by Greg Iles
We spent fifteen minutes arguing about the best way for Moroney to relay what he overheard to us. We wanted it in real time, but we also knew my phones might be tapped. We decided I would stay linked to Sid Moroney via CompuServe on the Gateway, while Miles monitored the EROS computer for any “Lilith”-“Maxwell” activity. Sid could update me on the stakeout by tapping messages into a private room on a CompuServe chat channel. If anything radical started to happen, he was to call my office number and press the mouthpiece of his telephone to his radio receiver, so that we could hear the traffic ourselves. This was a risk, but Miles figured anything serious enough to warrant a call would probably be the climax of the manhunt—which would exonerate us both.
So far the wait has been anything but climactic. Moroney has intercepted communications indicating a stakeout in progress in the vicinity of the McLean safe house. So far I’ve received six reports from him via CompuServe, transcribing such bloodcurdling radio traffic as: “Alpha? Red here. Kensington quiet.” “Ten four, Red. Yellow? You there?” “Affirmative, Alpha. Wimbledon clear. Tomorrow must be garbage pickup, everybody’s coming out in their robes to put out the cans.” “Button it, Yellow. Out.” And so on for the past three and a half hours. The use of “Alpha” reminds me of Daniel Baxter in the trailer at Quantico, but since I can’t hear the voice, there’s no way to tell.
This time I let Drewe in on what we were doing, since clearing our names seemed possible. But when eleven p.m. came and went, she raised a white flag and retired to the bedroom. I worried that Moroney would get bored and do the same, but after a few queries I found out he keeps a cot in his radio room and, like a good marine, has developed the capacity to detect significant radio traffic even while sleeping.
I am half asleep myself when the balloon goes up.
Miles, sitting six feet behind me at the EROS computer, says, “Hello.” As I turn in my seat before the Gateway, he raises his hand, forbidding any interruption.
“Brahma just logged on,” he says in a monotone.
“He’s using ‘Maxwell.’ ”
“What’s he doing?” I ask, rubbing my eyes and straightening up in my chair.
“Looking for ‘Lilith.’ ”
“Where?”
His shoulders stiffen. “Lenz is there now. They’re going into a private room. I’m turning up the sound.”
Brahma’s digital baritone fills the office with an almost calming cadence.
“What about his error rate?” I ask.
“I’m looking. Three typos already. He’s definitely not using his voice-rec unit.”
Miles adjusts the speakers, then looks over at me. Already this conversation seems different from the ones we’ve become used to. This time Brahma is taking the lead.
“Is Lenz showing a little restraint at last?” I ask.
“Looks like it. I guess we wait now.”
We don’t wait long. In less than five minutes, a message from Sid Moroney flashes onto the screen of the Gateway.
Just heard some fast chatter. “This is Alpha. All units be advised we have a cellular trace on the UNSUB. He’s definitely in the Washington metro area. He’s using a rented phone. We’re holding off on a pinpoint trace, but UNSUB is close by. Look sharp.”
“Miles, the FBI is trying to trace him now.”
When he doesn’t respond, I turn. He’s listening closely to Lenz and Brahma. “Baxter was supposed to give Lenz a week without trying to trace Brahma,” I remind him. “Why do it now and risk blowing the whole operation?”
“Momentum,” Miles replies, not bothering to turn.
“This is like any big business deal. At first everybody’s lovey-dovey. But when closing time comes, major egos are involved. The FBI knows Brahma is close. They’ve got the capability to trace him, therefore they trace him. It’s not even a question.”
“Moroney says they’re holding off on a pinpoint trace, whatever that means.”
“Brahma’s probably moving between cells, and they don’t want to put out scanning vehicles for fear of spooking him.”
“But why not just stop his car and arrest him, if they can find him?”
At last Miles turns to me, his look contemptuous. “Arrest him for what? Riding around with a laptop computer and a cell phone and typing sex talk?”
“Couldn’t they backtrack over his movements, compare them to the murder dates, stuff like that? Why risk him getting away?”
“There’s no reason to think he’ll try. He’s following an established pattern. He’ll shadow the decoy agent for two or three days, then make his move on the house.”
“Right,” I say, unconvinced.
Suddenly the speakers fall silent. Miles checks his screen. “Brahma just logged off.”
“Shit. You think he found out they were trying to trace him?”
“Maybe. He’s got guts, this guy. I wonder if he might actually try to hit her the first night.”
“That’s the feeling I have, Miles. Don’t ask me why. Like something’s wrong. Really wrong.”
“Like what? What could be wrong?”
“I think Brahma’s about to make a fool out of everybody. He’s been three steps ahead of us all the way. Why should he act like an idiot now? Why walk into a trap?”
“Tell me.”
“I don’t know, damn it!”
Miles looks thoughtful. “Okay, say you’re right. How could he make a fool out of everybody?”
“I don’t know.” My mind is fuzzy with anxiety and fatigue. “By doing the unexpected?”
“And what’s that?”
“Maybe he knows ‘Lilith’ is a trap, but he’s figured a way to kill the decoy anyway. You know, the girl I told you about. Margie Ressler.”
“Harper, right this second a dozen SWAT guys are perched in trees and on rooftops around that safe house. They can shoot the balls off a hamster at five hundred yards, and the range is probably less than forty. If Brahma shows up there, he’s dog meat.”
“But Brahma doesn’t think like other people. Remember Dallas? He won’t walk up with a target painted on his shirt. They won’t even see him. Or if they do, they’ll think they know who he is. One of them maybe. He’ll do his thing and split before they even know what hit them.”
Miles bites his lower lip. “Shit,” he says finally.
“Miles?”
“What?”
“What if Brahma’s not even going there? What if he’s after someone else?”
“Like who?”
“‘Eleanor Rigby.’ ”
“That’s nuts. She lives in California. We know Brahma’s in D.C. or Virginia.”
“No, we don’t. We know somebody’s in D.C. or Virginia, logging on as ‘Maxwell.’ Remember the team-offender theory? If there’s really a group behind this, Brahma himself could be anywhere. He could be in California right now. He could be here, man.”
Miles shakes his head. “Calm down. He has no idea this place exists. And why in God’s name would he pick ‘Eleanor Rigby’ out of thousands?”
“Not thousands. Six hundred. She’s a blind-draft account, remember?”
“The odds are still ridiculous. Give me one shred of logic.”
“ ‘Maxwell’s Silver Hammer,’ remember? A Beatles song. And she’s ‘Eleanor Rigby.’ There’s death in that song too. Wouldn’t he gravitate to that?”
Miles purses his lips in concentration. “Maybe.”
“Is there some central data bank where all EROS conversations are stored? An archive or something? I know you told the FBI there wasn’t, but—”
“There’s a sixty-day record. Every word is automatically filed to disk for sixty days. Then it’s erased. We do it for legal protection, in case of things like crimes against children ricocheting back on us. One of my techs handles it.”
“I want you to check it. Right now.”
“Why?”
“To find out whether Brahma has talked to ‘Eleanor’ recently.”
“But—”
&nb
sp; “If you don’t, I’m going to call Eleanor myself. And that’s the first step to the whole story coming out.”
He clicks angrily at his mouse, then types a brief e-mail message and transmits it to New York. “I told them it was urgent, but it might take a while.”
“Thank you.”
We sit in uncomfortable silence for a few minutes. I watch the screen of the Gateway, but Sid Moroney sends nothing through.
“Here we go,” Miles says. “ ‘Eleanor Rigby’ spoke to
‘Maxwell’ in a private room three days ago. The conversation lasted eight minutes. You want me to get the text from them?”
My heart is in my throat as I pick up the phone.
“Hey, what are you doing?” Miles asks.
“Warning Eleanor.”
“Let’s at least look at the file first!”
“Forget it.”
Eleanor’s line is busy. I set down the phone, an image of a lonely young woman in a wheelchair burning behind my closed eyes.
“Busy,” I say quietly.
“Thank God. That would have started a network-wide panic.”
I slap the desk with my right hand. “Like I give a shit, okay? We’re talking about life and death here! I don’t care if the whole goddamn company implodes. Everybody will just have to go back to using magazines to jack off.”
Miles looks at me like a scientist observing some rare protozoan, then blinks and goes back to his screen. When I turn back to mine, I find a message from Sid Moroney awaiting my attention.
Just picked up a secondary frequency in the area. Could be another stakeout, DEA or local cops, but I don’t think so. It’s scrambled. I also heard a couple of references to “Gamma Team” on the primary frequency. No Gamma before that. What are all these guys waiting for? Could it be a dangerous fugitive or something like that?
Without consulting Miles, I type a quick confirmation that the subject of this stakeout could be very dangerous. By the time Miles asks what I typed, I’ve sent the message; by the time I finish explaining the situation, I’ve received a reply from Moroney.
My guess is that the scrambled freq is being used by a sniper team. That’s Gamma Team. A regular stakeout doesn’t mean much to eavesdroppers in this city, but people talking about lines of fire, rules of engagement, and stuff like that would have a TV truck over here like lightning. That’s why it’s scrambled. I’m working on unscrambling it, but the odds are one in a million. This is heavy stuff, guys. Thanks for the invite.
My pulse has settled into a rhythm far above its normal rate. “You were right, Miles! They’ve got sharpshooters up there.”
“Can Moroney hear what they’re saying?”
“No. It’s scrambled.”
He shakes his head, obviously disgusted. “That’s about what I’d expect from the FBI.”
“What do you mean?”
“Using encrypted radio traffic around the safe house is stupid. You think Brahma won’t have scanning equipment? Scrambled chatter is like a neon sign screaming
‘COPS.’ ”
“What choice do they have?”
“Radio silence. Or they could use fake radio chatter, like they’ve got a drug bust set up near there.”
“Should we try to warn them?”
“Way too late.”
We stare at each other in silence. Then a familiar male voice floats out of the speakers, and the printer behind Miles begins humming.
“Brahma’s back,” he says, turning. “Same room.”
By the time Brahma finishes his first sentence, Miles and I have frozen like ice sculptures.
MAXWELL> Greetings, Dr. Lenz. I’d actually planned a more dramatic revelation than this, but now it seems juvenile. After Dallas, I warned your agency not to interfere with my work. Yet you persisted. By putting my life at risk, you implicitly risked your own, and also those under your protection. Learning one’s limitations is always a painful lesson, but it is only through pain that we grow. Perhaps now you will understand that some “lawbreakers” are best left alone. (Besides, considering what you were forced to endure each night in the name of love, perhaps I did you a favor.) We shall not speak again. My condolences in advance.
“He killed somebody,” Miles says in a flat voice.
“Right now, somebody close to Lenz is dead or dying.”
My hands are shaking. Before I can speak, my office line rings.
“Don’t answer it!” Miles commands.
“It’s Moroney,” I reply in a hoarse whisper. “The machine’ll get it.”
I steel myself against dreadful news.
After my outgoing message ends, a voice says: “Hello? Guys? Guys! This is Sid! All hell’s breaking loose up here!”
I am rooted where I sit, but Miles reaches the phone in three lightning strides. “Keep talking, Sid, what’s happening?”
“I’m going to hold the phone to the radio.”
Static-filled radio chatter bursts from the tinny speaker of my answering machine: “Alpha, what the hell? What’s going on in there?” More static, then: “Stand by, Green, stand—shit! Stop him, Ressler, goddamn it!”
“That’s Baxter!” I cry. “I recognize his voice. Alpha is Daniel Baxter!”
The first voice comes back: “Alpha, we’ve got a guy running down the walk, wait—he’s turning back for the garage.” Then a new voice, eerily calm: “Alpha, this is Gamma Leader. I have a male adult in my scope. Looks like your shrink.”
The voices merge into a babel of confusion. “All units, this is Alpha. That’s Dr. Lenz outside. Repeat, friendly personnel outside the house. What the hell’s going on, sir? Uncertain, Green. He’s in the Acura, Alpha! He’s burning rubber out of the driveway! Please advise! Green, follow the doctor but do not attempt to apprehend. Gamma Leader, this is Alpha. I am standing on the sidewalk. Stand down until the car is clear, then converge on the house and secure it. Green, don’t let the doctor hurt himself, we don’t know what’s happening. Roger, Alpha, in pursuit. He’s turning onto Dolley Madison. Yellow here, Alpha. What about the UNSUB? Contact too brief, Yellow. No useful bearings. UNSUB could be anywhere. Stay sharp. Green, stick to the doctor’s tail. We’re there, Alpha, turning onto Chain Bridge Road . . .”
A flurry of street names fills the airwaves.
“Does Lenz have any kids?” Miles asks.
“Yes.” I’m still too stunned to move. “A son, I think he said.”
“Where does he live?”
“I don’t know. It’s not the kid, though.”
“Who is it?”
“It’s his wife.”
Miles looks at me. “How do you know that?”
“When I was up there, we stopped off at Lenz’s house for a few minutes so he could get some papers and clothes. She actually hit on me while Lenz was upstairs.”
“And?”
“She’s a bad drunk. That’s what the end of Brahma’s message was about.”
“Christ. Where does she live?”
“Ten minutes from the safe house. That’s why Lenz chose that location.”
The disjointed radio chatter is suddenly interrupted by Sid Moroney’s voice. “You guys got any idea what the hell’s going on up here?”
“No,” Miles says into the phone, his eyes still on me.
“I got traffic on the regular police band. They just dispatched two patrol units to an address not far from the stakeout. That anything to do with us?”
“Could be,” says Miles. “Don’t hang up, Sid.”
“You kidding? I’m putting the phone back to the receiver. I’ll give you whichever channels have the most traffic.”
The ensuing chatter tells a simple story of pursuit, very like an episode of Cops, but for the profanity of the FBI agents attempting to stay up with the racing Acura. After four minutes by my watch, we hear the denouement.
“He’s stopping, Alpha. Six-fifteen Whitehall. Repeat, Six-fifteen Whitehall. Large residential house. The doc just parked in a closed garage. We have Fai
rfax County blue-and-whites arriving at the scene. What do you want us to do?”
“Green, this is Alpha. I’m en route now. Get inside that house. One of you follow Dr. Lenz, the other tell the locals what’s what. Move it.”
“Understood.”
“Green, make SURE the locals know Lenz is a white hat. Whoever goes in the house, give me play-by-play. I’ll take over when I get there.”
“Alpha, this is Green. I’m in the garage. I’m ahead of the police. It’s dark . . . my weapon is out. I’m moving through a slightly open door. It’s a laundry room. No sign of anybody. Wait . . . Alpha, somebody’s yelling. Screaming. I think it’s a man. I have a man screaming—howling really. He . . . oh sweet Jesus . . . oh my God, we got a body here, sir. We have a female down. She’s—Jesus, she’s on a kitchen table. She’s naked. The doctor’s giving her CPR, but . . . I think she’s dead, Dan. She’s got to be dead because her—her head. Jesus, I’ve never seen one this bad—”
“Terminate contact,” snaps a rigidly composed voice. “I’ll be at the scene in less than a minute. Is that understood? IS THAT UNDERSTOOD?”
“Understood, sir. Sorry I lost my head . . . Green out.”
There’s another long burst of static. Then Sid Moroney’s voice drifts through my office in a hushed interrogative:
“You guys heard that?”
Miles doesn’t answer.
“Guys? Hey. Somebody just got wasted. A lady just got wasted. I, uh . . . wasn’t expecting that. I think maybe you guys better tell me what’s going on, huh?”
Miles shakes his head and puts his mouth to the telephone. “We didn’t expect it either, Sid. We knew it was serious, but nothing like this. Don’t worry, you’re not in trouble.”
“The hell I’m not. I’ve already broken about fifteen statutes that I know of. Now what the hell is this about? You guys really working for a newspaper or what?”