Squeezed tight, fingers biting into my flesh.
I swung around to face him. “Let her go,” Jackson said, and the way he said it, the smugness of his voice, made fear shoot through me, an overwhelming conviction that I was right to worry about her.
A conviction, too, that as of that very moment, she wasn’t the only one in danger.
I yanked my arm free. Pulled down the handle, pushed open the door, rushed outside.
But it was too late. She was gone.
Chapter 35
It’s like something the Russians would do.
I look at the confusion on my son’s face, and instantly I’m shaken by regret. I never should have let him poke around into this. I should have kept him out of it, far away from it all. I should have protected him better. What have I done?
“Mom? What does it mean?” he wants to know.
“Don’t tell anyone what you found.”
“What’s going on?”
“I don’t know,” I say. I turn away, back to the slide, the empty playground. I don’t know, not yet, not fully. But it’s him, isn’t it?
“Mom?”
I face Zachary again. I hate this look on his young face, this fear. “I need you to stay out of it now.”
“It involves me.”
“Let me handle it.”
“Mom, my name was on that forum.”
I take another look around the park, my eyes raking the naked trees, the shadows across the park. Could anyone have followed us here, and I didn’t see it? Didn’t hear it?
“Let’s go,” I say, standing from the bench.
Zachary hesitates, looks like he’s about to protest, and I’m relieved when he doesn’t. He falls into step beside me, his long legs keeping pace easily with me. I keep forgetting how tall he’s grown.
“It’s not fair to keep this from me, Mom.”
“I’m doing what’s best for you.”
The minivan’s gone now. It’s just our two cars, parked a space apart. “I can help,” my son says quietly, when we’re at our cars.
I tighten my grip on the door handle. Hesitate, then pull it open. “You can help by staying out of it,” I snap, and wince at the ice in my command.
* * *
—
The Russians. Him. The man from that deadly row house encounter. Is it really him? My brain’s spinning uselessly. What about Halliday? What about Torrino? I thought I had it all figured out. Now I’m completely confused.
Nothing’s clearer by the time I park at headquarters, walk into the building. My gaze goes straight to those portraits on the wall. Lee. Jackson. I stop in front of them, and I stare. This time, I focus on the one on the right. Jackson.
And this time, the face I’m staring at morphs into that face from the row house. Agent Jackson, then. Deputy Director Jackson, now.
Without thinking, I turn, get in the elevator. My heart is pounding, my brain churning through information. I step out when the doors open, and when they shut behind me, I realize I’m not on my floor. I’m on another floor. His floor. I’d gone straight here, without even realizing it.
I’m looking down the hall, toward his office, when there’s movement. A door opens. A cluster of agents appears, dark suits and earpieces, the kind that surrounds someone important, someone powerful. It moves at a brisk pace, a little cloud of protection around a central figure, heading my way.
The agents are coming closer, and I’m frozen in place, like my feet are buried in sand, like I can’t move, like I can do nothing but watch.
The cluster parts just enough for me to see the man in the center. Jackson. His eyes land on me, like he knew I’d be there. They stay on my face. And I don’t pull mine away, don’t do anything but stare back.
He’s almost to me now. The lead agents in the security detail are even with me, passing me, but my eyes are locked on his, just as they were two years ago, in that row house. I see the expression I remember. Determined. Relentless. The same flash of fear sizzles through me, but this time it’s trailed by something else.
Fury.
* * *
—
I’d pulled up his file that day when I reached my office. Studied the photograph, the face that sported a grin, so much different from the hostile face I’d just seen, almost like he was two different people. Read the file; it was clean. Jackson was a counterintelligence agent, focused on Russia. Never disciplined, spotless record, superb reputation.
But something wasn’t right. The way he rushed that woman out of the row house, prevented me from talking with her. A man confident of his ability to control a woman, to shape events. And I knew what it was like to be trapped by a man in power, to feel helpless, alone. I couldn’t let that go.
I waited for the reports from the shooting to start trickling in, but they didn’t. Hours passed, then a day. I tried to track them down, learned they were placed in compartmented channels. Code-word restricted; access I didn’t have. I asked my boss for access; he didn’t have it, either. Went up another level, to the head of the field office. Still no access. My fear for the woman’s safety increased. And my suspicions of Jackson did, too. Something wasn’t right.
I called Marta, over at CIA. Described the woman, asked her to tell me who it was. Marta worked Russia, and the incident was clearly related to Russia; she should know. I could tell from the way she went silent when I asked that she did know, but she wouldn’t say a word.
I debated what to do. I couldn’t stop thinking of the woman. And I couldn’t stop thinking of the way Jackson held my arm, the pressure of his hand against my skin, gripping it too hard, trying to silence me.
Finally, I picked up the phone. Called the next supervisor in my chain of command, the deputy director, Glen Barker. I never thought I’d do something like that, but there I was. No other options, if I wanted to know what happened, if I wanted to protect that woman. I requested access to the files, requested access to her, and Barker agreed to look into it. Told me to come down to his office in the morning.
I didn’t sleep that night. The next morning, I went over to headquarters, arrived at his office. Glen ushered me in and shut the door. “I’ve got some bad news for you, Maddox,” he said as he sat down behind his desk. “I can’t get you access to those files. I don’t have it myself.”
I felt like something was pressing down on my chest, forcing out all the air. He was the deputy director. How did he not have access? “I don’t understand,” I told him.
He ran a hand through his hair, rumpling it. “I don’t have access to everything,” he conceded. “Apparently it’s an extremely sensitive case.”
“The woman. She was terrified. I’m worried about her.”
“Of course she was terrified. It was an ugly situation. Look, I asked Director Lee about her. And good news: she’s fine.”
“She is?” I heard the challenge in my voice.
So did he. He frowned. “I received assurances on that point. She’s quite safe.”
I waited for him to say more, but he didn’t. Something was wrong: every instinct I had was screaming that something was wrong. It didn’t make sense that everything was so tightly sealed. Two men were dead, one of them one of us. “Where is she?”
Glen folded his hands on the desk in front of him, played with the wide gleaming band of his wedding ring. “I have no idea.”
“Who does?”
He blinked at my tone, too challenging. “Apparently only three people.”
“Three people?”
“FBI director, CIA director, and one agent, the one who resettled her. Someone by the name of…” He glanced down at a legal pad in front of him. But I knew that he was going to say, even before it came out of his mouth.
“…Jackson.”
Once again, I felt his hand grip my arm, hurting me. His face morphed into
Halliday’s, the same triumphant look, and I once again could feel that hand on my arm, all those years before.
I needed to say something, even though it felt like every fiber of my being was warning me not to. “That agent. Jackson. There’s something off about him.”
“Off?”
“I don’t know. He just….I saw him at the crime scene, and something didn’t seem right.”
He raised his eyebrows. “Meaning?”
“I think he’s hiding something.”
“Hiding what?”
“I don’t know.” I felt like an idiot. I knew better than to do this. And helpless, like I never should have jumped in without a clear way out.
“What evidence do you have?”
“None, right now.” I didn’t have a shred of evidence. Maybe I would, if I could talk to the woman. All I had was my gut feeling. How could I explain that? How could I explain that everything in my past had led me to this conclusion?
Barker leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers. “Jackson’s reputation is spotless, Steph.”
“I know.”
“What are you saying? You think he’s dirty?”
“I don’t know, maybe. I just know something isn’t right—”
He held up a hand. “You know better than that, Steph. You can’t make a charge like that without proof.” Anger simmered in his voice. “I’m going to let it slide this time. You have a good reputation, and you’re lucky you do.” He leaned forward again, hands now folded on the legal pad. “But if you keep throwing around spurious charges, you’re not going to have a reputation to protect.”
My throat was very dry. I forced myself to swallow. “Yes, sir.”
“Jackson’s going places, Maddox. He’s on the fast track.” He gave me a piercing look. “If I were you, I’d let it go.”
Chapter 36
The cluster passes, and then all I can see is the backs of heads, the backs of suits. Dizzy, I turn, brace myself against the wall. I see a ladies’ room and push inside. I make my way to the bank of sinks and lean on one with both hands, stare at my reflection in the mirror. I think I’m going to vomit.
Jackson could have planted that gun. He’d know how to erase prints, how to bypass the alarm system. He’s senior management—enough power to get Scott transferred, to listen in on my calls.
But why? Why now?
And what about the guy with the tattoo? What about the fact that this is all happening just as Halliday’s back in our lives? None of this makes sense.
I finally force myself to leave the ladies’ room. The hallway’s clear now; Jackson and his entourage are gone.
I take a ragged breath, and I start walking toward Jackson’s office.
* * *
—
Two days after my conversation with Deputy Director Barker, big news broke. There had been a massive disruption of Russian sleepers. Twenty-five arrested. The story was plastered on the front page of every newspaper, covered relentlessly on the news networks. And it was all anyone in the Bureau could talk about.
More sensitive details spread like wildfire throughout the Bureau. That Jackson had made it happen, that he was the guy who deserved the credit. And within weeks, he was promoted; a huge promotion, at that. He was named Special Agent in Charge of the Baltimore Field Office. Barker was right; Jackson was going places.
I couldn’t stop thinking about him. The look he gave me in that row house. The hand on that woman’s back. The terror in her eyes. I couldn’t stop worrying about her safety.
One night at O’Neill’s, Marta had a few too many. Drink had loosened her tongue in the past, like the time she slipped and told me they’d recruited a new asset, someone high up in the Russian government. “Old guy,” she’d confided, her words slurred. “Code name Justice Ranger.”
This time I tried to use it to my advantage. Described the woman again, said she was CIA, asked for any information. Marta didn’t bite. “I’m not allowed to say.”
“You have to tell me,” I begged. “Please, we’re friends.” I was desperate, and I knew Marta had the answers I needed.
“Don’t do this, Steph,” she warned. She looked me straight in the eye. No loose tongue, no slurred words this time.
“It’s important.”
Silence ensued. I didn’t budge, and neither did she.
“Her name’s Vivian Miller,” she finally said. She dug out her wallet, pulled out a couple of twenties. “She’s been temporarily resettled, out of the country. I can’t tell you any more than that.” Then she plunked the cash down on the bar and left without another word, and without looking back.
She wouldn’t take my call the next day. Wouldn’t, for months to come. Things between us were never the same.
But at least I had an answer. A name. I tracked down an address for Vivian Miller. Bethesda. I drove by the house. Vacant, the lawn weedy and overgrown, a little red bicycle with training wheels outside in the grass. It looked eerily similar to the one Zachary had once ridden.
I’d been warned to let this go, but I couldn’t. I started to drive past the house regularly. Ran by it sometimes, too. Seven miles, fourteen round-trip. I’d pause on the street in front, peer into the darkened windows, wonder what happened to her.
She was a victim of someone more powerful, and I was in a position where I could have helped her, could have protected her, and I failed. I let her walk out that door and disappear. I let Jackson get away with something, and I still didn’t know what it was.
So I kept digging. Every morning, I’d run a search on the Russian sleeper case, see if anything turned up on her, or on him. Months passed, and I couldn’t find a thing. Nothing about Vivian Miller. Not a shred of evidence that Jackson had done anything wrong. He was making waves in Baltimore, keeping his name in the news. All the talk around headquarters was that they were eyeing him for senior management ranks.
And then one day, Barker called me down to his office. Wordlessly, he slid a large envelope across the desk toward me. Inside was a single photograph.
“That’s her,” Barker said. “The woman you’ve been worried about.”
It was an odd shot; she was indoors somewhere, but the background was indistinguishable. Could have been a house, could have been a jail cell, for all I could tell. Vivian Miller wore a placid expression, looking straight at the camera. There was a date stamp at the bottom. Two days ago.
“She’s fine,” Barker told me.
“Thanks,” I said, because I wasn’t sure what else to say. Confusion swirled inside me, and I couldn’t quite pinpoint why. I slipped the picture back into the envelope, held it tightly in my lap. When I looked back up at him, there was an odd expression on his face.
“Maddox, I’m recommending you for promotion. To head up the Internal Investigations Section at headquarters.”
The words made me forget about the envelope in my hands. I almost gasped aloud.
“What?” I realized how ridiculous I sounded. But this was the absolute last thing I expected to hear. I’d been at the Washington Field Office for almost a decade now; had worked my way up to Supervisory Special Agent. I’d been doing good work, but nothing flashy, nothing that had garnered attention from headquarters. Nothing like Chicago. It didn’t seem like anyone had noticed.
“I’m on my way out,” Barker admitted with a shrug. “Soon. And before I go, I want to promote people who deserve it. You’re one of them.”
I was getting promoted. To head up a division—albeit a small one—at headquarters. After Chicago, after all this time, it was actually happening.
“What do you say, Steph?”
For the first time, I actually thought about what it meant. A leadership role—a real one. I’d be in a position of power; I’d be responsible. There’d be no running this time, if things went sour. Even all these years later, Chicago
still felt fresh in my mind. But Zachary was in high school now; in a few short years he’d be off to college.
“Thank you, sir. Thank you so much.”
He nodded, no smile. It was at that moment I realized how off his demeanor was, that he looked more troubled than pleased.
The next morning Deputy Director Barker resigned, citing health concerns, and the troubled look made sense. It was the stress of the medical diagnosis, no doubt.
That afternoon, his replacement was named.
Jackson.
I was in my office when the news broke. I stared at his picture on my screen again, this one accompanying a press release on the Bureau’s website. There was a folder on my desk, a plain one. Inside, a legal pad, cryptic notes I’d jotted to myself. No labels, no subject, because instinct—and my conversation all those months ago with Barker—told me not to write down his name, not to write down my suspicions, to keep it a secret.
And the picture, the one that Barker had given me. Proof, finally, that Vivian Miller was safe. All this time, she was safe. Maybe my instinct about Jackson had been wrong. I still hadn’t found a shred of evidence suggesting any wrongdoing on his part. He was a star in the Bureau, universally respected. And now, his promotion meant he was my boss. The second most powerful individual in the Bureau.
It should have been a red flag, the rapid rise to power. I knew that, deep down. But no one else seemed suspicious. There had to be people who knew details of the case. Dozens of them, probably, across the river at the Agency. If no one else had qualms about him, and if I knew Vivian Miller was fine, why was I still concerned? My worries about her were unhealthy, almost obsessive.
I heard Barker’s voice in my head. If I were you, I’d let it go.
I closed the folder and held it in my hands. I was finally moving up. Finally making something of my career, after all these years. Did I really want to jeopardize it?
Deliberately, I moved the folder over to the burn bag below my desk, the one for sensitive trash. It could soon be nothing but ash. There would be no trace of my suspicions, no record of them. I let the file hover there, and I willed myself to drop it.
Keep You Close Page 16