by Andrew Mayne
“It’s his wife. She’s been going through some medical problems. I think there was a complication.”
His wife? I’m ashamed to admit that I had no idea Ailes was dealing with this.
He never complains when I pester him at all hours of the day and night. Little did I know he was dealing with other drama. I’d noticed he’d been a bit off, but I didn’t stop to think what could be going on in his world. I was too distracted . . . or is it self-centered?
“Will she be okay?”
“I don’t know. We sent some flowers.”
“Oh.”
“I put your name on the card.”
“Thanks.” The gesture makes me feel even more guilty. I realize I still don’t even know why my grandfather had to go into the hospital.
I’m terrible at people.
I push them away, or ignore their problems. Someone only exists for me when they’re in my sphere. That’s the definition of selfishness. Then I find myself in a situation like this. No Ailes. What do I do?
But now?
I have to focus on the case.
Breyer was specific with me.
But maybe a little too specific.
“Can you meet me in our office?” I ask Gerald.
“I can be there in a couple hours.”
40
EVEN WITHOUT A suspect, I have to warn someone that the pope may be facing a serious threat. But if I call someone in any official capacity, Breyer will have my head. If lives are at stake, the moral thing might be to run to the media and tell them what I know, but I can’t bring myself to do that. I’ll be out of the FBI before the newsprint ink dries, and then I won’t have access to any of the resources I need to find out who’s behind this.
Blowing the whistle is useless if it doesn’t save the lives you intended to.
My hands are tied. Breyer wasn’t trying to be an officious jerk. He just doesn’t sense the urgency of what I see. It’s a string of tenuous connections. I feel as if I’m standing in the middle of a lake on a rock just below the surface, and I got here by hopping across rocks only I can see.
The pattern is obvious to me. Why isn’t it to Breyer?
I think back to Ailes’s conversation with me about finding two one-in-a-million events that are connected.
I believe the pope is in danger because I feel the Hawkton murders are an act of revenge. The audiotape gives me a motive. Deland is the accomplice I needed to make it possible. He’s got demolitions experience and is obviously comfortable with building things. He’d be the perfect bomb maker, even of unusual ones given enough resources. Getting the bodies into the trees wouldn’t be a problem. He might have had some help from another X-20 operative. Maybe the one that killed him.
So I know someone is angry and why, but not who.
It would be easy if Deland was at the center of everything. But he seems like a puppet.
I keep trying to connect him to Hawkton before the recent events and there’s nothing. He appears to have lived in a separate universe from the victims.
He was brought into all of this by a connection to X-20. It has to be someone in that gang driving the agenda.
I have to ask myself, though: What if the tape is a false lead? What if this isn’t about Marty’s death?
But I just can’t see how that could be the case. Marty named the demon. Groom kept the tape all these years out of guilt. The medical examiner hid the body from Jessup for the same reason.
If they held onto a reminder from the event, I wonder if McKnight or the Alsops did as well? I’m sure Jessup would be too smart to hold on to anything that tied him to the murder. But maybe they did?
It probably wouldn’t be something as obvious as a piece of physical evidence, like a body. In Groom’s case, the tape was a way to punish himself. What I should be looking for are scars of the psyche, not buried weapons.
I take the Metro to clear my head before I drive back to Quantico to meet Gerald. Am I acting unreasonably?
I know my life and my mind aren’t in the right place right now. I’m still getting over what happened months ago with the Warlock. Tixato is too recent for me to even process. This might be what shock is about. Every time I think about that night, the memory plays out in snapshots taken by a third party. I’ve disassociated. I’ve tried to keep rolling along. Truth is, I don’t know which way is up.
As a street cop, you can find as much crime as you want. But at the end of the day you have to go home and take a break. The older you get, the more you realize how important it is to learn when not to be a cop. The teenage girl walking briskly out of the drugstore with a guilty look on her face probably just stole something. If you’re on duty, you have a responsibility to intervene. If you’re not, do you still stop her under suspicion of shoplifting just so you can arrest her for stealing a pack of condoms so she doesn’t get pregnant? It’s a judgment call. You have to shut down that part from time to time. Danielle can do it. I’m still trying.
Everything becomes more complicated when you see how the world really works. As a detective, you know that nothing is ever simple. You read about a home invasion in the news, only to read the case report and find out it’s one drug dealer ripping off another. You get called in to investigate a kidnapping and realize the crying parents have a suspicious amount of hydroponics equipment. Do you investigate that as well?
This case is like that. The easy thing is to just walk away. Breyer doesn’t see any urgency. He also thinks the pope is safe. He gave me permission to move on. He ordered me to. I just can’t. He doesn’t see the shape of things.
Intuition, in the blind sense, is a dirty word to me. If I can’t explain things objectively, then I tend to think things aren’t rooted in reality. Intuition can be another word for bias.
What’s my bias?
My suspect, X-20, isn’t some underfunded, fringe terrorist group. They’ve made their money, a lot of it, by openly defying the US and Mexican governments. They have entire regions in their pocket and were capable of sending a death squad, composed of an active army unit, to kill me. I think they’re a formidable challenge, even for the pope.
My Metro train comes to a stop. I pull my coat tight around my body to shield against the wind and emerge a few blocks from my destination. I use the walk to prepare what I’m going to say. This is awkward. I have no idea how it’s done, other than what I’ve seen in movies.
Breyer was clear with me. But I don’t think he realizes that I’m an escape artist. I’m always looking for ways out of impossible situations.
“I CAN SEE you’re new to this,” says the priest on the other side of the latticed screen.
The voice is friendly. “Avuncular” comes to mind. He reminds me of my Uncle Darius, to whom I could tell anything without judgment.
The booth is dark, but not in a frightening way. It feels like a secure closet you can hide inside. I can smell the oiled wood and an air freshener.
“Technically I’m not here to confess my sins, Father.”
“Are you Catholic?”
“Not even close,” I reply.
“There are easier ways to talk to a priest if you have questions.” I’m sure he gets more than a few curious tourists straying into here.
“I need a certain amount of legal immunity.”
“Oh boy, this will be interesting. Now I’m worried. Is this a matter for the authorities?” His manner becomes more serious. He’s probably heard variations on this a few times.
“In a way.” I take my badge from my pocket and press it against the screen.
“If it’s about the sacramental wine, I can explain,” he jokes.
He’s smooth. I take note of how he turned this situation into a lighthearted moment. He’d be great in an interrogation room.
“I wish. Legally, what I say is between us?”
“Well, te
chnically, I’d need to be your confessor.”
“My confessor?” I ask. I know a little bit from my law classes, but I want to hear his understanding of the legal definition.
“The person you go to to confess your sins. It’s during the act of confession that the legal boundary is the clearest. You can’t just tell a priest anything and expect the court to respect that as being between you and God. Otherwise, I suspect, mobsters would be in a rush to get ordained.”
“Oh. I get it. I have to make a genuine confession?”
“Yes. That’s a start, I guess.”
I can tell he seems a little confused by my questions. I can’t blame him. I’m not so sure either.
I need a sin to confess . . . Maybe I’ll just go with something recent. “I had impure thoughts about a man I saw in the coffee shop this morning. Good enough?”
“Er, yes. I’ll absolve you when you come up with something better. What’s this really about?”
“Do you recognize me?”
“Your identity isn’t supposed to be known to me.”
“How does that work in small towns? Never mind. My name is Jessica Blackwood. Sound familiar?”
“Yes, from the news. The FBI agent. What can I do for you?”
“You know I’m a credible person. Well, reasonably. I wouldn’t be here if I had any other option. So I’m just going to come right out and say it. I believe a Mexican cartel, called X-20, is plotting to kill the pope.”
There’s a long pause on the other side of the screen. “Well, that is quite . . . something. Why are you telling me this?”
“Because the evidence is thin and I’ve been told by my superiors that we need to go through proper channels. Unfortunately, I don’t think they understand the seriousness or urgency of the matter. Time is very critical. Hours could make a difference.”
“Interesting.” He’s taking me seriously, thank God. “Is this connected with his eminence’s upcoming visit to Miami?”
“Possibly. I don’t have any specific information yet. It’s just important that the people who handle his security know this.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
“Because we both know this particular church is a phone call away from the Vatican. This is the top church in the country?”
“Not all would agree. But I get your point. I’ll see what I can do.”
“I’m serious, Father.”
“I believe you. Trust me, I believe you are. Tell me again what I need to know.”
41
KNOLL HURRIES TOWARD me as I exit the parking garage elevator at Quantico. Something is wrong. “Follow me,” he says, without looking in my direction.
For a moment I panic and think word already got back about my trip to the confessional. It can’t be. Nothing works that fast around here.
We take a turn across the Quantico campus toward the recently finished tactical operations building. You would think it was a New England college if it wasn’t for all the trainees in FBI sweat suits running around while carrying guns.
The Tactical Operations Facility was previously located in the main building in downtown DC headquarters. It handles live operations around the world.
As we cross the sidewalk, I notice Knoll’s eyes darting upward from time to time. I count at least eight men in sniper positions on surrounding rooftops. They’re watching the sky.
Damn.
This isn’t any drill I’m familiar with.
This is something serious.
An agent in tactical gear holds the door open for us and secures it after we enter. Once we’re inside the lobby Knoll turns to me. “We’ve spotted a small drone flying over the campus. Sharpshooters are preparing to take it down.”
“A drone?”
“A small one. It looks like it’s designed for surveillance. It could still be weaponized.”
“Who the hell sends drones over the FBI?”
“Exactly,” replies Knoll. “Could be a prank, but we’re taking this very seriously. But we have a bigger problem.”
Bigger than someone penetrating FBI security? I get queasy just thinking about that. “Now what?”
He shakes his head. “Remember when I made the joke about you attracting the crazy types? Follow me.”
We take the elevator to the third floor, clear the security checkpoint and enter the operations theater.
Agents are gathered around a large wall screen displaying a map tracking some kind of trace from parts around the globe. The leader of the group turns to me. With buzzed gray hair and a squat, powerful build, he looks like a SWAT team veteran. “She’s here,” he barks into a headset. “Put the audio on the intercom.”
“All right then. Let’s get right to the point,” a voice booms over the loudspeaker. I freeze before I even hear him say my name. “Here’s a puzzle for Ms. Blackwood and company. Pretend I’ve placed a half ton of plastic explosives inside an SUV, which is sitting inside a parking garage somewhere in the DC metro area. I’ll give you the address in a moment, but you need to know a few things first.”
What the hell did I just walk into? I want to start asking questions, but have to keep my mouth shut. Knoll already knows what I’m thinking and writes something on a pad and shows it to me: “Call came in twenty minutes ago.”
“This is a game,” the speaker continues. “There are rules. Play by the rules and nobody gets hurt. Break the rules and I promise you, people will get killed. The name of this game is ‘Stop me from killing Jessica Blackwood.’”
I exchange glances with Knoll. Other people in the command center watch me from the corners of their eyes.
I feel the blood drain from my face as the nightmare continues. I want to sit down, but can’t show weakness. Not here. Not in front of my peers.
“Rule number one: Nobody, and I mean nobody, should approach the vehicle and make me suspect that the bomb squad is about to try to deactivate the bomb. If I see someone act a little suspicious, boom. That said, this is a parking garage. People come and go. People doing things that look normal won’t set off the bomb.
“Rule number two: If I see you evacuate the occupants of the building,boom.
“Rule number three: If I see emergency vehicles, police or even hear a whisper of something on the radio, boom. You have to assume I’m watching everything.
“Rule number four: I’ll let you in on a secret, I’ve been using a cell sniffer outside Bureau headquarters to listen in on mobile phone identifiers. If my sniffer near the bomb detects an unusual number of cell phones belonging to FBI agents, boom.
“Rule number five: This is the most important one of all. If I see Ms. Blackwood anywhere near the location, boom. I want you to assume that the goal of the bomb is to kill her. Although, after the bomb explodes, someone claiming to represent a ridiculous militant group will call and take the blame, saying there’s no connection. But make no mistake, this purpose of the bomb is to kill Ms. Blackwood.
“So, to play this game right, when the bomb goes off I want to hear on the news you saved the people but she died helping the bomb squad. I need to hear she’s dead.
“You have less than four hours. Any questions?”
His voice as calm as steel, a gray-haired agent speaks up. “This is Agent Winstone. To whom am I talking?”
“Call me Boy Scout. But that’s not important right now. By my count there are one hundred and twenty-two people in that building. If you accept the rules, I’ll give you the address and an unsecured IP for the security cameras in the garage and elevators.”
“If we don’t accept?” asks Winstone.
“The bomb is going to go off. The question is, who has to die with it. Remember, if I see this on the news, hear a radio dispatch or even suspect this has been leaked, boom.”
“This game sounds stupid. Can we negotiate? Can you tell us why?” pr
ods Winstone.
Negotiating a hostage situation is tricky. Winstone is trained how to find someone’s weaknesses. Calling the game “stupid” is his way to see what kind of response he can elicit from Boy Scout. A more erratic, scattered mind would take this as a challenge and try to defend himself.
“I’m hanging up,” says Boy Scout, clearly in control.
“We need the address.”
“Do you understand the rules?”
“Yes.”
“2392 Kentucky Avenue.”
“Is there a chance we can negotiate some terms?” He’s still matter-of-fact and as cool as ice. In most hostage situations only the negotiator has had prior experience. Winstone has been involved in dozens.
I don’t have his nerve right now. It’s too personal. I feel dizzy.
“He’s off the line,” calls out a tech. “The call came in through an Internet phone service. We’ll try to find the origin, but it’s not likely.”
A map of the location fills the main screen.
I don’t need the map.
I know exactly where it is.
2392 Kentucky Avenue is the address of the apartment building where I live.
Winstone turns to me. “Any idea what this is about?”
I’m still in shock.
The voice was modulated but familiar, very familiar.
Boy Scout is Damian.
42
SECURITY CAMERA FOOTAGE of my parking garage is now visible on the command-center screen. A Toyota pulls into a space near an SUV and a pregnant woman gets out. We watch her as she struggles with the groceries in her trunk and then waddles to the elevator with her bags. I can’t tear my eyes from the screen.
My heart is beating its way through my chest. A pin drop would probably give me a stroke right now.
The elevator door closes and she’s gone. I breathe a sigh of relief.
Nothing happens. That’s what we were hoping for.
Five minutes later we get a call in the ops center. Winstone has it patched through the loudspeaker. “This is Agent Bancroft,” says the woman we just watched.