The Siege

by Stephen White

  The fact that Dee’s prescription was also sensible and was proving to be prescient sometimes seemed to be of secondary importance to the suits higher up the Company food chain.

  Poe had managed to hold on to his position in charge of the almost mythical FBI bogeyman squad because he was, by nature, publicity averse and because he was adept at keeping the unit’s work below the bureaucracy’s fine-tuned radar. In addition, the special agent in charge to whom he reported had confidence that Poe was one FBI agent who would not be forever bitching to his superiors about his unit’s dwindling resources and ever-increasingly diverted budget.

  Poe wouldn’t bitch not only because he knew it wouldn’t make any difference, but also because he knew that without his current job and the freedom it provided him he wouldn’t last three months inside the Bureau. He couldn’t imagine himself living in a one-bedroom apartment in the District, trying to survive the bullshit in the Hoover Building, or even worse assigned to some FBI Field Office outpost in Atlanta or Portland or Missoula or Anchorage.

  Poe also knew that without his current job he wouldn’t have anywhere at all to steer his hate.

  That scared him as much as anything.

  That Friday morning in Philadelphia, he found his spirits buoyed by the fact that he had an immense breakfast to devour and a fine woman to savor.

  Dee, however, seemed intent on destroying the mood. “What do you think it means? If it turns out that these kids are all connected?” she asked. Domestic puzzles were Poe’s business, not hers. Although the CIA could ponder the risks of onshore terrorism, if anyone was looking over the Company’s broad shoulders, its agents could only investigate events leading back offshore.

  Unless they decided to ignore the law, which happened.

  Poe respected Dee’s work and her brain. It comforted him that Dee wanted his opinion about the three college kids who had neglected to call their parents. But the comfort he took from her metaphorical caress was a conversation for their next night hip to hip on bar stools.

  He said, “Three college kids missing for a few hours? Dee? Come on. Means nothing. Zilch.”

  She scooped some pale eggs with a triangle of dry toast. “You come on. You can do better than that.”

  He chomped a sausage in half, recalling with a twinge of melancholy that she’d said those same exact words to him once they’d decoupled after sex during their spring visit in 2003. You can do better than that, she’d said. She’d been right. Their lovemaking that night had been oddly pedestrian. Poe remembered that April night in St. Paul well—he had been visited by unwelcome OKC ghosts and had allowed the visitors to distract him during the deed.

  He said, “Top of my head? The part of my gray matter that is hovering magically above my hangover? Worst case? The three kids are all friends and they . . . let’s say, rolled their car somewhere and nobody’s come across the crash site. One’s dead, two will survive their injuries. Two Flight for Life choppers, one regional burn unit.” Dee flattened her lips and raised her eyebrows. Poe went on. “Best case, best case? They’re sleeping off some serious debauchery in Atlantic City. No, these kids sound rich. Maybe Macau. They’re in Macau and their cell phones don’t work over there.”

  She shook her head. “The State Department and DHS would know if they used their passports.”

  DHS was the Department of Homeland Security. In Poe’s personal, ironic, competing-agency lexicon, HS was the Hot Shits. Less ironically, and much less reverentially, HS was sometimes Holy Shit!—as in “Holy Shit, the Hot Shits are frisking Grandma again.”

  Poe said, “Point. We’ll make it Las Vegas then. Not as interesting a story, I’m afraid.” He changed his tone to adopt the faux seriousness of a documentary voice-over. “An all-too-common tale of hookers, drugs, alcohol, and a poker game with ringers. Fine young men. Bad choices.” He tsked. “Kids today.”

  She shook her head at him in exasperation. But she finally grinned, just a little.

  Poe felt triumphant.

  They ate. Poe stole glances at Dee from above his paper.

  He even liked watching her chew.

  His BlackBerry started to vibrate on the scratched laminate tabletop. He put his hand on it to keep it still.

  They were both done eating. Dee hadn’t touched much of her breakfast. She threw her napkin onto the remains of the eggs and toast. Poe stacked his empty plates to make things easier for the wigged waitress.

  He was becoming concerned that she had breast cancer.

  Deirdre’s BlackBerry sang a quick little two-note melody that sounded like “Hel-lo.”

  Poe despised the perkiness of the tone she’d chosen for her phone. He got distracted for a moment trying to think of another thing he despised about her. Failed.

  He smiled. Not even Jerry. Poe knew that if Jerry were a better man, Dee wouldn’t be in that Philadelphia diner with him throwing away most of her breakfast.

  Before either of them could look at their devices, Poe reached over and took Deirdre’s hand. He squeezed it. He glanced up at her for a second, but wasn’t able to look in her eyes the whole time he said, “I want to thank you, Dee. I mean really, truly, thank you. For being with me last night. If you had gone ahead and . . . If you did what you . . . If you didn’t sleep with me . . . I mean sleep, sleep . . . If I hadn’t had a chance to hold you, touch you, be with you, I was afraid I was going to die.”

  His vulnerability shook her. She reached across the table, careful to keep the sleeve of her shirt out of the streaks his egg yolks had left on his plate. She raised his chin with her fingertips until she was able to capture his eyes with her own. She locked on to them while she stared as far into him as she could. She was trying to find his soul, looking for truth.

  Dee knew that at times Poe had a tendency to lean into hyperbole the way pedestrians lean into a stiff wind.

  She could see that this wasn’t one of those times. Poe’s words had been as honest as he could make them.

  She stood up, hoping he wouldn’t notice that her eyes had filled with tears. Before she walked away, she leaned down and kissed him softly on the lips. “I have to get ready for my talk,” she said.

  “You’re doing a talk? Maybe I’ll come. On what?”

  Deirdre smiled the smile that had first caused Poe to seek solace from her back in the spring of ninety-five. She said, “It’s called ‘Underesti mating the Enemy.’ And you know damn well you’re not invited.”

  “Dee?” he called out before she reached the door.

  She spun. Her hair continued moving after she completed her turn, framing her face in a way that allowed Poe to believe that she was again young and that life was about opportunity, not survival.

  If Dee was young, Poe could be young, too.

  That meant hope for Poe. For him, hope was almost always horizon material, suspended beyond his reach.

  He did notice the tears in her eyes.

  He said, “What enemy is that? That we’re underestimating?”

  She kept walking.

  He threw twenty bucks on the table and chased after her.

  He knew what enemy it was.

  She was waiting for him outside. “Don’t, Poe,” she said. “I have an errand to run. I’ll catch up with you later.”

  APRIL 18, FRIDAY MIDDAY

  NEW HAVEN

  “There’s a tarp over the outside stairwell that leads to the basement of Book & Snake. Like there’s been a leak or something. Other than that, the tombs are quiet.”

  “That’s it?” asks the patrol supervisor.

  “Missing kid’s car is in the assigned lot. Doesn’t look like it’s been driven recently. Windshield is covered with bird crap. The Trumbull master had already checked the student’s room. His suitemates said it looks like it always looks. No luck in the libraries—he’s not there. One of his friends said he’s been hitting on a freshman drama major at TD. The master at Dwight is on that.”

  TD is Timothy Dwight. Another college.

  The patr
ol supervisor sits back on his chair. He says, “We’re looking for a total of three kids now. Not one. Three different colleges. No initial indication that the kids know each other. All failed to show up for something they had scheduled late this morning. No one can reach any of them.”

  The officer’s face reveals his surprise. “I don’t get it. Since when is a kid missing a class something we hear about?”

  “The two new kids are sons of VIPs.”

  “That’s not good. Any connections? Sports? Activities? Frats?”

  “One is a Psi U, the other two no. One’s in crew. One’s in FOOT. One’s YDN. New Haven PD is in the loop, too. Feds have been alerted by the parents of—”

  “Feds? Why?”

  “Supreme Court police, believe it or not. Kid’s mother is the new justice nominee. Like I said, VI frigging P.”

  “Really? Are the feds sending someone here?”

  “So far they’re just interested. Leaving it to us to do the legwork. Seems to me that everybody’s trying to keep everybody else from overreacting.”

  “One of the suitemates told the master that the Trumbull kid was tapped by Skull & Bones. This is tap week. With VIP kids part of this? That’s where I’d start. Maybe they’re all still in the tomb sleeping off . . . whatever crazy stuff they did.”

  “I suppose.”

  “Do we have a department policy on the tombs? A procedure for . . . checking on them? How do we get inside if we need to?”

  The supervisor opens his mouth. Closes it. Opens it again. “All I know is it’s complicated. I don’t think the secret societies are actually Yale property. The societies own the tombs. The actual real estate.”

  “The land, too? Really? Some of the buildings are right on campus.”

  “I don’t know, but I think they’re private property. We’d probably need to get New Haven PD involved, be my guess.” The supervisor shakes his head. “I don’t think this has come up recently. Talk to Limerick. He may know something. We may have some agreement in place with the societies for emergency access.”

  “Who do we contact for permission? Do we have phone numbers? Do we just go knock on the doors?”

  “Limerick. If anyone knows, it’s him. Is he in today? If not, call him at home.”

  Jeff Limerick had been on the campus police force since the early seventies. He was the unofficial department historian. If he wasn’t at work, he was at home crafting an architectural model of one of Yale’s buildings. That was his passion.

  The desk clerk interrupts. “You should see this, sir.” She walks behind the supervisor’s desk and begins moving his mouse. She rotates the monitor to face them.

  “YDN website,” she says.

  Yale Daily News. The student-run campus newspaper.

  The headline reads, “Tap Gone Bad? Something Wrong at Skull & Bones?”

  The paper is reporting rumors of an initiation ceremony that had gone awry at the most prominent of the school’s secret societies. It is a “developing story” based on an anonymous tip.

  The supervisor turns to the officer. “Get me a list of Skull & Bones members. Current ones and the new taps.”

  The officer opens both hands, palms up. He says, “How?”

  “During pre-tap, lists circulate. Pre-tap was a week ago. The kids always have some idea who will be tapped. Get hold of those lists. This year’s and last. The masters may be able to help.”

  APRIL 18, FRIDAY MID-MORNING

  Sam

  I had no trouble locating the white Suburban in front of the hotel. The drive to the Calderón compound took twenty minutes.

  Julio set me up in front of a large Apple laptop on the second floor in a screened-in room that was the size of a racquetball court. Maybe a couple of racquetball courts. The view was as distracting a thing as I had ever seen in my life. The sky, the water, the skyline of Miami, a pool, a fountain, the boats, the flowers, the bridges.

  I thought, View porn.

  I started my research with Andrew’s iPhone. The recent call history seemed unremarkable. No calls to or from his sister’s cell phone for over forty-eight hours. Andrew had received a text from Jane Thursday afternoon. Jane had written, “Secrets are so not my thing.”

  Andrew had replied, “Duh.”

  “What secrets, Jane?” I asked the empty room. The room ignored me. I began making notes on a yellow legal pad.

  I browsed Andrew’s email records—the kid had his iPhone set to consolidate half a dozen different addresses—and eyed the last couple of weeks’ additions to his photo library. Nothing stood out, other than the fact that the kid was too immature by a factor of four to even consider getting married.

  How I handled that news with Carmen was going to be a whole different question.

  I moved on to Ann’s computer. One of my ex-wife Sherry’s ex boyfriends had bought Simon a Mac laptop for Christmas the previous year so my son could carry it between houses when he switched between his parents’ residences. I had toyed with the machine a little bit while Simon was setting up a home network, but that was the totality of what I knew about Macs.

  Ann’s password let me right in.

  Jane emailed and texted her mother regularly.

  Thursday afternoon, by text, Jane had written, “Sooo excited wish me luck, lusm.”

  “lusm”?

  Later Thursday, “Almost there, lusm.”

  Finally, “At Beinecke, so wish I could tell you more, maybe soon, lusm.”

  I opened a browser and tracked down a Facebook page for each of the kids. Nothing popped that told me anything that I needed to know that morning.

  My phone vibrated. I didn’t recognize the number on caller ID. “Purdy,” I said.

  “It’s Ann. I called Carmen to get your number. She thinks you’re on the golf course. She’s stir-crazy and she sends her love. She wants you to call her when you get a second. I didn’t tell her about this . . . situation. I hope you understand. You’re all set up? Do you have everything you need?”

  “I’m good. Great. Nice house.”

  “Thank you. It’s . . . Ronnie’s home, mostly. Well, I’m in the car. I need you to know that Ronnie’s heading your way—some work emergency. He’ll be there in maybe ten minutes. I’m trying to arrive a few minutes ahead of him in case I need to run interference for you. You probably won’t see him, but if you do, I—”

  “What would you like me to tell him?”

  “Julio will be bringing you a bandage. You fell and hurt your wrist. Asked to borrow my computer. Can you do that?”

  “Yes.”

  “You are such a doll. If I ever develop a thing for cops, Sam Purdy, you are going to be at the top of my list.”

  I didn’t know how to respond.

  “Don’t worry. I told Carmen the same thing. She laughed. We agreed you’re pretty cute.”

  I still didn’t know how to respond. “Ann, two quick questions: One, what is ‘l-u-s-m’? Jane uses it in her texts to you.”

  “Love you so much.”

  “Sweet. Second, what was Jane being so secretive about on Thursday afternoon? She mentioned something about it in her text messages to you and in another one to her brother.”

  Ann didn’t answer right away. “I’m not supposed to say. I’m not even supposed to know.”

  “What? I don’t understand. Know what?”

  Ann lowered her voice to a range that evoked conspiracy. “Jane was tapped, Sam. She’s in a secret society at school. Like . . . a special club. Private. Invitation only. Very secret. All hush-hush.”

  “But she told you about it?”

  Ann sighed. It was an of-course-she-did-I’m-her-mother sigh. “A while ago she heard that she would probably get tapped. Last week, there was this thing on campus called ‘pre-tap’ and she found out she was almost certain to get tapped. During tap week there are these lists that get emailed around. Her name was on some of the lists for one of the societies. She sent me a picture of the building where the society meets, but didn�
��t tell me the name of it. I don’t know many details. She thought she might be able to tell me more this weekend, after their meeting. She thought it would be like an initiation, but she doesn’t really know the rules—what she can do. Say.”

  “That’s the meeting that was Thursday night? The one that caused her to miss the party on the yacht?”

  “Yes. And then there’s another meeting thing on Sunday. That’s the usual schedule, she says. Thursday, Sunday. That’s why she has to be back at school.” Ann waited for me to say something. When I didn’t, she said, “The note I got doesn’t have anything to do with Jane getting tapped, Sam. I’m sure.”

  “Explain ‘tapped.’ What does that mean?”

  “Chosen. Selected.”

  “How can you be so sure this is all unrelated to the note?”

  “I don’t know exactly, but . . . Because the fact that she’s been tapped is supposed to be secret. How would the person who wrote the note know about it?”

  I saw the logic, but wasn’t convinced by it. Too much temporal coincidence to ignore. “You said Jane kind of knew she would be tapped beforehand, right? During, what did you call it, pre-tap? If she knew, if there were lists, then other people could know. Are you confident that the damn note you got wasn’t part of the initiation?”

  “Is the cursing necessary, Sam? And no, I don’t think it was part of the initiation.”

  “Excuse me. Where was this Thursday night meeting?”

  “In the tomb, I guess. But I don’t know which one.”

  “Tomb?”

  Ann sighed. She sighed a lot, at least with me.

  I said, “Ann, remember what I said earlier about how things will go better if I don’t have to guess what things mean? It’s true now, too. I don’t have a context for all this. I went to St. Cloud State in Minnesota. The only thing secret was how we got our fake IDs.”

  “There are these buildings. . . .” She sighed. “Have you ever been to Yale, Sam?” she asked.

  Before I had a chance to tell her that I had never been to Yale, or even to Connecticut, she said, “I’m pulling up the driveway now. See you in two minutes. I will explain.”