by Mike Lawson
There was a reason DeMarco dwelled beneath ground: he was not an official member of Mahoney’s staff. His father’s notoriety had prevented DeMarco from being hired by a reputable law firm when he graduated from college, and as he’d told Diane Carlucci, his godmother, dear Aunt Connie, had used her influence to help him get his civil service job. What he had not told Diane was the reason his godmother had influence: she had once had an affair with Mahoney. And the Speaker, though willing to provide DeMarco employment to appease an old lover, did not, however, want an official connection to the son of a Mafia hood. So DeMarco was given a small drab space in the subbasement, a meaningless title (Counsel Pro Tem for Liaison Affairs), and a position in the legislative branch of government that showed up on no organizational chart associated with the Speaker of the House.
DeMarco passed his office door and walked twenty feet farther down the corridor to another office. Sitting at a desk, his broad brow furrowed in concentration, was a large black man with a glistening bald head studying a spreadsheet about two feet square. The man was Curtis Jackson; he supervised the Capitol’s often maligned janitors.
Jackson looked up at DeMarco, then back down at the spreadsheet, and said, “I gotta give these guys all these different shifts these days. Some of ’em come to work at six, some at seven, some at nine. They’re takin’ night classes, or they gotta get their brats to day care, or they gotta drop off their damn wives at work. And I gotta plan around their damn schedules. When I started out, the boss said, ‘Boy, you’re workin’ swing shift,’ and that was it. There wasn’t any of this odd-shift, flextime bullshit. In those days you were just damn glad to have a job.”
“Nobody knows da troubles I seen,” DeMarco half sang.
“Yeah, and fuck you, too. What do you want?”
“You know a good mechanic, one that won’t charge me a hundred bucks an hour?”
“Why? That piece of crap you drive break down again?”
“No. I’m thinkin’ about buying this used car, a BMW Z3, and—”
“You? A sports car?”
“Yeah. What’s so strange about that?” DeMarco asked.
Jackson shrugged. “I don’t know. I just have a hard time seeing you in a little convertible, the wind blowing through your hair. Or better yet, you wearin’ one of them little flat caps. No, you’re more a sedan kinda guy.”
“Am not.”
“Huh,” Jackson said.
DeMarco didn’t know what that meant.
“Anyway,” DeMarco said, “the car, the Z, has sixty-four thousand miles on it, and I want somebody to look it over, somebody who knows what he’s doing.”
“Yeah, I know a guy,” Jackson said. “He works nights here.”
“You sure he knows his way around new cars, you know, the ones with all these electronic ignitions and catalytic converters and stuff?”
“He used to steal cars before he found Jesus, Joe. He knows what to look for.”
Nothing like having friends in low places.
* * *
DEMARCO WALKED OUT of the Capitol and onto the terrace that overlooked the Washington Mall. He needed to pick up some shirts from the cleaners and go home and pack. And maybe he’d stop by and look at the Z again, torture the salesman a little more. He was about ten paces from the building exit when his cell phone signaled that he had a voice message waiting. DeMarco had noticed that since 9/11 his cell phone got spotty reception inside the Capitol. He didn’t know if there was some mundane explanation for this or if the security wizards were jamming signals aimed at the building.
He punched buttons until he was able to hear his voice mail. There was just one message and it was from Emma, but the message was odd. It didn’t start with “Hello” or some other greeting. He heard Emma’s voice say, “You’ve gone rogue, haven’t you, Li Mei?” Another voice, a female’s, said, “Did you think I’d forget? Ever? Now put your hands on the steering wheel.” Then the same woman said something in what sounded to DeMarco like Chinese, but it could have been Korean or Japanese or some other Asian language. Then there was the sound of a car door slamming shut, and afterward, nothing but the sound of traffic on a busy street.
37
I need to talk to Bill Smith, right away,” DeMarco said into his cell phone. “He’s in Vancouver, B.C.”
From his position on the terrace DeMarco could see the Washington Monument, the flags encircling its base, the tourists flowing around it. In his current state of mind it occurred to him that the monument was a perfect target for a terrorist. If it was destroyed it would be like the twin towers collapsing again, reinforcing the image of 9/11 already burned into DeMarco’s brain.
“We don’t have a Bill Smith in our directory,” the DIA operator said.
“You listen to me, goddamnit,” DeMarco said, “if Smith doesn’t call me in fifteen minutes, I’m calling the Washington Post and telling them how the DIA withheld information from the FBI in Bremerton. Fifteen fuckin’ minutes, you hear me?”
Smith called back in ten.
“What happened to Emma?” DeMarco said.
“How do you know something happened to her?” Smith said.
“I got a weird voice mail from her. It sounded like she was being kidnapped.” Or killed, DeMarco mentally added, but he refused to say that out loud.
“I need to hear that voice mail.”
“Screw what you need. Tell me what happened.”
CARMODY HAD TOLD the FBI that he always met his North Korean controller in a restaurant on East Pender Street, in the heart of Vancouver’s Chinatown.
East Pender Street has the appearance of an open-air market. On the sidewalks on both sides of the street are carts laden with fish and vegetables, and the fish— carp and catfish and perch— are so fresh that some are still wiggling. Displayed in crates and baskets are Oriental spices and exotic dried foods, things like white lotus seed, wolfberry, and black fungus. The customers are mostly Chinese, though a few tourists are usually present, pointing with wonderment at things they can’t name and are probably afraid to eat.
The restaurant where Carmody met his controller was in the middle of the block, on the first floor of a two-story building. Roasted ducks, fat dripping from headless torsos, hung on hooks in the window of the restaurant. The restaurant itself was long and narrow, with ten or twelve tables placed closely together, separated by a narrow aisle. The back door of the restaurant exited into an alley littered with black plastic trash bags. Green Dumpsters were stationed about every twenty yards down the alley.
Harris had decided to arrest the Korean on the street outside the restaurant after the pickup had been made. This way the Korean spy would be in possession of classified material at the time of his arrest. He would have preferred to have arrested him inside the restaurant but the restaurant’s clientele was almost exclusively Asian; Harris figured four or five big white cops eating with forks instead of chopsticks might scare the spy off. Morton wasn’t thrilled about the arrest being made on a crowded street where civilians would be at risk if gunplay ensued, but he agreed with Harris that it would be difficult to place many of their people inside the restaurant.
Jurisdiction for the arrest was a mess. Not only were the Royal Canadian Mounted Police and the FBI involved, but since the arrest was taking place within the city limits of Vancouver, the Vancouver Metropolitan Police were also participants. Technically it would be a Canadian bust, but Morton, who had no stake in the outcome, was willing to let Harris run the operation and take all the credit— and all the blame if it went wrong. The rules for the joint U.S.-Canadian operation had been worked out like an international trade treaty the night before by a small flock of lawyers.
Each FBI agent was paired with a Canadian cop. Six men were hidden on the street in front of the restaurant, two cops were inside the restaurant, and two more were in the alley behind the restaurant. Darren Thayer was the FBI agent Harris had posted in the alley. All the cops wore U.S.-issue communication gear and were able to hea
r each other, talk to each other, and take direction from Harris. Harris was confident that ten trained cops should be enough to capture one unsuspecting spy.
Bill Smith was seated in a teahouse directly across from the Chinese restaurant. He had no official role in the arrest. Emma was parked in a car half a block away from the restaurant, at the corner of East Pender and Main. From her car she could see the front entrance to the restaurant but she couldn’t see the alley behind the restaurant. Smith had invited Emma to sit with him in the teahouse but she’d refused. Emma was still nervous about the meet and wanted to be in her car. Smith assumed that this was so she could give chase if anyone needed chasing— which he thought was damn unlikely considering the number of cops involved. But Emma was stubborn. Boy, was she stubborn.
Diane Carlucci and a Canadian cop named Hunter were posted inside the restaurant. They were posing as a dining couple and were seated at the table closest to Carmody’s, the two tables separated by the restaurant’s narrow aisle. Diane and her partner weren’t expected to make the arrest; they were just there to observe the exchange, to make sure Carmody didn’t try to escape or warn the North Korean, and to alert Harris when the Korean was leaving.
Carmody was the only other Caucasian in the restaurant. Even though Diane knew that he had spent several years in Hong Kong, she was still surprised when he addressed the head waiter in what sounded like fluent Chinese. Diane also observed that Carmody didn’t appear to be the least bit nervous and he seemed to genuinely enjoy his meal when it arrived.
Carmody said he’d been instructed by his control to sit at a table near the back of the restaurant. Harris hadn’t liked this because behind Carmody’s table was a short hallway, about ten feet long, that led to the restrooms and the back exit. Harris had wanted Carmody to sit near a window at the front of the restaurant so he could be observed by the cops outside, but Carmody said that the back table was where he had always sat and where he’d been told to sit. He said the Korean would be suspicious if he wasn’t seated there.
Harris had checked the back exit the day before. It had a push bar to open it from the inside but it didn’t have a fire alarm bar across it and it wasn’t locked, so customers could enter and exit the restaurant via the alleyway. The cops Harris had stationed in the alley would stop the North Korean should he decide to exit that way, although Carmody said that had never happened in the past.
Carmody, Diane, and Hunter were seated in the restaurant fifteen minutes before Carmody was scheduled to meet his controller. On the table in front of Carmody was a white plastic bag from a local drugstore chain that contained the information he was to give his control. The North Korean, according to Carmody, would bring an identical bag. The CDs inside the plastic bag actually did contain a small amount of classified data— better evidence to present at a trial— but it was information Carmody had already passed on. Harris was hoping Carmody’s control wouldn’t bring a laptop to the meeting to verify the contents of the CDs; Carmody said that he never had in the past.
The appointed time came and no one approached Carmody. This didn’t alarm Harris; it was typical tradecraft for an agent arriving for a meeting to take some time to check out the rendezvous site. Harris did a communication check with his agents. They all responded; they were all ready.
Fifty minutes after the appointed hour, Diane heard Harris say, “Woman entering the restaurant.” The woman was the third customer to enter the restaurant since Diane and her partner had been seated. The agents were all expecting a short Korean in his fifties who would most likely be wearing a black beret. “Shit,” Harris said, “I’m beginning to think this thing isn’t going to go down today, but stay on your toes.”
Diane was thinking that the Korean had better show up pretty soon. She and her partner had finished their lunch some time ago, and their waiter was beginning to bug them to pay up. She glanced at the woman who had just entered the restaurant. She was Asian, tall, and wore large sunglasses. Her hair was hidden by a baseball cap. Diane admired the woman’s figure and watched as she walked directly and without hesitation toward the back of the restaurant, straight toward the table where Carmody was seated. Diane figured the woman was planning to use the restroom before sitting down to eat.
Everything that happened next happened in about ten seconds, maybe less.
Five paces from Carmody, without slowing down, the Asian woman pulled a pistol out from under the windbreaker she was wearing. She raised the pistol as she walked, ultimately bringing it to bear on Carmody’s head.
Diane saw the weapon emerge from beneath the woman’s jacket. She yelled “Gun!” to her partner and started to reach for the .40 caliber automatic that was in the holster on her hip, beneath her coat. She should have thumbed her mic and told Harris what was happening but her first instinct was to go for her weapon.
Carmody, the ex-SEAL, reacted the quickest. The table he was sitting at was a small pedestal table with a thick Formica top. He saw the Asian woman’s pistol as it cleared her windbreaker and he immediately picked up the small table by the pedestal— food and plates flying everywhere— and raised it to shield his head and torso.
The woman fired two shots at Carmody just as he was bringing the table up to protect himself. Both shots penetrated the table and splinters blew back into Carmody’s face, but neither shot hit him.
Hunter had turned his head toward the shooter to see what was happening when Diane had yelled “Gun.” By the time he turned, the woman was already firing at Carmody. Hunter started to stand and simultaneously began to reach for his weapon.
Diane’s gun cleared her holster as the woman fired at Carmody.
The Asian woman shot Diane’s partner in the side of the head before he could draw his weapon. She was two feet from him as she fired. Hunter’s blood splattered on Diane’s face.
Diane raised her weapon to fire, but the woman swung her pistol toward Diane and fired twice, hitting Diane in the chest. Diane flew backward, her chair tipping over. Her gun came out of her hand as the back of her head hit the floor.
The plastic drugstore bag containing the CD was lying on the floor near Carmody’s overturned table. The woman scooped up the bag without breaking stride. As she went by Carmody, who was now on the floor and huddled behind the overturned table, she fired at him again, just a quick shot in passing. Diane heard Carmody cry out in pain.
The woman proceeded down the short hallway, now running full out in long strides. She slammed through the back door.
Diane, who was wearing a Kevlar vest, felt as if she’d been kicked in the chest by a mule. She shook off the shock and pain, and screamed into her mic, “Harris! The woman in the baseball cap. She shot Carmody and Hunter. She’s in the alley. Thayer, she’s in the alley. Thayer, she’s coming your way.” Harris started yelling but Diane kept talking. “Hunter’s down. Hunter’s hit bad,” she screamed.
Carmody flung the table off him as Diane was talking. He and Diane made eye contact. Diane saw blood coming from a shallow wound on the side of Carmody’s neck. Diane’s eyes scanned the floor for her weapon. Her gun was closer to Carmody than it was to her. Still lying on the floor, she lunged for her weapon, but Carmody reached it first. He stood up and aimed Diane’s service weapon at her unprotected head.
Diane knew Carmody was going to kill her— but he didn’t. Instead he said very quietly, “Stay there and don’t follow me.” Then he ran toward the back door and pushed through it.
Diane struggled to get to her feet, slipping once in the blood that had come from her partner’s head, and stood up. She checked the carotid artery in Hunter’s throat; he was dead. She started toward the back door but stopped and pivoted, reached down, and took Hunter’s gun from his shoulder holster— then she ran for the back door. She hit the door hard, her arm out in front of her like she was straight-arming a tackler, and bounced back. Carmody had blocked the door from the outside. She found out later he had shoved a Dumpster in front of the door.
Diane noticed for th
e first time that Harris’s voice was inside her head. He was screaming the names of the two agents in the alley. He was screaming for other agents to get to the back of the restaurant, to block off the alley’s exits. He was screaming like his career was on fire.
Diane ran to the front of the restaurant and out the front door. To reach the alley, she had to go fifty yards to the end of the block, turn the corner, and then go another twenty yards to the mouth of the alley. She saw Harris and two other agents turn the corner, sprinting toward the entrance to the alley. Diane began to run.
The sidewalk was crowded with civilians, shoppers and produce vendors. They had just seen a group of armed men come rushing out of nearby buildings and vans, and now they saw Diane running toward them, yelling “Federal agent,” a pistol in her hand. The civilians began to scatter, screaming, knocking over carts and baskets. Dead fish spilled onto the sidewalk.
