Downstairs, outside the steam room, Russo changed out of his clothes and wrapped a towel around his waist. He was pissed that Sam thought he had nothing better to do than look for that bitch, but he had no choice-for the time being.
He comforted himself with something he had read in a book of World War II battles. The greatest generals in history had the ability to turn their weaknesses into strengths.
Johnny Russo saw himself as a general who had proved time after time that he could improvise with the best of them.
83
Javits Federal Building
New York, New York
Because of what he had learned since the Rook Island massacre, Winter wasn't about to trust the FBI. He had sat at an interrogation table in a room at FBI headquarters since being rescued three hours earlier. Two agents had taken turns sitting with him, asking him the same questions over and over. He was a veteran of interrogations from the other side of the table, and he couldn't answer any of their questions without opening up more lines of questioning that he couldn't afford.
He couldn't say how he came to be in the basement of the destroyed building without telling them that he had been kidnapped by cutouts posing as FBI agents. He couldn't tell them any of what Fifteen had told him. Nor could he tell them what he had witnessed on the upper floors of the bombed building. He couldn't tell them the killers on Rook Island and at Ward Field were more cutouts controlled by a CIA-connected man named Herman Hoffman, who was hooked directly to CIA satellite feeds. And, equally important, there was nothing he could say to these people that would help Sean Devlin, if she was still alive, which seemed doubtful based on the fact that they had located her. His best chance to accomplish anything was to tell Richard Shapiro everything he knew and let the director decide how to proceed.
When Fred Archer entered the room, the agent sitting across the table from Winter stood up and left, closing the door behind him.
“Hello, Fred,” Winter said.
“Every time I turn around, I run into you, and its always under unpleasant circumstances.”
“I want to talk to my director,” Winter said.
“You think I care what you want?” he carped.
“It's a matter of life and death.”
“What isn't with you?”
“Sean Devlin is in danger.”
“First tell me how you came to be in a bomb factory-a building used to house killers working for the Russian Mafia.”
“I'm not sure that's the case.”
“Don't try and tell me you didn't know that. We know you were in on this with Gregory Nations.”
“I wasn't.”
“Why were you meeting with them, then? How are you the sole survivor? Don't tell me you were their captive, because you had a gun on you when you were found. Were you trying to destroy the evidence linking you and Nations to them and got caught by the bomb you set? How is it you ended up in the basement? Did you come down after setting the charges, to find the door locked?”
Winter's temper flared as he realized that Fred was trying to counter any possible explanation he might have. “Sean Devlin's life depends on me talking to Richard Shapiro. Is that good enough?”
“Mrs. Devlin's stock isn't worth much with the United States Marshals Service these days.”
“How's that?”
“In Richmond last night, your ‘damsel in distress' killed two of your fugitive recovery deputies. She also killed the witnesses; an old clerk, a cabdriver who'd been carrying her around on errands since she arrived there, and an innocent woman who was caught in the crossfire. Every cop in America is searching for her. Her life is in danger only if she resists arrest.”
“Meaning?”
“She's about as good at killing as her husband was. Despite her innocent act, she was in up to her eyeballs with Dylan Devlin.”
Archer took a piece of paper from his pocket, unfolded it, and tossed it on the table. It was an FBI flyer showing a sketch that resembled Sean as she had appeared in the surveillance picture Winter saw in Hoffman's building. Winter wondered how Archer would respond to a little bit of the truth.
“Looks like a photograph of her I found in that building, which was taken of her in Richmond coming out of the Hotel Grand.”
Winter saw Archer's eyes shift their focus.
“Does the Hotel Grand mean anything to you?” Winter asked.
“What would that picture prove?”
“It would prove that people located her in Richmond and sent a photograph of her here to the people who were in that building. If somebody was killed in Richmond, whoever took that picture was responsible, not Sean Devlin.”
“But you don't have the picture, do you?”
“No.”
“Then there's no proof of what you say, is there? You're grasping at straws, Massey. We've got you by the balls, and no fantasy can save you.”
“Something's been bothering me, Archer. At first I figured you just wanted to close this investigation down fast and that was why you were framing Greg Nations.”
“Framing?” Archer laughed.
“But it's more than that. They got to you, didn't they?”
“Who's they?” Despite his protest, Archer's face reddened.
“We both know who they are.”
Archer leaned in close. His breath was stale, his eyes angry. “You should have stayed out of this. I have more than enough evidence to hang you. You're going to be spending your twilight years looking through steel bars, you murdering prick.”
Archer's cell phone buzzed and he put it to his ear. “Archer.” He straightened. “Yes, sir? I'm with him now.” He sat on the edge of the interrogation table and stared down at Winter as he listened. “When?” He frowned. “Yes, sir. Absolutely.”
His expression soured as he pocketed the cell phone. “We're leaving here in a few minutes,” he told Winter.
“Am I under arrest?”
“Not yet.”
“So can I make a phone call?”
Archer set his phone down in front of Winter and left the room. Winter looked over at the mirror set in the opposite wall, imagining Archer behind it, glaring in at him. Winter dialed USMS headquarters, gave his name to the operator, and asked to be connected to Chief Marshal Shapiro.
“I'm glad you're okay,” Shapiro told him.
“Sir, it's urgent that I talk to you ASAP,” Winter said. “Sean Devlin is in imminent danger. I-”
Shapiro interrupted, “She's safe, under our care. Chief Deputy Trammel will meet you in New Orleans this afternoon and explain everything. We'll talk as soon after that as possible.”
Archer returned as soon as the conversation was over. Winter handed the phone back to him. “If you have the pull, I could use a shower, and some clean clothes would be great.”
Archer left the room again, and Winter stretched his aching arms. He had no idea what was going on, but short of being skinned alive, it would be preferable to what he had been through over the past two days. He looked at himself in the wall mirror and smiled at the stranger whose dust-white hair made him look like a much older version of himself.
He was sorely relieved that Sean was okay and wished he knew the story on Richmond. The very idea that she could kill two fugitive recovery professionals and innocent people was ridiculous. How he was so sure of this, he didn't understand. He only knew that what he had seen in her eyes, made him believe, unequivocally, in her innocence.
When his phone rang, Fred Archer was in a borrowed office just down the hall from where Massey was taking a shower. He was poring over the reports coming in from the search of the ruins of the bombed building. “Archer,” Fred answered.
“Fred, there's a hot dog stand downstairs out front. Go there now.”
The hot dog stand was where Fifteen said it would be. As Fred approached it, the smell of cooking sausages made his stomach churn. As he stood there he was aware of someone standing beside him and turned to find Fifteen wearing a trench coat, a wide-brimmed f
edora, and sunglasses.
“I'd like one fully loaded,” Fifteen told the vendor, who had the good taste not to stare at his mutilated customer.
Fred couldn't think of anything to say. He had never been out in public with Fifteen before.
Fifteen took the hot dog, piled so high with chili and onions it looked to Fred as though it would be impossible even for a man whose mouth opened fully to eat without making a mess.
“Aren't you eating?” he asked Archer.
“Not at all.”
Fifteen made no move to pay for his meal, so Archer reached into his pocket, pulled out a ten, and gave it to the vendor.
“Keep the change,” Fifteen said.
Archer followed his benefactor to the stone steps where Fifteen sat, perching the hot dog on his lap. Archer sat down beside him, aware that people were staring at the odd couple.
“Did he tell you how he came to be inside that building?”
“No.”
“Did he tell you anything he saw while he was there?”
“Not a word.”
“I didn't think he would say anything. You'll let me know if he does?”
“Yeah, sure. But he told me that he knew somebody had gotten to me. The director wants me to-”
“I know what your director told you, Fred. Shapiro put the brakes on the interrogation with an offer your director's boss couldn't turn down.”
“Yeah.”
“Here you are, headed to New Orleans to do battle with that old crocodile Sam Manelli. Remember our deal?”
Archer remembered the favor Fifteen had asked in return for the Rook Island evidence that had all but solved the most important case of his career. The Russian connection, evidence on Nations, the search warrant leading to the instant picture of Dylan dead. This should have been over-but for Massey's interference, it would have been.
“This is divine providence, Fred. Sean Devlin can get you to him, so this deal is a very opportune one for you. You are about to get credit for solving the most important case of the decade and avenging all of those unfortunate deaths. This is where you take your step into the national spotlight, Fred. I so envy you.”
Archer's brain formed an image of him standing at the FBI podium staring out at an ocean of correspondents and knowing that untold millions would be hanging on his every word, memorizing his face as he spoke. He smothered a shit-eating grin with his hand.
“Two or three years here in New York, as assistant FBI director, heading the largest FBI office. Solving one high-profile case after the other until everybody in America is chatting you up. Book deals, movies based on your triumphs, Meet the Press…” He broke a piece of the wiener off and chewed it thoughtfully. “And then, when the time is right, FBI Director Fred T. Archer. That's our goal for you, Fred. That's going to be your future-if you do this right.”
Archer nodded.
Fifteen said, “I'll tell how you should proceed from here.”
Archer listened, taking the information in and filing it neatly in his mind.
“Once your team gets to New Orleans, things will be fluid and you'll be using an encrypted tactical radio channel. We'll be able to monitor your operation and advise you of minute-by-minute developments if we are to make sure this comes off without complications.”
Fifteen wiped chili from his scarred lips. “You will get full credit for taking Manelli down, and nobody will ever know you had help. You'll look brilliant.”
“I can't begin to tell you how much this means to me.”
“Don't bother trying, then.”
When a Lincoln Towncar pulled up to the curb, Fifteen stood. He turned to Archer and touched his hat's brim before climbing into the car and disappearing into morning traffic.
84
Charlotte, North Carolina
Hank hated using the computer instead of the encrypted phone because his typing was so slow, but Chief Marshal Shapiro was understandably wary about telephones now. The e-mail system they were using was routed through personal accounts on Yahoo! Shapiro told Hank it was the safest method there was, because unlike electronic transmissions, the NSA wasn't able to spot-check the millions of personal e-mails for matches.
Hank-Just spoke to W.M.-he's alive and well. Bring S. to Express Aviation Charlotte 1200 hours today-You will be escorting her to New Orleans for a day or two. Full explanation/written orders on plane. Take W.M. the copied set of the pages you faxed to me. Courier me the originals.
Hank was elated Winter was safe. He had made a copy of the pages Lieutenant Commander Reed sent Winter in order to preserve fingerprints on the originals so they could be matched later to a specific copier or printer. He kept an overnight bag in his car so he and Sean could make the noon flight easily. Now he needed to put Lydia at ease.
She answered on the first ring.
“Lydia, your boy is fine,” he told her. “It was like I thought. He got sidetracked and couldn't call.”
“Thank God. I've been going crazy. I can't believe he would act so irresponsibly. Actually I can.” Her tone was sharp. “Where is my son?”
“New Orleans.”
“New Orleans?”
“Lydia, is my wife still there?”
“Yes, she is.”
“Can you ask her to bring me a change of clothes for Winter and his gun rig?” Hank's wife, Millie, had been waiting with her for word on Winter since seven that morning.
“What was he thinking?” she said, her anger rising to the surface. “He had me worried to death. I don't know how much more of this I can take.”
“I'm sure he'll explain everything to you as soon as he can. Lydia, I need those things pronto.”
“I'll collect them.”
Hank's secretary buzzed him.
“I've got to go,” Hank said. He pressed the button, switching lines.
“Sir, Eddie says he's got your bullet.”
Hank strode through the bullpen, down the corridor past the booking room and the holding cell to the door marked EVIDENCE LAB.
Eddie Morgan ran the lab where evidence collected by the deputy marshals was packaged and shipped. He also ran the fingerprint table and the mug shot camera, and maintained their electronic equipment. He was short and overweight, balding, and had nervous, darting eyes. Sean's computer was open, and the technician was studying the electronic guts that he had spread out under a lighted magnifying glass on an adjustable armature.
“Get my bullet?”
Eddie held up a small plastic bag with a mushroomed bullet zip-locked inside it. “Stopped against the battery.”
“Forty-five?”
“Two-hundred-twenty grain, 45-caliber hollow point. The motherboard and the power supply are toast.”
“Ed, I want you to carry the gun and this bullet to the D.C. lab. I want the chain of this evidence unbroken, so you are to personally hand it over to the lab boys.”
“This is worth looking at.” With the eraser of his pencil, Eddie pointed to an object. “This little guy sure isn't a factory part. It was connected to the power supply.”
Eddie stood back to allow Hank to look through the glass. The small apparatus consisted of a gray plastic box the size of a folded matchbook and a disc no larger than a half dollar. There was nothing at all printed on the shell.
“What is it?”
“I've never seen anything like it.”
“Well, box it up, too, and then I want you to get on a plane. If there is no flight immediately, tell Eloise I said she's to lease you a fast one. I'll alert HQ you're on the way.”
“If you say so, Chief.”
“I just did.” Hank patted Eddie on the shoulder.
85
Sean showered in Hank's private bathroom. After drying off, she removed the store tags from the outfit she had selected to wear. Hank had sent a female deputy to shop for clothes from a list Sean had furnished covering the items she needed. At Hank's request Sean had made a list of styles, colors, and sizes. After she put on a gray turtleneck and khaki
slacks, she turned her attention to the mirror. Her hair looked to her like a baby chicken's that had been rolled in oil-well mud and dried by a high-speed fan. She took the brush from the CVS bag and did her best to straighten it out. After being in spikes since she'd left Hoover's urban nonsense shop, it wasn't going to lie down without a fight.
Her mother's face, so like her own, floated into her thoughts. She missed Olivia. The soft side of Sean, the good parts, had come from her mother's genes and the safe environment she had fought so hard to create for her daughter. From her father, Sean had inherited an ability to see solutions logically, to separate herself from emotion, and to think clearly in stressful situations. She had never once panicked, never been frozen by fear, and that was why she was still alive. She had never been so aware of how fortunate she was in the evolutionary lottery-the Lucky Sperm Club.
She was concerned about Winter and knew that she wasn't alone in that. What she felt for her lost protector was complex, but there was a great deal of affection in the mix.
She was comfortable with Hank Trammel. His initial gruffness had melted away to reveal a rough gentleness. In her mind, his sending someone out for her toiletries and new clothes had been an act of thoughtful generosity.
When she came out of his bathroom, Hank was sitting behind his desk looking over some papers. “We're leaving in an hour,” he said, looking up and smiling at her improved appearance. “To meet Winter.”
“Where is he?” she asked. She felt like jumping in the air.
“New Orleans.”
The two words hit Sean like a blast of arctic air, filling her with dread. “New Orleans?” Her mind fought to understand what this sudden development meant. She fought to mask her feelings.
So, Winter was alive and well. She tried to concentrate on that one fact and not to think about who else was in New Orleans.
She couldn't let on that she was certain that once she got to New Orleans, she wouldn't be leaving again.
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