Mortal Fear m-1

by Greg Iles

  “Yes, but we can’t tie up this line right now.”

  “I’ve got to tell Lenz about something.”

  “About the errors?”

  “You know about that?”

  “Everything’s under control. Really. Take it easy.”

  Relief washes over me. “Okay. I just wanted to make sure you guys weren’t going to be surprised.”

  “We’re the FBI, Harper. We’re not going to be surprised.” Her voice goes quiet. “You’d better keep your eyes open, though. Did you or Miles Turner send e-mail to Mr. Baxter warning him to check tissue donor networks?”

  “Margie-” I stop, unwilling to implicate myself on a phone that might be tapped.

  As if reading my mind, she says, “All I’m going to tell you is that the shit hit the fan after they started checking. You’d better watch your butt.”

  “Thanks. And you’d better take your own advice.”

  “He won’t come tonight. Not if the record’s any indication.”

  Suddenly I hear a babble of male voices.

  “Sir!” Margie answers like a boot camp recruit.

  The phone goes dead in my hand.

  “Well?” asks Miles, back on the bed now.

  “They know.”

  He gives me his dour I-told-you-so look.

  “She also said they got your note about transplant networks.”

  Now he’s paying attention.

  “She said the shit hit the fan when they started checking.”

  Miles ponders this for a few seconds. “Then Drewe must be right. There must be another missing woman.”

  “Jesus. What are we going to do?”

  He takes a deep breath, looks at the floor for a few seconds, then says, “I’m going to code until seven, which is when TBS is showing I Walk the Line, with Gregory Peck and Tuesday Weld.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “Nope. I love Tuesday Weld. Did you see Who’ll Stop the Rain? From Robert Stone’s book? Even Nolte was great in that.”

  “Miles-”

  “Tuesday Weld should have played Holly Golightly in Breakfast at Tiffany’s, not Audrey Hepburn. Even Capote said that. Of course, he said a young Tuesday Weld. With her we wouldn’t have gotten that bullshit Hollywood ending. Holly would have-”

  “Miles!”

  He looks up irritably. “What?”

  “Don’t you care what happens at the safe house?”

  “Of course. But it’s not in my power to affect the outcome.”

  “Isn’t there some way to at least monitor the action? Hack into a Bureau computer or something?”

  “Harper, a stakeout is just some guys on the radio. They’re probably not even talking a whole lot.”

  “So?”

  “There’s no computer angle to it. Baxter will want to be there for the collar, so he’s probably at the safe house already, or else on his way. Nothing will have to be relayed to him, ergo we can’t intercept anything digital.”

  “What about radio, then?”

  Miles laughs. “We can’t monitor police radio from a thousand miles away.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because it’s analog, man. Radio waves that die after a few miles.”

  Smugness is one of my pet peeves. At times like this I want to smack Miles on the side of the head. And somewhere between staring at his arrogant expression and clenching my right fist, a solution arcs through my brain like a Roman candle. As Miles stares, I sit down at my Gateway 2000 and switch on my modem.

  “What are you doing?” he asks.

  “Logging onto CompuServe.”

  “Why?”

  “To eavesdrop on the stakeout.”

  “How?”

  I click the mouse rapidly. “By talking somebody local into doing it for us.”

  “Who’s going to do that?”

  “Ever hear of ham radio?”

  It takes less than five seconds for Miles to see where I’m going. “But ham radio is a totally different frequency spectrum than law enforcement stuff,” he says.

  I don’t even respond. I know he’s kicking himself for not thinking of this first.

  “Ham operators hang out on CompuServe?” he asks, getting up and looking over my shoulder.

  “Either here or AOL. One of my neighbors is a ham nut. He’s mentioned a forum before, and I think it’s on CompuServe. I’m doing a Find for the word ‘radio.’ ”

  Suddenly a neat column of words appears on my screen:

  Broadcast Professionals

  CB Handle

  CE Audio Forum

  HamNet Forum

  IQuest($)

  National Public Radio

  “Ha! You see that?”

  “HamNet,” Miles says. “That’s it?”

  “Let’s see.”

  Seconds later we’re staring at the multicolored logo of a computer forum dedicated exclusively to the arcane joys of ham radio. I click the mouse, and topic headings like “Amateur Satellites,” “Swap Shop,” “Utility DX’ing,” and “Hardware/Homebrew” appear.

  “Miles, I guarantee you some of these guys are into a lot more than ham radio. That Tom Swift crap with cigar boxes full of vacuum tubes is history. These guys are high tech now.”

  “A couple of old hackers at MIT were into ham,” he says, and I sense how badly he wants to move me out of the chair and take over this job.

  “The only question,” I muse, “is will somebody with the right equipment be close enough to McLean, Virginia, to do it?”

  “Definitely,” Miles says excitedly. “McLean’s the D.C. metro area, not far from Langley. Bound to be somebody there. I’ll bet some of these guys have wet dreams about intercepting CIA and FBI communications.”

  “I don’t know,” I say, reading the screen more closely. “Look at some of these topics. “FCC Compliance” and “Proper Certification.” Maybe they’re not into that kind of stuff.”

  “Why don’t you let me talk to them?” Miles suggests, standing so close that I feel uncomfortable.

  “It’s all yours,” I tell him, rising from the chair.

  He sits and immediately begins composing a forum message. “We just have to approach it right. I’m not a federal fugitive, I’m… a reporter. For the Times Picayune. So are you.” He pauses, thinking. “We just got a tip about a rogue FBI operation in D.C. It might even involve the ATF. How does that sound?”

  “Like another bad movie.”

  He laughs. “This is great, man. Within two hours we’ll have real-time coverage of Lenz’s little trap, right through your telephone. Just like two tin cans on a thousand-mile string.”

  “What if my phone’s really tapped?”

  “Oh, yeah,” he says, his brow furrowing. “Well… I’ll just have to figure something out.”

  The bang of the front door catapults Miles out of his seat and to the nearest window. “Go check!” he commands.

  “Harper, it’s me.”

  “Drewe,” I reassure him. “It’s just Drewe.”

  He steps away from the window and leans against the wall, one hand over his heart. “This is major stress, man. What did I do to deserve this?”

  “I won’t answer that.” I start toward the door. “I’d better fix us some supper.”

  The office door opens before I reach it.

  Drewe stands in the hall holding a large brown paper bag. She is smiling, and her radiance gives me an unexpected lift. Yet it is plain that she does not intend to cross the threshold. Instead, she reaches into the bag and pulls out a paper box printed with red curlicues and an alarmingly orange fluid dribbling down its side.

  “Chinese,” she says. “I figured we were due for a change.”

  “You are a goddess, ” Miles says with genuine reverence. “I shall kiss your feet and worship forever at the altar of your infinite kindness.”

  Drewe laughs. “Just chew with your mouth closed, and I’ll be satisfied.”

  As she walks away, Miles sits back down at the Gateway.
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  “You coming?” I ask.

  He waves one hand. “Just let me post this message. Be right there.”

  As I pass through the door, I hear him say, “This is going to be better than sex.” This from a man who has seen, heard, and perhaps participated in just about every carnal activity the human mind can imagine. I turn and look back. It is the new sight for this century, I think, a man in digital bliss. And yet it is as old as the first hominid who stared mesmerized into a campfire.

  We are fascinated by that which can destroy us.

  CHAPTER 30

  Miles beat his own prediction by over an hour. By the time we finished supper, three ham radio operators in the Washington, D.C. area expressed interest in helping us monitor the communications of the FBI (in the interest of the public’s hallowed right to know, of course). One of these-an ex-marine named Sid Moroney-admitted that he often monitored CIA training exercises on the streets of Washington and its suburbs, and boasted that he maintained a notebook containing the frequencies most commonly used by the government’s more aggressive acronymic agencies. This resource put him over the top, and Miles told him we would e-mail our requirements to him ASAP.

  We spent fifteen minutes arguing about the best way for Moroney to relay what he overheard to us. We wanted it in real time, but we also knew my phones might be tapped. We decided I would stay linked to Sid Moroney via CompuServe on the Gateway, while Miles monitored the EROS computer for any “Lilith”-“Maxwell” activity. Sid could update me on the stakeout by tapping messages into a private room on a CompuServe chat channel. If anything radical started to happen, he was to call my office number and press the mouthpiece of his telephone to his radio receiver, so that we could hear the traffic ourselves. This was a risk, but Miles figured anything serious enough to warrant a call would probably be the climax of the manhunt-which would exonerate us both.

  So far the wait has been anything but climactic. Moroney has intercepted communications indicating a stakeout in progress in the vicinity of the McLean safe house. So far I’ve received six reports from him via CompuServe, transcribing such bloodcurdling radio traffic as: “Alpha? Red here. Kensington quiet.” “Ten four, Red. Yellow? You there?” “Affirmative, Alpha. Wimbledon clear. Tomorrow must be garbage pickup, everybody’s coming out in their robes to put out the cans.” “Button it, Yellow. Out.” And so on for the past three and a half hours. The use of “Alpha” reminds me of Daniel Baxter in the trailer at Quantico, but since I can’t hear the voice, there’s no way to tell.

  This time I let Drewe in on what we were doing, since clearing our names seemed possible. But when eleven p.m. came and went, she raised a white flag and retired to the bedroom. I worried that Moroney would get bored and do the same, but after a few queries I found out he keeps a cot in his radio room and, like a good marine, has developed the capacity to detect significant radio traffic even while sleeping.

  I am half asleep myself when the balloon goes up.

  Miles, sitting six feet behind me at the EROS computer, says, “Hello.” As I turn in my seat before the Gateway, he raises his hand, forbidding any interruption.

  “Brahma just logged on,” he says in a monotone. “He’s using ‘Maxwell.’ ”

  “What’s he doing?” I ask, rubbing my eyes and straightening up in my chair.

  “Looking for ‘Lilith.’ ”

  “Where?”

  His shoulders stiffen. “Lenz is there now. They’re going into a private room. I’m turning up the sound.”

  Brahma’s digital baritone fills the office with an almost calming cadence.

  “What about his error rate?” I ask.

  “I’m looking. Three typos already. He’s definitely not using his voice-rec unit.”

  Miles adjusts the speakers, then looks over at me. Already this conversation seems different from the ones we’ve become used to. This time Brahma is taking the lead.

  “Is Lenz showing a little restraint at last?” I ask.

  “Looks like it. I guess we wait now.”

  We don’t wait long. In less than five minutes, a message from Sid Moroney flashes onto the screen of the Gateway.

  Just heard some fast chatter. “This is Alpha. All units be advised we have a cellular trace on the UNSUB. He’s definitely in the Washington metro area. He’s using a rented phone. We’re holding off on a pinpoint trace, but UNSUB is close by. Look sharp.”

  “Miles, the FBI is trying to trace him now.”

  When he doesn’t respond, I turn. He’s listening closely to Lenz and Brahma. “Baxter was supposed to give Lenz a week without trying to trace Brahma,” I remind him. “Why do it now and risk blowing the whole operation?”

  “Momentum,” Miles replies, not bothering to turn. “This is like any big business deal. At first everybody’s lovey-dovey. But when closing time comes, major egos are involved. The FBI knows Brahma is close. They’ve got the capability to trace him, therefore they trace him. It’s not even a question.”

  “Moroney says they’re holding off on a pinpoint trace, whatever that means.”

  “Brahma’s probably moving between cells, and they don’t want to put out scanning vehicles for fear of spooking him.”

  “But why not just stop his car and arrest him, if they can find him?”

  At last Miles turns to me, his look contemptuous. “Arrest him for what? Riding around with a laptop computer and a cell phone and typing sex talk?”

  “Couldn’t they backtrack over his movements, compare them to the murder dates, stuff like that? Why risk him getting away?”

  “There’s no reason to think he’ll try. He’s following an established pattern. He’ll shadow the decoy agent for two or three days, then make his move on the house.”

  “Right,” I say, unconvinced.

  Suddenly the speakers fall silent. Miles checks his screen. “Brahma just logged off.”

  “Shit. You think he found out they were trying to trace him?”

  “Maybe. He’s got guts, this guy. I wonder if he might actually try to hit her the first night.”

  “That’s the feeling I have, Miles. Don’t ask me why. Like something’s wrong. Really wrong.”

  “Like what? What could be wrong?”

  “I think Brahma’s about to make a fool out of everybody. He’s been three steps ahead of us all the way. Why should he act like an idiot now? Why walk into a trap?”

  “Tell me.”

  “I don’t know, damn it!”

  Miles looks thoughtful. “Okay, say you’re right. How could he make a fool out of everybody?”

  “I don’t know.” My mind is fuzzy with anxiety and fatigue. “By doing the unexpected?”

  “And what’s that?”

  “Maybe he knows ‘Lilith’ is a trap, but he’s figured a way to kill the decoy anyway. You know, the girl I told you about. Margie Ressler.”

  “Harper, right this second a dozen SWAT guys are perched in trees and on rooftops around that safe house. They can shoot the balls off a hamster at five hundred yards, and the range is probably less than forty. If Brahma shows up there, he’s dog meat.”

  “But Brahma doesn’t think like other people. Remember Dallas? He won’t walk up with a target painted on his shirt. They won’t even see him. Or if they do, they’ll think they know who he is. One of them maybe. He’ll do his thing and split before they even know what hit them.”

  Miles bites his lower lip. “Shit,” he says finally.

  “Miles?”

  “What?”

  “What if Brahma’s not even going there? What if he’s after someone else?”

  “Like who?”

  “ ‘Eleanor Rigby.’ ”

  “That’s nuts. She lives in California. We know Brahma’s in D.C. or Virginia.”

  “No, we don’t. We know somebody’s in D.C. or Virginia, logging on as ‘Maxwell.’ Remember the team-offender theory? If there’s really a group behind this, Brahma himself could be anywhere. He could be in California right now. He coul
d be here, man.”

  Miles shakes his head. “Calm down. He has no idea this place exists. And why in God’s name would he pick ‘Eleanor Rigby’ out of thousands?”

  “Not thousands. Six hundred. She’s a blind-draft account, remember?”

  “The odds are still ridiculous. Give me one shred of logic.”

  “‘Maxwell’s Silver Hammer,’ remember? A Beatles song. And she’s ‘Eleanor Rigby.’ There’s death in that song too. Wouldn’t he gravitate to that?”

  Miles purses his lips in concentration. “Maybe.”

  “Is there some central data bank where all EROS conversations are stored? An archive or something? I know you told the FBI there wasn’t, but-”

  “There’s a sixty-day record. Every word is automatically filed to disk for sixty days. Then it’s erased. We do it for legal protection, in case of things like crimes against children ricocheting back on us. One of my techs handles it.”

  “I want you to check it. Right now.”

  “Why?”

  “To find out whether Brahma has talked to ‘Eleanor’ recently.”

  “But-”

  “If you don’t, I’m going to call Eleanor myself. And that’s the first step to the whole story coming out.”

  He clicks angrily at his mouse, then types a brief e-mail message and transmits it to New York. “I told them it was urgent, but it might take a while.”

  “Thank you.”

  We sit in uncomfortable silence for a few minutes. I watch the screen of the Gateway, but Sid Moroney sends nothing through.

  “Here we go,” Miles says. “ ‘Eleanor Rigby’ spoke to ‘Maxwell’ in a private room three days ago. The conversation lasted eight minutes. You want me to get the text from them?”

  My heart is in my throat as I pick up the phone.

  “Hey, what are you doing?” Miles asks.

  “Warning Eleanor.”

  “Let’s at least look at the file first!”

  “Forget it.”

  Eleanor’s line is busy. I set down the phone, an image of a lonely young woman in a wheelchair burning behind my closed eyes.

  “Busy,” I say quietly.

  “Thank God. That would have started a network-wide panic.”

  I slap the desk with my right hand. “Like I give a shit, okay? We’re talking about life and death here! I don’t care if the whole goddamn company implodes. Everybody will just have to go back to using magazines to jack off.”