“You're talking about a conspiracy between the FBI, the Russian government, the Navy, and the CIA. Hell, maybe even the Marshals Service. It sounds like the two hundred people who were in on framing O.J.,” Reed said.
Winter couldn't blame him for being skeptical. “They wouldn't all have to be aware of the entire picture to be directly involved. Just a handful of people at the top would have to know why they were doing what they were doing. They'd just have to control who knows what. You know how some people will follow any order.”
“Those four guys were definitely soldiers,” Reed mused. “Why not Russians?”
“How many Russians speak with a cracker accent? How many Russians have tattoos removed that leave a scar in the shape of a SEAL trident? I couldn't help but notice that the naked corpse was circumcised. What was he, a Russian-Jewish shock trooper?”
There was a long silence. Then Reed asked, “So all you want from me is to run four sets of fingerprints, which I wasn't supposed to keep? If I did accidentally hold on to a dupe set, as soon as I run them, the FBI will know all about it. This conspiracy cabal of yours involves the FBI.”
“Would it be possible to run them against military fingerprints, just within the Pentagon's database?”
“Maybe.”
“I think those four killers were once members of our military. I think the FBI already knows that because they have all the soldiers in the active database. If they were ours, I need to know who they really were. I need anything you can scrape up. If you draw a blank, at least I'll know I've done everything I can.”
“I'll see what I can do,” Reed said.
“You believe me?”
“I only believe that the tale you're spinning is slightly more intriguing than what I spent the morning doing-plaster-casting motorcycle tread marks on the seventeenth green on the officers' golf course.”
“Thanks,” Winter said.
“This is probably a waste of time, but just for the sake of paranoia, take down my private cell number and give me yours.”
63
Richmond, Virginia
Sean luxuriated in the tub for an hour. She didn't feel safe but, for the first time since she'd returned from Argentina, she felt relaxed. When she'd told Paul Gillman her abusive husband was a federal agent, she'd unconsciously cast Winter Massey in the role. But Winter was probably one of the least violent people she had ever met. He'd killed to save her life. It was a strange feeling to have such a strong emotional bond with a stranger. Winter was a complex individual who had gotten more interesting with every conversation. Why couldn't she have met Winter instead of Dylan? Would she, could she, have told him the truth?
Her skin was wrinkling so she got out, toweled off, and went into the bedroom, where her coat was hung over a chair. She reached into the pocket and removed the cash and the passport.
Sally McSorley's passport had a five-year-old picture of Sean Marks in it because it was the phony passport her mother had acquired for Sean's emergency kit. In the picture, Sean had auburn hair tucked behind her ears. Sean decided the picture made her look innocent. Had she ever been innocent? As a young girl in Catholic schools? As a college student? As the bride of a murdering son of a bitch masquerading as a human being? Had she ever had any choice? She wasn't going to waste time feeling like a victim-self-pity was a waste of energy.
She snapped open the revolver and looked at the shells in the cylinder. They might well come for her, but one thing was certain-she'd be one kill that somebody was going to have to work hard for.
After dressing, she picked up the backpack containing her computer, and slipped the pistol into her coat pocket. She considered dipping into the bundle of cash hidden inside a secret pocket in her duffel, a feature that Hoover had used to sell her the bag, but decided to leave it and her passport alone. After closing her door, Sean hooked the DO NOT DISTURB sign on the doorknob.
In the lobby, she got five dollars' worth of quarters from Max and walked to a pay phone down the street. She dialed information.
“United States Marshals Service. How may I direct your call?” The young woman's voice was pleasant and very Southern.
“I'd like to speak to Deputy Winter Massey.”
“I'm sorry, he's not in the office. Would you care to speak to another deputy or leave a message on his voice mail?”
Sean listened to Winter's recorded voice and hung up before the tone sounded. She dialed information again and asked the operator for the listing in Charlotte for Winter Massey.
“Sorry, no Winter Massey in Charlotte.”
Of course he wouldn't have the phone in his name. She had an idea how he might list it. “Do you have a listing for Lydia or a Rush Massey?”
After checking, the operator told her, “I show a Lydia Massey in Concord, North Carolina. Same area code.”
Sean didn't have anything to write with and she fought to remember the number as she pulled out her computer and opened it. She repeated the number until the computer booted up, and she typed it under a folder icon on her desktop, changing the file's name from “Misc,” to “7045529988.”
Staring down at the number, Sean felt suddenly insecure. She wanted to decide exactly what she would say to him. Would she ask for his help? How could she do that without putting him in danger? How much could she tell him? How many lies would she need to tell? She just needed to talk to him; maybe then, she would feel anchored again.
Nervously, she dialed the number, then dropped in the required number of coins. The voice that answered brought a rush of relief to her. She realized she was holding her breath.
“Winter?”
“Sean? Is it you?”
64
Concord, North Carolina
When the phone rang, Winter was in his bedroom with the door closed, going over his conversation with Reed in his mind.
“Hello?”
“Winter?”
The sound of Sean's voice filled him with relief. “Sean, is it you?”
“It's me.”
“A lot of people are worried about you,” he told Sean.
“I figured my sudden departure might raise some eyebrows.”
“Are you all right?”
“I'm perfectly fine. After you left, I tired of the company.”
“Do you have money?”
“Enough.”
“Why are you running?”
“I'm moving around at the moment to make sure when I stop I'll be out of danger.”
“I was afraid you might have been kidnapped.”
“No, I wasn't kidnapped. I just wanted to let you know that so you wouldn't worry. You can tell your chief marshal I am fine, and even though he lied to me, I forgive him.”
“Lied how?”
“I've been watching the news and I can't help but notice they are playing fast and loose with the facts.”
“You don't know the half of it.”
“It's nice hearing your voice, Massey. I mean that. I'd love to chat, but I have to make a plane.”
“Will you stay in touch?” He suppressed the urge to add please.
“I can't call back for a while.”
“Why not?”
“You're kidding, right? Ever heard of traces? The marshals can't protect me. Look, I'll get in touch from time to time, if you don't mind.”
“I'd like that a lot. You just promise that if you ever need my help, you'll call me?”
“So long, Massey.”
The line went dead. Winter's heart sank, wishing there had been some way to prolong their conversation. He knew he had to help her. He dialed Hank's cell phone.
“Yeah?”
“You aren't working late again, are you?” Winter asked him.
“Yeah,” Hank answered. “Sun to sun, son.”
“Sean Devlin just called. She wants Shapiro to know she's all right. She said she knows he lied to her, but she forgives him.”
“Lied about what?”
“Didn't say. Can you handle that?”
/>
“I'll tell him. He might want to talk to you. The attorney general has set a press conference for Thursday morning. It won't be a secret after that, and you can get on with your life.”
“Thursday,” Winter said.
“If you need to talk, I'm here. You know that, right?”
“Yeah, Hank. I do. Thanks.”
Winter hung up. He felt sick and, except for once three years before, more helpless than ever.
65
New York, New York
Herman Hoffman read the note that had been placed on the table beside his Wedgwood plate, “I'll let you know what my orders are in a little while,” he said to the man who had delivered it.
“Yes, sir.”
“I need those call transcripts ASAP.”
The man vanished.
Herman cut a slice from the veal medallion and chewed it, keeping his eyes on the plate. He lifted the wineglass and sipped. He patted his lips with the edge of the linen napkin, then pushed the note to Ralph and watched as he read it.
“We have her located. What now?” Ralph asked, looking up.
“I'm considering what the appropriate response should be. Eat.”
Ralph cut a chunk of sirloin.
“Mrs. Devlin was at a pay phone in Richmond, Virginia thirty-three minutes ago. Richmond is a very big town to cover without assistance. With a transcript of the call, it might be possible to know if she is in a car passing through and picked out the phone at random, or is staying nearby and had no other access to a telephone. Or maybe she has access but knows better than to use a phone within close proximity of her hide.” Herman speared a red potato and, holding it up, examined it as though seeking some imperfection on its skin.
Ralph didn't interrupt, just listened and chewed.
“She escaped a marshal surveillance team,” Herman mused. “The woman vanished into thin air with the authorities covering airports, train and bus terminals. She has no one to turn to and can't gain access to her trust accounts or use a credit card without us knowing it.” Herman rubbed his chin. “Ralph, what would you do?”
“Wait until she uses up her cash and resorts to a credit card.”
“She may have resources we aren't aware of. The question is where is she heading and how soon. My instincts tell me that she will be staying in Richmond for a time, not because of her limited resources but the natural instinct to hide, keep a low profile. She will use the credit cards only to misdirect, so I'll ignore that. She will eventually have to go for her trust account, but we can't afford to wait her out. Not with Fifteen making such a ruckus.”
Ralph's fork was frozen in midair as he listened. He knew very well who Fifteen was, but he had no idea what sort of ruckus his boss was referring to.
“I'll send a pair to Richmond. That way at least we will be in the area when we get our next fix on her.”
“Send me, sir. I won't miss her.”
“I have just the pair in mind. I don't want to tell Mr. Russo yet that she is alive. With luck, I won't have to. He's such an excitable fellow. For the present, we'll just let that sleeping dog lie.”
Ralph nodded absently. “I'd like to go.”
“I feel much safer with you here.”
“Lewis says that if we don't take Massey out, he could be trouble later on.”
“I won't be prodded into sanctioning a man who got lucky. And if Massey wasn't lucky, I don't want to risk another man. I'll just let Fifteen deal with the deputy and I'll concentrate on the woman.”
“Lewis is different now. I can't put my finger on it, but he's changed.”
“Time and circumstances can do that. How's the wine?”
“Needs sugar.”
“I doubt the vintner would agree, but go ahead.”
Herman watched Ralph put a half spoon of sugar in the vintage Bordeaux and stir.
Herman was fast approaching the end of the trail, but he had never felt more alive. This operation, perhaps the last he would ever oversee, had been complex from its very inception. It could have fallen apart at so many junctures, but it had proceeded perfectly until Massey got in the way. Herman had rarely come up against a single adversary he could admire. On many occasions, he had ordered sanctions that pitted one, or several, of his men against a target protected by a large security force. Any single man who could kill four of his boys, as Massey had, clearly deserved respect. He was a remarkable warrior, but the skills that made him that hardly translated into his becoming a threat now that he was off the field-the fighting near him was over.
Herman would not send men against Massey for merely having been a remarkable obstacle. This was just a game, and sportsmanship dictated that coaches didn't punish opposing players for scoring.
66
Concord, North Carolina
While Winter and Lydia were clearing the dinner dishes, his cell phone buzzed from the bedroom. He got to it on the third ring.
“Yeah?” Winter answered.
“I found them. Those four men were Special Forces. But they died long before you met them.”
“That's crazy,” Winter said. “I killed ghosts?”
“You're thinking inside the box. You know what a cutout is? Technically anybody who drops their real identity in favor of a new one for security reasons is a cutout. A protected witness would be considered a cutout, as would a CIA or FBI agent who is going undercover.”
“You're sure they're cutouts?”
“Yes. As for Ward Field, it started out as a training base for pilots during the second world war and continued operations through 1974 before it was classified as redundant by the Air Force and closed. But the land and the base, although decommissioned in 1974, remains restricted airspace. According to a series of reports in The Washington Post, Ward was listed as one of the CIA's launching pads for sensitive operations. Remember Iran-Contra, when the CIA flew guns south and, according to some, ferried cocaine on the return trips in order to sell it on the streets to purchase more guns? According to the articles, Ward Field was a secret base where cargo planes landed and took off. Isolated plus restricted equals perfect.”
“You're saying the CIA is behind the assaults?”
“Involved up to their eyeballs. Maybe the FBI doesn't have their prints. It's possible they were purged after they were dead and buried. I know the CIA missed the fact that the real prints are still on file at the Pentagon. You'd figure they would have purged those fingerprint records to cover their tracks.”
“Unless someone wants to know when one of them is fingerprinted,” Winter speculated.
“I'm paranoid enough to imagine there might be a trip wire set to alert the CIA, NSC, or maybe even military intelligence. Maybe I'll have some questions to answer about how I came to have those prints.”
“The UNSUBs' bodies will match your print cards,” Winter said. “That's mighty strong corroboration.”
“Don't count on it. Those guys will certainly erase their trail, if they haven't already. I checked for similar reports of deaths in the Special Forces over a ten-year period. Even figuring that most are legitimate accidental deaths, there could be a lot of dead men still serving their country.”
“Maybe you should take a vacation.”
Reed chortled. “My bags have been packed all afternoon.”
“Do you have hard copies?”
“I'm mailing a set to a friend who will know what to do with them.”
“I need a set,” Winter said.
“This is sensitive stuff. This might end up being the only record there is of this. I think I better send it to somebody they aren't watching. You don't want them to come to you looking for these, do you? They've demonstrated that they can play rough.”
“Nobody's watching me,” Winter protested.
“You sure?” Reed asked him. “This isn't amateur night at the Apollo.”
Winter felt a stab of paranoia after Reed hung up.
If the men on Ward Field and Rook Island were CIA assassins and the FBI knew, it wou
ld be devastating. If Winter had the evidence, perhaps Shapiro could use it and, if nothing else, make sure Greg's name wasn't dragged through the mud. One thing was for sure-no one would ever believe the CIA was involved in this without the proof Reed had. Winter could believe the FBI was in on keeping the CIA's involvement covered up. The question was why the CIA would have gone to such unbelievable extremes to kill Devlin?
Was it possible that the CIA was working to help Sam Manelli? What in God's name was going on when the government murdered its own soldiers and agents for a mobster's benefit? Winter wondered if Manelli's history of invulnerability to arrest and conviction was due to something the CIA was afraid he could let out of the bag? Or was it something that Devlin knew?
What was obvious to Winter was that-if they would kill so many people to silence one witness against Sam Manelli-the CIA surely wouldn't hesitate to kill a few more.
67
Norfolk, Virginia
Fletcher Reed closed his telephone and placed the heavy manila envelope that he had carried in his overcoat pocket into the mailbox's open slot.
United States Marshals Service
Richard Shapiro, Director
600 Army Navy Drive
Arlington, Virginia 22202
He pushed it in, hearing it land on earlier deposits.
Fletcher breathed in the cool evening air, like a man without a care in the world. He looked up into the night sky to take in the stars. He was relieved he had spoken to Massey-that Massey now knew what he knew. There was safety in numbers, but two wasn't much of a number unless one was the publisher of The Washington Post. He took out a cigar and lit it, giving the smoke to the breeze. He didn't know how rapidly the cutouts could respond, but he had assumed he had a comfortable lead. He had decided he would accept the danger if this was brought to the attention of people who could do something to right it. Six sailors' deaths had to be avenged. If Massey was the man Reed thought he was, they might have a shot at dispensing justice.
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