Chapter Seventy-Six
‘Over there, heading toward the barn,’ I said and pointed. ‘That’s Taylor. What’s he doing?’
‘Powiesnik is on the other side of the house. He probably can’t see that Taylor is outside,’ said Agent Katz.
‘Let’s see what he’s up to.’
Katz hesitated. ‘You’re not going to get me shot, are you?’
‘No,’ I said, a little too quickly. This was getting complicated suddenly. I wanted to follow Taylor, but I felt I had to watch out for Katz too.
‘Let’s go,’ Katz finally said, reaching a decision. ‘Taylor is out of the house. He’s headed southwest,’ she alerted Powiesnik. ‘We’re following.’
The two of us hurried forward for a hundred yards or so. We had some ground to make up, and we wanted to keep Taylor in sight. There was a half-moon overhead and that helped, but it was also possible that Taylor might see us coming. We could lose him easily now, especially if he was suspicious.
He didn’t seem to be aware of anything going on around him – at least not so far. Which got me thinking that he was used to sneaking around out here late at night. Not worrying about being seen by anyone. This was his private reserve, wasn’t it? I watched him go inside the barn.
‘We should call in again,’ Katz said.
I didn’t disagree completely, but I was nervous about the other agents coming up fast and making noise. How many of them had experience in the field?
‘You better call in,’ I finally agreed.
It took the other agents a couple of minutes to get to the edge of the woods where we were crouched behind tall brush. Light from inside the barn shone through cracks and holes in the weatherboarding. We couldn’t see or hear much from where we were hiding. Finally we could make out Potter crossing the service court and entering the great door of the barn.
Then music blasted from somewhere in the barn. I recognized a choral arrangement by Queen. A sexy lyric about riding a bicycle. Totally whacked at this time of night, playing in the middle of nowhere.
‘There’s no evidence of violence in his past,’ Powiesnik said as he came up and crouched beside me.
‘Or kidnapping either,’ I said. ‘But he might have somebody in that barn. Maybe the kid from Holy Cross. Taylor knew about the Wolf’s Den, even the eye scan. I doubt he’s an innocent bystander.’
‘We’re moving on Taylor,’ the senior agent ordered. ‘He may be armed,’ he told the other agents. ‘Proceed as if he is.’
He assigned two teams to surveil the far side of the barn in case Taylor tried to get out some other way. Powiesnik and Nielsen, along with Agent Katz and myself, were going in the great door that Taylor had entered.
I moved up alongside Powiesnik. ‘You okay with this? Going in after him now?’
‘It’s already been decided,’ he said in a tight voice.
So I moved forward, wearing a dark blue windbreaker with FBI printed on the back. Queen continued to play loudly in the barn. ‘I want to ride my bicycle! Bicycle! Bicycle!’ This was a strange feeling, all of it. The Bureau had excellent resources for getting information; their personnel were certainly booksmart and well trained, but, in the past, I’d always known and trusted only those I went into a dangerous crime scene with.
The wooden barn door hadn’t been latched or locked by Taylor. We could see that as we crouched in tall brush a few yards away.
Suddenly the music stopped.
Then I heard loud voices inside. More than one. But I couldn’t make out what was being said, or who was doing the talking.
‘We should take him down. Now,’ I whispered to Powiesnik. ‘We’re already committed. We have to go.’
‘Don’t tell me–’
‘I’m telling you,’ I said.
I wanted to take over from Powiesnik. He was hesitating much too long. Once we had moved close to the barn, we shouldn’t have stopped.
‘I’ll go first. Come in behind me,’ I finally said.
Powiesnik didn’t overrule me, didn’t argue. No one else in the group spoke a word.
I ran very quickly toward the barn, my gun out of my holster. I was there in seconds. The door made a heavy creaking sound when I pulled it open. Bright light escaped outside, splintered into my eyes for a second. ‘FBI!’ I yelled at the top of my voice. FBI! Jesus!
Taylor looked at me and his eyes filled with surprise, fear. I had a clear shot at him. He’d had no idea he was being followed. He’d been operating in his own private safety zone, hadn’t he? I could see that now.
I could also make out someone else illuminated in the shadows of the barn. He was tied with leather bindings to a wooden post that hung from a beam in the hayloft. He had no clothes on. Nothing. His chest and genitals were bloodied. But Francis Deegan was alive!
‘You’re under arrest… Mr Potter.’
Chapter Seventy-Seven
The first interview with Potter took place in the small library he’d built in the farmhouse. It was cozy and tastefully furnished, and gave no hint of the horrible acts going on elsewhere on the property. Potter sat on a dark wood bench with his wrists handcuffed in front of him. His dark eyes boiled over in anger directed at me.
I sat in a straight-backed chair directly across from him. For a long moment we glared at each other, then I let my eyes wander around the room. Bookcases and cabinets had been custom-built and covered every wall. A large oak desk held a computer and printer as well as wooden in/out boxes and stacks of ungraded papers. A green wooden sign behind the desk read: ‘Bless This Mess.’ There was no hint of the real Taylor, or ‘Potter’, anywhere.
I noticed authors’ names on the spines of the books: Richard Russo, Jamaica Kinkaid, Zadie Smith, Martin Amis, Stanley Kunitz. It was rumored that the Bureau often had an incredible amount of information on a subject before an interview was conducted. This was true with Taylor. I already knew about his boyhood spent in Iowa; then his years as a student at Iowa and NYU. No one had suspected he had a dark side. He had been up for promotion and tenure this year, and had been working to finish a book on Milton’s Paradise Lost as well as an article on John Donne. Drafts of the literary projects were laid out on the desk.
I got up and looked through the pages. He’s organized. He compartmentalizes beautifully, I was thinking. ‘Interesting stuff,’ I said.
‘Be careful with those,’ he warned.
‘Oh, sorry. I’ll be careful,’ I said, as if anything he had to write about Milton or Donne mattered anymore. I continued to look through his books – the OED, Riverside Shakespeare, Shakespeare and Milton quarterlies, Gravity’s Rainbow, a Merck manual.
‘This interrogation is illegal. You must know that. I want to see my lawyer,’ he said as I sat down again. ‘I demand it.’
‘Oh, we’re just talking,’ I said. ‘This is only an interview. We’re waiting for a lawyer to get here. Just getting to know you.’
‘Has my lawyer been called? Jackson Arnold in Boston?’ Taylor said. ‘Tell me. Don’t fuck with me.’
‘As far as I know,’ I said. ‘Let’s see, we busted you at around eight. He was called at eight-thirty.’
Taylor looked at his watch. His dark eyes blazed. ‘It’s only five o’clock now!’
I shrugged. ‘Well, no wonder your lawyer isn’t here yet. You haven’t even been apprehended. So, you teach English Lit, right. I liked literature in school, read a lot, still do, but I loved the sciences.’
Taylor continued to glare at me. ‘You forget Francis was taken to a hospital. The time is on the record.’
I snapped my fingers and winced. ‘Right. Of course it is. He was picked up at a little past nine. I signed the form myself,’ I said. ‘I have a doctorate, like yourself. In psychology, from Johns Hopkins down in Baltimore.’
Homer Taylor rocked back and forth on the bench. He shook his head. ‘You don’t scare me, you fucking asshole. I can’t be intimidated by little people like you. Trust me. I doubt you have a PhD. Maybe from Alcorn State. Or
Jackson State.’
I ignored the baiting. ‘Did you kill Benjamin Coffey? I think you did. We’ll start looking for the body a little later this morning. Why don’t you save us the trouble?’
Taylor finally smiled. ‘Save you the trouble? Why would I do that?’
‘I actually have a pretty good answer. Because you’re going to need my help later on.’
‘Well then, I’ll save you some trouble later on, after you help me.’ Taylor smirked. ‘What are you?’ he finally asked. ‘The FBI’s idea of affirmative action?’
I smiled. ‘No, actually I’m your last chance. You better take it.’
Chapter Seventy-Eight
The library in the farmhouse was empty except for Potter and me. He was handcuffed, totally cool and unafraid, glaring menacingly.
‘I want my lawyer,’ he said now.
‘I’ll bet you do. I would if I was you. I’d be making a real scene in here.’
Taylor finally smiled. His teeth were badly stained. ‘How about a cigarette? Give me something.’
I gave him one. I even lit it for him. ‘Where did you bury Benjamin Coffey?’ I asked again.
‘So, you’re really the one in charge?’ he asked. ‘Interesting. The world turns, doesn’t it? The worm, too.’
‘You know, the calmness gives you away,’ I told him. ‘You show no fear. Nothing in your eyes. I’ve seen so many like you. Better, smarter.’
He blew out a smoke ring in my direction. ‘To such a skilled interrogator as yourself, such things must be obvious. The calmness I show.’
‘So where did you learn about drama, the theatre, English and American literature?’
‘You know the answers to that. Iowa. Then NYU. It’s on my résumé. I want a lawyer.’
‘You mentioned the lawyer earlier. You’ll be given one. All in good time. So where is Benjamin Coffey? Is he buried out here? I’m sure he is.’
‘Then why ask? If you already know the answer.’
‘Because I don’t want to waste time digging up these fields, or dredging the pond over there.’
‘I really can’t help you. I don’t know a Benjamin Coffey. Of course, Francis was here of his own free will. He hated it at Holy Cross. The Jesuits don’t like us. Well, some of the priests don’t.’
‘The Jesuits don’t like who? Who else is involved with you?’
‘You’re actually funny, for a police drone. I like a bit of dry humor now and then.’
I stretched my leg out, struck his chest, and knocked his wooden bench over. He hit the floor hard. Banged his head. I could see that it shook him, surprised him anyway. Must have hurt at least a little bit.
‘That supposed to scare me?’ he asked once he’d gotten his breath. He was angry now, redfaced, veins in his neck pulsing. That was a start. ‘I want my lawyer!… I’m explicitly asking you for a lawyer!’ he began to yell over and over again. ‘Lawyer! Lawyer! Lawyer! Lawyer! Can anyone hear me?’
Taylor kept yelling at me for over an hour – like some sociopathic kid who wasn’t getting his way. I let him scream and curse, until he started to get hoarse. I even went outside and stretched my legs, drank some coffee, chatted with Charlie Powiesnik, who was a pretty good guy.
When I came back inside, Potter looked changed. He’d had time to think about everything that had happened at the farm. He knew that we were talking to Francis Deegan, and that we’d find Benjamin Coffey, too. Maybe a few others.
Then he sighed out loud. ‘I assume we can make some sort of arrangement to my liking. Mutually beneficial.’
I nodded. ‘I’m sure we can make an arrangement. But I need something concrete in return. How did you get the boys? How did it work? That’s what I need to hear from you.’
I waited for him to answer. Several minutes passed.
‘I’ll tell you where Benjamin is,’ he finally said.
‘You’ll tell me that, too.’
I waited some more. Took another turn outside with Charlie. Came back to the study.
‘I bought the boys from the Wolf,’ Potter finally said. ‘But you’ll be sorry you asked. So will I, probably. He’ll make both of us pay. In my humble opinion – and remember, this is just a college professor talking – the Wolf is the most dangerous man alive. He’s Russian. Red Mafiya.’
‘Where do we find the Wolf?’ I asked. ‘How do you contact him?’
‘I don’t know where he is. Nobody does. He’s a mystery man. That’s his thing, his trademark. I think it turns him on.’
It took several more hours of talking, bargaining and negotiating, but Potter finally told me some of what I wanted to know about the Wolf, this Russian mystery man who impressed him so. Late in the day, I wrote in my notes – This makes no sense yet. None of it does, really. The Wolf’s plans seem insane. Are they?
Then I wrote my final thought, at least for the moment.
The brilliance of it may be that it makes no sense.
To us.
To me.
Part Four
Wolf Trap
Chapter Seventy-Nine
Stacy Pollack was a solemn and commanding presence in front of the roomful of agents gathered on the fifth floor of the Hoover Building. It was standing room only for her meeting. I was one of those gathered in the back, but just about everybody knew who I was after our New Hampshire success of bringing in Potter. We had rescued another captive – Francis Deegan was going to be fine. We’d also found the body of Benjamin Coffey, and two other males, unidentified so far.
‘Unaccustomed as I am to having things go our way,’ Pollack began and got a laugh, ‘I’ll take this latest development and offer humble thanks to the gods that be. This is a very good break for us. As many of you know, the Wolf has been a key target on our Red Mafiya list, probably the key target. He’s rumored to be into everything – weapon sales, extortion, sports fixing, prostitution, the white-slave market. His name seems to be Pasha Sorokin and he seems to have learned his trade on the outskirts of Moscow. I say seems, because nothing is a sure thing when it comes to this guy. Somehow he maneuvered his way into the KGB, where he lasted three years. He then became a pakhan in the Russian Underworld, a boss, but decided to emigrate to America. Where he completely disappeared.
‘We actually believed that he was dead for a while. Apparently not, at least if we can believe Mr Potter. Can we believe him?’ Pollack gestured in my direction.
I stayed in my seat. I knew I’d already drawn enough attention.
‘I think we can believe Potter. He knows that we need him; he definitely understands what he has to offer us – a possible lead to Sorokin. He also warned me that the Wolf will come after us. His mission is to be the top gangster in the world. According to Potter, that’s what the Wolf is.’
‘So why the white-slave market?’ one of the ASACs asked. ‘There’s not that much money in it. It’s risky. What’s the point? Sounds like bullshit to me. Maybe we’ve been had.’
‘We don’t know why he acts the way he does. It’s troubling, I agree. Maybe it’s his roots, his patterns,’ an agent from the New York office’s Russia group spoke. ‘He’s always had his fingers in whatever he could. It goes back to his days on the streets of Moscow. Also, the Wolf likes women himself. He’s kinky.’
‘I don’t think he likes them,’ said a woman agent from D.C. ‘Honestly, Jeff.’
The New York agent continued. ‘There’s a rumor that he walked into a club in Brighton Beach about a week ago and wasted one of his ex-wives. That’s his style. He once sold a couple of his female cousins from the home country on the slave market. The thing to remember about Pasha Sorokin is that he has no fears. He expected to die young in Russia. He’s surprised that he’s still alive. He likes it on the edge.’
Stacy Pollack took the floor again. ‘Let me tell you a couple of other stories to give you a sense of who we’re dealing with. It seems that Pasha manipulated the CIA to get him out of Russia originally. That’s right, the CIA transported him here. He was supposed
to give them all sorts of information, but he never delivered. When he first got to New York, he sold babies out of an apartment in Brooklyn. According to the stories, in one day alone, he sold six babies to suburban couples for ten thousand dollars apiece. More recently he swindled a Miami bank out of two hundred million. He likes what he does, and he’s obviously good at it. And now we know an Internet site he visits. We may even be able to get on the site. We’re working on it. We’re as close to the Wolf as we’ve ever been. Or so we like to believe.’
Chapter Eighty
The Wolf was in Philadelphia that night, birthplace of a nation, though not his nation. He never showed it but he was anxious, and he liked the emotional charge it gave him.
It made him feel more alive. He also liked it that he was invisible, that no one knew who he was, that he could go anywhere, do anything he wanted to do. Tonight, he was watching the Flyers play Montreal at the First Union Center in Philly. The hockey game was one he had arranged to have fixed, but nothing had happened so far, which was why he was anxious, but also very angry.
As the second period was winding down the score was 2–1. Flyers! He was seated at center ice, four rows back behind the penalty boxes, close to the action. To distract himself he watched the crowd – a mix of yuppies in business suits and loosened ties and blue-collar types in oversized Flyers jerseys. Everybody seemed to have plastic tubs of nachos and twenty-ounce cups of beer.
His eyes shifted back to the game. Players flashed around the rink at dazzling speeds, making a slashing sound as the blades of their skates tore into the ice. C’mon, c’mon. Do something! he urged.
Then suddenly he saw Ilia Teptev out of position. There was the shotgun crash of ninety miles an hour slapshot as it left the stick. Goal – Canadians! The crowd erupted with insults: ‘You suck, Ilia! You throwing this game?’
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