Garrett pressed back into the armchair, smoothing the dark gray silk tie over his light gray shirt. Hunter knew Annie’s own future hung on the spymaster’s answer.
“I confess, I did seriously consider retiring. But I’ve outlasted a lot of jerks over the past thirty years. I might be able to outlast these idiots, too, if we elect the right administration this year. Besides, I don’t want my legacy to include unfinished business.”
“And that would be . . .” Hunter prompted, anticipating the answer.
“We still have another mole somewhere. But Houk and Burroughs ordered me—publicly and bluntly—to halt all counterintel operations, including our mole hunt.”
“Damn it, Grant!”
“I know, Annie. My sources say they’ve asked your old pal, Rick Groat, to keep an eye on me.”
“You really are on thin ice, then,” Hunter said. “But I heard a few years back that you had dirt on Burroughs and Houk, and they know it, which is your insurance policy.”
Garrett raised his brows. “Oh you did, did you?” A slight smile flickered and died. “Well, whatever insurance policy I may have might help me only to a certain point. Catching me breaking laws would neutralize that advantage. They’d just let others, probably Groat and the FBI, run the investigation, and I couldn’t do a thing to stop them. So we’re at a stalemate.” He coughed. “And meanwhile, since I’m under direct orders and being watched, I can’t risk doing what needs to be done to find and stop that mole.”
“So now we’re supposed to just sit on our hands?”
Garrett looked straight at her.
“I said I am under direct orders not to do anything. Who said anything about ‘we’?”
She stared back at him. Then slowly smiled.
Hunter decided to take advantage of her brightened mood. He stood again.
“Love, don’t you think your mystery dish is about done yet?”
SEVENTEEN
Something was moving around his feet.
Hunter’s eyes snapped open. He found himself spooned around Annie’s naked body. He raised his head and saw Luna marching up the comforter covering them. She paused to eye him, disapprovingly.
“Mrraooww.”
“Shhh!” he warned as Annie shifted against him.
Defiant, Luna resumed her trek up the hills and valleys of the thick blanket, heading toward Annie’s face. Purring now, the cat sniffed her hair. Then her pink tongue licked a strand. Then she sat and nestled up against the covered mound of Annie’s body. Then, content, shut her eyes, still purring.
Hunter checked the clock on the night stand. Almost nine a.m. But they hadn’t actually fallen to sleep till almost three. Someone had once told him that nothing was quite as good as “make-up sex” after a fight. He smiled to himself, remembering.
His lips grazed her smooth bare shoulder, and she squirmed just a little and murmured something. It was hard now to pull himself away from her warmth, the scent of her skin; but he had things to do. He’d let her sleep in. Grant had told her last night to take the day off so they could spend time together, working things out.
He slipped out of bed carefully so as not to disturb her, pulled on his bathrobe from its hook on the door, and went downstairs. As he entered the kitchen, Cyrano roused from his own slumber and made his little yipping noises at his approach. Hunter let him out into the back yard; they’d had contractors come in during the past weekend to fence it in, allowing the pup the full run of the area.
Hunter was pouring his second mug of coffee when his burner chirped the distinctive ring tone he’d set for Wonk. He moved to the kitchen table and picked it up.
“You’re calling bright and early. Does Iggy need to be rescued again?”
“No, Dylan, Iggy is just fine. I do have intriguing news to report, however.”
“I’m all ears.”
“Arnold’s mother permitted me to look at his office files, cell phone, and computer yesterday. And I found nothing.”
“What do you mean, ‘nothing’?”
“I mean exactly that. There was not a single file or note in his office or on his computer pertaining to what he had been working on. Obviously, he would have compiled detailed notes and many records and files. Yet I found not one mention of Currents, anywhere. I even checked his online backup service in case he kept his notes there, for security. But I found no records, no files, no emails, either sent or received. He and I often exchanged files on thumb drives. However, no thumb drives were present in his office, either. Most curiously, his cell phone—which he told me he reserved exclusively for his business calls—had almost no incoming or outgoing calls listed in its history during the past month.”
“That is intriguing. Any chance the cops confiscated that stuff?”
“Mrs. Wasserman has the key to the apartment. She was present to meet a detective who returned to question her the next morning. He asked to look around Arnold’s office and did so in her presence. She said he remained for less than thirty minutes, looking through his file drawers and his cell phone. She said it seemed superficial; he was chatting with her as he worked. When he left, he took nothing from the office with him.”
Hunter swallowed some coffee. Something tugged at his memory.
“At the funeral, the CAP folks told me Arnold sent them a cryptic email message about Currents the night he died. Didn’t you find that message in his ‘sent email’ folder?”
“No such message was archived. And before you ask, Dylan, I also checked his ‘deleted files’ folder. It was empty.”
“Well, we know he sent that message. So if it wasn’t there . . .” Hunter found himself carefully aligning the silverware on his place mat. “Wonk, you realize this supports our theory.”
“I know.” He heard the researcher draw a long, shaky breath. “Of course, nothing ever truly vanishes in the digital world. For example, records of his phone calls would exist with his service provider.”
“True. Maybe when his next phone bill shows up, his mother will let us have a look.”
“Perhaps. Meanwhile, I hope your efforts have been more fruitful, Dylan.”
“They only add to the mystery. I spent much of Tuesday with the cops and the medical examiner. The official ruling is death from asphyxiation by accidental drowning. The facts at the scene give them no cause to suspect foul play. Arnold had a gash and bruise on his skull, consistent with having slipped and hit his head on the faucet and tub edge. They found traces of blood in the soapy water in his lungs, also consistent with drowning after a fall. But no other marks or injuries. No signs of a struggle, drugs, or chemicals in his bloodstream. Since their investigation is closed, a detective kindly walked me through the photos of the scene. They show the position of the body in relation to various items in the bathroom. All of it apparently supporting the accident theory.”
“And yet we are presented with all these other anomalies.”
“‘Anomalies.’ Nice word for facts the cops don’t know about, and which contradict their official conclusion.”
“But how does one explain the lack of evidence of a struggle? Arnold would not have meekly allowed himself to be drowned.”
“Perhaps he opened the door to an armed intruder, was herded into the bathroom at gunpoint, forced to undress, then knocked unconscious and drowned. The rest could have been carefully staged. The killer or killers then could have gone methodically through his office, eliminating anything related to his Currents investigation.”
“That seems extraordinarily complicated, hence unlikely. I believe in Occam’s Razor.”
Hunter knew, first-hand, how people trained in wetwork could disguise murders to look like mundane accidents. But that was knowledge he could not share.
“I know. But there’s no other logical explanation for everything that’s gone missing from his office. What you’ve just told me makes me more certain than ever that Arnold was killed in order to stop his investigation. Remember what Arnold hinted is at stake here.”
/> “I do. So, what is your plan now?”
“For openers, I’ve been working on an initial article. It won’t reveal all our suspicions or tie them to Arnold’s death. I’ll just stick to what we are learning about the Currents network. The article will hint that they may be improperly channeling money from anonymous donors into the presidential race.”
“Is that not redundant? CAP already is working on the same topic.”
“But they stick to examining financial records and compiling public information. I’m a reporter. I like to get in people’s faces. I want to confront the Currents principals. Ask for documents, see their reactions to uncomfortable questions. Mainly, let them know somebody other than Arnold is still going after them.”
“Why would you wish to do that? It might provoke them to react against you.”
“Which is the idea. If that happens, it will confirm Arnie’s death was no accident. I have to do more homework before I call them for some interviews, though.”
“But if our hypothesis is correct, that would put you in danger!”
“Don’t worry, Wonk. I can take care of myself.”
Wonk fell silent for a moment.
“Dylan?”
“Yes?”
“Over the past year, I have gotten the distinct sense that there is much more to you than meets the eye.”
Hunter knew from the tone that he had to be careful.
“Of course there is,” he answered lightly. “All of us have untapped talents and abilities.”
“That is not quite what I meant. I . . .” He stopped.
“What do you mean, my friend?”
“I hope you do not mind, but after all, I am a researcher. During the past months, I have utilized my resources—which are considerable, as you know—to try to learn more about you and your background.”
Hunter laughed. “But you can’t. I know.”
“You . . . know?”
“Sure. I wondered if you’d ever ask.”
Hunter spent the next five minutes repeating the same legend he’d once told Annie and Cronin: that he’d been a reporter in Ohio who publicly exposed an organized crime gang; that in retaliation the Mob put out a murder contract on him, still open; that for his own safety he had to go into the federal witness protection program and change his identity.
“So you see, ‘Dylan Hunter,’ my new identity, goes back only about three years. That’s why you can’t find out anything about my background. Which, for my personal safety, must remain secret.”
“I see,” Wonk said. “I must say, it is a most unusual method for a writer to acquire a ‘pen name.’”
“What? Did you think I was some kind of secret agent, or something?”
“Honestly, Dylan, I did not know what to think. You do many mysterious things. I suspect—no, to be honest, I am almost certain—that some of your work involves illegal activities. You have asked me for specialized hacking software and surveillance equipment—the sort of things I develop and provide only to . . . well, you know.”
“I do.”
“And . . . how should I put this? Dylan, I am an exceptionally intelligent man. I am not blind to the fact that many subjects of your investigations over the past year have met with violent ends.”
Not again . . .
Hunter asked, quietly: “Do you think I’ve had anything to do with that?”
Many seconds passed in eloquent silence. Finally, Wonk spoke.
“Here is what I do know, after working closely with you for two years. I know that those individuals who died were all terribly evil people who deserved what happened to them. And—whatever your involvement—I also know that you would never abuse my assistance to do anything that would harm innocent people, or harm our country.”
“I’m glad you know that, Wonk.”
“That said, I would be most grateful if your activities did not implicate me, in any way. I believe the term in the trade is ‘blowback.’”
The trade . . .
“There will be no blowback against you. You can count on that, my friend.”
He heard a sigh. “Your word is good enough for me . . . because . . .”
“Because what?”
“Because you are a good and decent man, Dylan Hunter . . . Well, I must run.”
“Wonk?”
“Yes?”
“Thank you.”
2
“I’m heading out.”
Ed Cronin glanced up from his copy of the Inquirer. Ellen, his wife, had entered the den and was buttoning up her jacket as she approached.
“Heading where?”
“For a single-family showing here in Alexandria. It’s less than five minutes away, near Fort Williams and Duke. A nice commission if they buy it, so wish me luck.”
“You got your pepper spray?”
She raised her eyes heavenward, in exasperation, and patted her jacket pocket. “Always. Geez, Ed, this is a retired couple. Will you please stop worrying?”
“You don’t see what I see every day.”
“You tell me that at least ten times a week.” She leaned down to plant a kiss on his cheek. Her wavy, light-brown hair tickled. “I’ll be back before seven. Could you check on the kids’ homework before then?”
“Sure. Not that I understand half of what St. Stephens is teaching them.”
“Just don’t argue with them again about what they’re learning in social studies.”
“You mean the liberal bullshit?”
“Oh, stop!”
He grinned and patted her ass as she turned away.
He checked his watch and saw it was just past six. He foraged around the sofa for the remote, then clicked on the screen.
“. . . officially ruled a homicide. Boggs had been the subject of a nationwide manhunt for acts of ecoterrorism and the March 5th car-bomb death of Senator Ashton Conn at his suburban Virginia residence. A state police source tells Fox News that Boggs had been left bound to a tree in a remote part of Pennsylvania’s Allegheny National Forest, under circumstances suggesting he may have been tortured before his death. An autopsy concluded that Boggs died several weeks ago, although it was impossible to determine whether that was before or after the murder of Senator Conn. The FBI, now in charge of the investigation, released a statement saying that they are trying to determine what, if any, link there is between the murder of Boggs and of his close associate, Russell ‘Randy’ Nash . . .”
Cronin watched only to the end of the segment, then shut off the TV.
He knew all that.
In fact, he knew more than the FBI or Pennsylvania cops did.
In fact, he had a suspect . . .
He pushed the newspaper off his lap and went to the kitchen to fetch a cold beer. He took a few deep swallows and stood there, back pressed against the cool surface of the fridge, eyes shut . . .
Since Monday morning, when he heard they’d found Boggs’s body, he’d spent hours on the phone trying to get the details. In exchange for a promise to swap information, a state police detective filled him in on what they had, then transmitted to him the relevant paper.
Cronin hadn’t bought the official version of events from the outset. Everyone assumed Boggs killed his pal, Rusty Nash, in some sort of falling-out. But if that were true, then you had to rethink whether Boggs really killed Senator Conn, too. Or could have. Because Nash was killed in the Allegheny Forest, hundreds of miles away, the night before Conn was blown up at his home here. So Boggs would have had to kill Nash there, then drive to D.C. to kill Conn the next night, then drive back to the Allegheny Forest, where he got himself murdered by some party or parties unknown.
And they were murdered in such gruesome ways: Nash stabbed multiple times; Boggs nailed to a tree, ritualistically; Conn blown to bits. Crimes of passion. Meaning: either by a person or persons close to them, or at least by someone who really hated them.
Who would have motive, methods, and opportunity to do shit like that? Someone in their gang? And why? Inve
stigators had hauled in WildJustice members for questioning, but so far were drawing blanks.
Who else, then?
How about somebody who had been investigating that gang—and Boggs specifically? And also Conn. And also all those politically connected people who had their communications hacked and their property destroyed. Somebody hostile to them all—acting like a vigilante.
How about somebody already tied to our vigilante investigation? Somebody whose name and newspaper articles kept turning up at the crime scenes of both investigations.
How about somebody operating under an assumed name—a man without a past? Somebody with a girlfriend in the CIA and an Agency boss running interference for him. Somebody who could kill a giant MMA expert in hand-to-hand combat—also with a knife . . .
He pressed the cold beer can to his forehead.
Yeah, I have a suspect, all right.
But he had zero evidence Hunter was in the Allegheny Forest during the time frame when Boggs or Rusty were murdered there. Or that he was at any of the other crime scenes, for that matter.
Unless forensics could turn up some solid physical evidence at those scenes, he was dead in the water. He couldn’t pull in the rest of the Task Force on the basis of mere hunches. Abrams would chew his ass for even bringing it up and wasting their time.
One piece of potential evidence was Boggs’s recorded confession, sent on a thumb drive to the Inquirer. The paper had surrendered the original to the FBI, but of course kept a copy. And Cronin had requested and gotten his own copy from the editor, Bronowski. Cronin turned it over to a consultant who would subject the recording to a voice stress analysis. Maybe by tomorrow he’d know whether the confession had been coerced. If so, then that would help narrow down motive.
Because it would mean Boggs’s killer wanted him not just to confess to his murders, but also to expose a presidential candidate as his partner.
And who would have that as his motive?
But for now, there was no point directly confronting Hunter again. He’d proved he was way too slick to show signs of guilt or trip himself up under interrogation. Besides, Cronin had no valid reason to call him in for further questioning, let alone arrest and charge him with anything. And why tip him off that he was now under suspicion for Boggs’s murder?
WINNER TAKES ALL Page 17
