Walk the Wire

by David Baldacci

  “Yes. And if he did maybe Parker saw them.”

  “But why wouldn’t he have told the police about that if he did?” wondered Jamison.

  “Now that’s an interesting question,” said Decker. “Because it opens lots of possibilities.”

  “Interesting,” said Blue Man. “Very interesting.”

  “Is this a two-way street?” asked Decker.

  “Meaning?”

  “What can you tell us?”

  Blue Man nodded slowly and looked thoughtful. “I think some quid pro quo is in order. You ask why I’m involved, and, ultimately, why you and Agent Jamison are involved in this?” He paused. “Irene Cramer is the answer, of course.”

  “Or Mary Rice, as she was known at a nursing home in Williston,” interjected Jamison.

  Blue Man said, “Or Terry Ellison or Denise Finley. I could go on and on.”

  “Please do,” encouraged Jamison.

  “Irene Cramer was collateral damage in a disastrous mission undertaken decades ago by the U.S. government.”

  “How so?” asked Decker.

  “Her mother was a Russian agent.”

  Jamison shot Decker a glance. “Sins of the parent, Decker, like you said.”

  “Oh, so you had figured that out?” said Blue Man.

  “Only to that extent. So her mother was a spy and you caught her. How is that a disaster?”

  “You didn’t let me finish. Her mother was a Russian agent who we thought was still working against us. She was actually a double agent and was working on behalf of a sister agency of ours that had neglected to tell us of that arrangement.”

  “And the FBI’s involvement? Because Cramer’s fingerprints set off alarm bells all over Bureau Land.”

  “They were the agency tasked with bringing Cramer’s mother in, since we have no authority to arrest anyone.”

  “What happened?” asked Jamison.

  “Irene Cramer was only eight at the time. I won’t tell you what their real names were. The point is the mission went sideways and her mother was . . . killed. And, unfortunately, Irene saw the whole, disturbing thing.”

  “And her mother was working for us?” said Jamison. “Risking her life?”

  “What a clusterfuck,” added Decker.

  “Yes, it was. We could not let her daughter go back to Russia, of course. So, for all intents and purposes, we adopted her. Gave her a new identity. Paid for her education and living expenses. Gave her money when she needed it as she grew up.”

  “You were paying for her silence?” said Jamison harshly.

  “In a way, yes, though who would have believed her? But the far more important thing was to keep her safe. The Russians have a long memory. And were they to find out about her mother spying on them, which we believe they actually did, Moscow would have no compunction about using the daughter as an example. She would have died a horrible death, I can assure you.”

  “Did you know she was applying for a teaching job here?” asked Jamison. “She told the Brothers that she went to Amherst. And she had a teaching certificate. They apparently didn’t check up on that because they needed someone badly.”

  “Normally, if she needed a reference for some reason, the information she provided an employer would run through one of our departments, which would handle it.”

  “So you would give her a bogus reference?” said Decker incredulously.

  “It’s not like she ever applied to be a commercial airline pilot or heart surgeon. And as a matter of fact she had gone to college at Amherst, and she did have a teaching certificate under the name Irene Cramer.”

  Decker looked at Blue Man. “But you knew nothing about her applying for the job here?”

  Blue Man shook his head and said, “About fourteen months ago, she disappeared off our radar completely. That had never happened before. We were concerned, of course.”

  “That’s just about the time she stopped working at the nursing home,” noted Jamison.

  “So when her prints and the name hit the FBI database?” said Decker.

  “We knew what had become of her. But we don’t know who killed her.”

  “Or why she was here?” said Decker.

  “Precisely.”

  “There’s an old man at that nursing home named Brad Daniels who worked at the London Air Station decades ago. Irene, under the name Mary Rice, worked as a physical therapist and met Daniels that way.”

  “We actually knew about her job at the nursing home,” said Blue Man. “We paid for PT training for her. I think she continually changed occupations just to make us do things for her. Provide her education and money.”

  “She must have hated you all very much,” pointed out Jamison.

  “No doubt she did, as I would have if the positions were reversed. But this elderly gentleman, Daniels? Explain, please.”

  Decker said, “We talked to him. He clammed up when we asked him about the work he’d done here. Said it was classified.”

  “And when Decker told him that Mary Rice had been murdered, he lost it. Screamed at us to get out.”

  “You think he told her something? That’s why she came here?” This comment came from Robie.

  Decker and Jamison both nodded. “That’s right,” she said.

  “And perhaps he feels guilt for what happened to her,” said Blue Man. “Which might have caused his anger.”

  Decker looked at Blue Man. “What do you know about the Douglas S. George Defense Complex?”

  “The Air Force, in theory, runs it. But it is odd.”

  “What is?” asked Jamison.

  “There’s a similar facility on the other side of North Dakota. The one here was constructed in the fifties, the other one in the sixties. The latter only operated for a very short time before being decommissioned; its original mission had fallen into disfavor and its price tag became too costly. But it still tracks the skies with its PARCS radar array.”

  “Just like the one here?” said Jamison.

  “Yes.”

  “So they’re redundant?” noted Decker.

  “Exactly.”

  “In addition to the ambulances and the men Robie saw being wheeled away, we talked to a farmer who lives right next to the facility.” Decker went on to explain what Robert White had seen that night.

  “That is quite disturbing,” said Blue Man.

  “But maybe enlightening, too?” suggested Decker.

  “Illuminating, at the very least,” replied Blue Man. “Robie?”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “We’ll need to check that out. Now.”

  “Right.” Robie left.

  Blue Man looked back at Decker. “This is obviously far more than a murder investigation.”

  “I’m just a cop doing his job.”

  “I have no doubt that you will do your job, Mr. Decker. And your country needs you to.”

  “If this sucker is that critical, why don’t you call in the big boys?”

  Blue Man looked at him with calm resignation. “The problem is, Mr. Decker, I strongly suspect they’re already here.”

  DECKER AND JAMISON DROVE BACK to London. When they got there they passed by a sleek six-story apartment building that looked fairly new.

  “Isn’t that Hugh Dawson?” said Jamison.

  The man was climbing out of a late-model black Range Rover.

  “Yeah, it is.”

  “He’s out late.”

  They watched as Dawson looked furtively around and then strode through the front door and into the building.

  “Pull over,” said Decker.

  Jamison parked at the curb and they got out.

  Jamison followed Decker into the building. There was a concierge desk, and they heard elevator doors closing as they approached it.

  A young woman was at the desk, dressed in a trim dark blue uniform with a name tag that read SARAH. She said, “May I help you?”

  Decker and Jamison approached the desk. Decker said, “Sarah, we work for Mr. Dawson. We kno
w he was scheduled to be here. I think we might have just missed him.” He patted his jacket pocket. “We have some papers he needed. He forgot them and called us to bring them to him.

  “You did just miss him. He’s already gone up in the elevator. I can take them up.”

  Decker frowned and shook his head. “I’m sure you’re perfectly reliable. But Mr. Dawson is very particular. And these documents are confidential. If he knew I gave them to an unauthorized person I’d be out of a job.”

  The woman looked at Jamison.

  “He’s not kidding,” said Jamison.

  “Well, all right, I guess it’s okay. He went up to number five-oh-three.”

  “Right. That’s—” He looked helplessly at Jamison. “Crap, I forgot the guy’s name.” He glanced apologetically at the concierge. “Mr. Dawson does so many deals. It’s hard to keep them all straight.”

  She smiled and said, “It’s Mr. McClellan’s apartment.”

  “Exactly. I knew that’s who it had to be. Good old Stuart McClellan. Well, thanks.”

  They got on the elevator and took it up to the fifth floor.

  “Dawson is meeting secretly with McClellan?” said Jamison.

  “Not so secret if the concierge knows about it,” replied Decker.

  “What do you think is going on?”

  “Those binders he had on his desk? He told us he was working on some big deal. Maybe that deal is with McClellan.”

  “But I thought they didn’t get along.”

  “Lots of people who don’t get along still do deals together.”

  “You think this has something to do with our investigation?”

  “It’s possible. People have been killed and abducted. Walt Southern was blackmailed. Parker was hired by Hugh Dawson. He and McClellan are the two wealthiest men around. It wouldn’t be the first time murder has been tied to money.”

  They got off the elevator and walked down to number 503, where Decker knocked on the door.

  They could hear footsteps coming and the door opened.

  Stuart McClellan’s tie was unknotted and the buttons of his vest were undone. He had on a pair of reading glasses that were perched halfway down his nose. He looked up at them in confusion.

  “What the hell are you doing here? How did you even get up here?”

  Before Decker could say anything Jamison stepped forward. “We’re federal agents investigating a murder. Do you really think a concierge is going to keep us at bay?”

  Decker glanced at Jamison with admiration. Next, he peered over McClellan’s head when he heard movement in the room. “We understand that you’re not alone.”

  “What business is that of yours?” snarled McClellan.

  “Can we come in?”

  “No!” barked McClellan.

  Jamison said, “Fine, we’ll keep eyes on the place until we get a warrant issued.”

  “On what grounds?” snapped McClellan.

  “On the grounds that you’re harboring a witness who we need to speak to right now. Did you hear that, Mr. Dawson?” Jamison added in a raised voice.

  Dawson came around a corner and stood behind McClellan. He looked both pissed off and weary at the same time.

  “What do you need to speak to me about?” he said.

  “Do you want to do this out in the hallway?” said Decker. “I would have thought you’d want some privacy.”

  McClellan glanced at Dawson, who shrugged.

  The apartment was spacious and luxuriously furnished. Decker had noted, as they came down the hall, that they’d passed number 509 and had not seen another door until they came to 503. So McClellan had apparently cobbled together several units into one.

  He looked around and said, “Nice place.”

  “Why are you here?” demanded McClellan. “We’re busy.”

  “With what?” asked Decker.

  “That is none of your business,” retorted McClellan. “Federal agents or not,” he added, looking spitefully at Jamison.

  Decker eyed Dawson. “He was at your hotel that night. You’re working on this big deal, you said. You told us that McClellan finally has his business model right, which means maybe no more booms and busts for him. And you’ve been acquiring property on the cheap. Now you’re meeting secretly?”

  Jamison said to Dawson, “You’re selling out to McClellan, aren’t you?”

  Dawson eyed McClellan. “Guess the cat’s out of the bag, Stu.”

  “We don’t care what you’re doing with McClellan,” said Decker. “And this will go no further,” he added when McClellan looked like he was about to erupt in anger.

  Dawson slipped his hands into his pants’ pockets. “Then what do you care about?”

  “I’ve got two murders, one suicide, and a missing person.”

  “Suicide?” said McClellan.

  “Walt Southern ate a bullet.”

  McClellan looked at him goggle-eyed. “Walt? Why?”

  “We don’t know yet. Maybe a guilty conscience. Did you know him well?”

  “I knew him. But we weren’t close or anything.”

  Decker eyed Dawson, who changed expression when he caught Decker’s gaze. “Guilty conscience?” said Dawson. “What for?”

  “Can you think of a reason?”

  “No. And I didn’t really know the man well enough to have knowledge of any demons that might have led to his killing himself.”

  “Surely he would have done your wife’s funeral.”

  Dawson’s eyes narrowed at this provocative statement. “So what if he did? That wouldn’t make us best friends.”

  “So Walt Southern did the autopsy on her?”

  “Yes. And it was confirmed that she died from carbon monoxide poisoning. And—” Dawson stopped and stared at Decker. “What are you implying?”

  “I’m not implying anything. And what did Alice Pritchard die of?”

  “Exposure. She apparently tried to make it to her car when Maddie didn’t show up. They found her outside, frozen stiff.”

  “And the text your wife sent you?”

  “I was in France with Caroline. We didn’t see it until the following morning. By then, it was too late.” He looked away.

  Jamison said, “That’s what Caroline told us.”

  “How is Liz Southern?” asked Dawson slowly.

  “Shaken, distraught, as you would imagine,” answered Jamison.

  “You know her?” asked Decker.

  “Walt moved here about twenty years ago and started his business. But Liz is from London. Our families knew each other. Her parents are dead now, and she and Walt live, well, now she lives in town. But she still has her parents’ farmhouse about ten miles outside of town. And she and Caroline have become good friends over the years. Liz is older than Caroline, of course, doesn’t have any siblings, and never had any children. I think she sees Caroline as a younger sister.”

  McClellan interjected, “So now can you get on with your investigation and leave us to our business?”

  Decker eyed Dawson. “Caroline is very proud of her new restaurant. Does that get sold to this guy, too?”

  McClellan said sharply, “This is private business.”

  “Again, an answer in itself.”

  Dawson said, “Don’t worry. Caroline will be just fine.”

  “I wouldn’t bet the farm on it,” replied Decker.

  LONG-RANGE NIGHT OPTICS were Will Robie’s best friend. He was lying prone, sighting through one of his favorite pieces of surveillance hardware. It didn’t match the “eyesight” of the radar array facility he was watching currently, but it was more than good enough for his purposes.

  He’d been here for an hour and during that time had barely moved. Being able to lie motionless and intensely focused on his target for inordinately long periods of time was Robie’s bread and butter. Without it, he couldn’t do his job.

  Vector guards continued to make their rounds. A small jet had landed about an hour before. He couldn’t see who had gotten off. Before
that, two choppers had lifted off the ground and one had returned. A few vehicles had left the facility through the main gate but all had returned.

  He watched another car head toward the front gate. He zeroed in on Colonel Mark Sumter as the driver. Robie had been briefed on him and seen multiple photos of the man. Sumter was alone in the vehicle, and he was not in uniform.

  Where might the colonel be going at this late hour?

  Robie collapsed the tripod holding his scope and sprinted to his electric scooter. He timed it so he would hit the road Sumter was on about ten seconds after the man passed that spot.

  He pulled in behind Sumter with his lights off. He had slipped on a pair of night-vision goggles, enabling him to see clearly without exposing himself by using his headlight. Sumter drove straight down the road, not turning off at any intersection until he was about five miles from downtown London. Then he hung a left down a windy gravel road. In the distance, as he rounded a sharp curve, Robie could see a small house with a light on. There was a large tree out front.

  Robie pulled off the road and set his scooter down on its side in some tall grass. He made the rest of his way to the house on foot. He performed a sweep of the property looking for sentries but saw none. He took up a surveillance position behind the tree, which was set about ten feet from the front door. There was no other vehicle in front of the house other than Sumter’s car. A minute later Robie quietly made his way to the front window where the light was shining through.

  The window was closed, but the curtains were not fully shut. Through a sliver of an opening, Robie could see the profile of a man. He was in his late sixties, jowly and gray haired, and dressed in a conservative dark suit with a blue-and-red unknotted tie.

  Robie took the man’s picture with a thumb-sized camera and next pulled from his pocket a device that looked like an extra-long pen with a wired earbud attached to one end. He pressed the other end, which had a small suction cup attached, against the glass and inserted the bud in his ear.

  Voices filtered into his ear.

  “The intrusion is concerning, Colonel,” said the older man. “It’s not something that was anticipated.”

  Robie next heard Sumter’s response. “We don’t know what they wanted. The SUV was untraceable. It’s not just concerning. It’s my ass on the line after all.”