“At what point did you see this man’s face? Brooks?”
“Right after the driver called him back to the car. He looked over at me just before I crossed the street.”
“That’s the moment I want you to remember.”
She nodded.
And so it began, much like every other drawing Sydney had done; she asked the basics, height, weight, general description, then on to the shape of the man’s face, his eyes, nose, mouth, and she took notes, jotting them down in the upper right corner, so that she could refer back as she worked. He was, according to Piper, about six feet tall, mid to late fifties, gray hair. The next step Sydney took was to draw an outline of the man’s face on the paper. She turned it toward Piper, who examined it, then looked quickly up and to the side, then back, saying, “His jawline is narrower, the face itself shorter. He was handsome. For a guy with gray hair.”
Sydney hid her surprise at the speed with which the drawing progressed. The process was usually much slower, quite often more generic, as her witnesses, even the most articulate of them, had difficulty describing what they saw. Sydney had her own theory on someone who was too helpful, too exact, but she tucked that thought away, as Piper proceeded to describe his eyes, nose, and mouth with equal precision. Sydney dutifully sketched, turned the sketchbook for Piper to see after finishing each step, then taking the directions on what needed to be changed. And she wondered what Griffin might be thinking at this point. Even he must surely realize that something wasn’t quite right. This was too easy, she decided, once again turning the sketchbook toward Piper, who shook her head. “The nose is wrong.”
At last, some changes, a mistake, she thought, then asked, “What would you do to change this?”
Piper clasped her hands in her lap, indicating her reluctance to comment.
“You won’t hurt my feelings,” Sydney told her. “I assure you. The drawing is only as good as the witness.”
“The nose should be longer, the bridge of it narrower.” She pointed to the paper. “Here,” she said, indicating with her fingertip where she thought the nose should end.
And Sydney drew. They finished in less than an hour, a record in her experience, since the average drawing took three.
She held up the completed sketch, asking, “Is there any final change you’d make to this that might help?”
“No.”
“On a scale of one to ten . . .”
“Eight-ish? It’s probably as close as I can describe, without actually drawing it myself—one thing I am not good at.” Piper paused, as though trying to decide what she should say next.
“I think we’re done, then. Thanks for your time.”
The young woman looked at Griffin. “Is there anything else you need me for? I was thinking about taking a nap.”
“If there is, I’ll let you know. Thanks, Piper.”
She gave one last look at the sketch, then left.
When Sydney heard the door close, she turned to Griffin. “Something’s not right.”
He picked up the sketchpad, examining the drawing. “How so?”
“In my entire career, the few sketches I’ve done that were finished that fast, they turned out to be lies. The witnesses had made up the details in their heads.”
“I don’t believe that to be the case here.”
“Why not?”
“She has special talents.”
“Her exceptional memory that she mentioned?”
“Not exceptional. Eidetic.” He handed the sketchbook back to her.
“Eidetic? As in she recalls everything she reads?”
“Everything.”
“And what is it she’s read that has you so worried?”
“The numbers you copied.”
“Does that mean they’re not numbers to offshore bank accounts?”
“They are not.”
“Then what are they for?”
“I can’t tell you. It’s classified.”
“Why am I not surprised?”
“I can tell you this. If anyone knows she has this skill and what she saw? She’s in a lot more danger than just being a witness to a murder.”
15
The White House
Washington, D.C.
In hindsight, McNiel wished he’d never informed them of Piper’s existence, or turned in his report on her. But then who could have foretold that she might very well be instrumental in bringing down one of the most sought-after espionage agents in recent history? Or that she’d be the link to a code they’d worked so hard to keep out of anyone’s hands ever since they’d learned of its existence? All he could do now was damage control. And pray their only concern was for how this latest incident affected national security—not that ATLAS was indirectly the cause of her being placed in this position to begin with. He glanced over at the president, trying to read his expression, but the man’s face was a blank slate.
McNiel finished detailing what the girl had seen on the computer, but nothing about who she had seen, or that they were doing a sketch of the suspect. He had his reasons for that, and his search for Brooks wasn’t necessary for the purposes of this meeting. What was important was the girl’s eidetic memory, and he explained why he’d left it off the written report. “In light of what she may have seen on that computer,” he explained, “I firmly believe that what we know about her and what she is now carrying in her head needs to stay in this room.”
“Worst case scenario,” Roy Santiago, the assistant deputy director of national intelligence, said, when McNiel finished. “If this girl falls into enemy hands?”
“She won’t,” McNiel said. “We’re placing her in witness protection. The arrangements have already been made. They’ll be picking her up this afternoon.”
President Evanston looked directly at McNiel. “But if she does?”
“Worst case?” General Woodson said, before McNiel could answer. “She could start World War Three.”
“An exaggeration, don’t you think?” McNiel said.
“Hardly,” Woodson replied. “Let’s say you’re one of our allies, and you find out that we’ve been looking at every national secret that’s ever passed through your country’s databanks these last couple decades—”
“Seriously?” Santiago said. “Everyone’s spying on everyone else. I don’t see our allies suddenly turning this into an issue worthy of declaring war.”
“Nor do I,” McNiel said, somewhat surprised to see Santiago siding with him.
General Woodson, however, was a different matter. He dumped a packet of sweetener into his coffee cup. “I’m talking about our declared enemies, and the countries that are undeclared, the wobbler countries who are just waiting for a reason to turn on us. What about when they find out we’ve been spying on them for X number of years? Watching their every digital move? And what about when the news gets out and the good voting citizens start figuring out how many times we’ve had to look the other way on certain attacks, all to keep these other countries from knowing what we know without letting on that we’ve been monitoring the lot of them for years?”
“What attacks did we know about?” Santiago asked.
“That’s not important,” Woodson continued. “What is, is that for the last two decades we’ve managed to convince the world that us having a backdoor entry into the world’s computer banks is one big conspiracy theory. A theory right up there with Washington, D.C., being built on a giant pentagram, directly atop a Masonic treasure. And now this girl could blow it wide open.”
“How?” McNiel asked. “She doesn’t even know what she’s seen.”
“Doesn’t matter. We might be the only ones who know what’s in her head, but others are probably thinking she could have a copy of this thing tucked away. They may be after her right now.”
Truer words were never spoken. Not that McNiel was ab
out to admit to it. “Nobody besides us knows about her.”
“Nobody? Somebody was running a half-functional version of that program, or they wouldn’t have discovered her friend to begin with. They don’t call that thing the Devil’s Key for nothing. You want to chance that they’ll pick her up and put it together?”
McNiel didn’t like the direction this conversation was taking. “Of course not.”
“Then you have one choice,” General Woodson said. “Make sure she never reveals what she knows. Standing kill order.”
“Kill her? She’s barely an adult.”
“And what?” Woodson said. “You’ve suddenly grown a conscience?”
“Unlike you, I never lost mine.”
“No. Which is why I’m able to make the tough decisions that don’t allow our country to be placed in danger. Or are you forgetting what put us in this position to begin with?”
“Enough!” President Evanston said. “We’re not going to run around assassinating girls who are barely old enough to vote.”
“She’s the equivalent of a suicide bomber,” Woodson said. “One life versus how many? We can keep her contained, and we’re fully prepared to take action, should the unthinkable occur.”
The president looked right at McNiel. “He’s right. I think the military is better equipped to handle this sort of thing. Turn her over to them.”
“Sir—”
“That’s an order.” He turned to Woodson. “I’m counting on you to keep her safely contained.”
“We won’t let you down. But should the unthinkable happen?”
“I do not want her in the hands of our enemies. Not with what she’s carrying in her head. If that should happen—and I expect you to make sure it does not—you have the kill order.”
“Sir,” McNiel said. “She’s a girl. A victim of a crime, in fact. Witness protection is far better suited than a military prison.”
“Witness protection? We’re talking about a threat to national security. You, of all people should realize that such a program is fine for the usual criminal. It is not suitable in this instance.”
McNiel gathered up his papers. “We’ve used it successfully in the past,” he argued. “Why should this case be any different?”
The president was quiet a moment, then looked at Woodson. “Your opinion?”
“I know I argued otherwise . . .” Woodson eyed McNiel. “As much as this goes against my better judgment, she is, as Director McNiel said, practically a kid. God knows she’d be better off in a more normal environment.”
President Evanston leaned back in his seat as he contemplated the matter. “McNiel. If anything happens to her, it’s not only your head that will roll. It may very well be the end of ATLAS. There’s already a report being circulated about what agencies we can eliminate over the budget crisis, and ATLAS was one of them.”
Which moved the rumors that they were trying to shut down ATLAS to near-confirmation. Still, he couldn’t just hand the girl over, not when her life was at stake. “Understood.”
At the conclusion of the meeting, McNiel left without stopping to talk to anyone, and had just exited the building when he heard someone calling him. “McNiel!”
He turned to see Parker Kane hurrying down the hallway. Kane worked for the CIA, but he had not been in the meeting. His classification wasn’t high enough, though McNiel had heard that was likely to change. Kane headed up a unit at the CIA that was similar to ATLAS, though not as far-reaching. It was the sort of experience the president was looking for, and he was considering Kane for appointment as the next deputy national security adviser. Probably a good choice, even though McNiel didn’t necessarily like the man.
“You have a minute?” Kane asked.
“Sure,” he said, wondering what on earth Kane wanted.
“I read the report from South San Francisco.”
“I wasn’t aware you had a copy.”
“I’m sure it was forwarded to me because of, well . . .”
“Right. Congratulations, by the way.” So the rumor of the appointment was true. It just wasn’t formally announced yet.
Kane looked at his watch. “I have to run. Before I go, I just wanted to say that if you need any help, I’ll make my office available to you.”
“I appreciate it.”
McNiel hailed a cab, glad for the unexpected support, from at least one person, but unable to ignore the feeling that he had not walked out of that meeting with the upper hand.
For Piper’s sake, and his team’s sake, he hoped he was wrong.
16
Griffin had spent the night at Lisette’s, because Marc and Donovan were out on a surveillance that took most of the night. He drew the second watch, slept in late, and when he awoke, showered, and went in search of coffee, Lisette was sitting at the kitchen table, looking at Sydney’s sketch. The TV was on, but the sound off. Piper was still asleep.
He poured himself a fresh cup. “Marc’s not back yet?”
“Should be here any time.” She held up her mug. “And yes, I’d love a refill.”
He took her mug, topped it off, then brought it back to her.
“No eggs with my coffee?”
“How do you take them?”
“I was kidding. I’m not expecting you to cook me something.”
“Well, I’m fixing myself some anyway.”
“Scrambled, then.” She slid the rubber band off that morning’s newspaper, shook it open, then made a scoffing noise as she perused the front page. “I’ll bet this ruins McNiel’s weekend.”
“What does?”
“The president’s announcement to appoint Parker Kane as the deputy national security adviser.”
“He’s a firm believer in not only knowing your enemy, but also knowing what part of the government they’re working in at any given time.”
“Who would have guessed that Manuel Torrance would have to step down after being caught in an extramarital affair while on the job?”
Griffin walked over, looked at the paper. “Talk about conspiracy theory. I heard that Parker Kane introduced the two of them. Torrance and his flame.”
“You think he did it on purpose? Set Torrance up?”
“This is Washington. Would you put it past him? What I can’t understand is why someone in Torrance’s position would ever compromise himself to begin with, so that the Parker Kanes of the world can swoop in and take advantage of it.”
“They can’t help themselves,” she said, handing him the newspaper. “Position of power, and suddenly women are throwing themselves at their feet? They’re not used to being . . . what’s the term you American men are so fond of? Chick magnets. It goes to the wrong head.”
Piper’s bedroom door opened, and Griffin bit back the sarcastic retort, saying instead, “Too bad. He wasn’t a bad adviser. Let’s hope that Kane makes his peace with McNiel once he is appointed.”
Griffin tossed the paper onto the kitchen table, as Piper walked in. “Making some scrambled eggs. You want some?”
She shook her head. “Lisette said there was cornflakes. I’d rather have that if it’s okay?”
“Cornflakes it is.” He handed the box to her, as well as a bowl, spoon, and then the milk from the refrigerator. “Coffee?” he asked.
“Yeah.” She took everything over to the table, sitting next to Lisette where she could see the TV. Suddenly she stood, knocking over the cereal box in her haste. “That’s him!”
“Him who?” Griffin asked, momentarily confused. Her gaze was riveted on the television screen.
“That Brooks guy you’re looking for.”
Griffin eyed the television, saw a short film clip of Parker Kane standing with a bevy of other political hotshots in the background while the newscaster announced that he was most likely next in line to take Torrance’s spot as deputy nationa
l security adviser.
When Griffin glanced at Lisette, she sat there, looking as stunned as he felt.
The girl had to be mistaken, and he watched her closely, looking for some sign that she was lying, making this up. “Why do you say that?”
“Because I know who I saw. And I saw him.” She got up, walked toward the television. “Who is he? Why is he on TV?”
There was a knock at the door, and Lisette said, “That’s got to be Marc. I’ll get it.”
Griffin glanced toward the door, then back at Piper. “It is very, very important that you don’t discuss with anyone what you saw at your friend’s shop or on the TV just now, do you understand?”
She didn’t answer.
He walked up to her and leaned over. “We are going to investigate this thing, but what you think you saw complicates things.”
“How? Why can’t you just arrest him?”
“If this is the man you saw, we’re all in danger. We can’t protect you if you don’t do exactly as we say, and right now I need you not to say anything to anyone. Until I say so. Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
Lisette gave Marc a kiss when he walked in.
“Sorry about the delay,” he told her. Then to Griffin, “Thanks for covering.”
“Actually it worked out for the best. Lisette? Hope you don’t mind if I skip making the eggs?”
“I’ll get over it.”
“Why the rush?” Marc asked.
Griffin grabbed his things on his way to the door. “Because we are now in way deeper than we ever thought.”
“How so?”
Griffin showed him the photo on the front page.
“What about him?”
“Brooks.”
“The Brooks?”
“That’s who Piper thinks he is. Saw him on TV.”
The Kill Order Page 10
