He counted almost thirty agonizing seconds until Shepard’s voice came in his ear. “Okay, Cobra, you’re clear. They’ve taken out the sniper.”
Morgan took off running, and asked, “Novokoff?”
“Not there,” said Shepard. “They had some kind of camera setup for him, apparently.”
Goddamn it.
An icy wind blew behind Morgan as he ran across the unfinished floor. He reached the ledge and looked down. Jenny was hanging from the tower crane by its double steel cable, three floors down.
“Morgan, what are you going to do?”
“Morgan, this is Bloch. I’m sorry, but it’s time to think about detonating that vest. You can’t save her either way, but this way at least you can save—”
“Not going to happen,” he said. “Now shut up and let me do my job.”
He looked at the ground and did some quick mental math.
“Jenny!” he yelled into the wind.
“Dan?” came the response, sounding so far away.
“Jenny, I’m coming!”
He walked five steps backward, and took a deep breath. He took off his jacket and rolled it up as tight as he could. Goddamn it, he thought, I hate heights.
He ran at full tilt, clutching his jacket, and catapulted off the ledge. It was as if the world went silent for a split second. The rush of wind was nothing, and Morgan felt as tall as the skyscrapers around him. Then it came back, the rush of air in his ears, wind propelling him forward. He hit the twin cables hard, and swung the jacket around them. Holding tight to the thick fabric, he wrapped his thighs around one of the cables and rappelled down. The friction burned his skin even through the fabric. A few seconds later, his feet touched down on the hook. Jenny was bound and hanging under him.
“Jenny.”
“Dan? Is that really you?”
“I’m here, honey. It’s going to be okay.”
Now came the hard part. He looked down, the ground a vertiginous distance below. He could see more than a dozen policemen now, keeping the growing crowd back. Damn it, he thought. He had to get rid of the explosives somehow, and they weren’t going to make it any easier.
He braced for this next step. He wrapped his jacket around one of the steel cables, then around his left wrist, so that he had a firm grasp. One more deep breath, then he swung out, letting himself fall one body length. His left knee screamed in pain from the impact of his full weight. He bit his lip. This was no time for pain.
He looked at Jenny, almost face to face with her. Her eyes were covered with a mask, which he pulled off. He had a split second to register the mixture of surprise, terror and relief on her face before he kissed her for longer than he should have allowed.
“God, Dan,” she said, “I knew you’d come.”
“I’m here, honey,” he said, in a comforting tone. “It’s going to be okay.” Either that, or we die together.
The bomb could not have more than thirty seconds left on its timer. He examined Jenny closely now. She was strapped to a harness that held her to the hook above, but her hands were tied above her head as well. On top of that, she was wearing a vest with the explosives, just as Novokoff had described: the vials with a white powder, sticks of C4, and pouches of what he surmised was the incendiary. He looked at the detonator. Too complex. No time to defuse it, not with one hand, hanging one hundred feet off the ground.
He drew his knife and began to saw through the shoulders of her vest.
“Dan,” said Jenny. “If we die today, I just want you to know that I love you!”
“We’re not going to die today!” he yelled. He sawed through one shoulder, but it was slow, too slow. He began work on the other.
Once he had cut the shoulder halfway through, Morgan put the knife in his mouth, biting down tight, and took the detonator out of his pocket. He put it in Jenny’s hand, which was tied above her head, and opened the safety cover. He took the knife out of his mouth and said, “I’m want you to press that button when I say now. Got it?”
“Got it!”
He had to get this timing just right, or everyone on the ground would die, and possibly a lot more as well.
“Twenty seconds to go, Morgan!” cried Shepard.
“Shepard, I’m going to need you to disable the jammer when I say so.”
Morgan pulled at the straps around her waist, just enough so that they would fit around her hips, and, with his one free hand, pulled down the vest.
“Shep, do it!” He gave the vest one last tug. It slid down Jenny’s legs, and slipped free of her feet, falling into empty space. He gave it two seconds of free fall, then said, “Now, Jenny!”
There was an uprush of scalding hot air that burned Morgan’s eyes. Squinting, he saw the orange glow of the flames of the incendiary device all around him.
Morgan breathed a sigh of relief. “Is it over?” Jenny asked. In response, he held her close, putting his free arm around her waist, and kissed her passionately. As he did, he heard the tramping of the policemen’s boots, coming up the stairs to get them down and arrest him.
CHAPTER 53
Boston, February 27
“So let me get this straight—this guy took a civilian hostage, fired at our boys, caused a bomb to blow up in downtown Boston, and you still think he’s the good guy?”
Detective Rick Mooney looked at the suspect, this Daniel Morgan—not too tall, but strong as a bull, wide-shouldered and muscled—through the two-way mirror of the interrogation room, then stared at Detective Silvia Padilla, his partner of three years.
“I think there’s a chance he’s telling the truth,” said Padilla. “After all, he did manage to save his wife without anyone else getting hurt. She seemed totally convinced.”
“And still, she wouldn’t tell us anything useful about how she ended up there, with a suicide vest strapped on her,” said Mooney. “Something’s definitely rotten here.”
“Well, maybe he’ll talk, and shed some light on all this,” said Padilla, shrugging.
“All right, I’m going in,” said Mooney.
“Break a leg,” said Padilla.
“Thanks.” Mooney walked around and unlocked the door to the interrogation room. “Mr. Morgan, is that it?” he said as he entered. “Daniel Morgan?”
The man looked at him blankly, making no response.
“I get it,” said Mooney. “You’ve got nothing to say, right? You’re going to exercise your right to remain silent? Sure, that’s fine. You took a hostage, buddy. You shot at cops in the plain view of about three dozen witnesses. We don’t need you to talk in order to lock you up. But it can only help your case if we understand what you did.”
“I saved you all,” the man growled.
“Sure, sure,” said Mooney. “And your wife. It was very impressive, I’m told. And still. It seems you had a detonator the whole time. Say, how did you come by that exactly?”
Morgan didn’t respond to that, so he tried a different approach.
“Sure. All right. Listen. You got a lot of people’s attention out there. Now, we’re all very shaken by the stuff that’s been happening. All these terrorist attacks. Maybe you were trying to make a statement about that. Am I getting warmer?”
“You don’t know what the hell you’re talking about,” Morgan said.
“Why don’t you tell me then?”
At that moment, the door to the interrogation room opened and in walked a professional-looking woman, fortyish, slim, brown haired with striking blue eyes, escorted by a hulk of a man, tall, black, and muscular, with a military bearing. “What the hell is this?” asked Mooney.
“Sarah Peters,” she said. “FBI. I’m here to take Daniel Morgan into custody.”
“You gotta be kidding me,” said Mooney.
“Do I look like I’m kidding?” She didn’t. In fact, she didn’t seem like the type who’d ever kid about anything.
“You can’t just cut me out of this investigation.”
“I already did,” said Peters. “
This is no longer in your jurisdiction. This case and all the details pertaining to it are now classified. I’ll need his personal effects, if you please.”
“Listen, that’s not how things work,” Mooney said. “We don’t just turn over suspects to the FBI. We got a liaison with you feds. We do things through him.”
“You may,” she said. “I don’t care who he is and what authority he’s got. I’m leaving here with that prisoner, and I’m doing it now.”
Mooney sneered at her. “You’re not the type that hears no very often, are you?”
“Not from the likes of you, no. But call your liaison if you need him to spell it out for you. This goes over his head,” she said. “It’s frankly above his pay grade. And yours too. Now, are you going to comply, or do I have to get the commissioner down here?”
“Shit,” said Mooney, and he walked out of the interrogation room. “Hey, Padilla!” he called out. “Would you call up Foreman and find out what the hell’s going on?”
“You got it,” said Padilla.
“He’s just going to tell you what I’ve already explained,” said the woman.
“Well, I gotta check, don’t I? Can’t let you out of here with just your word on the matter.”
“Very well,” she said. “Check, and make it fast. He’s going to tell you to do as I say.”
“Looks like she’s right, Mooney,” Padilla called out from his desk. “Foreman said he doesn’t know what’s going on, but the order came from higher up. Prisoner’s supposed to be released into this fed’s custody.”
Mooney cursed silently. “Draw up the paperwork,” he told Padilla. Then he went to pick up the envelope containing the prisoner’s things and brought it back to the FBI agent. “I’m gonna find out what the hell this is all about.”
“I sincerely doubt that you will,” she said. “Come along, Mr. Morgan. We have a prisoner transport van waiting for you.”
CHAPTER 54
Boston, February 27
Morgan was escorted wordlessly by Diana Bloch and Bishop, posing as FBI agents, out into the yellow pool of the streetlights, where an actual light brown prisoner transport van was parked, with Diesel sitting at the wheel waiting for them. A gust of wind blew stray snowflakes in his face as he was led to the back of the van. They’d taken his coat, but he wasn’t cold, just numb. Bishop led him up into the van and made a show of chaining his wrists and ankles down. Bloch sat across from him in the back, and Bishop closed the two of them in. The wall between the back and the front seats was metal, and there were no openings to the outside, so that left only the interior fluorescent light to illuminate the inside. As soon as they heard the muffled sound of Bishop closing the passenger door up front, Bloch tossed Morgan the keys. He silently undid his cuffs as the van started moving, and let them fall to the floor.
“Took you all long enough,” he said, chuckling.
“You’re lucky we got you out at all, you bastard,” said Bishop over some kind of PA system. “After that stunt you pulled, I wouldn’t be surprised if they shipped you off to Gitmo. That was a hell of a thing you did back there.”
Bloch, who had sported her usual unyielding scowl, broke out in a smile. “You could have done a lot worse.”
“What about Jenny?” Morgan asked her.
“At home, and no worse for wear despite the shock,” said Bloch. “I made some calls and put a heavy protective detail on your house. They won’t be hitting you there again. We still haven’t located your daughter. . . .”
“She’s safe,” said Morgan. “I took care of it.”
“Good. I’ll let Shepard know. He’s looking into any potential new leads from this attack. If you could come to headquarters in the late morning, we can go over . . .”
“If it’s all right,” said Morgan, clutching his left arm, which was aching and bruised from the ordeal, “I’m going to go home.”
“Oh,” said Bloch. “Of course. Take the time that you need.”
“You do what you can,” said Morgan. “I just want to get home and be with my family.”
CHAPTER 55
Washington, D.C., March 8
“We’ve got a name,” said William Schroeder to an expectant situation room. “We’ve got a name for the bastard, and a picture to boot.”
A grainy surveillance photo appeared on the screen.
“We followed the lead of the lab in Turkey,” said Schroeder, giving a split-second thankful glance at Chapman. “The CIA traced all the heavy equipment—the HEPA filters and centrifuges and whatnot—through an elaborate paper trail. We traced the buyer to a Dutch dummy company. Ownership is broken up into a whole mess of holdings and investment groups, but we got the name on the checks. Edmund Charles. The name’s fake; there’s no record of this person existing. But the money is real, and he has to manage it somehow.”
A surveillance video played on the screen, showing a luxurious bank lobby with hardwood furniture and beautiful red carpets. A man walked in wearing a sharp navy-blue suit. He was tall, of average build, with a head of blond hair. He was greeted eagerly by a manager and escorted into a niche. The video froze.
“Now, this is an extremely slippery individual, so any and all efforts that we make at tracking him need to fly absolutely under the radar. This means we do nothing to tip our hand. We keep to electronic and remote surveillance as much as possible. Does everyone understand that?”
There was a murmur of assent.
“Good. Needless to say, gentlemen, none of this leaves this room.”
People stood up and began to scatter, slowly. Chapman walked up to Schroeder and pulled him aside.
“Listen, Bill, have you given any thought to the matter of what we’re going to do with him once we have him? I mean, that’s as big a question as how to get him, I think.”
“We’re going to do this the right way, Buck,” said Schroeder. “He’s going to be tried in a court of law.”
“You can’t be serious,” said Chapman. “You don’t think he’s working alone, do you?
“What do you suggest I do?” asked Schroeder pointedly.
“Whatever we have to,” said Chapman. “To get actionable information. To nail the people behind this and make sure they never do anything like this again.’
“He’ll be interrogated,” said Schroeder. “But there are lines I won’t cross.”
Chapman bit his lip.
“Are you afraid of taking this step, Mr. Chapman?”
Mr. Smith looked at him with some mixture of smug triumph and earnest sympathy. They were sitting across from each other in a mall food court. Ever the professional, Smith had a paper shopping bag at his feet and a plate of Chinese food in front of him that he pretended to eat. Chapman, meanwhile, was in no mood to pretend.
“It must be admitted, Mr. Chapman, that I do have some power over you,” Smith continued. “After all, you have no proof of my existence at all, and no idea of who I really am. Meanwhile, I have the evidence necessary to bury you, if I so wished.”
“Is that a threat?” said Chapman.
“It is just a fact, nothing more,” said Smith.
“I’m not scared of you,” said Chapman. “That’s the plain truth. I might have been before, but not anymore. I fully accept the consequences of my actions. That’s what makes me a man, Mr. Smith.”
“No doubt.”
“The name of the man you are looking for is Edmund Charles. He is expected to be in Boston tomorrow, and the FBI will be running an operation to capture him.”
Smith smiled smugly. “That is certainly valuable information. What made you want to share it with me?”
“It seems you know more about Novokoff and this crisis than we do. More importantly, even if we did capture Charles, I don’t think that we would have the . . . flexibility to do what we must. Our government is hampered by its own accountability to the public.” Accountability was something Chapman was proud of, normally one of his greatest ideals. Even deep as he was in the world of intelligence and s
py craft, he believed that limits to executive power were all that stood against outright tyranny. But this crisis had worn him down. “I believe you have the resources to do what needs to be done.”
“Your country would call you a traitor for this.”
“As well they should,” said Chapman wryly. “I accept as much. But it’s for my country that I’m doing this.” He wiped sweat from his brow. “This goddamn crisis. It can’t continue. I can’t live like this. The world can’t live like this. I have a daughter. I don’t want this to be the world that she grows up in. I want her to be safe.”
“Then I am sure that you are doing right by her. Your assistance will not be forgotten, Mr. Chapman.”
“Find him, Mr. Smith. Find him and stop Novokoff before it’s too late. I’m putting everything in your hands. Don’t let me down.”
CHAPTER 56
Andover, March 9
It was midafternoon. Morgan’s study was darkening already, but he was in a thoughtful mood and didn’t get up to turn on the lights. It was a Saturday, over a week since Jenny had been taken, and he had not been back to Zeta headquarters since. Partly, it was that they had found nothing new to act on. Tracing Novokoff ’s calls had been a bust, along with surveillance footage and every other lead that they had followed. He had taken the opportunity to spend time with his wife and daughter and think about what had happened. Weeks ago, Jenny had fought with him for putting her in danger, and he had dismissed her concerns. But it was true. She was in danger, and so was his daughter. And his being a spy had put them there.
His phone rang, pulling him out of his thoughts. He picked up.
“Morgan, this is Bloch. We’ve got something. A lead on the man behind Novokoff.”
“I’ll be right in,” he said, and hung up, but didn’t leave his chair. A few moments later, Jenny walked in and turned on the light. She was wearing a stay-at-home sweater, her glasses on her face. An ugly black bruise still peeked from under the sleeves on both her wrists where she had been tied to the crane.
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