The Dark Hour

by Robin Burcell

  “You can’t go home. Call your boss this morning. Maybe tell them your aunt is sick, dying, and you’re going up to Maine to visit her?”

  “What is it these guys are after? Why are they doing this?”

  “I think they wanted to stop Senator Grogan, and Hollis found out about it.”

  “Who wanted to stop him?”

  “I don’t know.” Right now he was hoping they could stay alive long enough to figure it out.

  “We should go to the FBI,” Maddie told Izzy as he drove from the complex. “Ask for that agent who came to see me.”

  “We can’t go to the FBI. You ever hear of Robert Hanssen? He was an FBI agent who went to jail for the rest of his life for being a traitor. They even made a movie about it.”

  “For God’s sake, Izzy!” she said, slinking down in her seat, to avoid being seen should the two men look that direction. “This isn’t one of your video games. Besides, if that FBI agent was in on it, he would have killed me right then. Why waste a good opportunity?”

  “Yeah? Well, how are they going to believe us if you don’t? They’re telling the news that the case is closed and they got their man, who’s dead.” Izzy glanced in his rearview mirror as he turned into the street. So far the van hadn’t moved. “What we need is proof. Then the FBI will have to believe us.”

  “Let me ask you this, Mr. Gonna Save the World. If these guys are as dangerous as you say they are, how are you going to get that proof and not get killed yourself?”

  “Easy. You send me an e-mail saying we’re gonna meet somewhere. They show up, and we know who they are. We get this FBI agent to go with us so he can see.”

  “An e-mail? How is that going to do anything?”

  “Because I have a feeling that they got into my computer with the same program that Hollis used when he hacked into their system.”

  “How do you know it will work? I mean, what if you send it and they don’t come and then—”

  “They’ll come. I know just the place. But first we need to set you up with a fake e-mail.”

  They drove to an Internet café, where Izzy paid to use a computer, purchasing fifteen minutes. “Do you have Web-based mail?” he asked Maddie.

  “How should I know? I just turn on my computer, and it’s there.”

  “That’s okay. We shouldn’t use your real e-mail anyway. We’ll make a new account. It’s not like they’ll notice.” He quickly pulled up a free online e-mail site and made her an address. “What should we use for a screen name? Girls always have cutesy names with a number.”

  “How about Maddiebear23?”

  “Maddiebear.” He typed in the number, created a new account. “So what should we say? We want it to sound like it’s a continuing conversation. Maybe one that started on the phone to explain why you’re only just sending it?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe: ‘I got your voice mail. Meet me at the—’ Where did you want to meet?”

  “Central Café.”

  “ ‘At Central Café tomorrow at two o’clock.’ ”

  “No one writes o’clock. We’ll just say two.” He read over the message, his finger hovering above the mouse. “Well?”

  “Wait. Maybe we shouldn’t put the location until you answer it.”

  “Good point.” He removed the location and hit send. “Guess we’ll find out.”

  “Shouldn’t you check yours and see if it got there?”

  “Not yet. I’m sure they have my password, and are probably watching my account. If I open it too soon, it’ll seem obvious. I’ll open it tonight or early in the morning.”

  “What if they’re watching the place early and they see us come in?”

  “Don’t worry. I have a plan.”

  Please let it work, he thought.

  Because if it didn’t, they were both dead.

  Chapter 18

  December 8

  Rijksmuseum

  Amsterdam, The Netherlands

  Zachary Griffin opened up his guidebook, adjusted his clear tortoiseshell-framed glasses as he pretended to read the information before looking up at the massive painting of Rembrandt’s Night Watch. He stood there admiring it for what he felt was an appropriate time before moving on. He’d been at the museum for two hours, waiting. He’d been here yesterday and the day before, different guises both times, casing the place. Of course, the beautiful thing about museums, he thought, making his way back to the sculpture of Minerva and Cupid, was that they were filled with benches and seats. No one thought twice about seeing someone sitting there doing nothing but looking at works of art for interminably long periods.

  A museum docent watched him as he entered the room, the same man who had been there earlier this morning. The docent looked away, his body language relaxed, unconcerned, and Griffin took a seat on a bench that gave him a clear view of the sculpture and the room at large. For several minutes he sat studying his guidebook, his peripheral vision picking up the movement around him. Just as he wondered how much longer he could afford to stay, Sydney finally walked in, and he suddenly recalled that moment he thought it was she lying there on Petra’s floor—and then the relief when he’d learned otherwise.

  He’d only dared the one call, and then, when she’d called back, he couldn’t answer, and so sent a text message on where to meet. She had a background in fine art, and he knew she’d be able to read between the lines. This was the one place he could think of that would allow him to wait for any length of time unnoticed.

  And now she was here.

  He watched as she glanced over at the sculpture, gave a slight smile, then looked around the room, finally noticing him.

  She walked over, took a seat. “Minerva? Goddess of wisdom and war?”

  “Virgin goddess.”

  “So it’s a metaphorical treasure that the two griffin at her feet are protecting, not the usual hoards of gold?”

  “A nice touch, I thought.”

  “You would.”

  “It was good of you to come.”

  “I didn’t really have a choice,” she replied, her attention fixed on the statue, as though that was what they were discussing. “Whoever killed Petra sent someone to the States after me. Whether it was to stop me from reproducing that sketch, or just the usual trying-to-clean-up-any-loose-ends thing, I have no idea. Either way, if I’m going to be killed, I’d like to know why.” She turned toward him, her look piercing.

  “I can’t tell you.”

  “Did I mention the two hit men after me?”

  He hesitated. Wondered what harm could it do at this point to inform her? She was already risking her job just being here, never mind her life. He glanced around the museum. No one seemed to be paying them the least attention. “You brought the sketch?”

  “Yes.”

  He nodded, looked down at his guidebook, not really seeing it. “Petra’s uncle, an old informant, had contacted me, asking if I was still interested in looking into my wife’s death. He arranged through his niece to have me contact him. He was afraid to do it himself.”

  “Petra was a spy?”

  “No. Faas was. Why he decided to go through her, I’m not sure. Nor do I know if the information Faas intended to pass on really came from him. I suspect that someone set him up, was trying to set me up, especially after the assassination of Senator Grogan.”

  “What does the senator have to do with this?”

  Griffin looked around, made sure there was no one within hearing distance. “Grogan wanted to open a new investigation into LockeStarr Management. The same company my wife and I were investigating two years ago when she was killed.”

  “I heard the man who killed Grogan was a schizophrenic who had been off his meds and somehow got hold of a gun.”

  “So maybe Grogan’s murder had nothing to do with this. Or maybe someone used it as a specific mea
ns to draw me out, make this information that Faas thought he was handing over look even better.”

  “And what if it was a trap? Maybe they wanted you out of the picture. Or occupied with something.”

  “Then they knew the one thing that would do it. Becca’s murder.”

  She looked away, stared for several seconds at the statue of Minerva. Then, in a voice almost too soft to hear, she said, “I think they succeeded.”

  “You know something.” When she didn’t answer right away, he whispered, “Damn it, Sydney. What do you know?”

  She reached into her coat pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper, handed it to him. “It’s just a photocopy. The re-creation of the sketch of the woman Petra saw.”

  He took it, opened it, and the first thing he thought was the short hair was all wrong. She should have long hair. Long, dark brown—

  He felt as if he’d been punched in the gut. This couldn’t be . . . It couldn’t . . . “Is this someone’s idea of a joke?”

  “This is who Petra saw with the man on the corner.”

  “That’s impossible.”

  “I only drew what Petra directed.”

  “My wife’s dead.”

  “Then it’s someone who looks like her.”

  Griffin examined the drawing, the structure of her face, her eyes, her nose . . . He ran his fingers over the bridge. She’d broken it during an operation with Tex. She’d come home with two black eyes . . .

  “Maybe it’s not her,” Sydney said.

  “And what if it is?” His words came out harsher than he’d intended, the loud whisper seeming to echo off the museum walls, and he folded the drawing, pressing the creases in frustration. He stood. “I need some time to think about this. I need to be alone.”

  “No,” she said, her voice low, but firm, as she stood, moving into his space, nearly chest to chest, her gaze narrowed. “You do not get to think about this. Someone’s trying to kill me because I did this goddamned drawing, and like it or not, we are in this. Together.”

  Griffin shoved the drawing in his pocket as he looked around. Two women glanced over at them before turning their attention back to the display case on the wall. “Fine,” Griffin said. “You have any ideas on where we look next? Because I’m fresh out. Being thrown for a loop does that to me.”

  “What do they want?”

  “I’m sure killing me would be preferable. But barring that outcome, muzzled is the next best thing. And they’ve done that.”

  “So burning you solved part of their objective. They wanted you out of the way. You’re out. Something must be going down. Something with LockeStarr?”

  “Maybe. Like I said, Becca and I were working a case on LockeStarr when she— The last time I—” Hell. He’d been so wrapped up in avenging Becca’s death that he’d failed to see how effectively he’d allowed his hands to be tied. How easily he’d been trapped. “Faas was supposedly giving me info on who killed Becca. I came here to find out where he got his info. And now?”

  “You mean if she’s not dead?”

  “All the more reason to see if we can find out what Faas was up to before he was killed. There may be something here in his office.”

  “You think it would be here where he worked and not at his house?”

  “I already checked his house. And he was killed leaving here.”

  She looked around the room, then turned to him, whispering, “Please tell me we are not breaking into this museum in the middle of the night. They have guards. With guns.”

  He looked at his watch. It was almost noon. “I was thinking more like this afternoon. And we won’t be breaking in anywhere. They’ll be letting us in.” He glanced over at her. “As soon as we think of a reason why.”

  Chapter 19

  December 8

  FBI Headquarters

  Washington, D.C.

  Carillo walked into Pearson’s office, looking around, trying to figure out why anyone in the Bureau would be interested in working this spy stuff full-time. Beat the hell out of him, he thought, taking a seat in one of two chairs that faced Pearson’s desk.

  Pearson looked up from his paperwork. “I’ll be right with you.”

  Carillo didn’t answer. He knew Pearson’s type. A little of that holier-than-thou attitude, even if the guy did earn it. Carillo sure as hell couldn’t do what Pearson did. Put up with the administrative crap not only in the Bureau, but also all the other government agencies they dealt with. Too damned many asses to kiss.

  Pearson signed the document he’d been reading, then slid it into a routing envelope, before turning his attention to Carillo. “How’s the investigation coming?”

  “It’s coming,” Carillo said.

  Pearson leaned back in his chair, his expression one of annoyance. “And?”

  “And I don’t know enough about it one way or another to make a determination—never mind I don’t trust anyone, including you.”

  “You’re close to insubordination.”

  “I tend to do that when my bullshit meter’s going off. And in this case, it started going off the moment two Company guys showed up at my favorite Taco Bell telling me I should turn down this job that you hadn’t yet offered me—because they, and anyone else who did the least bit of background on me, are smart enough to know I would have turned it down had it come through the normal channels. So I have to ask myself why the CIA cares, and how they knew you’d ask me. Which means you all sat around and discussed who to pick for the investigation. And that tells me that this is a hell of a lot bigger than some schmuck senator who was offed by a schizophrenic who was conveniently placed in a cell with a blind spot so he could off himself. Not to mention why the hell does a foreign intelligence agency even care about an investigation run by the Bureau?”

  “Anything else?”

  “As a matter of fact, yes. Why me?”

  “Your sterling reputation.”

  “Ding, ding, ding.”

  “Fine. Your tarnished reputation.”

  “As what? The bumbling detective who has no hope of realizing he’s only running a façade investigation?”

  “Hardly. We needed someone who would be overlooked as any sort of threat. You came highly recommended by the CIA due to a past case they’d had involving Fitzpatrick’s father. They seemed to think that your unorthodox approach to work would be beneficial.”

  “I’m guessing that’s not a compliment.”

  “You did have one admirer—in a backhanded way. Your former boss, Dave Dixon. He said that if we were looking for someone who would be underestimated, even dismissed, you were the man.”

  “Good old Dave.”

  “He also said you were effective. As long as we didn’t examine your methods too close.”

  “So at what point were you going to tell me?”

  “When we found out that, A, the senator’s murder was more than what it appeared on the surface, and, B, when it became absolutely necessary, since this entire matter is on a need-to-know basis for national security reasons. If there was nothing to the senator’s murder, it was as it appeared, you close out your case and go home none the wiser. If there was something to it, then you’d be in the perfect place to help Fitzpatrick.”

  “What about Fitzpatrick?” he asked, not wanting to get her in trouble, should Pearson merely be fishing for info.

  “I’m aware that a report surfaced from MI5 with Fitzpatrick’s name linked to the senator’s. It wasn’t a stretch to connect the dots to other OGAs, one of which doesn’t even exist on paper,” he said, obviously referring to that other governmental agency known as ATLAS. “That aside, should anyone inquire, what you’re involved in is a simple murder investigation. You will report to me about the murder. Anything beyond that . . .” He opened his top desk drawer, taking out a business card for the Washington Recorder, and handing it to
Carillo. “Your contact on who to give the information.”

  “James Dalton . . . ?” Carillo said, reading the name.

  “I believe you may know him as Tex.”

  “Got it.”

  “Other than that, I have no immediate knowledge of Fitzpatrick’s whereabouts or actions. As far as I know, she’s taken some personal time off, and I will testify to that fact if required to do so.”

  Which told Carillo that they were all in big trouble if this went south. “Anything else I should know? Like the name of a good attorney if the shit hits the fan?”

  “If that happens, call me. We’ll both need one.”

  “Not a problem. I only have one concern about all this. No one’s going to try to use this as a way to move me into supervision or anything?”

  Pearson smiled. A first. “No worries there. Your strong disrespect for the supervisory role is well-known.” His smile faded, and he was back to boss mode. “That limits who we can trust, and the less I know about what anyone does in their free time, the better. You are, in essence, Fitzpatrick’s lifeline.”

  Pearson’s parting statement echoed in Carillo’s ears long after he left FCI to go pick up the forensic report on the shooter’s computer. It was one thing for Sydney to go out and do some sketch for Griffin. Quite another when she was out there needing a lifeline to survive. Not when it involved the likes of ATLAS, an OGA that played for much higher stakes than anything the typical FBI agent was used to dealing with.

  As he walked to the Computer Analysis unit, he consoled himself with the thought that it didn’t matter that Sydney’s name was linked with Grogan’s, or that there was any big undercover investigation. She’d worked with ATLAS once before in Italy and came out fine. At least that was what he thought until he picked up the forensic report he’d ordered on the computer.

  He didn’t understand a lot of what he was reading, because they’d apparently only recovered partial files from the erasure. His instincts, however, told him that Sydney’s problems were only a small part of the equation, and he called ATLAS right away to say he was bringing the paperwork over.

  If any of this stuff was true, a lot of people were going to die.