Daggett won the next three games straight.
Monday noon, he was summoned to Mumford’s office. “What exactly are you after, Michigan? Maybe I can help you.” It was an unusual but not unexpected opening to a meeting, given that it came from the mouth of Richard Mumford, Special-Agent-in-Charge of the Washington Metropolitan Field Office. The SAC lorded over 640 special agents, second in size only to New York City. Much of WMFO’s work extended into the territory of the FBI’s other fifty-five field offices, and so Mumford’s power and authority was in some ways like that of the Director’s. Daggett thought of him more as a general than a director, perhaps because of his substantial size, or the way he kept himself in shape; perhaps because of his intimidating confidence, or his strong voice, or his habit of looking inside you as he spoke. His eyes were a relentless Mediterranean blue. His face had the hard bones of a boxer. He carried a golfer’s deep tan and a full head of hair, belying his fifty-odd years.
“I’m after Bernard’s detonators, sir,” Daggett replied carefully. “That’s my present ticket.”
Mumford’s corner office was large enough for a three-hole chip-and-putt and looked out over the Anacostia River. It held two large brown leather couches, a dark wood coffee table, and an enormous nineteenth-century desk that dominated the center of the room like an island in a sea of carpet. Photos and old dark oil paintings in gilded frames adorned the walls. It didn’t fit with the rest of Buzzard Point’s bleakness, but it fit Mumford. He was comfortable here, arms spread wide on the couch behind him, making it look more like an oversized chair. Mumford had a favorite-uncle quality about him. Daggett knew most of the stories about the man were true, though guys like this took on mythical proportions after a while and you had to be careful what you believed. What was important to Daggett was that Mumford would stand up for anyone, anything, he believed in; would confront anyone. If he had fears, he never showed them. The rumors were that he was loud and opinionated, whether in the Director’s office or in a closed-door meeting of a Senate subcommittee. He was famous for once telling the president that his fly was down by saying: “You’re about to lose some votes, sir.”
Mumford could grant him carte blanche or pull him from this assignment with a snap of his fingers. Daggett kept that thought foremost in his mind.
“This new guy, Levin, has been making a bunch of phone calls,” Mumford stated. “He’s working with you, isn’t he? Tell me about these itineraries you’ve requested.”
“We’re looking for linkage to sixty-four. That’s all.”
“The vote on the AmAirXpress crash isn’t in yet. Am I right? The investigation isn’t ours; it belongs to the NTSB. Besides, you shouldn’t be working on sixty-four anyway. It’s not your ticket and, to my knowledge, there has been no positive linkage to Der Grund. The Office of Origin on that one is Los Angeles. Don’t fuck around with me, Michigan. I’m told the tenth-floor fax machine has been spitting out itineraries all afternoon. Just what exactly is your—our—interest there? I am supposed to know what’s going on around here. I asked Paul Pullman; he didn’t know. So now I’m asking you.”
“Because of Der Grund’s possible involvement, and because a lot of circumstantial evidence points here to Washington, we’re looking for a possible chemical industry target that might be coming here to Washington.”
“But no hard evidence linking Der Grund. Am I right?”
“The evidence is limited to circumstantial at the moment,” Daggett acknowledged. “But there’s a growing amount of it and it points here, so it only followed, logically, to determine which executives of which companies have trips planned here to Washington.”
Silence. Mumford, deep in thought, lifted himself out of the couch, approached his desk, yanked open a drawer and fished out a half-empty bag of potato chips. He didn’t offer any to Daggett. He sunk his hand into the bag as he sat back down. After eating for a minute he said, “What happens in our line of work, Michigan, with as many investigative agencies as there are here in Washington, is we end up opening the other guy’s can of worms by mistake. When this happens, it usually only requires a couple of phone calls to straighten it out.” He ate a few more chips. “If there are priority or national security considerations at play, then—depending on circumstances—secrets will, or will not, be shared.”
Daggett said, “And in this case?”
“There was a meeting to be held here in Washington. Top-level people. We weren’t supposed to know about it. But I’m told it’s going to be pretty damn clear from those itineraries what’s going on, and the people who called don’t want anyone knowing about this meeting, so they’ve had to change the date. All because of you.”
“All we did—”
“Without knowing it, by going after these itineraries, you pointed out a chink in the armor. It has people worried that someone else could have done the same thing, and they don’t like the thought of that. This thing was—is—supposed to be very quiet,” he said, whispering for effect. He finished the bag of chips, crumpled it up, and tossed it across the room, missing the wastebasket, which clearly disappointed him.
“Now, because you stepped in it, it’s ours. Cute, huh? No one wants responsibility for the safety of these executives, and since we’re counterterrorism for this city, guess who gets it? There are six bigwigs coming to this thing. Coming and going. Some by private carrier, some by commercial. We have a detonator that remains unaccounted for. Yes,” he said, answering Daggett’s surprised look, “I read my agents’ memos.” He huffed. “It’s a fucking security nightmare, and now, thanks to this itinerary business, thanks to you, it’s all ours. Yours. We’re the ones now responsible for the safety of those executives while they’re in transit. I’m giving it to you, partly because of the secrecy involved, partly because I suspect Bernard’s detonators are involved. Mostly because I don’t want anything to do with it. Technically it’s domestic, it should be C-one, not C-three, but I’m overlooking that. You’re the one who opened the can of worms; you’re the one who gets to eat its contents.
“You’re one of the best agents who has ever worked for me, Michigan. I’m not fucking kidding. That’s why I overlook that stupid letter jacket, and half the other rules you break. Linking Bernard to Der Grund took nothing short of genius. You should have had a medal for that one. I’ve let you ride on that success for longer than I should have because you have a nose for this shit. I’ve left you alone. You think I didn’t know Backman stole that file from you?” Daggett sat there stunned, unable to answer. “Fact is, Backman—and I liked the man—was safer for all of us behind a desk. I gave Bob the promotion and I told him to leave you alone. And alone you have been left. Now the goons on the Hill want me to stick you behind a desk for a couple weeks so you can explain how it was that Bob opened that suitcase and blew himself and our prime suspect to hell and gone. I’ve held them off because I’ve wanted you in the field. But this time, because of who is involved, I’m out of luck. You’re out of luck.
“The safety of these business people is now your prime responsibility, your absolute first priority.” He cautioned, “Don’t mix up your priorities.”
“No, sir.”
“Bernard, the crash of flight sixty-four, this stiff in Seattle—forget about them all. You’ve got bigger fish to fry. And let me pass along a little insight of my own: The people I’m talking about don’t give something like this away. It’s their meeting—Top Secret—and yet they get me on the horn and hand this thing off to me before I can think how to duck it. You got to ask yourself why.
“It’s because they’re afraid of it, Michigan. That’s the only explanation. Now, if this thing goes south, if they lose one of these guys to whoever has Bernard’s other trigger, they can point the finger over at us.
“You brought us into this by requesting those itineraries. Now it’s my ass on the line, and I don’t like that. Stay focused. Those planes—the well-being of those executives—come first.”
The SAC stood and walked D
aggett to the door where he handed him a red file folder and waited as Daggett signed off for it. “For God’s sake, keep this on you at all times,” he said. “These are the new itineraries. Who’s coming to town, how they’re getting here, how they’re getting home. As long as they’re in the air or on the runway, they’re your ticket. You can’t do this alone. Take the new guy from Drugs—I’ll do the paperwork. But no one else. That,” he said, pointing to the folder, “is our only copy of the specifics. No photocopying. No eyes, other than yours. Understood?”
Daggett nodded.
Mumford eased his office door shut, closing out Daggett, who looked up to see one of the executive suite’s three secretaries staring at him. He had that strange sensation she had violated his privacy. He wondered if that was how women felt when he imagined them without their clothes on. She forced a smile and went back to her work. She wasn’t all that bad-looking and he realized he had never seen her before.
Holding on to the red file, Daggett felt naked himself. He broke into a quick walk, headed straight to the bullpen, and locked the file away in his briefcase, where it belonged.
12
* * *
He had lived in agony for the last eighteen hours; he had no choice but to seek the help of a professional.
The dentist’s office, chosen at random from the Yellow Pages, occupied the second story of a contemporary red brick building off N Street. Kort approached the officious-looking receptionist and introduced himself as Albert Kotch. He touched his jaw where it glowed an infectious red, apologized for not phoning ahead, and in the same breath explained that he was more than willing to wait out the entire day if necessary, if there was any hope—any hope at all—of seeing Dr. Rosen. After a quick check in the back room, the receptionist smiled and pointed to the waiting room. Kort sat back with the copy of People magazine he had bought at a newsstand. How could he resist a cover story on the downing of AmAirXpress flight 64?
The article was titled “Sifting Through the Wreckage.” It focused on Lynn Greene, a good-looking explosives expert running the FAA’s investigation. And whereas the eyes of the average reader would certainly have remained on the shapely Ms. Greene, his did not. Instead, he studied the bits and pieces of 64’s debris scattered over the smoking background. Other magazines had carried other pictures, but she was standing right among the wreckage; this was good stuff. He saw the wires, the bulkhead, the scraps of fuselage, and, only incidentally, the paramedics, the firemen, the stretchers, and the ambulances.
The article itself was a letdown—it concentrated too much on her and too little on the crash. Over the course of his crosscountry train ride, Kort had read several newspaper pieces on the crash. These had been long on content, but short on visuals. This People piece proved much the opposite. As he reached the end, one photograph stood out. He knew the face because there had been a one-hour television special comparing Lockerbie to 1023. During this show, Special Agent Cameron Daggett had been pointed out to Kort by Michael Sharpe, who knew him by face because of his own police work, and Daggett’s close association with the Frankfurt bomb squad during the 1023 investigation. Now, here, at the end of Kort’s well-filed and exceptionally clean fingernail, the same face looked out from the pages. He stood well in the background, slightly blurred but clearly visible, turning to avert his face from the camera. Caught, nonetheless.
Hostility surged through Kort like a drug. Enemies. So Daggett was on this investigation as well. Did it mean he had made the connection to Bernard’s detonator? A hot bolt of pain gripped his head. They had gone to great lengths to use a device that could fool the investigators. Had they failed?
“Mr. Kotch?”
It took a moment for Kort to identify with the alias, he had not used it in so long. To the receptionist he said, “Sorry, infection must have hurt my hearing.” He smiled at her politely and she smiled back.
“There’s been a cancellation,” she said.
Rosen, a balding man with a prominent nose, a cleft chin, and a tiny scar by his left eye, wore a white doctor’s jacket over an Oxford button down and beltless trousers with a stretch waist. He wore leather shoes with thick rubber soles and had the breathy voice of a conspirator. A poster, Scotch-taped to the ceiling, depicted the Chesapeake in autumn. New Age music played quietly from a speaker mounted by the window.
There were three stalls. A hygienist in each of the first two, and Rosen with his plump Chinese assistant at the end. Kort, aka Kotch, sat and then lay back in the padded dental chair, thanking Rosen for seeing him. He explained, “The tooth came out a few days ago while chewing a caramel, but I think some of it may still be in there.”
Rosen snapped a pair of latex gloves on his hands, and, already inspecting, said, “It was your wisdom tooth, Mr. Kotch.” He glanced up at his assistant. “Seventeen,” he said strongly to her. To Kort he then explained, “Nasty-looking infection. We’ll get you on a course of Amoxicillin following this, to take care of that infection.” The assistant dropped a group of stainless steel tools, scattering them loudly onto the floor. “Li,” he said harshly, “why don’t you call that in now while I’m exploring, and that way we won’t keep Mr. Kotch waiting. Do you have a favorite pharmacy, Mr. Kotch?” he asked the man in the chair.
Kort, caught by the question, was relieved when Rosen added, “There’s a place on Twenty-third we use quite a bit. It’s not far.” Kort nodded, his mouth occupied by two of Rosen’s fingers. The assistant still sat on Kort’s left staring at his misfortune, red-faced. Rosen snapped at her: “Well, Li, clean it up, and make that call.” She did so.
Rosen clucked his tongue sympathetically and said, “It’s messy in there, Mr. Kotch.” He turned to his left, opened a drawer, and withdrew a plastic gas mask enclosed in a clear plastic bag.
Kort saw this and said, “No gas, Doctor. Thank you anyway. I’ll sit still.”
“Impossible. It’s too infected. I’ll have to cut. It may require a stitch or two.”
“Novocain then. No gas,” Kort said emphatically.
“I can’t make any promises,” the doctor said. “I suggest the gas.”
“I understand. Thank you. Novocain will be just fine.”
The doctor seemed nervous. Kort attributed this skittishness to the dilemma of gas versus Novocain, or a professional’s concern for a patient’s well-being, but as he rolled his head and caught sight of the man’s eyes, a pang of alarm cut through him.
Kort’s defensive, almost paranoid, nature took over. He compartmentalized the experiences of the last few minutes and reviewed them individually. Rosen had overemphasized the tooth number. “Seventeen,” he had said to his assistant. “Why don’t you call that in now,” he had ordered. On the other hand, because he had selected this office at random, no one could have been expecting him. Just as he was convincing himself he was oversuspicious, he noticed the X-ray machine. Why suggest anesthesia before taking X rays? Something wasn’t right.
“Mouth open, please?” Rosen said, hovering over Kort like a raven over carrion: in his talons, the hypodermic with its glistening needle.
The Chinese assistant returned to Kort’s side in too much of a hurry and stared at Rosen intently. The doctor refused to look in her direction. “Head back,” Rosen instructed, placing one hand gently on Kort’s shoulder. The needle continued its approach. Kort’s eyes danced between the two, doctor and assistant, back and forth. And there it was: a last-second silent reproach from doctor to assistant.
Kort knew.
His reaction occurred as if rehearsed a hundred times. In one deft motion Kort’s hands secured the wrist of the assistant, snatched the hypodermic from the doctor’s fingers, and then, smoothly, delivered the full contents into the soft flesh of the assistant’s pinned forearm. The assistant screamed as the needle pricked her skin and Kort plunged the drug into her. She broke loose, took three steps, and collapsed heavily to the floor. She had fainted in fear. Rosen, on the other hand, flailed about in complete panic.
Kort flew out of the chair, knocked Rosen’s arms aside, spun him around and pulled him into a choke hold. He tightened the hold. Kort produced his Beretta and used its threat to contain the hygienist, who had appeared from the next booth. Her eyes bugged out with fear. Seconds later, Rosen’s body went slack. Kort let him fall to the floor. He backed through the door into the reception area. The mother and child had gone, no one else was waiting. The receptionist, half paralyzed with fear, clung to the phone. Kort rushed her, grabbed the receiver, and replaced it in the cradle. He dragged her to the office door, which he locked, and took her into the back where the cowering hygienist had slumped to the floor with her arms above her head. Kort pushed the receptionist toward the hygienist. She stepped over the body of Rosen’s assistant.
He had to assume Rosen’s assistant had phoned the police, or worse, the FBI. Too much time had elapsed. He needed a disguise if he hoped to leave the building. Of the two women before him, the hygienist was by far the larger.
Eyes darting about the area, his attention fell on the mask Rosen had intended to use on him. “You!” he said, to the hygienist. “Gas.” He waved the gun at the receptionist. “Quickly!”
“Thank God,” the receptionist said. The hygienist fumbled with her equipment, all thumbs, but managed to get a mask over the cooperative receptionist and put her under.
“Now, out of your clothes,” Kort said.
“I have money!” the woman blurted out.
“Now!” he hollered.
Crying, the hygienist shed her dress in seconds. “Pl-please,” she muttered, awkwardly stepping out of the dress as if she had never done this.
“The slip, tights, and bra,” he instructed, starting to undress. He could have forced her to take the gas first, but undressing an unconscious woman would be too difficult and time-consuming. Frightened, this woman moved very quickly. She lowered the slip to the floor, and peeled herself out of her hose, revealing white bikini underpants. “God, no,” she mumbled again.
Hard Fall Page 18