage in the woods. He took Brusco through the picture on Mortimer's desk and the picture of Wilson's lab group with Heidi prominently positioned next to Wilson. Sterling left out the part about the affair, not sure yet what role it had played in the murders. But he did explain the message Ahote had given him and the meeting he held with Kanti in the mountains. Sterling wrapped it up with what had happened since he left Hanover and the papers that showed the Sunny Fields Company had made hefty payments into Heidi's mother's accounts.
Brusco listened to the entire story without so much as clearing his throat. Then he spoke. “It all makes sense,” he said. “But it's still circumstantial. A group of high-priced lawyers will puncture enough holes in it to leave any jury doubtful.”
“I'm almost there,” Sterling said. “Today gave me the motive. Now I just need a little more time to collect the hard evidence.”
Brusco looked away. Sterling knew he was uncertain. There was trust chiseled into his face, but sometimes that trust came hard.
“Forty-eight hours,” Brusco said. “Tie this thing together and we never had this conversation.”
Sterling's shoulders slumped in relief. “That's all I need,” he said. “And when I put the noose around these sonsabitches, your name will go right next to mine.”
Brusco waved him off, then replaced the gun in his shoulder holster. He stood up and walked to the door.
“How did you find me, anyway?” Sterling asked.
“Frumpton.”
“He's dead.”
“I know. I found an old phone book of his in the cottage. He had a bunch of numbers listed for you. This was the only one we didn't already have.”
It made sense to Sterling. When Reverend Briggs had taken him in after the beating at the Hotel DeWitt, Harry was the only person in the Bureau whom Sterling had contacted, because he needed someone on the inside to cover for him while he was on the mend.
“This means a lot to me,” Sterling said.
Brusco swung the door open. “Just don't make a fool of me, Bledsoe. I got two kids on their way to college. I need this fuckin' job.”
47
Sterling raced down the steps of Penn Station. With the train departing in only half an hour, he didn't have a minute to spare. The main concourse was a sea of moving bodies and colors, each person in more of a rush than the next. Sterling allowed himself to be swallowed in the commotion. He quickly walked behind the big board, avoiding the small police depot in the northern corridor. Finding an empty ticket machine, he pulled out the credit card Reverend Briggs had loaned him. Several buttons later he had purchased a one-way ticket to Savannah, Georgia.
The train was called the Silver Meteor and it was perfect for the mission. Sterling had memorized most of the route: quick stops in Newark and Trenton, New Jersey, then Philadelphia, Delaware, Maryland, D.C., and a few other stops on the way to Savannah. The long train ride and frequent stations would make it difficult for them to nail down his location.
With the ticket safely in his possession, Sterling bought a newspaper, a small roll of tape, and a pair of scissors. He got into line at the boarding gate and moved with the crowd as the conductor lowered the chain. A quick flash of his ticket and he descended the long escalators to the dark tracks. He looked at his watch.
While most of the commuters filed to the front of the train, Sterling headed to the back for one of the unreserved coach cars. He hurried past the café, then two cars down locked himself in the bathroom. Time was slipping by. He pulled out his old cell phone and turned it on for the first time since coming to New York. Seven minutes before departure. He started counting down in his head. He pulled out a small piece of paper from his pocket and punched in the 800 number. It belonged to a cut-rate pharmacy that sold everything from ginkgo biloba to Viagra, all promised at an unbeatable discount. He already forgot the name of the city, but he remembered their headquarters was somewhere in Oklahoma.
Sterling checked his watch again as he waited for the call to go through. Five minutes. After eight
rings, he heard the recording. A woman's voice slowly took callers through a long list of options. She paused after each choice, then continued if there was no response. When none of the choices had been selected, the loop started all over again. Sterling had done a test run the previous night. For five hours she ran through the menu of choices again and again and again.
Three minutes before the departure whistle. Suddenly a tap on the door. He quickly flushed the toilet and waited for the water to stop before calling out, “Just a few seconds.” By the time he finished in the bathroom and stepped out the door, the train's engines were slowly coming to life.
He's hot,” Special Agent Glazer screamed as the monitors in the truck sprang to life. The others were in various positions of repose, but jumped into action when those words bounced off the walls. “And he initiated the call.”
Skip Dumars barreled his way down the aisle, pushing aside anything that stood in his way. He yanked a pair of headphones off the table and adjusted them to his wide head. “What's the number?” he grumbled. He was in a nasty mood, much worse than his normal disagreeable state. He'd had his ass chewed out and handed back to him when Washington learned they had bungled the capture at the Hotel DeWitt. Find Bledsoe or get used to pushing files in the office had been the thinly veiled threat. Murph and his contingent had even flown up from headquarters to deliver the message in person.
“We'll have a match in forty-five seconds,” Walsh replied, running her fingers across the keyboard.
Three monitors had been arranged on a small table in this portable command center. Three agents from IT—Glazer, Walsh, and Perkins—operated the computers. Everyone else had lined up behind Dumars's bulk as if sneaking into a peep show.
“Is the tracker ready?” Dumars barked to Perkins, the youngest of the agents, who looked like he still belonged on a college campus. No one bothered with his name, instead simply calling him Freshman.
“It's up and running,” Freshman answered. He moved the cursor across a complicated screen. A colorful global map with the longitude and latitude lines covering the earth's sphere slowly rotated until North America was centered in the monitor. A few more clicks of the mouse and the zoom brought the United States into sharp focus.
“This is going to take some time,” Walsh said. She sat in the middle. “It's an 800 number.” The number combinations spun on the monitor. A couple of minutes later, all ten digits had locked into place.
“Call it,” Dumars ordered.
The dial tone erupted over the speakerphone and everyone waited out the ringer. The recording for the One-Stop Pharmacy came on, prompting them to make their choices.
“He's moving, sir,” Freshman said. Everyone shifted their attention to the rotating map. A blinking red light represented the signal source.
“Where is he?” Dumars asked.
Freshman typed in a string of numbers and the map rotated to the East Coast. Seconds later, the state of New York filled the screen.
“He's in Manhattan,” Freshman said. “But he's moving.” The red light slowly moved across the screen.
“Give me a direction,” Dumars demanded. His nostrils flared and thick veins popped out of his bulging neck. He looked like a bull ready to charge.
“Southwest.”
“Is he still connected?”
“Yup,” Walsh answered.
Dumars turned to an agent in the back of the truck. “Call over and put the damn choppers on standby.”
“Both of them?” the agent asked.
“Damn right. We'll run his ass down from the air. Let NYPD know we have a make on him and get them moving on ground support. He's not getting away from me this time.”
“He's moving really fast, sir,” Freshman reported. He typed a series of commands and waited for the computer to respond. “At least forty miles per hour. And he's not making any stops. He must be in a car.”
The woman's recorded voice from the pharmacy continued to prompt them for their selection.
“Cut that goddamn thing off,” Dumars yelled. “How long has he been connected, Walsh?”
“Seven minutes,” she said, her long fingers expertly working the keys. “We need him at least for another three before we get the permanent lock.”
The new intelligence division of the FBI had developed a state-of-the-art wireless tracking system like no other in the world. With the quiet cooperation of the phone companies and device manufacturers, they had come up with a program that allowed them to track a cell phone location even after the call had been disconnected. Using a special cellular wavelength, once the satellite locks on to the phone long enough, it then opens a wireless tracking connection by sending small bursts of signals to a chip embedded in the phone. The chip returns a signal that allows the global positioning software to track the phone's location within five city blocks. The satellite could only establish a location lock after the connection has been live for at least ten minutes. They kept their eyes glued to the clock.
“Uh-oh,” Freshman mumbled. “The signal has some diffraction. Something is making it spread. Some kind of interference.” He punched in a series of numbers that changed the color and map rotation. “I can't say for sure, but the pattern looks like it might be water.”
“What the hell is he doing?” Dumars thought aloud. “He has to know we're on to him. And why is he traveling south?”
“Ten minutes confirmed,” Walsh said. “Satellite has the lock. He's ours.”
“Stay on him,” Dumars said. He ripped the headphones off and threw them to the table. “I'm going in the air.”
Dumars and two other agents bolted from the back of the truck and jumped into an unmarked sedan. They switched on the sirens and flashed the lights in the grill. The choppers were on the East Side helipad. If traffic wasn't too bad, they'd be there in fifteen minutes.
48
High winds and poor visibility kept Dumars and the other agents grounded for another hour before they got the clearance to take to the sky. They stayed in constant communication with the command center back in the truck and learned that Sterling's call lasted for almost half an hour before the line was disconnected. Freshman had tracked the phone from Newark to Trenton, then when the phone went dead, the satellite located the signal in the northern suburbs of Philadelphia. Police departments from New York City all the way down the East Coast were put on alert. A fugitive agent might be on his way through their jurisdiction and their help would certainly be needed.
Dumars and the other agents peered down from the chopper, following an electronic computer grid they carried on board and the wave of flashing cruisers snaking through the streets below. Unsure how long the chase would continue, they ordered two more helicopters to be refueled and waiting in Philadelphia. Then the transmission from one of the ground cars came across the radio. Bledsoe was on board an Amtrak train heading south. There might be enough time to surround the train in Philadelphia, but the station was busy and extra manpower would be needed for better crowd control. Dumars thought quickly and ordered everyone to step down. He gave the orders to run the train through the Philadelphia station without stopping, then alerted the team in Wilmington to begin making the necessary preparations to apprehend Bledsoe once the train pulled to a stop. The Wilmington station was smaller, in a more remote area, and much easier to blockade. Equally important, it would give Dumars enough time to get into position and be the one to snap on the handcuffs.
Another cell phone rang and one of the agents announced the director.
“We've locked in on him, sir,” Dumars said. He rounded the edge in his voice.
“Where is he?”
“On a southbound Amtrak train in Philly. We'll be apprehending him at the Wilmington stop.”
“How much support do you have from the locals?”
“Everyone's on board. City, state, and transit in all jurisdictions have been coordinated. They know what we're dealing with.”
“We need him,” the director growled. “Alive. This
is not the time for heroes or egos to get in the way of the mission. Remember, he's still one of our own.”
“And what if he resists?”
“Do whatever it takes to stop him, but keep him alive and protect the other passengers. We don't need this to blow up in our faces.”
There was a long pause.
“Do I make myself clear, Dumars?”
“As a bell.”
Dumars looked at the chaos below. An army of flashing lights raced down both lanes of the highway, keeping pace with the speeding train. It was already turning into a spectacle. Drivers of parked cars stood outside their vehicles, pointing at the train and the blur of whirling cruisers. Less than half a mile away, a local news chopper buzzed in a holding pattern. The ground command center continued to inform Dumars of the satellite readings. A look of intense satisfaction flattened some of the deep lines in Dumars's hardened scowl. He knew the cameras would raise the stakes and he was prepared. Every major network would report the capture on the evening news, and the morning papers across the country would carry it as a front-page headline. If that didn't make him a household name, the trial certainly would.
As the train steadily made its way toward Wilmington, Dumars picked up a pair of binoculars and looked into the distance. He could make out parts of the terminal building through the trees, ablaze in a sea of flashing lights. As he had expected and hoped, several news vans were parked alongside the tracks, their satellite poles reaching into the sky. He placed a call to the Wilmington police chief and explained in excruciating detail how he wanted the capture to proceed. Everyone was to move on his command, with the safety of the innocent passengers receiving the highest priority. He would allow one television camera and one still photographer on the train, but they were only to film on his signal.
Dumars ran a stiff hand through his salt-and-pepper hair until it fell back into a helmet. He'd been waiting a long time for this moment, a chance to nail Bledsoe and at the same time give his own career a much needed boost. Several field directorships would become available next year because of early retirements, and this high-profile capture might be exactly what he needed to get his name bumped up the list of potential successors.
