“You didn't ever mention Sam to Dylan?”
“The only way Dylan could have known about my connection to Sam was if someone who knew told him.”
“He worked for Sam. Maybe Sam told him.”
“Sam told me Dylan didn't work for him. He said he'd never met him and that he couldn't believe Dylan was bringing him down with lies. Sam assumed I had told Dylan about him and that Dylan lied about killing those people for Sam so he could get a deal with the government.
“If Dylan was killing Sam's enemies for someone, it could have been Johnny, because they would have had the same enemies. Sam was effectively out of the crime business, had no reason to kill anybody, but Johnny did. Maybe Johnny set it up so Dylan knew enough about me to get close to me.”
“I'm sure it was something like that,” Winter said.
“I knew what Sam was. One night when I was ten, I looked out a window at Sam's house and saw him knock a man to the ground and kick him until he was unconscious, while two of Sam's men watched. Sam was smiling like a lunatic the whole time he was beating that poor man.”
“That's terrible. I don't blame you for keeping your relationship secret.”
“I just want what I've always wanted-to live a normal life without ever again having to lie about anything to anyone.”
“You deserve that,” Winter told her.
109
McLean, Virginia
Ten o'clock in the morning found Fifteen in the basement of his house sitting on his sleek Italian leather couch, his feet on a matching ottoman. The cigarette smoke swarming around him caught the flickering light cast by his television set, which was showing a nine-ball championship between two female opponents. He knew that the Asian champion, his favorite, would win, because he had watched the tape at least a dozen times. Now, like never before, knowing the outcome of the contest was comforting.
His frown deepened as his eyes moved from the champion-to-be leaning over the pool table to make a shot on the three ball to the coffee table where an ashtray, piled high with butts and ash, kept company with a vase filled with an explosion of silk flowers. The table was also littered with newspapers detailing the explosion in Manhattan and the intelligence reports on the New Orleans fiasco.
Herman Hoffman had passed on to all of his people the belief that they were untouchable, because the organization had been designed to be both too valuable an asset to the government and too dangerous to screw with. Now that invulnerability was ancient history-a blood-splattered myth.
Since he had met with his liaison at the CIA two hours earlier, Fifteen had been sitting alone in his basement weighing his options, smoldering over the mistake he had made. He cringed at the memory of the smug, sawed-off CIA lackey who had passed on the CIA director's threats, knowing that Fifteen didn't dare do more than sit silently and take the man's insults, one by one, nodding all the while like a shell-shocked imbecile. A month ago no one would have dared confront him, much less dictate to him.
Blame it on ego. Herman's and his.
Herman had set the failure in motion, but Fifteen had blown it all with the deputy in New York by playing games instead of just taking care of the business. All he'd had to do was leave Massey there paralyzed and set the explosives for ten or twenty minutes, instead of toying with him. He had put the deputy into a sealed building with no way out, knowing that he would eventually open that refrigerator if only to scrounge some food. Fifteen had someone stay in the neighborhood until after the bomb went off, to ensure it did. The detonator was set for twenty seconds, not even enough time for Massey to piss his pants. How could he have escaped and ended up in the basement? It wasn't possible, but obviously it had been too possible. It was so damned unnecessary. He had known better, but he had given in to his own stupid arrogance.
Fifteen still couldn't believe that of the eight heavily armed cutouts who had tried to kill Massey on two occasions, he had killed six of them. In total, of the hundreds of rounds they had fired at him, the best killers on earth had managed to put a grand total of one bullet into the deputy's leg. And Fred Archer was dead-all that grooming wasted.
He had honestly believed that it couldn't get any worse, that he had fixed everything Herman had screwed up-had total control of the situation at every turn. Massey's death in that building would have sealed the blame, divided it between Greg Nations and Massey. Manelli's and Russo's deaths and the retrieval of the GPS from that computer would have insured that everything was settled, that the cutouts were out of peril. But that was not to be. Every time he thought he had everything back on track, there was Massey tossing another crowbar into the gears and him running to put it right.
Using information Massey and Fletcher Reed had collected, the director of the USMS, Richard Shapiro, had effectively derailed their dark ops train. Shapiro had the CIA by the nuts, and the agency had reacted by threatening to cancel Fifteen's organization's operating license, cut his ties to intelligence, and even throw Fifteen to a congressional oversight committee. The last threat was a bluff. There was no way the CIA could afford to have the cutout cells made public. But there could be a private reckoning-a bullet in the ear, a knife in the jugular, a heart attack, or perhaps a sans- parachute halo jump into the Atlantic.
Shapiro had somehow gotten his hands on the Global Fifty GPS from Sean Devlin's computer, and unbelievably, knew what it was, how it was used, and that the CIA owned the technology. He said he could prove that Archer's evidence against Greg Nations was fraudulent. Massey had told Shapiro everything he'd learned about Herman Hoffman and Fifteen, and about the existence of the cutout cells.
Fletcher Reed's computer printouts were a map to the members of the cells. And there was the matter of the fingerprint cards from Rook, which matched those of four long-dead soldiers whom Reed identified. Fifteen was still sure he could have gotten all of Shapiro's evidence back if the CIA would have let him-an action they had expressly forbidden.
Fifteen looked back up to the tournament on television. The Asian player had a beautiful, lithe body and coldly calculating eyes.
Shapiro had offered a compromise the CIA had accepted. In return for holding back his evidence, Shapiro had wanted very little. He asked for WITSEC to be cleared, Gregory Nations to be exonerated, and the cutouts to refrain from any further hostilities against Winter Massey and Sean Devlin. He suggested that the FBI might arrest a Russian Mafia leader-they had one named Dobrensky they decided was perfect-who would be linked to the dead cutouts, men who would still be identified as Russian mercenaries. Dobrensky would be tried for conspiring with Manelli to furnish the talent to kill the protected witness. Attorney General Katlin would get a nice show trial and everything would be tied up with a big red bow for the American public. To explain how the mercenaries found Rook Island and the WITSEC airplane, it had been decided that Avery Whitehead, a bachelor nobody was particularly attached to, was to play the money-corrupted villain who had sold the intelligence on the WITSEC locations to Manelli.
Fifteen knew that the compromise would work to everyone's satisfaction. The organization would stay in business, with Fifteen overseeing the cells, although the CIA would have tighter controls on the organization-the inevitable consequence of Rook Island and Ward Field. Fifteen suspected that Herman had done everything he had done, knowing that it would alter, if not destroy, the organization he had fathered, the thing he had owned and couldn't stand to see survive him.
The catch in this all-the thing that had Fifteen worried-was the realization that if Lewis completed his assignment, the deal was off and Shapiro's revelations would create apocalyptic repercussions. The fact was that Fifteen couldn't contact Lewis, his last cutout in the field. Before the CIA had informed him of the developments, Fifteen had already ordered Lewis to complete his assignment at any and all costs.
He remembered something his father had once told him: “You learn from your mistakes only if you survive them.” Herman hadn't, but maybe he still would.
His only hope was to
dispatch a team to New Orleans and pray they would find Lewis and stop him before his success made them both dead men. He lifted the telephone receiver and dialed.
110
When Winter got out of bed, his leg throbbed against the bandage, his back hurt, his head felt like his sinuses were filled with BBs, and every joint and muscle in his body ached. Sean helped him, standing firm while he leaned on her and eased into the wheelchair. He hated having to sit in the thing because the idea of having someone push him through the hospital like an exhibit was abhorrent to him. Winter was buttoning his shirt when an orderly wheeled Hank Trammel into the room. A cast held Hank's left arm out even with his shoulder, bent at the elbow.
“I wanted to say good-bye.”
“We're about ready to check out,” Sean said.
“Wish you'd join us at the hotel,” Winter said. “I think we earned a couple days off on an expense account.”
“Place would look like a convalescent ward, and truth be told, I'd like to sleep in my own bed, since last night I was damned sure I'd never see it again. Sean, can I get a couple of minutes with Winter to discuss some marshal business?”
“Sure, Hank.” Sean waited for the orderly to leave and then closed the door on her way out.
“Got a message from Shapiro.” Hank handed Winter an envelope, which he'd opened.
Hank,
Greg Nations and WITSEC are fully exonerated. Winter Massey and Sean Devlin cleared.
The item you sent was a (CIA only) GPS device that transmitted its location over satellite to a designated receiver. It went active when the laptop computer was turned on. With those coordinates, satellites could capture photo images, like the ones Winter saw in New York. The way it was set up, it could also send text messages typed into the computer's word processing program.
Special deputies will keep you, Winter, and Sean under guard until “certain” people are called off for good. Terms are for all concerned parties to develop full memory loss on this entire episode, which, all things considered, should be agreeable.
So it is all over. Destroy this.
“What's the computer deal?” Winter asked.
“The thing Eddie found in Sean's laptop when we got that bullet out. I told you yesterday.”
“You didn't.”
“I thought I did. Can you tear this note up for me?”
“Sure.” Winter ripped the note into small bits and Hank took them in his good hand, walked into the bathroom, and flushed them down the toilet.
“Some dang deal, when it takes both of us to destroy one damn piece of paper. If we had a book to get rid of, it could take us a week.”
“So that GPS thing explains how they tracked Sean and how the cutouts located us and compiled all their satellite intelligence. It explains how those women hitters found her in Richmond.”
“It doesn't explain who planted it,” Hank said. “Who could have smuggled the gizmo into the safe house and put it into that computer? You think those killers were after her computer and not her at all?”
“The cutouts were after Dylan for Sam, but they were after Sean for Russo. It was Russo who wanted her dead and got Hoffman to do it for him. Maybe those killers on Rook intended to take the computer out too, before they were interrupted.”
“Chet said Sean was fussing over Manelli at the lodge like they were old friends and Sam had to tell them to get her away from him. He says there was a picture of a kid that looked a lot like her in Sam's bedroom. She get around to telling you what the deal was with her and those guys?”
“Sam was her father.”
“No way!”
“The whole time Sam was trying to get to Sean to protect her, Russo was trying to get her killed. If she and Sam had talked things through, Russo would have been cooked, because Sam didn't know Sean was ever a target. When you and I arrived, Russo was waiting for the cutouts to show up and wipe out Sean and Sam. He was going to kill us in the boathouse because, without our word to buck the setup, Sam would have gotten the blame for us and Sean. I'm sure Archer's bunch was set to get the credit for taking out Manelli. I think the cutouts would have clued Archer as to where Sam was after they were finished. I wonder if Archer knew Sean wasn't in that car. Maybe he'd have just sat there at that service station off the interstate until he got a call from his contact telling him to go out to the lodge. As far as Fifteen knew, nobody would have been around to contradict whatever Archer and his men said about what happened out there.”
“I knew Sean was hiding something, but that would never have occurred to me. Why exactly did Russo want her dead?”
“Sean was Sam's heir. Johnny is married to Sam's next-closest living relative. Hank, I'd like to keep Sean's secret between the two of us. She doesn't deserve any more pain due to an accident of birth. Protecting her was why Sam told those guys at the lodge to get her away from him. She doesn't need the notoriety of being Manelli's daughter. Might be other people who would benefit-from her death.”
“Guess that explains the passport and five grand she had,” Hank said thoughtfully. “Who on Rook Island could have sent Herman's guys a message? Obviously Sean didn't know that thingie was in her computer, because she handed it over knowing I was going to open it up to get the bullet out. You were there-who else used it? It's obvious, even to me, that one of the deputies had to have done it.”
Winter's mind moved to put together a picture, to concentrate on the computer. “She typed poems into it. Just a minute! Dylan typed her a threatening letter Thursday.” Winter tried to visualize the text. “He said something like he was leaving and she was staying behind. And he had my name in the note, which would explain how the cutout on that boat knew my name. Christ, it told them when the crew was taking Devlin out. But he sure wouldn't commit suicide by tipping Herman's killers off.”
“You see him type that note?”
“No.”
“Gregory only told you Dylan typed it?”
“I didn't actually see Devlin with the computer, but I know Dylan typed it.”
“How?”
Winter had a clear image of the message on the screen. He could picture Greg's hands holding the computer so he could read Dylan's note. “Greg told me he did,” Winter said.
“Greg only told you Dylan Devlin typed it. Jesus, Winter.”
“Greg didn't hide that GPS in the computer,” Winter said with absolute conviction.
“How do you know that's the case though?”
“Greg was so electronically challenged he couldn't change a lightbulb without help, so I doubt he'd be able to hook anything up inside a computer even if he could have opened it up. And most important, he wouldn't have sold out a witness or put his people in danger any more than you would. The last reason is the only one that matters. It was in there before Sean came to Rook.”
111
At Shapiro's request, the Justice Department made the penthouse suite at the Delacroix Hotel available for Winter, Sean, and a team of WITSEC specialists for security. Originally designed for a drug importer with reason to be paranoid, the top floor, number eleven, was a secure space. The regular elevators stopped on the tenth floor, and access on up to eleven required a key. The fire door on eleven could be opened only with a six-digit code, and both landings were covered by surveillance cameras.
Deputy marshals brought Winter's overnight bag upstairs from the room he and Hank had shared for an hour the day before. Sean's suitcases had arrived from USMS headquarters overnight. The two main bedrooms, each containing five hundred square feet of space and covered balconies, had bathrooms done entirely in exotic stone with gold-plated fixtures. While it wasn't to Winter's taste, it was comfortable enough.
Sean had spent the afternoon with Winter in his bedroom, both fully clothed and on top of the California king bed, propped up against a wall of pillows. They talked and watched the news and ordered from room service. Winter's leg pain was a constant dull ache, but he refused to take anything stronger than aspirin.
Sean h
ad never met a man like Winter. She had thought often since Rook about the first time she had seen him, climbing aboard that helicopter, and how her feelings had evolved from that day.
She stood on the balcony, aware that Winter was watching her from the bed. She liked having his eyes on her. He had saved her life twice, each time placing himself in mortal danger. And it was more than the fact that she felt safe when she was with him. She knew now that she'd never felt this way about anyone before.
Sam's death dominated the local media. There were mob experts and reporters from all over the country who told the stories of Sam's “alleged” brutality. There were interviews with people who had remained silent about the gangster and now, true or false, they were ready to talk. “I was ten years old,” one older man said. “Me and my pals were playing on the Magazine Street wharf and we saw Sam Manelli and another guy shoot this third guy and throw him into the river. As they were driving past us, the car stops and Sam hands us each a five-dollar bill. I went home and told my old man what I saw, and my daddy said, ‘You didn't see nothing.' I never told this in forty years.”
There was footage showing him at various ages, all of it taken outside, in public. The interviews with him consisted of a shouted question from a journalist and, in answer, the same dismissive wave. The media had openly called him a gangster and he had made it easy because he had never once opened his mouth to deny or confirm it.
“Hey, Sean, come here,” Winter called from the bed. “You'll want to see this.”
Charles Hunt, the stoic director of the FBI, stood at a podium. He opened a piece of paper, looked down, and said, “Ladies and gentlemen, I would like to read a short statement.
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