“I can make some calls,” Garrett said. “Get you into a shelter. Maybe a vet program.”
“LEAVE ME ALONE!” Jacob hollered.
The television crew. Jacob had screamed loud enough to attract unwanted attention. Garrett stepped from behind the dumpster, pulling the blanket over his head. Covered head to foot, he crossed the street. When he was safely around the corner and out of sight of the reporters, he folded the blanket, placed it on the sidewalk, and used his cell to call Kim.
“I need you to hack into the cameras anywhere near Clyde’s in Georgetown. We’ve been looking in the wrong spot for the killers. Find images of a couple fighting with a homeless man around noon on the same day that Radi was murdered.”
“How’d you come up with this?” Kim asked.
“It doesn’t matter. If we’re lucky, we’ll see their faces.”
Ten
You don’t waltz into FBI headquarters on Pennsylvania Avenue unannounced and skip by the guard’s desk unchecked. Especially if you haven’t been cleared in advance, have no appointment, and aren’t certain the special agent you’d like to see is willing to see you.
Fortunately, Brett Garrett was familiar with Valerie Mayberry’s lunch habits. She wasn’t a Hard Rock Café grilled burger and french fries fan, even though the restaurant chain operated a café conveniently across from the bureau. Nor would she be tempted by hot dog sidewalk stands or food vending trucks. When Mayberry took her break, Garrett was certain she would walk two blocks east to the Capital Club, an upscale eatery where lunch prices were geared more to corporate expense accounts than to tourists.
Just to be certain, Garrett called the restaurant and said he was supposed to meet Mayberry for lunch but had forgotten the time. The hostess confirmed 1:30 p.m., but added that Mayberry’s reservation was for only one guest. Garrett blamed his nonexistent scheduling secretary for the error. Meeting Mayberry in public was important. Less chance of a scene.
He’d deposited his Norton in a nearby parking garage and, seeing that he was early, walked to the US Navy Memorial on Pennsylvania Avenue, where he paused to admire The Lone Sailor, a bronze sculpture of a seaman with his duffel bag, standing watch, ready to ship out and fight America’s enemies. Garrett felt an odd kinship with the sculpture.
Garrett had always wanted to go into combat. He’d fled his native Arkansas the day after receiving his high school diploma. Ignoring baseball scholarship offers from a half dozen colleges, he’d chosen the US Naval Academy. It had taught him discipline and leadership. Becoming an elite Navy SEAL had shown him how far he could push himself. Combat tours in Afghanistan had hardened him to life’s grim realities.
A gaggle of elementary children swooshed by him like water rushing over stones. They giggled and hollered as they ran between the memorial’s two fountains, their sneakers pitter-pattering across a map etched in the monument’s floor that showed the world’s oceans. A granite sea.
Time to go.
He walked through the matching lion statues at the Capital Club’s doorway and got two steps inside before being stopped.
“Sir, we have a dress code,” the maître d’ said.
“Er, okay, you must have a spare jacket?”
The maître d’ looked at his running suit.
“I’ll take whatever you got in the back,” Garrett said.
When the maître d’ returned, he was carrying a dirty brown blazer that was clearly too small. Garrett suspected the ill-fitting garb was intended to dissuade him from staying.
“Looks great,” he said, taking it. He removed his running jacket, slipped the coat over his T-shirt, and stepped into the bar, anticipating Mayberry’s 1:30 p.m. arrival.
She entered smiling, looking healthy—unlike the last time they’d been together. She’d been wheelchair-bound then. She looked good.
Many Washington career women’s closets were filled with Hillary Clinton power suits. Some intentionally downplayed their sexuality to be taken seriously. Mayberry was pure haute couture, forbidden as a child by her wealthy parents from owning any off-the-rack items or denim jeans. Today’s choice was a black pencil skirt, floral silk blouse, and tailored black jacket. Garrett had no idea who the designer was, only that it would be a pricey label. Old money handed down. Greenwich rich.
He waited until she was being escorted to her table to step up behind her.
“Glad I caught you,” he announced. “Sorry I’m a few minutes late.”
Slipping around the maître d’, he pulled out her chair.
He wasn’t certain whether it was his unexpected appearance or his unorthodox dress that surprised her the most. He slid into the seat opposite her before she could ask that he be tossed out. Looking at her, he grinned. She was wearing only the slightest touch of makeup. He’d always believed she favored the actress Keri Russell. Quiet beauty. Inner toughness.
The waiter gave him a hesitant look before citing the chef’s lunchtime specials.
“I’ll have the salade Niçoise with a light splash of Parmesan vinaigrette,” Mayberry said. “And a glass of pinot. Do you have one from Ankida Ridge?” All traces of the slight stutter once inflicted on her by Russian nerve gas had vanished.
“Yes, we stock several Virginia wines.”
“I read that its pinot is a surprise hit, especially coming from Virginia.”
Garrett hadn’t paid attention to the waiter or checked a menu. “I’ll just grab a burger,” he said, “and rye.”
“Which burger, sir?” the waiter asked, not hiding his contempt. “We have the lobster and crab burger, and our short rib, chuck, and brisket burger by Pat LaFrieda, with candied applewood smoked bacon and Vermont cheddar.”
“Ah, the second one,” Garrett said.
“And do you care what brand of rye?”
“One that’s wet.”
He glanced at Mayberry and cracked, “Even hamburgers in Washington are named after someone.” She didn’t laugh.
He took a sip of water. “You look good.”
“You look as if you’ve just come out of a public shelter,” she said coldly, “and I don’t need you to tell me how I look. I need you to tell me why you are here in such a ridiculous outfit.”
“I was out for a morning jog, and I thought it would be nice to come see you.”
“How special. It’s been nearly two years. Why are you really here?”
“We’re friends.”
“Friends don’t wait that long.”
“Valerie, I thought it was best to put some space between us.”
“Guinea-Bissau,” she replied. “That’s what you’re referring to, isn’t it? When I heard General Gromyko had been assassinated, I knew it was you.”
“No comment.” But he smiled.
“Twenty-eight surgically placed wounds. None fatal until the last. That’s torture.”
“Maybe he ran into someone who just wasn’t very good with a knife.”
The stern look on her face didn’t change. “Torture is never justified, even when it comes to someone as despicable as General Gromyko.”
“I imagine whoever killed him simply closed his eyes and thought about how he had tried to poison our entire US Senate, and succeeded in poisoning you.”
“Don’t put his death on me. I wanted justice, not torture.”
“If you ask me, what he got was justice.”
“I saw the newspaper article about you this morning. I can’t believe you actually bragged to a reporter about killing him. And what’s this about another stabbing?”
“I never talked to that reporter.”
“He sent out tweets.”
“I swear it.”
“The quotes sounded like you.”
A sommelier appeared and poured a small amount of pinot into her glass for her to swirl. She inspected the wine as it ran along the side. She held the glass to her nose. Smelled it before tasting a sample.
“It’s fine, but let it breathe,” she instructed.
Garrett took a si
p of rye without fanfare.
“Gromyko’s death explains why you stayed away the first year,” she said. “I’ll believe your line—that you wanted to protect me. That you were afraid someone might have thought you murdered him for me.” She took a sip of her wine. “How do you explain the second year?”
“I’ve spent it trying to find myself.”
“No wonder you were gone a year,” she said. “And did you find yourself?”
He shrugged his shoulders.
“Does that mean you’re clean now?” she asked.
He took another sip of rye. “No beating around the bush with you, is there? Yeah, that was part of it too. My only nasty habit now is this.” He raised his glass.
An awkward pause while their entrées were served. He lifted the burger rather than cutting it with his knife and fork. Took a big bite. Wiped his mouth with a napkin and caught a whiff of the strong perfume worn by a matron who was being seated at the table next to them. She politely nodded at Mayberry and gave him a puzzled stare.
“You happy to be back at work?” Garrett asked Mayberry.
“Small talk? Okay. Happy? At a desk job? They told me it would be temporary, but they’re lying. They can’t fire a national hero.” She looked down at her right hand, which was resting on her lap. He’d noticed that she was only using her left. “I can’t qualify anymore.”
FBI shooting test for field agents. Sixty rounds, eight shooting spots, both hands gripping a semiauto. Use of support hand required, especially when doing a speedy reload.
“Permanent nerve damage from the gas,” she explained. “I can’t close the thumb and three fingers on my right—not yet. Thanks for your obvious concern,” she added in a sarcastic voice.
“Like I said,” he whispered, “Gromyko got what he deserved in Africa.”
She put down her fork and reached with her left into her purse. Removed a prescription bottle. Positioned it clumsily against her frozen right fingers, now on the tabletop. Struggled to remove the cap.
“Let me help,” Garrett said, starting to reach across the table.
Mayberry jerked back the bottle and glared at him. “I don’t need your help! Or your sympathy! I don’t need you saving me and settling scores.”
After several tries, she managed to pop off the top, turned the bottle sideways, and shook out two capsules. xtampza er was printed on the label. Generic oxycodone.
She noticed him staring. “Just because you got addicted,” she said, “doesn’t mean I will. And don’t you dare judge me.”
He raised his hands. “I’m not!”
She swallowed one of the pills, struggled to put the other back. “Now, what’s the actual reason you decided to intrude on my lunch? What do you want, Garrett? Say your piece, and take your burger with you when you go.”
Garrett started to claim that he didn’t have a motive. That he’d missed her and simply wanted to see her. That was true, but so was her point. He’d come for a reason. He took out his phone and opened an email that Kim had sent him less than a half hour before. Pushed the phone over to her. “These images are from a street security camera outside Clyde’s.”
Mayberry looked at the photographs. The first showed a couple exiting Clyde’s and being confronted by a panhandler. The next showed the homeless beggar being knocked to the sidewalk by the woman. Mayberry studied the woman’s face and then the older man with her.
“Oh my God,” she whispered. “It can’t be him.”
“That’s his scar. I remember the first time I heard about him, years ago, when he was picking off Israeli soldiers while they were on patrol. Incredible shots by a sniper who always managed to disappear in the West Bank before anyone could catch or kill him.”
“That was before he graduated to high-profile political assassinations and got everyone in the West’s attention. He also got a hefty price put on his head.” Mayberry used her left index finger to expand the image. “I was told the Israelis killed him.”
“That’s what everyone thought. He’s either come back to life or the Israelis screwed up and killed someone else.”
“I saw the drone footage. I saw a missile hit the car he was riding in. The Mossad confirmed the Roc was one of its occupants.”
“I double-checked. Both bodies in that car were badly burned. The Israelis didn’t kill him. That’s Saeedi Bashar, aka the Roc. I’d recognize him anywhere.”
Mayberry looked at the woman. “Who’s she?”
“Kim used IEC’s advanced facial-recognition software, and based on bone structure and other similarities, he thinks she’s the Roc’s daughter.”
“You’ve already dragged Kim into this?” She pushed the phone across the linen tablecloth to Garrett. “If this man is the Roc, and he has a daughter, tell me, why were they in Georgetown?”
“Because they’re the ones who murdered my neighbor in the condo lobby. An Iranian named Nasya Radi. I’d like you to read something.” He reached into the fanny pack that he was wearing around his waist and removed Radi’s folded letter. Placed it on the table, but didn’t yet share it with Mayberry. “Right before my neighbor was stabbed to death, he put a letter into my condo mail slot. He’d seen me on television at the White House ceremony.”
“The ceremony that was held without me.”
“Yes, but that wasn’t my fault. Anyway, turns out Radi and I lived on the same floor in our condo building.”
“Was he there because of you?”
“That thought has crossed my mind. He bought the condo two months before he was killed, but he never approached me directly. I didn’t recognize him when the cops showed me his passport photo.”
“I assume that’s Radi’s letter,” she said, finishing her first glass of wine. “What’s it say?”
“I need your help with it.”
“Of course you do. Otherwise, you’d still be out in the woods trying to find yourself,” she sneered.
He ignored the slight. “It’s in Farsi.”
“You could have gotten Kim to translate it, or simply typed it into a computer. What’s the real reason?”
“I need you to get me a meeting with Connor Whittington. I’m persona non grata at the agency, as you might suspect. Have been ever since Gromyko showed up dead, but he’ll see you.”
The waiter poured her a second glass while they sat silent, looking at each other.
“Why don’t you just wear your medal and knock on the agency’s door?” Mayberry said mockingly. “Or better yet, show up wearing your ugly brown jacket?”
“Kim did a background investigation,” Garrett said evenly. “Radi was a member of the People’s Mujahedin Organization of Iran, the MEK. The MEK operates out of Albania now, and is still trying to overthrow Iran’s leadership. He was trained in nuclear physics.”
“So?”
“So someone killed him.” Leaning closer, he whispered, “And two Iranians tried to run me over yesterday because, I guess, they correctly assumed he’d contacted me.” He pushed Radi’s letter across the table for her to read.
She pinned down the envelope with her right hand and used her left to withdraw the single handwritten page. When she’d finished reading it, she looked up at Garrett.
“What does it say?” he asked.
“Garrett, you’re a son of a bitch,” she replied. “When do you want to meet with Director Whittington?”
Eleven
“They’re ruining everything,” the small boat’s captain grumbled. “Me, my father, my grandfather. All fished this sea. You could see porpoises.” He gazed at the sheer cliffs and jagged peaks off the bow. “Now everything is dying. Fish, plants, the whole damn Black Sea.”
Chiram Yosef checked his air regulator, only half listening to the captain. Before being recruited by the Mossad, he’d become an experienced diver in the Israeli military.
“It’s the damn Americans.”
Yosef glanced up. “Americans?”
“Ronald Reagan.” The captain, who’d been leaning aga
inst the outer wall of the pilot house, stood upright, raised his right arm, and pointed his forefinger as he made a dramatic 360-degree turn. “Russia. Ukraine. Bulgaria. Romania. Turkey. Georgia. All of them use this as a toilet.” He flipped the butt of his cigarette into the water. “Who cares?”
“What’s that got to do with Reagan?” Yosef asked.
“Him and Gorbachev. When the Soviets were in power, they didn’t allow any of this. Gorbachev still has a dacha here. I would piss on any fish he bought from me.”
Yosef moved starboard. Spit in his scuba face mask.
“You know,” the captain said, “you couldn’t have come here in the old days, but you know that. It ain’t fish you’ve come to see.”
Yosef hesitated.
The captain nodded toward one of the highest cliffs. “The underwater entrance is there.”
“You know?”
“Why else would you dive here? The water’s murky. Everything’s dead or dying. It’s the old submarine base you’ve come to see.”
“I was told it was built to survive a nuclear bomb.”
The captain laughed. “If a nuclear bomb was dropped here, would you want to survive?”
Yosef slipped overboard into the bay.
The captain had been right. He could see only a few feet ahead of him. His wrist compass guided him. If he’d known that the captain already understood why he’d hired a boat to bring him here, he would have suggested they sail closer to the underwater entrance. It took him nearly twenty minutes to reach what once was home to the Soviet navy’s Fourteenth Submarine Division. He swam for another hundred yards along a man-made canal cut deep inside the mountain before surfacing in what reminded him of a subway tunnel. Removing his face mask, he lit a flare and gagged. The air reeked of the stale garbage floating around him. Graffiti on the curved walls showed that he was not the first to explore. The curious. Looters. Teens looking for a secluded party spot.
Yosef climbed onto the tunnel’s walkway. Slipped off his gear. Walked into the mountain’s mouth. Seventy-five feet deeper, the flare he was grasping illuminated the top half of a closed blast door, a massive rectangular steel barrier. Grooves gouged into its exterior showed where vandals had tried to break through, but whatever was behind that door remained entombed.
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