Inside Out wm-1

by John Ramsey Miller

  He parked his Bucar, a silver Crown Victoria, a block from the brownstone where he rented a shabby studio apartment in the rear of the main house over a narrow garage. He parked in a loading zone-not caring if he got a citation this time.

  He unlocked the gate and walked along the side of the house, his soles scratching the cement driveway. As he slid the key into the door to his apartment he heard the click of a cigarette lighter behind him. He had his hand on his duty weapon before he recognized the man whose face was illuminated by the flame. “Jesus, Fifteen!”

  Half of the man's face was deeply burned. The man he knew only as Fifteen was a shadowy member of the espionage community. Fifteen was in his late forties and always dressed in loose-fitting outfits, which Archer figured covered a badly scarred body. He wore cotton gloves, an obvious wig, had a single eyebrow, and his nose looked as though it had been created by unskilled surgeons.

  “Jumpy from the long hours?” Only half of his mouth moved when he spoke.

  “Come in,” Archer said, cheerily.

  Archer had first met Fifteen only after a dozen phone calls over a three-year span. He had given Archer golden evidence, which had allowed Fred to break eight high-profile cases, making him look like a brilliant investigator. It was after they had established a relationship that Archer had finally met the burned man. The fruits of their relationship had taken Archer from being an obscure agent in Seattle to a position on his director's speed dial and a coveted office in the Hoover Building. Archer carried a blue ID, which held a top secret access number, the same one as those given to deputy directors.

  Fred was excited that Fifteen was carrying a nine-by-twelve manila envelope and suppressed an urge to snatch it away. For the sake of ceremony, Fred went straight to his kitchenette and poured two fingers of Glenlivet in two glasses, added ice, and, after putting in a drinking straw, set that glass of scotch on the coffee table before his guest. The good half of Fifteen's face smiled. “Thank you, Fred.”

  Fred sat down in the chair opposite and tried his best to ignore the envelope in Fifteen's lap.

  “Fred,” Fifteen said after he had taken a pensive sip of his scotch, “I have in my possession something I believe will be of great interest to you.” When he tapped the envelope in his lap, ash from his cigarette fell onto it.

  “Anything you have is always of interest to me.”

  “This concerns the incident on Rook Island.”

  For a second, even though he knew Fifteen was hot-wired into the CIA, NSA, and other covert intelligence sources Fred could only imagine, he was stunned at the speed with which Fifteen had acquired information on a fresh investigation.

  Fifteen handed the envelope to Archer. “It contains the identifications related to the four sets of fingerprints you sent out to all branches of the military, Interpol, and CIA.”

  The four deceased UNSUBs' fingerprints had been run against millions of prints in the FBI's computer and had all come back unknown, baffling Archer. He was certain the four were ex-Special Forces-everything indicated it.

  Archer's hands trembled as he opened the envelope, which contained a typed document and eight photographs. Archer hastily thumbed through them. The first four showed sharp-featured, hard-eyed skinhead soldiers wearing what had to be Soviet military uniforms. The other four were surveillance pictures, one taken of each of the same four men while they were in public. He recognized the men as being the corpses.

  Fifteen crushed out his cigarette and placed the butt into a tin he kept in his pocket. “Those four men are absolutely your Rook Island killers. They were Russian ex-soldiers who have been under surveillance since they came into the country ten days ago. They slipped the CIA watchers and resurfaced on Rook Island. We figured that they were up to something. Now we know what that something was.”

  Archer knew that if the CIA conducted surveillance on subjects inside the United States, they were obliged by law to involve the appropriate federal agency and step back, since CIA operations on American soil were illegal. The CIA, being the creature it was, didn't always comply. Like most intelligence agencies, the CIA lived to collect information but was reluctant to share it unless it would result in a net gain. If the agency had been tracking four men they suspected were up to no good, then hadn't alerted the FBI, that would be bad enough. But the fact that the same men had slipped their watchers to murder six sailors, six United States marshals, two Justice Department pilots, a federal attorney, and a protected witness made such an admission impossible at this point. He figured that it was sensible for the CIA to have Fifteen now make the information available to the FBI so they didn't have to admit their involvement. It was a win-win deal for the CIA because they could still take credit for identifying the Russians without getting a black mark for their failure to bring in the FBI.

  Fifteen took a sip from the straw. “You could compare the prints yourself, but for the unfortunate fact that their bodies were somehow misidentified and misplaced. Chunks and ash by now.”

  Archer knew Fifteen well enough to believe that the “accidental” cremations would prove to be true, but he didn't see the reasoning behind it.

  “What about the others?”

  “Others?”

  “There were more than the four. There were at least eight, maybe more. I have a sketch of an old man with a malformed pupil who was their leader.”

  “The sketch is worthless. This old man is merely a figment of a young boy's imagination.” Fifteen straightened in the chair. “I'll give you the other four because I know how important it is to your investigation. The Russian Mafia is a problem that concerns us all, and of course the remaining troops have to be accounted for, which they will.”

  Archer couldn't afford to press his benefactor for details. What Fifteen said was how it was, period. Archer knew that asking questions was pointless. Fifteen told Fred only what he wanted to, when he decided the time was right.

  “Let me see what I can do. You have there Sam Manelli's connection to the killers-picture-perfect proof that he hired them to do what they did. His Russian pals made them available to him and that evidence will be forthcoming”

  “The A.G. expects me to close this yesterday,” Archer said, belaboring the irony of the statement.

  “No problem.” Fifteen reached into his jacket and handed Archer a folded search warrant. “Judge Paul Horn issued this. Have a team of FBI agents in New Orleans serve it. It will yield proof that the killers were working for Manelli.”

  “Enough to convict him?”

  “Enough proof for the world, if not enough to actually convict him. That, you and I will take care of shortly.”

  “I don't know what to say,” Archer replied, as he read the warrant.

  “One hand washes the other, Fred. Is there anything else?”

  “Just one more thing. We have to figure out how Manelli's hitters found out where Devlin was. I'm sure there was someone on the inside of WITSEC, probably inside the detail.”

  “Obviously, there was an inside person,” Fifteen told Archer. “Someone in WITSEC got the intelligence out. You'll need proof of that. So, of all the likely candidates, whom do you most suspect?”

  “The supervising deputy, WITSEC inspector Gregory Nations, is the most logical.”

  “Let me see what I can scrounge up. If he was linked to Sam Manelli, I will get you evidence of it, financial records of payoffs for motive-he had ample opportunity. Is Sunday night soon enough?”

  “Of course,” Fred said, his excitement barely under control.

  “In return for assisting you in putting this disaster to bed, I may need a few small favors from you… when the time is right.”

  “What sort of favors?”

  “Nothing at all, really. In order to help you effectively, I need to stay involved.”

  “Involved?”

  “You'll need to keep me in your loop.”

  Archer was taken aback. Fifteen had never requested such a thing and if Archer was caught at it, he would
be dead in the water. This changed the face of their relationship to what was technically espionage. “Well,” Archer said, swallowing hard. “I don't know how I can do that.”

  Fifteen reached down and picked up the envelope and its contents. “If you can't, I'll understand, Fred. But of course, someone else might end up with the case who does know. I'm sure you can function just as well in the future without my help. It's your decision.”

  It was a decision Fred Archer had no trouble making.

  53

  Washington, D.C.

  Saturday

  Sean awoke at eight A.M. without receiving the wake-up call she had requested for seven-thirty. Based on what she had seen of the place, she had no trouble believing that the management hoped she would sleep past the ten A.M. checkout time so they could charge her for a second night. The room stank of stale smoke, the carpeting was stained and the curtains frayed. As far as she could tell, the sheets were clean.

  She showered under a weak stream of lukewarm water with a minuscule bar of soap and dried herself with a thin towel hardly larger than the washcloth. She rinsed her mouth with tap water and used her fingertip to clean her teeth. She studied the dark bruise on her lip as she ran her fingers through her wet hair.

  Now able to think with a clear head, she felt relieved her life was back under her control. She started a mental list of the things she needed to accomplish in the next few hours.

  She slipped into her stale clothes, opened the telephone book, and looked for the places most likely to help her with her next step. She found a likely candidate, memorized the address, pulled on her leather coat, slipped her purse into her briefcase, and left. She had eluded the marshals and, at least for the moment, she had what mattered most-her life. Now all she had to do was keep it. She asked the desk clerk to call her a cab.

  The sign on the building read, URBAN WARFARE. Below those words, smaller print added, FASHIONS FOR THE BATTLE OF LIFE. Sean studied the mannequins in the windows and decided that they looked as though they had been brought in off an active battlefield. She felt exhilarated as she contemplated the leather and the T-shirts brandishing insults intended to pass for social statements. Satisfied she would find what she was looking for, she walked inside.

  The saleswoman peered at her from behind a glass counter. She had luminous white skin, jet-black clothes to match her hair and lipstick, and an extremely large hoop that seemed to run through her septum. Her hair looked like it belonged on a doll found in a landfill. She was wearing dark-framed reading glasses.

  “Yeah?” When the woman spoke, a stud in her tongue sparkled.

  “I need a new wardrobe.”

  “No offense, but you're more the Junior League type. My stuff is a bit more cutting-edge, don't you think?” The clerk's raspy voice sounded like it had been tuned by twenty years of cigarette smoke and liquor.

  “I need a change.”

  “You think I don't know who you are?”

  Sean was stunned. She had assumed it was too soon for Manelli's network to be looking for her.

  The woman came from around the counter. “Judging by the lip, you gotta change your look and then run like hell.”

  The clerk had her pegged for a battered wife on the run. Perfect.

  “What appeals to you?”

  Sean looked at the tag on a pair of jeans. “You take Visa, MasterCard?”

  “I have to take plastic, but I hate the shit. Costs me three points. I always prefer cash.”

  “These clothes are sort of expensive.”

  “Quality costs. Some of these are originals. I get famous people in here, you know. Johnny Depp shops here-anyway, he did once. I got an autographed picture he sent me around here somewhere. People are funny. Something's cheap, they stick up their noses, if it's real expensive they'll stick up a bank to get it. My name's Hoover. I own the place.” She glanced at Sean's wrist. “Nice watch. Could I see it?”

  Sean promptly removed the watch and handed it over.

  Hoover studied the watch. “Real?”

  “A gift from my husband.”

  “Fakes are so good now. This one's real, it goes for what, four grand?”

  “Twelve,” Sean said coolly.

  “How do you know it's not a copy? Guy who hits you, sweet pea, could be a liar, too.”

  “I had the band shortened myself at Cartier and it's been on my wrist ever since. If it was a fake, they'd have told me.”

  Hoover raised her brows. “Tell you what. Let's get you outfitted up and we'll discuss payment options.”

  Sean fixed her eyes on Hoover's. “Here's the deal. I need a few changes of clothes, the trimmings, something to carry them in, hair and makeup to fit.”

  “Sergio next door is a great hairdresser.” Hoover extended her arms out, cocked her hip in a pose that reminded Sean of a model on a revolving stage posing in front of a new automobile. “He does mine.”

  “Perfect.”

  Hoover studied Sean carefully, then she nodded. “Let's get started, angel. We'll stick to basic black. You got a great body for my clothes.”

  Sean had no problem with black. She was, after all, a widow.

  Sean only knew that she was the person staring back at her from the mirror because she had been in on the transformation process. Two hours had passed since she entered the store. Now Hoover and Sergio stood at the counter evaluating their creation.

  “You look eighteen!” Sergio cried. “Could be my best work.”

  “Yep, a true work of art, sweetie. Now, get the hell out.” Hoover waved a hand in the air, dismissing him. “We'll settle later.”

  Sergio blew them a kiss from the front door and was gone.

  Hoover folded the clothes they had chosen into a new nylon duffel bag. Sean put her computer and her purse into a small backpack and set her empty leather briefcase on the counter. “My financial situation is this: What cash I have, I'll need for my relocation.”

  “The clothes, the hair, and makeup, glasses, boots, socks… Normally that'd run twenty-five, twenty-six hundred, plus tax.”

  Sean rested her hands on the briefcase. “This was eleven hundred new.”

  “It's used and, anyhow, do I look like I'd carry a case like that? Tell you what, just use your credit card, and, for you, I'll eat the three points.”

  If Sean used her plastic, Hoover would get her money, but, it would lead people straight to the store. When Hoover described how Sean now looked, she'd be easier to find than ever. Sean slipped off the Cartier and set it on the briefcase. “This will cover what I owe you and then some.”

  “I can't take it.”

  “Eighteen-karat. Look at the hands. The second hand sweeps. That means self-winding Swiss movement, not quartz. Listen to it. Look at it. Feel the weight.”

  “I believe it's real. Problem is, I can't make change on that. You said twelve grand? What would I do with it? This is no pawnshop.”

  Sean thought about it. The watch was worth ten used. It was a magnificent piece of engineering, precious metal, and art. Besides, Dylan had given it to her, which made it worthless. She had another thought.

  “Hoover, you wouldn't happen to know where I can get a gun, would you?”

  Hoover's right eyebrow rose. After a moment, she reached under the counter near her knees and lifted up a very large revolver. “Forty-four. Storekeeper's best friend. I get some tough customers.”

  “I was thinking something smaller.”

  Hoover promptly reached into a drawer behind her and took out a small dark revolver with checkered hickory grips. “Smith and Wesson. 38 Chiefs. It conceals like a champ, holds five shots, and has plenty of punch. And it's not hot.”

  Sean studied the gun. “The Cartier for everything, the Smith and extra bullets if you have them. We both know a jeweler who thought my watch was stolen would pay three grand, which gives you a nice profit on the clothes, which probably cost you twenty-five percent of what the tags say. Gun's value is maybe three hundred on a good day.”

&n
bsp; Hoover slid the gun across the counter to Sean, then lifted the watch and slipped it onto her wrist. “Done.”

  Sean lifted the revolver, broke it open, and pressed the ejector to empty the shells into her palm. She looked into the empty ports, eyed the inside of the barrel for dirt. She reloaded it and closed it with a snap. “And keep the change.”

  Hoover reached into the drawer behind her again and placed a box of shells on the counter. Then she offered her hand. Sean set the gun down and the two women shook on it.

  Sean bought a newspaper before she boarded the train. The front page of USA Today carried two seemingly unrelated stories. A jet carrying United States marshals had crashed while trying to make an emergency landing at an abandoned airfield in rural Virginia. The names of the dead marshals were being withheld until notification of next of kin. In the second article, six sailors at a radar facility on Rook Island, just off the coast of North Carolina, were dead. Neither the Navy nor the FBI would confirm reports that the incident was a shooting rampage perpetrated by one of the six sailors, who subsequently took his own life. An FBI spokesman said only that the details of the tragedy would be forthcoming as soon as their investigation was completed. The names of the six dead sailors were also being withheld. Sean closed her eyes and bit her lip.

  54

  Richmond, Virginia

  Sean carried her bag out of the railway terminal on her shoulder. She was about to hail a taxi when one made a tire-squealing U-turn and pulled up to the curb in front of her. It happened with a suddenness that froze her in her tracks. Other taxi drivers, already in line, honked in protest.

  The driver's voice carried out over the blaring horns. “Get in quick before one of those old fuckers starts shooting!”

  Sean leaned down and instantly understood why the driver had done what he had. He was a kindred spirit of the girl Sean had become. He was wearing a T-shirt that advertised German beer, and his jeans were two washings away from becoming shop rags. Tattoos covered both arms to the wrists and most of his neck. His hair was blazing orange with bright-blue tips, and he had stainless-steel hoops through his earlobes, studs in his nose, and a ball under his lower lip. A pair of enormous blue eyes were set in an enthusiastic face that looked like a clean page waiting for experience to line it.