Edge

by Jeffery Deaver

  Nor was Bert Santoro our resident grand inquisitor. She was the office manager of our headquarters in Old Town, the woman who reviewed expense accounts and budgets and ordered furniture and computers. She had nothing to do with operations. With four wonderful kids and a great husband, Bert was like any one of thousands of government workers in the D.C. area. But she had a cold beauty that made her perfect to play the steely operative role, someone who enjoyed pulling out fingernails or using electrodes to extract information from my interogatees.

  Zagaev whispered to me, "Who is she?" He turned to her. "Why don't you say anything?"

  Bert, probably thinking about something like my overdue expense account, silenced him with a look.

  I said, "Aslan?"

  With a last glance at the red vinyl case, which I knew happened to contain only makeup, he sighed and I heard chain tinkle as he lowered his shoulders and hands. "Naturally you thought I was part of some plot, some terrible plan to bring down the infidels. What nonsense! No, no, my plan was about business. You see how much of an American I have become? That's what I care about. The all-powerful dollar."

  He seemed concerned that my notebook was closed. "Please, this is my story. Please, you can write it down."

  Every syllable was, of course, being recorded by a hidden video and audio system--the Sony video by the door was more of a dramatic prop. Still, I thought it best not to remind him he was being taped surreptitiously and so I opened my notebook.

  "Years ago, yes, I knew the couple who worked in the deli, the couple murdered . . . the couple who died. I did not respect them. I had no interest in their cause. But I did have an interest in the money they paid me. Which was not inconsiderable. You have seen the record, yes? You know. After they died, I grieved--but only for the loss of the income.

  "I led a more or less successful life here. Ah, but isn't success a moving target? I have been having some problems, financial in nature. The economy? Who needs rugs when you can't afford your mortgage payments? Who goes to eat at my wonderful restaurant when you must buy bulk frozen dinners at Sam's Club to feed your children? How could I make more money? Did I have any service I could perform? Did I have anything valuable that I could sell? Then it occurred to me. What if I could learn more about the operation behind the deaths of the Pakistanis in the deli six years ago? How valuable would that be? I remembered the woman who was the point control officer behind the operation to kill them: Joanne Kessler. Even if she had retired she would surely have valuable information or lead me to people who did.

  "I made some phone calls, discreet phone calls, to a connection of mine in Damascus. I learned there was indeed an interest in information of this sort. A multimillion-dollar interest. A man there gave me Henry Loving's name."

  So that was the answer. I'd anticipated part of it--targeting Joanne because of information she'd have about secret government organizations. I had posited a terrorist motive and sleeper cell; in fact, it was just business. Given Zagaev's entrepreneurial life, I should have guessed.

  "What're you paying Loving?"

  "One million dollars, half up front. Half when we got good information from Joanne."

  "If you cancel the job?"

  "I still must pay everything."

  I asked, "Where is Loving now?"

  "I don't know, I swear to God, praise be to Him. I've met Loving once--last week in West Virginia."

  "Why there?"

  Zagaev shrugged. "Out of the way. He was afraid he'd be recognized if he flew into Dulles."

  "Go on."

  "I gave him a deposit. He doesn't like wire transfers." A mirthless laugh. "Much less a personal check."

  "And you haven't seen him since then?"

  "No. We leave text messages or speak on the phone. He gave me a code to use when we talk. About construction jobs and the like."

  "What number do you call?"

  Zagaev gave it to me and I recognized immediately that it was a rerouting service. It would be impossible to trace. The area code was in the Caribbean.

  "The helicopter? Is it yours?"

  "One of my partners in the restaurant. It's his."

  "What were you doing with the guns?"

  "He gave them to me for my protection. But, when he called, he gave the code that I should dispose of them. He was probably concerned that the people guarding Joanne might find them." Zagaev chewed on his lip, staring at the red makeup case. "I swear I didn't know how dangerous this Loving was. If I could have gotten the information from that woman, the point control woman, any other way, I would have. I swear to God, praise be to Him, that I didn't know he would use the daughter as leverage."

  I remembered he'd said something of the sort, according to the tap Freddy'd put on the phone.

  I asked, "Who else is working with him? Partners?"

  "He's working with one man, former military. I've seen him once. Tall, dark blond hair. Wears a green jacket. I don't know his name."

  "Anyone else?"

  "Not that I know of."

  I said, "I'll be right back." I stepped outside, leaving Zagaev to stare uneasily at Bert.

  I found Freddy, who said, "He's singing like Britney."

  "It's good. He's working solo and the idea originated with him. The Syrians might buy the finished product but he approached them, not the other way around. They probably don't even know Joanne's identity."

  With the Chechnyan in custody that meant the only threats to the Kesslers were Loving and his partner and they wouldn't be much of a threat at all as soon as they found Zagaev was in custody. They'd probably flee.

  "What're you planning?" the agent asked.

  There were two strategies to play.

  I debated a moment and decided I really had no choice.

  Chapter 52

  WAITING AGAIN.

  At 4:00 p.m. we were in a deserted field near the park embracing the site of the First Battle of Manassas or--if you're a Northerner--the First Battle of Bull Run.

  Not far from where Thomas Jonathan Jackson fought his way through the brush--and grape and chain shot--to earn the name Stonewall.

  In the still, overcast day, waiting.

  "It's the most dangerous time of all," Abe would tell me, as I would later lecture my proteges. "Waiting. Because if you're in this line of work, if you're a shepherd, you're smart. And smart minds need stimulants--crack, speed, puzzles, Rubik's Cubes. Waiting's going to make you dull. But you can't afford to become dull, because the hitter or lifter never waits. Why? Because he's using all his energy to move in close to you."

  It was a lesson I took to heart. Especially since Loving had the tendency to appear unexpectedly. But it didn't lessen the difficulty of waiting. I scanned the ground. Even on short notice, Freddy had managed to pull together four teams of special ops experts, all with military backgrounds, and chopper them into a staging area nearby but not so close Loving might notice. We'd arrived a half hour earlier and left our cars in a suburban strip mall parking lot a hundred yards away, then had made our way here through bushes and reedy fields. Birds zipped into the air and grasshoppers sprang away startlingly.

  We assembled near the battlefield--it was surprisingly small, hardly able to have hosted the carnage of 150 years ago--and moved silently into position in a field and a stand of trees surrounding the deserted parking lot where Zagaev had agreed to meet with Loving. The lot was next to the site of a demolished warehouse or small factory. Freddy and the tactical officers and I were linked with special com devices, earbuds and invisible stalk mikes that could pick up the faintest of whispers. The brand name was Micro-Mike and they cost two thousand each.

  But as we deployed, there was no chatter. The ops teams were consummate professionals.

  At the far end of the lot Zagaev's car was parked, the silhouette of a man's head just visible in the driver's seat. The Chechnyan had panicked when I told him he was going to call the lifter, cancel the job and meet him here to pay the remainder of his fee.

  But I wasn't
going to put him in danger. I didn't dare risk Zagaev's life--for humanitarian reasons, of course, but primarily so that he would be able to testify in the eventual prosecution of Loving. Also, I liked the idea of handing him over alive to Westerfield, to keep the prosecutor from devouring me. Zagaev wasn't exactly behind a front-page terrorist plot but it would be a good win for the vindictive man who would soon be deprived of his juicy Metropolitan Police corruption case.

  Accordingly, the occupant of the car was not Aslan Zagaev, nor was it one of the tactical agents. It was Omar, essentially a robotic head and torso, with a few servo motors inside that let him--well, it--mimic pretty well the movement and gestures of a human being. You could program the system so that Omar would act bored or drunk or--the most-used setting--nervous and fidgety. The features weren't as good as Disney animatronics but inside a vehicle or in the dark, he could usually trick a shooter. Omar--and Omarina (brunette or blonde and 36D)--came in white, black and Latino.

  "No Chechnyan models, son," Freddy had told me.

  The best part about Omar was that he wasn't simply a decoy. Surrounding the robot was a grid of ultraviolet and microwave beams. When Loving or his partner, presumably from some distance, took up position and fired the typical three-burst round into Omar's head, empty and inexpensively replaceable, a computer would instantly correlate trajectory, speed and GPS coordinates and indicate on our handhelds where the shooter was, down to three feet.

  Would Loving take the bait?

  I believed so. Back in Tysons, Zagaev had gotten in touch with the lifter. In the script I prepared I had him tell Loving that he wanted to terminate the job. He'd pay him the rest of the money and they could go their own ways. As I'd listened in on the conversation, I'd noted what seemed to be disappointment in Loving's voice. I wondered if that was due to his reluctance to cease playing this game with me personally.

  But that was perhaps projecting my feelings onto him.

  I'd also had Zagaev inquire casually if anybody else knew that he was the one who'd hired Loving. The lifter assured him that he hadn't said anything; he never did. That would be unprofessional.

  Of course, I'd had Zagaev ask this seemingly innocent question for a very specific purpose: to make Loving believe that Zagaev might try to kill him and save the rest of the fee.

  So, I was betting that Loving would meet him here to eliminate the man who knew his identity and perhaps a few other incriminating facts about him.

  Was I right?

  You never knew with Loving.

  As in the Prisoners' Dilemma, Prisoner One could never be sure that Prisoner Two was going to refuse to confess. The bank depositor would never be sure that all the other depositors would stand firm and not withdraw their savings.

  But, though economists and mathematicians don't admit it, game theory is about playing the odds. I don't believe in luck but I do believe in circumstance. It had not worked to my advantage in Rhode Island. Perhaps it would here.

  We heard distant traffic, immediate insects, a barking dog, the cheerful shouting of children at the battlefield where more than thirty-five thousand men engaged in the summer of 1861, and five thousand died or were wounded. I was in cover behind thick trees that had not even been seeds when those soldiers fell.

  The meeting had been arranged for 4:45. We were now a few minutes past that.

  In the distance, a light-colored vehicle quickly turned onto the road that led to the deserted parking lot we surrounded. The skidding turn was a standard tactical maneuver, not to evade any following cars but to see if you were in fact being followed. If you signal your intention to turn, a tail will do the same. If you skid around a corner, keeping an eye in the rearview mirror, you can easily judge from the reaction of the driver behind you if it's a tail, even if he decides to stay on the road. The car's rapid turn now suggested that it might be Loving's.

  Some of the tactical officers weren't in view of the road, and the commander--Freddy's lieutenant--alerted everyone to the newly arrived car. I found myself tensing, flashing back to the sight of Loving earlier--at the flytrap. I reached behind me and rested my hand on my Glock. This was instinct only; there were people present who were more talented at this sort of thing than I. Lowering my hand, I watched the transit of the light-colored car.

  Was it the lifter? This road didn't lead to the battlefield; it didn't lead anywhere, really. The occupants could be kids here to smoke grass or drink or make out. It could be a Civil War buff who wanted to experience the historic site from this angle. Manassas also had its share of meth cookers. Maybe a deal was going down.

  Before reaching the parking lot where Zagaev's car was idling, the new vehicle pulled off into the bushes.

  Then came a whisper through my earbud: "Team Three. Two males exiting vehicle, civilian clothing. One is armed, handgun. Proceeding toward parking lot through brush."

  Loving and his partner. I'd hoped they'd both be here.

  "Roger. All teams, stay in position. No motion, no sound. Sniper one, can you target the subject vehicle?"

  "Negative."

  "Roger."

  I wondered momentarily if the partner was Loving's protege, as I had been Abe's and Claire duBois mine. Did Loving lecture about the rules of play the way I had been lectured and I lectured now? This seemed at first a crazy thought but then I asked myself, why? Tradecraft of all types had to be mastered.

  "Team Two. Subjects are on western perimeter of the parking lot, observing Zagaev's vehicle."

  Freddy's voice whispered, "Move Omar's head around but not so he's looking back toward them."

  "Roger that."

  The robot glanced to the side. The head dipped. Whoever guided the mannequin was an artist.

  "Subjects're checking out the park. Okay, they're separating, moving up on either side of the car. Be advised, both have weapons now. Autoloader handguns."

  "Copy that."

  So they weren't going for a sniper shot; they were going to take him from behind, close. Just shoot him and have done with it.

  Or, I reflected, this might not be a kill at all. Maybe their intention was for the partner to cover the transaction as Loving collected the money. They would shake hands and leave.

  I was breathing hard, forcing myself not to strain forward for a glimpse but staying low in the brush. Suddenly I felt a trickle down my spine and looked behind me fast, though I knew Loving couldn't have come up behind me here, not with the tactical agents arrayed as they were.

  I saw nothing but saplings and brush.

  "Tac Op Leader. We've got a visual. Both suspects are in confinement positions."

  Freddy said, "You're greenlighted."

  "Roger. Greenlighted. On my command, Teams Three and One, flash-bangs . . . then move in, flanking and rear. Hold . . . hold . . ."

  I wondered what the communications here had been like in July of 1861 when troops had been preparing to engage.

  "Now. Move in, move in!"

  I heard a series of explosions and saw flashes as the tactical ops teams sped forward.

  My hand was cramping--my left hand, not the one I used for shooting--and I was half rising from cover. I sucked in air. I realized that I hadn't been breathing for a good thirty seconds or more.

  The teams converged, screaming, as they were instructed to do, "FBI, FBI, on the ground, let me see your hands! Let me see your hands!"

  "We've got--" one started to radio.

  A long pause. "Team Three to Tac Op Leader. Need you here. Now."

  What was going on?

  "I don't get it. . . ."

  "Shit."

  My heart sank at the transmissions, hardly what you would have hoped for in a successful operation.

  And, moving from cover, I made a deduction that proved to be true. The two men sneaking up on Omar were displaying what appeared to be law enforcement shields. They were, of course, detectives from Prince William County, here to investigate the reports of a drug deal or cries for help that Loving had undoubtedly called
in the minute he hung up from speaking with Zagaev.

  A call made to distract us while he orchestrated his escape.

  Chapter 53

  I WAS SPEAKING to Claire duBois.

  "Loving's on the run. He might be driving but I think he wants to get clear of the area. Data mine flight reservations. I want to know anybody who bought a ticket, after he talked to Zagaev--about three p.m.--for travel today. Maybe from Dulles, National or BWI but I think he's still going to be avoiding them, especially now that he suspects we've turned Zagaev."

  "Amtrak?" duBois asked.

  "Freddy's told the police at Union Station to look for him. But I'm betting he wants to put more distance between us faster than taking a train."

  "I'll get right on it."

  Zagaev had no clue where Loving might have gone, except to add that the flight to Charleston, West Virginia, had taken him about five hours, which suggested he was based somewhere on the West Coast, though possibly Mexico, the Caribbean or Canada.

  The tactical officers were assembling their gear. We talked to the county detectives but it was no surprise that the call that had brought them here had been anonymous and from an untraceable phone. "The caller said he'd seen somebody selling 'army guns' from the back of his car. What were we supposed to do? Jesus, you guys scared the shit out of us. Flash-bangs? Messed up my eyes, I'll tell you. I'm talking to my commander about this."

  I realized Loving's choice of a crime was smart. Had he reported a drug deal or a girl's shouting for help, as I'd thought originally, a standard patrol car with uniformed officers would have shown up. Selling weapons brought plainclothes detectives, which tricked us into believing they were Loving and the partner and prolonged his chance to escape.

  Freddy said, "How'd he know we turned Zagaev?"

  "Years and years of doing this shit."

  The agent lifted an eyebrow. "A sense of humor and you're cursing, son."

  Ten minutes later duBois called back. "Five minutes after Zagaev and Loving hung up, a man named Richard Hill bought an e-ticket to Seattle from Philly. It was the next available flight."

  "Why do you think it's Loving? That's not a known alias of his."

  "Well, for one thing, because Richard Hill is dead. His birth certificate was used to get a driver's license two years after he died."