EIGHT
He'd seen no activity in or around the cabin since arriving more than two hours earlier. It would have been better if other operatives had stayed behind in Durango to tail subject River Two so that they could confirm his whereabouts. Regardless, he was sufficiently confident no one was home.
It took him more than 10 minutes to creep down to the barn on the back of the lot, utilizing all available concealment. It was dark, but he was taking no chances. River Two was known to have ATF-issued night vision gear.
As he approached the back door to the barn, he pulled up a cuff of his black BDUs, drew a small .38 semiautomatic from an ankle holster, and reached for the knob. He tried to turn it. Locked. He holstered his gun, took a tiny lock pick from a thigh utility pocket, and went to work. Before long he had the lock sprung and, gun in hand once again, was slowly pushing the door open, poised to stop at the first sign of a squeak.
When it was open just wide enough, he slipped through sideways, closed the door behind him, switched on a tiny pen light that cast a dim red beam, and scanned the interior. A set of cabinets lined the opposite wall, hung above a long wooden workbench. One of the cabinets stood out. It appeared to be made of steel, and its door had a lock on it. The natural place to start his search.
He holstered his gun, then began to tiptoe toward the locked metal cabinet. Halfway across the barn, he caught the faintest scent of soap. Soap a man would use. Old Spice. Then he heard the telltale clap of a Taser.
NINE
"I have to admit, I just love gadgets," Morrison said to the Japanese-looking man bound to the iron sewer outflow pipe in his basement as he stood staring at the smartphone in his hand. "This latest app I got lets me turn the lights on and off in my house, even if I'm a thousand miles away. I could be in India and do it. It's incredible what they come up with these days, isn't it?"
Morrison and his captive occupied a back corner of the concrete-walled basement that he'd partitioned off with bare bed mattresses, sofa cushions, and cardboard storage boxes piled to the well-insulated ceiling. Even if someone showed up at his front door—which was unlikely given that he lived in the middle of nowhere and it was the middle of the night—they'd never hear the screaming. The man sat on the floor, shoeless and in his underwear, with his legs splayed out in front of him and his feet handcuffed around the steel leg of a heavy workbench.
"Why am I talking about my smartphone, you're wondering? Partly because I just think it's so cool. But also, I want to let you know from the get-go here that I've adjusted this app to turn on just one circuit here," he said, gesturing to a small table on which sat a pair of needle-nose pliers and a coiled-up extension cord—the end of which had been stripped of insulation to expose bare copper wires that hung across the gap and led up to the man's ears, around which they were wrapped and held fast by a headband of duct tape. The opposite end of the cord was plugged into an old-fashioned manual voltage regulator. "In short, I can zap you from anywhere in the world. And that's relevant because I'm going to leave at times to go and verify the truth of what you tell me. Needless to say, if you lie, well…." He nodded toward the extension cord again.
The man had been looking at him. But hearing Morrison's threat, his line of sight drifted off, seeming to re-center on something beyond the walls of the makeshift torture chamber.
He speaks English, Morrison thought. And he's trained in interrogation resistance. He's prepping. Trying to detach.
"Something else you should know," he said. "I don't go in for all that polite stuff like water boarding and loud music when you're trying to sleep. My methods are Russian. Dark Ages Russian. Though really, Russia is still more or less in the Dark Ages if you ask me. But I digress. These first tricks I'm going to use were actually taught to me by a couple of friends in the Afghan Northern Alliance. And they learned them, in turn, from the good old Russians themselves, who were more than happy to teach my friends through experience."
The man still stared through the wall, seeming not to hear.
"You and I both know that no matter how hard you try to detach, your subconscious is still registering what I say. Recording it. Priming your conscious mind with alarm. With the seeds of terror." As he said this, Morrison took hold of the pliers. "And you and I also know that Russian methods work. All that talk about torture not being an effective way of obtaining accurate information is softie liberal nonsense, isn't it? You're going to give me the information I want. And you know it."
As he said, "know it," he tore the nail of the man's pinky toe out with the pliers, prompting a scream of pain the man did his best to quickly contain. Blood poured from the wound.
"I'll be honest, I'm not big on torture. At first, the idea troubled me. But then I thought, what if the situation was reversed? Would you think twice about torturing me? Did y'all think twice before you blew Pratt's brains out in front of his wife and kids? No, probably not. And the truth is, I'd do anything for Nate. I will do anything to help him. In that equation, your life isn't worth any more to me than that of a trout I would catch, gut, and cook for dinner. And truth be told, at the end of the day, aside from caring about my friends, I seem to be turning into a sort of nihilist. So, screw it," he said as he turned the dial and flipped the toggle switch on the voltage regulator, sending a current up the wires to the man's ears, prompting another glass-shattering scream.
"There's a taste. You go ahead and think about things while I go make myself a midnight snack. I think I'm going to have a salami sandwich on rye bread. A little mustard and mayo. Maybe a cold beer. See you in ten? Okay, then."
With that, Morrison went upstairs. Unsettled by what he'd done—what he still had to do—he had no intention of eating. Instead, he went up to his second- floor bathroom and splashed cold water on his face. Then he retrieved a fresh pouch of leaf chew tobacco from a cabinet in his kitchen, stuffed a golf ball-sized wad of it into his cheek, and sat down on a rocker on his front porch to contemplate his plan of interrogation. He could tell by looking at the man that he wasn't going to break quickly or easily. He might let himself scream, but he wasn't going to give Morrison anything until considerable time had passed. Maybe up to a week. But Morrison didn't have a week. He was going to have to be brutal. The thought made his stomach turn, which caught him off guard. After all, he'd killed people before. Quite a few people, in fact. But it had almost always been from a distance. Shooting someone from 200 yards away was an altogether different thing than torturing and mutilating someone at close range. Seeing the terror and anguish in their eyes.
He took a deep breath and willed his mind's eye to a vision of his most recent camp on the high plateau near Mount Oso. A deep blue sky. A fresh dusting of snow on the aspens. A roaring bonfire. Just him and his horse.
*****
Twenty minutes later, he removed the storage boxes and twin-size mattress that blocked the entrance he'd designed into his hastily-constructed torture chamber to reveal his captive contorted and slumped forward in an unnatural, almost impossible-looking pose. His skin had taken on a bluish hue. His underwear was down to his knees.
"Shit!" Morrison jumped forward and lifted the man's head by the hair to reveal his expressionless face, his eyes and mouth open. He checked the man's pulse. Nothing. He thought he smelled a hint of almonds so he bent closer to the man's lips to take a whiff. Cyanide. Perplexed, Morrison stepped back and tried to piece together what had happened. He noticed that a button on the front of the man's boxer shorts was newly broken, half of it missing. He pulled the other half off and examined it. It was chalky. It wasn't a real button at all, but a suicide pill disguised as one. Probably molded from potassium cyanide crystals and some sort of binding agent. But how had the man reached it when he was bound to the sewer outflow pipe, his hands cuffed behind his back? It seemed he'd somehow wormed and wriggled until he was able to slide his underwear partway down. Then he'd dislocated both of his own shoulders to give his torso just enough flexibility to bend over so that he could bite the cyani
de button off his raised knees. Morrison stood staring, defeated but in awe. These people would do anything to protect their group. To safeguard their cause. No matter how extreme or ludicrous their actions seemed.
TEN
Upon landing at Reagan National Airport, just across the broad, brown Potomac River from Washington, D.C., Arkin used his burner smartphone to find the nearest thrift shop, which turned out to be a fair hike up into the southern fringes of Arlington, west of Fort Myer. There, he bought an outfit of worn, second-hand articles of clothing—shoes, pants, shirt, and insulated jacket—that were just shabby and ill-matched enough to be believable as the clothes of a homeless man. From there, he made his way back down to the Potomac where he fouled his hands in somewhat fetid mud on the riverbank and set to work giving his new outfit a convincing, smelly, but just tolerable patina of filth. Then he walked upriver, along the Mount Vernon Trail bike path, until coming to the Columbia Island Marina, in the very shadow of the Pentagon. Catching the locking door to the marina's public bathroom as someone left, he went in, dumped trash out of one of the wastebaskets, removed and turned its white plastic trash bag inside out, stuffed his fouled new outfit into the bag, wrapped it again in the trash bag from the other wastebasket, then stuffed the whole double-wrapped thing into his duffel with the clothes and toiletries he'd brought from Seattle. Back outside, he found a stand of trees in an out-of-the-way area of the island, just north of the Marina and on the edge of Boundary Channel. There, assured by the weather application on his smartphone that there was absolutely no rain in the forecast for the next several days, he hid his bag under a dense clump of brush and woodland debris. Then he crossed over the Potomac via the 14th Street Bridge and stopped at the massive, neoclassical Jefferson Memorial for a drink of water, a snack, and a breather.
There were few tourists about. Chewing on a hunk of peppered beef jerky he brought all the way from Seattle, he sat on the marble steps of the memorial, staring out over the Tidal Basin under the stern gaze of a 19-foot-tall bronze Thomas Jefferson, pondering his next move. He'd check into a homeless shelter under a fake name come evening—part of his scheme to leave as little traceable evidence of his visit to D.C. as possible. But he was torn over what to do with his day. He could begin a cautious, extremely arm's-length surveillance of Dragoslav Trlajic. However, he'd be wise to wait for Morrison's assistance before taking a close look at the man.
Another idea had been gnawing at him—one that had been growing in the back of his mind for several days. The Priest—Father Collin Bryant—had grown up in nearby Baltimore, Maryland. A short train ride to the north. Granted, Arkin was all but sure that Bryant was long-dead, having drowned—accidentally, or on purpose—in the Mississippi River in 1974. All but sure that Bryant was nothing more than a phantom, a name used by the group to serve as a figurehead or perhaps a red herring for anyone investigating them. Still, something tempted Arkin to learn more about the man. Perhaps he still had family in the area. Perhaps someone could tell him something useful. After all, whether he was alive or dead, his story had, on some level, significant meaning to Sheffield's murderous group.
Turning to look at the statue of America's third president, Arkin wondered what Thomas Jefferson would make of a fanatic like Sheffield. They'd probably share a mutual admiration, given that Jefferson had been something of a fanatic himself. Indeed, Jefferson had been an ardent apologist for the Reign of Terror—the bloodbath instigated by maniacal leaders of the French Revolution. In Arkin's view, that meant Jefferson, like Sheffield, was someone who was all too ready to accept evil deeds as justified means to righteous ends. Yet in most classrooms, Jefferson was worshipped as one of the infallible gods of America's civil religion. It didn't make much sense to Arkin. But he knew he'd always be in the minority when it came to his views on many of the founding fathers. After all, nobody liked to find fault with their gods.
ELEVEN
"Torture?" Arkin asked Morrison over the phone as he sat on a marble bench next to the Washington Monument. "That's a little out of character for you, isn't it?"
"Desperate times. Anyway, you're the one who said the gloves were coming off in our last conversation."
"Yeah, but shit, Bill!"
"You're angry."
"Well, I mean, what are we becoming here?"
"Said the man who just broke into a man's house, stole his I.D., and applied for a credit card in his name."
"Please. Borrowing someone's I.D. isn't even on the same planet as torture."
"Look, I hardly got to touch the son of a bitch before he swallowed his suicide pill. Plus, necessity is the mother of shifting principles."
"Who are we if we let that happen?"
"Can you hear my eyes rolling over the phone line? We aren't talking about extracting information on hypothetical future terrorism or hypothetical anything. These people want to kill you. You, specifically. Right now. And don't give me any of that politically correct crap about torture not working. These people will never stop hunting you. They're murderers. They blew Pratt's brains out in front of his children. Think of his family. Think of what they've put you through."
Arkin paused. "I suppose I just don't want us to become what we despise, or whatever they say. We aren't Russians."
"You're being sensitive because I said you were turning into Sheffield the last time we spoke."
"No, I'm not," Arkin said, taking a breath. "What did you do with the body?"
"Oh, you'll love this. I printed out a performance sheet for Zastava rifles, tucked it in the guy's pocket, and dumped him in the bushes on the hillside opposite Pratt's house. When they find the body—which they will, given that I left his leg sticking out where it's visible from the main road—they'll link it to Pratt's killing. Who knows? Could cause trouble for the Priest's group if a clever investigator ends up involved. Plus, it will confound the group. They won't know what to make of it, assuming their operative didn't call his superiors with his plan to burgle my house."
"If he was as professional as the rest of them seem, he probably did."
"Well, whatever. It might make them stop and think before sending in another one of their goons."
"I don't know whether that's good or bad. Maybe next time they'll send five goons instead of one."
"Anyway, on a brighter note, looks like I'll be able to catch up with you in D.C. three days from now."
"You're kidding. How did you manage that?"
"Didn't even have to call in sick. The FBI is offering a training course on querying the new NCIC files. My boss thought it was very proactive of me to ask to go. I have a hotel room in Crystal City for five nights. Three nights for the class, and two more on my own dime to hang out for the weekend and see the sights—or so I told my boss. Anyway, I've got your back, as usual."
"I'm going to commission a life-size marble statue of you and erect it in my front yard."
"Yeah, yeah. Just buy me a beer with the money I loaned you when I get there."
"I'd be happy to buy you a beer with your money."
"By the way, had a buddy in Durango PD pull Dragoslav Trlajic's home address off a DMV database for you. Didn't want to do it myself in case anyone out there is watching my every move. Worried I'd set off alarm bells. Anyway, Trlajic lives in D.C., near Dupont Circle. Swann Street. Got a pen? I'll give you the number."
"I need something else too."
"What would that be?"
"Last known address for Robert and/or Adel Bryant, Baltimore. And/or current occupants of the same residence."
"The Priest's parents?"
"Es correcto."
"They must be dead by now."
"Yes. But Bryant had siblings. I imagine one of them inherited the house."
"Didn't you already interview all of them? Way back when you were leading a legitimate investigation?"
"Not all of them. There was one, a younger sister he was supposed to be very close to, who lived in Lesbos, Greece, at the time. Headquarters decided she was too fa
r off the beaten path to bother with. Word was she was terminally single. If anyone inherited the family home, it was probably her. The other siblings have families established all over the country. None of them stayed in Baltimore."
"Can you blame them?"
"Hey now. I have a soft spot for Baltimore. Ate a lot of crab cakes on stakeout back in the day."
"Okay. But aside from giving yourself an excuse to get crab cakes, why bother talking to the Priest's sister? Didn't you decide the Priest was probably a long-dead red herring cover-story for Sheffield and his goons?"
"The sister is a loose end that has nagged at me for years. I'm in the area. Why not give her a look?"
"You're the boss. Do you still have the address of the Bryant family home somewhere in your office, or do I need to query it?"
"It should be in a mint green folder in my wall safe, assuming nobody has cracked it open and cleaned it out trying to find evidence of my whereabouts."
TWELVE
As he walked through the National Mall, between the Smithsonian National Air and Space Museum and National Gallery of Art on his way to Union Station, Arkin called the phone number he'd linked to the last known address of Robert and Adel Bryant, parents of Father Collin Bryant. A woman answered several rings after Arkin expected his call to go to voicemail, offering a strained "Bryant residence." She sounded obese—her voice labored and breathless. But there was a note of defiance in her tone that told Arkin he wouldn't get far by being pushy. Adopting a deferential manner, he established that the woman was a nurse who came by once a week to check on 'Ms. Lily'—Father Bryant's younger sister who had lived in Greece during Arkin's investigation six years earlier. Then he fed the woman his prefabricated story about being a doctoral student at Georgetown University who was doing his thesis on the long-term sociological impact of Jesuit parishes founded in poverty-level American communities during the 20th century. He was interested in learning about Bryant's parish given that Bryant was a Jesuit and his parish community was desperately poor.
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