Reload
Page 10
When she laughed, a silver necklace with a small cross bounced atop a round belly. Put a white beard on her and she could be a shopping mall Santa. Her lips pursed. “I like you.” She lifted a receiver and punched buttons.
Previously jovial and bright, she dropped her tone as she spoke into the phone. “Rodney, he still here? Yeah. Uh-huh. Tell him get his skinny ass up here. K? Thanks, sweetness.” She hung up and glanced at him again, the smile of Mrs. Claus returning to her lips. “He’ll be here. I helped you out. You remember that in your report. OK?”
“K.”
* * * *
The cargo elevator clattered to an abrupt halt and Rodney led Carter out. The janitor’s soles didn’t leave the floor as he shuffled down a bright, white-walled hallway. Not even a picture hung from its concrete blocks. Carter had wondered why a custodian would deliver bodies to a morgue, but next to the elevator had been Rodney’s picture on a 30 years of service citation. After that long, the man probably had all kinds of additional duties tacked onto his job description. He pushed through swinging doors into a tight room. A single stainless autopsy table stood center.
Carter’s first breath brought the heavy scent of bleach. “You guys don’t do much volume here, I suppose.”
“Don’t have nuthin’ to compare ta. We’s gets busy sometimes, ’round full moons.” A sideways glance. “It’s tomorrow, you know.”
“What is?”
“Da full moon. Dat’s why.”
“Why what?”
“Why—you know—we got dis guy. Da crazies come out in da full moon.” He pushed open a blue metal door and swung his head in a this way motion. “He’s in here. Dis is jus where dey do da cuttin’.”
The morgue was one of the smaller ones Carter had visited. Six chest-high cream-colored coolers lined one wall. The doors on mortuary refrigerators looked like miniature versions of a walk-in freezer for an ice cream shop he’d worked at as a teenager.
Rodney yanked on a handle and rolled out a gurney. A white sheet covered the form of a corpse, shorter than Carter would have expected, smelling of sweaty socks. Rodney flipped the cover back revealing a pale, fat foot with a card tied to a toe.
“Dis da one.”
“You sure?”
“Yep. His foot was stickin’ out da blanket jus like dat. His little piggy don’t got no toenail. I’s da one put him in here,” he said, patting the face of the cooler, “in ol’ number tree.”
Carter gently lifted the sheet. The head was crowned with a freckled bald spot surrounded by white stubble. Skin tone looked about midfifties, pale as milk, except for the jaundiced yellow-green hue that comes with death. But Marksman was tall, with a build like a track runner, and midtoned black skin.
“You sure this is the one?”
“Yes, sir. He da man.”
“Let’s check the others, just to be sure.”
Rodney stared at him with suspicion, then slowly pushed the gurney back into the cooler. The others were empty except one that housed a white-haired elderly woman.
“Rodney, I’m going to ask one more time, just to be sure there’s not been any mix-up.” Carter paused for effect. “If there has been a mix-up, now would be the time to find out.” He tapped on cooler three. “Is this the man that came in tonight from the shooting?”
Rodney waved dismissively. “I tellin’ da truth. Dat’s da man. Came in right after da first poor fella. I’s upstairs when dey came.”
“He didn’t come in with the first man?”
“No, sir. Different crew. Few minutes later.”
Carter studied the janitor, but couldn’t pick up even a hint of elusiveness. No gestures indicating self-consciousness. Steady eye contact. No warning flags. Even if he strapped him to the autopsy table and started tearing off fingernails, he’d probably get the same answers. “The ambulance crew. You mentioned a separate one. You see them?”
“Yeah.”
“You know most crews?”
“Don’t know none. ’Cept my cousin’s. But I know faces good ’nuf.”
“You recognize these men, the ones that brought in this body?”
Rodney studied ceiling tiles and scratched his neck. “I was runnin’ the Zamboni whens dey came.” The janitor held up fists like he was riding a bike. “Dat’s what I calls it. It cleans da floor. I walked over to see what da commotion was ’bout. I never seen da crew.”
“When did you get called to take the man to the morgue?”
“Not long after. Few minutes. Dey tried zappin’ him, but I heard...” He looked as if he were contemplating his next words, then reached for a light switch. “I gotta get back ta work.”
“What did you hear?”
Rodney shook his head. “I ain’t no snitch.”
Carter leaned on the jamb, blocking the exit. “Rodney, several folks died tonight. I haven’t seen anything wrong with the way the hospital handled itself. No one’s going to get in trouble. Tell me what you heard.”
The custodian straightened and, to Carter’s surprise, pushed him aside with a firm hand as he scooched feet back through the autopsy room and toward the hall. “Don’t need no threats, mister. I tell da truth. I heard a nurse woman say dis man look already been dead awhile. She ask a doc why da crew said he still alive. But dey gone.”
Carter stepped quickly to keep up, through swinging doors and out again into the bright hall. Rodney was sliding along at a good pace now. “Can you take me to your security office—where I can look at the video of the entrance?”
The man stopped suddenly and Carter almost ran into his back. Rodney looked over a shoulder. “You better have a warrant you see dat witch.” He glided a few more paces, then added, “And a cross and a wooden stake.”
Chapter 16 – Higher Approval
A millimeter wave scan complete, Red pushed through a heavy steel door into the Det’s marble and mahogany foyer, which was dark as the night outside. A single light glowed dimly from a corner, silhouetting an ever-present Marine guard in battle rattle.
Grace stepped into a hallway between cubes a couple of paces ahead. Tight black skirt, immaculate starched white blouse buttoned halfway. The only evidence she’d been pulled from bed at 3:00 a.m. were a few stray salt-and-pepper wisps jutting from unswept bangs.
She waved Red back. “You’re in the command center.”
Halfway down the hall, she grabbed Red’s elbow and pulled him to a stop. Dusting off his sweater, she said, “Langley was online when I got here a minute ago. Washington is going to join you. So I’ll leave you to your vices. Lori still OK?”
Her flowery perfume mixed with the scent of new carpet. “Good as can be expected. We have a new CIA liaison yet?”
“Michele Brooks.” She tweezed with fingernails across his chest, picking at something. The lady’s concept of personal space was smaller than Red’s. “You look like this army captain I used to date, after he’d come back from downrange. Dried mud on your sweater.”
He glanced down. “That’s not mud.”
“Oh.” Grace flushed. “Sorry.”
“Agent Brooks...is she active?”
“As of last week.”
Fantastic. He’d interviewed three replacements for his CIA liaison as first order of business after assuming command. Surprised the CIA had given him a choice. Two candidates had been lifers, but Brooks was even older, close to sixty. She’d been in the field when Gorbachev took down the wall. Cranky, and connected as hell, and a bit overweight. Two husbands had lost out to her devotion to the company. She had been his first choice. “Great. Give her a call and—”
Grace pointed at the open doorway. “You’ll be able to talk to her yourself in a few.”
Red started for the door, then stopped. “Off the record. When I left the hospital, CIA was going to move Lori somewhere. Forgot to verify before I ran out. Do me a favor. I wan
na know for certain where they’re taking her.”
She turned away, heels already tapping back to her desk. “On it.”
Red stepped into the room, or fusion cell as everyone referred to it, despite the white Command Center stenciled on its gray door. Inside were three rows of empty desks and screens, enough for thirty techs if needed, with seats around the outside to handle twice that. Seldom were more than a handful ever present, though. The floor echoed hollowly and seemed to bounce underfoot. Two IT guys studying screens on one side turned to look at him. One had the sagging eye pouches of a bloodhound, accentuated by thick-rimmed glasses. The other was all smiles. Evidence of burnt coffee hung in the air from a commercial brewer in a corner.
Captain Richards stood, rustling starched pixilated blue fatigues. An overhead light shone off a bald head mounted to a thick neck. With the Wyoming native’s bulging forehead and flat nose, his expression resembled the face of a buffalo. Fitting, since before he joined the military, he’d lived on a farm where they raised the animals. Thus far, the man had proven to be as hearty as the beast.
“As you were. We online?”
The happy technician leaned back in his chair. “Langley only, for now. Even there, we’re still looking at an empty room.” He picked up a phone and glanced at the screen. “Washington will join at 0330.”
Richards sat stiffly upright at a low conference table near the front of the room. “You OK, sir? I mean...your wife?” His brow knitted, deepening the buffalo resemblance.
“She’s shaken. And pissed. Considering everything, I’m happy with pissed.” Red rubbed at blood in the lifeline of his palm, stirring a scent of raw steak that hand sanitizer wasn’t able to cover. Was it Lori’s or Marksman’s? Thank God she was OK. But shit, Marksman... Why had he been following them? How had he known a hit was planned?
The room darkened with a flicker of movement on one of the large screens. Two blue suits moved in and sat behind coffee mugs, one of the cups steaming profusely.
Red scowled toward the techs and whispered, “We on video? Who called for that?”
The bright-eyed one said, “Nope. We’re still dark. But Higher requested this one visual.”
“Keep us dark. No video out till my say-so.”
The man turned with a grin. “Roger that.”
The wall behind the suits on the screen was sterile white. No pictures. No windows. No sounds except a squeaking chair spring as one pulled at his starched collar. A clean room, they called it.
The agent behind the steaming mug sat tall with olive skin, slanted almond eyes, and flat features. Korean in the bloodline, no doubt. Voice with a lisp. “Morning gentlemen. Major, sorry to hear about your issue tonight.”
Red sat and flipped on a pencil-shaped table mic. “And you are?”
“Agent Mark Young. I know you usually work through your liaison, now Agent Brooks. I’m her boss. Think of me as her handler. We’re on the same team, protecting our asset in the Det.”
Red had sat on many of these calls with the previous Det commander. At that time, Red hadn’t worried much of the politics, power struggles, and pissing contests that arose among the co-ops of a fusion cell. Each one seemed to think they should run the Det. But the building was Langley Air Force Base property, technology systems courtesy of Joint Communications Unit and CIA, weapons systems from all branches, and a few home grown—staff from the four corners. A fusion cell spoken into existence at the unofficial request of the Joint Chiefs, operationally controlled by Joint Special Operations Command, funded by the co-ops, and begrudgingly tolerated by all. Today it was up to Red to hold it together, to be the tight cord running between theory and firing pins, politicians and snake eaters.
And now this shithead of an agent thought the Det was a CIA asset? Was he weaseling for position, sensing a weakness with the recent change in leadership? A man who knew nothing of blood on his hands? Not from an enemy of the state, or a dead comrade. And certainly not his wife.
Across the table, Richards shrugged, buffalo jowls widening in a grin. He didn’t seem put off by the agent’s presumptiveness. The Det had worked closely with CIA Special Operations Group, Red considered. Maybe Agent Young had made an honest slip, though a Freudian one. “I got no idea who you are. So nothing till I talk with Agent Brooks.”
“I’m here, Major,” came a raspy female voice from the speakers, as if she’d already been through half a pack of menthols.
The dog-eyed tech pounded a keyboard, nodding his head, indicating voiceprint ID’d positive. Then, a thumbs-up, signifying no measurable sign of duress.
Brooks stepped between the two men on-screen, bending to look into the camera. No makeup, hair scraped back in a ponytail. Pink sweats, though wide hips suggested she didn’t do much sweating. With a familiar scowl, she scrunched her nose as she said, “Good morning.” A safe signal.
“Brooks, I don’t like talking to your superiors. Going forward, I want your beautiful face to be the only CIA I ever see.” Did he just call Brooks beautiful?
Her whiskey laugh ended in a smoker’s cough. “Understood. But given the circumstances, this will be expedient. Oh—and I just spoke with Grace. We’re taking Lori to Hopkins.”
Red lifted his chin. “Get me up to date before Washington’s online. Why are we here? The hit?”
“Got a guest with us this morning.” She laid a hand on the shorter suit’s shoulder. Female, olive complexion, black hair, tight curls, dark eyebrows. Jacket fabric stiff and shiny, like clothes Carter would wear. Sitting at the table, she resembled a news anchor, an attractive one. The yin to Brooks’ yang. She removed her designer glasses, slipping them into an inside pocket like a Bollywood actor. She was Mossad, for certain.
“Hopefully she’ll enlighten us,” Brooks coughed.
“You don’t know?” Red asked.
“We’re working out the story now.”
He shivered as he pushed away from the table. “Gentlemen, I don’t want to be in on your internal machinations. My wife’s been shot. I’m not intel. That’s your department. Figure out what needs broken, then give us a call and we’ll propose an op to Higher.”
“You’ve got intel officers on staff,” Agent Young’s lisp broke in. His Adam’s apple bobbed like a soap bubble. “Fifteen, if I remember. Most donated from my organization. You can try to play the I’m-not-intel card. But you are, even if only a mutt.” He bared his teeth. “Though a devilishly mean one.”
Red stared at the screen. Seriously? This guy the best they had?
Brooks quickly rasped, as if to cut off Red’s objection. “Major, we’ll be receiving a tasking once Higher gets on the other line.”
A blurred figure crossed the screen of an adjoining monitor and sat behind a mahogany desk in a similar clean room. Once seated, the image sharpened, revealing Admiral Javlek’s narrow gaze and hard jaw. Weathered skin from earlier staff photos was now pale and sallow. As if the last year inside the Beltway had been more taxing than all his duty tours at sea. He neither leaned forward confidently, nor slumped back in apprehension. The perfect political neutral.
A cough. Then Javlek said, “Morning, gentlemen. I was told the Det was also online. I’m only seeing Langley at the moment.”
“We’re here, sir.” Red glanced at the bright-eyed computer geek. “Tech issue. Audio only from our end right now, but we can proceed.”
“Right. J2 gave me the thumbnail of the assassination attempt a half hour ago. CIA set this call up. I’m here to provide approval on a proposal. Correct?”
“Yes, sir,” Young lisped. “CIA believes we know the source of an internal leak. A mole responsible for providing financial intelligence to China. Specifically key specifications on the new US hundred-dollar bill.”
Javlek leaned forward. “These folks also responsible for tonight’s hit? Sloppy as hell.”
Let the man talk, Red thought.
“Sources in-country indicate North Korea has started production of an accurate counterfeit US hundred-dollar bill. Over sixty percent of legit US hundreds are circulated outside our borders. Korea has long been a source of counterfeit currency. But this new one causes greater concern. We’ve sourced samples. To say the least, they’re good.”
Javlek brushed a palm across the desk’s surface, as if dusting. “Describe good.”
“Convincing enough to get past most screenings. It’s no small matter to manufacture, especially on a large scale. They’ve had a head start, help, probably for some time now. The microprint was flawless, the paper indistinguishable. Ink formulations were not completely accurate, which was the only way we determined the counterfeit. We believe China supplied the press, but the technical specs were leaked.”
Red rubbed his neck. Surely this guy would get to the point. He checked his watch. He’d left Lori only an hour earlier. Hope she’s getting sleep. Wish she could hear this, too. She was fintel. Maybe that was how this North Korean counterfeiting operation fitted in. He thought about mentioning the connection, but didn’t, remembering her admonition to not speak of her CIA job. But these guys knew who the hell she was. However, very few in the CIA knew about her investigation. Maybe this would help it, move it along, or plug the leak altogether.
He straightened in his chair, careful to listen.
Young continued. “In the past, North Korea printed counterfeit money and deposited it into fie chen. Fie chen loaned the money to Chinese businesses. These paid back the loans with interest. Proceeds were split among the three parties. China has access to cheap cash without having to dirty their hands.”