The second perimeter

by Mike Lawson

  “Did he have anything on him, anything classified?” Emma asked.

  “No. Nothing. And they can’t find anything missing from his office.”

  “Which means nothing,” Emma said. “He could have copied his files and manuals and given the copies to whoever’s running him.”

  “Yeah,” Smith said. “They gotta make him talk.”

  “I wouldn’t if I was him,” DeMarco said. “Right now the only crime he can be convicted of is having a false passport. And faking his death, I guess.”

  “Did they see anyone with him at the airport?” Emma asked.

  “No,” Smith said, “but they’re looking at tapes right now. I think I’m gonna…”

  Smith’s phone rang. He listened for a moment, said thanks, hung up, and smiled broadly. “I guess this is our lucky day,” he said. “That was Dudley. Carmody’s checked into a Hyatt in Vancouver, B.C., and right now he’s just sitting in his room. Dudley’s watching him.”

  “Who’s Dudley?” DeMarco said.

  “Does the FBI know he’s in Vancouver?” Emma said.

  Smith smiled again, this time a small, crafty smile. “Not yet,” he said.

  “Who’s Dudley?” DeMarco asked again.

  “Bill’s absurd name for his intelligence contact in the Mounties,” Emma said.

  “Well you gotta admit he looks like Dudley, Emma. You oughta see this guy, Joe,” Smith said to DeMarco. “Wavy blond hair, big square chin.”

  “He’s about five foot six,” Emma said.

  “So who said Dudley Dooright was tall?” Smith said. “How can you tell, him sittin’ on his horse or standin’ next to little Nell?”

  “This conversation is ridiculous,” Emma said.

  “I’m heading up north right away,” Smith said. “I want to be there when the Canadians take him.”

  “I’m going with you,” Emma said.

  “Now, Emma, I don’t think that’s really necessary.”

  “Maybe not, but I don’t like the smell of this. Something’s wrong here, Bill. Carmody’s managed to evade every law enforcement agency in the western United States for almost a week, and now we find him sitting in a hotel room. Something’s wrong. So I’m going with you and if you don’t let me go, I’ll call Mary.”

  “What in the hell have you got on her, Emma? Did you guys, uh, you know, play field hockey together at a Catholic girls’ school?”

  “No, and you’re a jackass.”

  Smith pushed his glasses up on his nose and rose from the table. “I’m gonna call somebody and get us a helicopter.”

  “Aren’t you going to call the FBI?” Emma asked.

  “In a little while,” Smith said, his sly smile again curving his lips.

  “A helicopter,” DeMarco said. “Wow.” He’d never flown in one before.

  31

  She had been at the airport when they captured Washburn.

  She had been there to make sure he didn’t back out, fearful that at the last moment the weakling would change his mind. She had stood off to one side, near the security checkpoint, a floppy, broad-brimmed hat hiding her face from the surveillance cameras. Her eyes had burned into Washburn’s back as he stood in line, as if by her will alone she could propel him forward. She had been forced to spin around once when the fool had looked back at her— something she’d told him not to do— a frightened, lovesick expression on his face. Later she could only pray that she had moved fast enough or that none of the cameras had been in a position to follow Washburn’s line of sight.

  She had watched, holding her breath, as he walked at last through the metal detector and picked up his carry-on luggage. She had just exhaled in relief, thinking “mission accomplished,” when two white-shirted TSA officers came up to him and took him by the arms. The last image she had of John Washburn was him on his knees, vomiting, as they placed the handcuffs on his wrists.

  She walked away quickly, not looking back. It took all her resolve not to run. She went to the parking lot, got into her car, paid her parking fee, and left the airport. As she did each of these things, she did not allow herself to think about what had just happened. She forced her mind to focus only on the immediate task of escape.

  Two miles from the airport she found a place where she could pull off the road and park behind a building and not be visible to passing cars. She exited her car and slammed the door shut. And then slammed it shut again. And slammed it again. And slammed it again. She was in such a red rage that if someone had come upon her at that moment she would have beaten the person to death.

  How had it happened? How had Emma done it? How could she possibly have known about Washburn? She slammed her fists on the roof of the car. She would have wept, she was so frustrated, but weeping was something she seemed no longer able to do. She had cried away all her tears a long time ago.

  Then she closed her eyes and took a breath. All was not lost. She had the files Carmody had copied, and although she hadn’t delivered Washburn, she had Washburn’s files. And by now Carmody should be in Vancouver. The most critical part of her plan was still intact.

  She would give her government something much more important than what she had obtained from both Carmody and Washburn combined.

  32

  Smith wasn’t happy about Emma and DeMarco accompanying him in the helicopter, but he didn’t have the energy to argue with Emma anymore. He did make it clear to her that she and DeMarco had to stay in the background when they took Carmody. Emma didn’t protest but Smith knew that meant nothing. Emma would do whatever Emma wanted to do. He wondered again what the hell she had on Mary.

  On the trip to Vancouver, Emma sat and brooded. She mentioned again to Smith that none of this was making sense. Carmody shouldn’t have crossed an international border where his ID would be examined and possibly recorded, and he sure as hell shouldn’t have checked into a hotel using a credit card in his own name.

  “I’m telling you, Bill,” she said, “this guy isn’t stupid or suicidal. You better be damn careful because this could be some sort of setup.”

  “Setup for what, Emma?”

  “I don’t know,” she said. And after that she didn’t say a word.

  DeMarco was enjoying himself. He didn’t like heights, be it standing on an eight-foot stepladder or looking down from the balcony of a twenty-story building. He didn’t like flying in big passenger planes either, particularly in turbulent skies; if the plane hit some sort of stratospheric speed bump, he’d clutch the armrests in a white-knuckled grip for minutes afterward. But the helicopter was different somehow, more like a ride at an amusement park. He liked traveling just a few thousand feet above the ground, zipping over the landscape, the low altitude seeming to exaggerate the speed.

  He wasn’t too sure, though, that he liked that the pilot was female. She was a navy lieutenant, tall and slim like Emma, and pretty in a tomboyish way. She was very formal and professional and seemed completely competent— but he still didn’t like that she was a woman. Sexist? Definitely. Illogical? Clearly. Most women he knew were better drivers than the men he knew; women tended not to be hotdogs when they got behind the wheel of a machine, whether the machine was a car, an airplane, or a golf cart. Still…

  It also bothered him that he had to wear a funny little helmet with big ear-guards. He knew he looked goofy in it— he knew this because Smith looked really goofy in his. He didn’t know why he had to wear the helmet in the first place; it sure as hell wouldn’t keep him alive if the lady pilot steered the helicopter into a mountain. When he asked Emma the purpose of the headwear, she ignored him. He noticed Emma didn’t look as silly in her helmet; she looked like a cranky Amelia Earhart.

  The helicopter dropped them off near the freight terminal at the Vancouver airport. DeMarco thanked the helicopter pilot for the great ride as he was disembarking. She responded with a curt nod and a formal “Thank you, sir,” then she winked at him. Whoa!

  Two RCMP cars were waiting for them, and standing near one of the c
ars was a short man in a blue suit. He had wavy blond hair and an ultra-manly chin. This had to be Dudley, though Smith introduced the man as Chief Superintendent Robert Morton, Royal Canadian Mounted Police.

  “He’s still in his room,” Morton said to Smith. “He’s made no calls nor has he received any. He’s just sitting there, reading.”

  “You got a camera in his room already?” Smith said.

  Morton nodded. “We drilled through the wall of the adjoining room twenty minutes after we located him and put a fiber-optic camera in place.”

  They arrived at the Hyatt, took the elevator up to Carmody’s floor, and entered the hotel room adjacent to his. The room was occupied by a SWAT team, four big men wearing body armor and helmets with plastic face shields. Automatic pistols and flash-bang grenades hung from their webbing, and three of them carried short-barreled weapons that looked to DeMarco like sawed-off shotguns. The fourth man was holding a piece of pipe that was about four feet long and three inches in diameter. The pipe had a plate welded to one end and handles welded on top. A door knocker, DeMarco assumed.

  Also seated in the room, practically hidden by the SWAT team, was a bald man wearing headphones and looking at a small black-and-white television. DeMarco looked at the screen. Carmody was lying on the bed, reading a paperback.

  “What are you men doing here?” Morton said to the SWAT team commander.

  “We were told you planned to arrest a spy, sir. We’re here to assist.”

  “The man hasn’t committed a crime,” Morton said, “at least not one we’re aware of. All he’s done is cross the border.”

  “So you’re not going to arrest him?” the SWAT boss said. He sounded disappointed. He and his guys probably hadn’t kicked down a door in weeks. This was Vancouver, not LA.

  Ignoring the SWAT team, Morton turned to the man with the headphones who was monitoring the television. “Have you seen any sign of a weapon, Mr. Taylor?” Morton said.

  “No, sir,” Taylor said.

  “Thank you, Mr. Taylor,” Morton said. DeMarco loved Morton’s manners.

  “So do you want us to get him?” the SWAT commander said.

  Morton glanced down at the door knocker, then raised his eyes to the SWAT team leader. “No, Sergeant, I don’t want to have to pay the owners of this establishment for a new door. I’m going to knock on Mr. Carmody’s door and tell him that I would appreciate it if he would accompany me to headquarters. Patrolman Janzing will assist me. Your men can stand by and if Mr. Taylor informs you that Carmody has pulled out a machine gun, then you can have your fun. Come along, Janzing.”

  DeMarco heard Morton knock on the door to Carmody’s room and watched Carmody’s reaction on the surveillance monitor. Carmody didn’t jerk in surprise or spin his head about looking for a nonexistent back door to the room. He didn’t do anything to indicate he might be a man on the run. He lay there motionless for a moment looking at the door and when Morton knocked a second time, he calmly placed the book he had been reading on the nightstand, rose from the bed, and walked slowly to the door and opened it.

  “Yes?” Carmody said to Morton. DeMarco saw him glance over Morton’s head, at Patrolman Janzing who was standing behind Morton. Janzing had his right hand on his holstered gun.

  Morton held up his identification. “I’m Chief Superintendent Morton, Mr. Carmody. RCMP. And I would like you to come with me please.”

  Carmody stood there silently for a moment. If he was worried at all, DeMarco couldn’t see it.

  “Why?” Carmody said.

  “Two of your associates have been killed, as I’m sure you know. A Mr. Mulherin and a Mr. Norton. The Americans have asked us to detain you.”

  “And if I refuse to go with you?” Carmody said.

  “I’m afraid I’d have to insist,” Morton said.

  Carmody smiled at Morton’s response; so did DeMarco. “Let me put my shoes on,” Carmody said.

  “This just isn’t right,” Emma muttered.

  * * *

  HEADQUARTERS FOR THE Royal Canadian Mounted Police for the province of British Columbia is in an unobtrusive six-building complex in a quiet residential area near Queen Elizabeth Park. The largest building is a long, low, sand-colored rectangular box, in appearance not unlike the elementary school directly across the street. DeMarco was guessing, however, that the grade school didn’t have an interrogation room with a one-way mirror.

  Emma and DeMarco watched as Carmody was led into the room by a uniformed cop. Smith and Morton were already in the room, seated side by side at a small table. There was an old-fashioned two-reel tape recorder in the middle of the table.

  “Please sit down, Mr. Carmody,” Morton said.

  Before sitting, Carmody looked slowly around the interrogation room, then looked directly at the mirror and nodded as if acknowledging whoever was on the other side watching.

  There was something about Carmody’s attitude that bothered DeMarco. For most citizens, a police interrogation was an unsettling experience and people either acted outraged because they’ve been detained or fearful because they might be incarcerated for something that they had or had not done. But not Carmody. He reminded DeMarco of a man sitting at a low-stakes blackjack table, a guy just killing some time, not particularly caring if he wins or loses. If he was any more relaxed he’d be whistling.

  “Mr. Carmody,” Morton said, “we wanted to talk to you because—”

  “Can I have a cigarette?” Carmody said.

  “No,” Smith said.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Carmody,” Morton said, “but neither Bill nor I smoke. I’ll call out for one of the lads to bring you some cigarettes shortly.”

  DeMarco smiled. He really got a kick out of Morton.

  “This is Mr. Smith,” Morton said, gesturing toward Smith. “He represents—”

  “We were stealing classified information from the shipyard and selling it,” Carmody said to Smith. Carmody had figured out without being told that Smith worked for the U.S. government. “I’ll tell you exactly what we took, how we did it, and I’ll give you my control. In return, I want immunity.”

  Carmody made the admission casually— he could have been talking about last night’s box score— and both Smith and Morton sat back in their chairs, momentarily stunned.

  “What in the hell is he doing?” Emma said.

  “What?” DeMarco said.

  They were both whispering, afraid their voices would be heard in the interrogation room.

  “Why is he confessing?” Emma hissed. “We don’t have anything solid against him. We don’t have anything at all. What in the hell’s he doing?” Emma said again.

  On the other side of the mirror, Smith had recovered from the shock of Carmody’s opening statement and now screamed, “Immunity! You’re out of your mind!”

  “I don’t think so,” Carmody said. “If I don’t tell you what we took, the navy will never know how badly it’s been compromised. And if I don’t tell you how we did it, you’ll spend thousands of man-hours trying to figure it out, disrupting the hell out of shipyard operations. So I’ll save the navy lots of time and money by telling you everything. And I’ll give you at least one spy: my control. But I want immunity— and a cigarette.”

  Smith was silent for a moment as he studied Carmody. “Has it occurred to you, Carmody,” he said, “that we just might make you talk? Defendants’ rights, when it comes to national security, have changed in the last few years.”

  Carmody nodded his head. “Yeah, I suppose you could do that. But you’re working against a time limit here, even if you don’t know it, and I think a lot of time will have passed before you make me talk. I’ve also contacted a lawyer— an ACLU bitch whose blood boils whenever she hears the words ‘Patriot Act.’ I’ve told her that if she doesn’t hear from me every twenty-four hours, she’s to go to the press and tell them how an American citizen— a decorated veteran— has been disappeared by his own government.”

  “He’s lying,” Emma muttered.r />
  “You’re lying,” Smith said.

  Carmody shrugged.

  “Who are you working for?” Smith said.

  “Immunity?” Carmody said.

  “Maybe,” Smith said. “But first I want to know who you’re working for.”

  “The North Koreans. And that’s all you get until I get what I want.”

  33

  The senior FBI guy was big— offensive-tackle big— and he was mad. His name was Glen Harris. He was six six, two fifty when he watched his diet, and had hands big enough to palm a basketball. His brown hair was a Bureau-approved length, his mustache neatly trimmed, and his jaw was clenched so tight that he was having a hard time speaking.