Heat Storm (Castle)

by Richard Castle

  Jones chuckled again, a rarity for a man whose laugh was usually a monthly occurrence.

  “What?” Derrick asked.

  “It seems I was played by a librarian twice,” Jones said. “It was during that same conversation she gave me the tip about the Shanghai Seven counterfeiting operation that you raided. She told me not to ask how she knew about it but that she had it on good authority it was occurring and that I should take care of it quietly, off the books, because she didn’t want to run the risk of upsetting US-China relations. That’s why I called you. And you delivered. Just like you always do.”

  Derrick got a glint in his eye. “I’ll be in touch,” was all he said. Then he ended the call.

  It was all making sense. Gardner had been waiting seventeen years for the Shanghai Seven to return to illegal activities so she could get them put out of business. It was her revenge for the Shanghai Seven bribing her with fake bills all those years ago.

  As for Callan? He had been monitoring Gardner’s presidential campaign from prison, waiting for the perfect moment to deliver the threat: Get me out of here, or I’ll tell everything I know. Gardner realized if she wanted to be president, she had to help him. And then as soon as he was out, Callan started chasing the counterfeit bills with Lindsy Gardner’s fingerprints on them. Because then he’d own the president of the United States.

  Then there was the Shanghai Seven, which had been sitting on that recording of Gardner accepting the bribe for seventeen years—also waiting for the perfect moment to spring it on her. It was even possible, if not likely, that the Shanghai Seven had made contact with her and made her aware of the existence of the tape. That’s what made Gardner decide it was time to make her move against them. And she used her friend Jedediah Jones to do the dirty work.

  But now it was all about to unravel on her. Derrick Storm had the compact disc with the recording. Nikki Heat had the bills with Gardner’s fingerprints, which would be unclassified just as soon as the attorney general—who was, after all, a cabinet member—decided the recording demanded a full investigation. Maybe Cynthia Heat could even testify when she came out of hiding.

  Derrick’s attention went toward Gorithem’s computer. He didn’t like that this recording, this vital piece of evidence, existed only as a series of zeros and ones on a flimsy piece of plastic. At the very least, he wanted the zeros and ones of that WAV file duplicated so there was backup.

  He turned to Gorithem. “Now that you’ve broken the encryption, we can treat that file like any other file, yes?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Great. Then would you mind making a copy of that recording and putting it on your machine just so that CD isn’t the only copy of it?”

  Gorithem looked like someone had just asked permission for a US Post Office to be located in his living room. “And pollute my network? Not. A. Chance. That file could have all kinds of—”

  “Okay, okay. Take it easy.”

  “Do you want to listen to it again?” Gorithem asked.

  “No. We’ve heard enough.”

  Gorithem ejected the CD and handed it to Derrick, who placed it gingerly back in its jewel case.

  Derrick then looked at his father. “Okay,” he said. “We have to go.”

  * * *

  As Carl and Al Gorithem said their good-byes, Derrick placed a phone call to Nikki Heat.

  There was no answer. So he sent a text:

  CD IS A RECORDING OF LINDSY GARDNER ACCEPTING A $50M BRIBE FROM S7. YES: LINDSY GARDNER. THOSE BILLS YOU HAVE IN YOUR POSSESSION CONTAIN HER FINGERPRINTS. YOUR MOTHER KNEW IT BUT COULDN’T PROVE IT BECAUSE OF THE CLASSIFIED RESTRICTION. IN NEW YORK NOW. WILL EXPLAIN EVERYTHING SOON. CALL ME IMMEDIATELY. 911.

  After thanking Gorithem, the Storm boys walked back outside, blinking in sunlight that seemed incredibly bright after their time in the shut-in’s cave.

  Automatically Derrick’s training kicked in and he scanned his environment for threats. There were none. A bird chirped. One or two blocks away, someone was operating a leaf blower. Farther away, heard but not seen, a 727 was making its final descent into LaGuardia.

  It was an ordinary day in an ordinary New York neighborhood. And yet . . .

  There was something off. Derrick sensed it. Were there eyes on them? Was an ambush about to be sprung? Or was he just being paranoid again?

  He waited, soaking in all the input he could, down to the molecules of air drifting into his nose. If anyone could smell trouble, it would be Derrick Storm. His head swiveled from side to side. His ears pricked up just slightly.

  But really there was nothing. He had been wrong about being followed coming out of the airport. He was wrong now.

  He took two steps down the short concrete pathway toward the rental car. Nothing happened. They were fine. That bird wasn’t any more of a danger to them than that 727 was.

  Three more steps. Still nothing. Situation completely normal. They would get in the car, drive into Manhattan . . . No, better yet, they would find an office store nearby and get that WAV file uploaded to the cloud. He could also e-mail it to himself, to his father (Carl Storm still used an AOL address), and to Heat, so other copies would be safely nestled on secure servers. Then they could proceed to the field office.

  Another step. Derrick was reaching for the keys to unlock the rental car. He was perhaps five steps away from the sanctuary of all that steel and shatterproof glass.

  Then he did a double take. Across the street was a blue Mazda sedan. Was he being ridiculous, or was that the same car that had been following them on the Grand Central Parkway?

  As he was attempting to answer that, something else flashed in the corner of his eye. A Toyota 4Runner was parked a little farther down.

  A three-car follow required training, timing, and discipline . . . But that didn’t make it impossible.

  The ambush was coming any second. He felt it. His hand went toward where he usually kept Dirty Harry, except the gun wasn’t there. He had been on an airplane that morning and he hadn’t taken the time to get rearmed.

  “Dad, r—”

  But before the rest of the word run could get out of his mouth, Al Gorithem opened the front door to his house.

  “They’re coming for you!” he yelped. “They’re coming for you!”

  Derrick turned toward him in time to see Gorithem briefly before he slammed the front door shut.

  Then two armed men emerged from the side of Gorithem’s neighbor’s house. From a hiding spot behind the 4Runner came two more. The woman in the hijab, who was calmly wielding an AK-47, was walking around the side of the blue sedan.

  “Hands up,” ordered one of the men who came from the neighbor’s house. “Nothing funny, Storm.”

  Derrick was just considering what he really wanted to do with his hands when he heard the throaty whine of an engine revving at approximately 3,500 RPMs. The Chrysler 300 came roaring up the street and screeched to a halt to the side of the rental car—effectively blocking it and any path of escape they might have had.

  They were outnumbered five to two. They were surrounded. They were unarmed.

  The door to the Chrysler 300 opened and closed. A man was walking around from the side of it. He had a cigarette in his mouth. The smell of cloves was already in the air.

  “Mr. Storm. How very nice to see you again,” Colonel Feng said, his vocal cords as raspy as ever. “I’ll take the CD now.”

  Derrick knew he had no choice. He reached into his jacket, pulled out the only known copy of the audio file that provided definitive evidence of Lindsy Gardner’s massive corruption, and handed it over to a man who would use it for the most ill of purposes.

  TWENTY-NINE

  HEAT

  It is such a pleasure to finally meet you, Captain Heat,” Lindsy Gardner purred in that distinctive voice of hers.

  Gardner rose, came around her desk, then shook Nikki Heat’s hand with a firm grasp.

  “Likewise, Senator,” Heat said, feeling the warmth of the woma
n’s touch.

  “Did John give you a nice tour?”

  “I told her about the hive and everything,” Null said.

  “Oh, so you’re practically part of the colony already,” Gardner said, making a head gesture at Null that he read as his permission to depart.

  “Please, have a seat,” Gardner said as the door closed.

  She pointed to two cushioned chairs that fronted her desk. Heat selected the one nearer the window. It offered a sweeping view of Battery Park, the Statue of Liberty, and the bay beyond it, all the way to the dim outline of Sandy Hook.

  “Thank you, Senator,” Heat said.

  Even though the two had briefly shared a podium at a press conference, that wasn’t the same as being face-to-face. Given the chance to really study Gardner, Heat’s impression was that the candidate looked younger in person than she did on television. Her cheeks were a healthy red, her eyes a calming blue.

  “I’m sorry, I wasn’t going to bring this up, but this really is . . . I mean, it’s incredible,” Gardner said. “I feel like I’m looking at a younger clone of Mrs. Heat. Of Cynthia. Sorry. I guess you’ve heard that before.”

  “Many times.”

  “Well, it’s a compliment, believe me,” Gardner said. “Your mother really was a beautiful woman.”

  She still is, Heat thought, though she kept the smile on her face.

  “And such a talented woman. I was really quite taken with her. I always thought she had the intelligence to do so much more than teach piano.”

  Gardner let that dangle out there for a moment, then ended the pause before it became a gap in the conversation. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to make that sound like a backhanded compliment. I realize teaching piano was what she chose to do, and I was grateful she did. She was marvelous at it. I’m just saying she had this aura of competence about her, like she could have done anything with her life she had chosen to do. I always wondered: Did she have another career before she taught piano?”

  Does Gardner know? Heat wondered. Not possible. Not even US senators would have been apprised of the specifics of the Nanny Network. She’s just making polite conversation.

  “Well, she was a concert pianist for a short time,” Heat said. “Then she decided teaching piano to wealthy families around Europe was a wonderful way to be able to see the world and experience different cultures. When she had me and decided it was time to settle down, I think it was just what she knew and what she liked, so she kept with it. She really enjoyed watching her students progress.”

  “It was such a tragedy, what happened to her. I remember being at her memorial service. All the parents of her students knew each other a little bit from the recitals and whatnot. We were all just so stunned. Back then, we thought it was just a random home invasion, of course. None of the business about that Carey Maggs character had come out yet.”

  Just like none of the business about that Bart Callan character has come out, Heat thought.

  “Not that it makes it any less of a shock,” Gardner said. “Anyhow, I’ll stop. You don’t need to hear this.”

  “It’s fine,” Heat assured her.

  “Yes, of course. So. On to the business at hand. I’m sorry I sort of sprung this Homeland Security thing on you. That’s not normally the way I like to make job offers. I think I was just caught up in the moment. Knowing you were Cynthia Heat’s daughter and getting that same feeling with you that I had about your mother, like you could handle anything. And then the way you exposed that fraud, Legs Kline—”

  “I had a lot of help.”

  “Well, yes, of course you did. Every leader is only as good as the people who surround them. But when one leader consistently gets results, it’s not an accident. Shortly before I got up on that podium yesterday, I was just seized by the feeling I wanted you to play a major role in my administration. Please accept my apology for putting you on the spot like that.”

  “Absolutely. It’s really not a problem. I’m flattered.”

  “Good. You should be. And I have to tell you, my team has been vetting you for the last twenty-four hours and the report they’ve handed me on you is . . . Well, there’s a lot about you that First Press hasn’t reported on. And it’s all impressive. Very impressive.”

  “Thank you.”

  Gardner leaned forward a little, closing the gap between the two women. “This is a little impertinent of me to say, but I guess . . . Well, I’ve just seen too much of this bullshit in my career not to be able to recognize it when I see it. It really strikes me that a person who has achieved such a consistent standard of excellence should have perhaps advanced a little further. I’m not trying to denigrate what you’ve done—first female commander of the Twentieth Precinct and all that—but how come you aren’t a more major player down at headquarters? Why aren’t you a deputy commissioner or playing a larger role in the chain of command?”

  “I’m not sure I can answer that,” Heat said.

  “Well, I can. It’s because you’re not a person achieving these things. You’re a woman. It’s the same in the Senate—really, in any male-dominated institution. If you’re a man who is accomplishing a lot, they look to give you more responsibility. If you’re a woman doing the same thing, they pat you on the head and then pat themselves on the back and say, ‘Isn’t it nice we’re letting the girl pitch in a little bit? Hope she doesn’t freak out the next time she gets her period.’ ”

  Gardner and Heat shared a laugh.

  “Well, I have to be candid, Senator. I haven’t always sought promotions as aggressively as I could have. To be honest, I resisted even becoming a captain.”

  “And why is that?”

  “Because I like police work, not paperwork.”

  “See, but that’s exactly the attitude I’m looking for in my cabinet,” Gardner said, punctuating the word exactly with a broad gesture. “I want doers, not bureaucrats. I want people who are naturally impatient, not people who will let themselves get bound up in process. That’s why I’m trying to look outside Washington as often as I can. I want my administration to be filled with people who will challenge the status quo. I want fearless, independent thinkers. And, to be perfectly blunt, I want a few women who will go at it knowing that they don’t have to worry about the glass ceiling anymore. Because if I can promise one thing about the Lindsy Gardner administration, it’s that the glass ceiling has finally been shattered.

  “So,” she finished. “I know this is sudden. And I know I still have an election to win. But what do you say? Do you want to be my director of Homeland Security?”

  Heat realized she was leaning in as well. She could see why Gardner had been so successful in politics. She was personable and persuasive. She was also well prepared. Could Heat see herself working for this woman?

  And then she realized it wasn’t even a question worth posing. Working for Lindsy Gardner would mean solving the riddle that surrounded her mother.

  “Yes. Yes, I do,” Heat said. “I would be thrilled to head up Homeland Security for you. And I have to say, I really like your—”

  From behind her, the door opened.

  “Sorry to interrupt. I’m afraid I have an urgent matter for you, Lindsy.”

  It was John Null. His face was strangely blank as he crossed the room and rounded behind the desk. He extracted a phone from his pocket.

  Heat was sure she was just imagining it, but it looked like her phone, the one she had surrendered to the Secret Service. It was the same size and had the same black casing. It was surely a coincidence. There were only so many phones on the market. That black casing was sold at thousands of retail outlets.

  Gardner was reading something on the screen. The skin around her blue eyes had squeezed by a millimeter or two.

  She looked up at Null and, in the same quiet-but-commanding librarian’s voice, said, “Why don’t you clear out the volunteers. We don’t need any witnesses.”

  Witnesses, Heat thought. Witnesses to what?

  Then Gardner pull
ed open one of her desk drawers and extracted what Heat recognized immediately as a Walther PPK.

  “I’m sorry, Captain Heat,” Gardner said. “It appears my administration has had a change of priorities.”

  THIRTY

  STORM

  Colonel Feng’s last act before leaving was to puncture the left front tire of the Storms’ rental car.

  “Can’t have you following us,” he said. “You’re just lucky this is too well populated a place to shoot you. Farewell, Derrick Storm.”

  Then, taking one last drag on his clove cigarette, he flicked it onto Al Gorithem’s rocky front lawn. He and his hired thugs loaded into their vehicles—the blue Mazda sedan, the Chrysler 300, and the Toyota 4Runner—and disappeared down the street.

  Carl Storm looked at his son. “I can’t say that went particularly well for the good guys.”

  “I’d go even further to say it went quite poorly.”

  “You got any thoughts on how we can improve the situation?”

  “Yeah, I think you should get started changing that tire while I try and get Nikki Heat on the phone. I’m going to have her put out a BOLO on those three vehicles. Every second that passes makes them harder to catch. We can’t let them get away.”

  As Carl Storm made like a slower, more crotchety, more profane version of an Indianapolis 500 pit crew, Derrick dialed Heat’s cell phone.

  It rang, and rang, and rang some more.

  He waited a moment, then tried again. More ringing.

  Derrick swore. He couldn’t very well call up the local NYPD precinct and explain everything. It would take too long. And it would end with him being laughed off the phone.

  At the same time, he couldn’t call on Jones. When the CIA was established, its mission was explicitly international. It was actually illegal for the agency to operate domestically. As an independent contractor, Derrick Storm could disregard that prohibition; the agency itself quietly ignored it all the time. Still, there was always that looming threat of a congressional or criminal investigation that kept the agency, even Jones, somewhat honest. As a result, Jones only involved local law enforcement as an absolute last resort.