“She’s not still in there. Count on it.” Daggett couldn’t think clearly. He found guilt a suffocating emotion. Each hour he traveled farther down the path of deception, the more congested his brain became and the more difficult and tentative he found his position. He had come too far to abandon this investigation, to abandon his son without a fight. “Call a meeting,” he said.
“A meeting? What the fuck do I do about Cheysson?”
“We lost her, right?” he asked angrily. “Forget about Cheysson. We don’t need her. Call a meeting. Tell Gloria to do it. Pullman, Surveillance, Tech. Services. I want them all at the meeting.”
“Don’t need her?” Levin shouted.
Daggett said calmly, “Keep your voice down, Bradley. This isn’t for public broadcast.”
“You’ve lost your fucking marbles.”
“Maybe. But I’ve found Anthony Kort. Now call the fucking meeting before I change my mind.”
31
* * *
Monique was free.
Kort’s plan worked flawlessly: she walked out of the office building with no one the wiser. An hour later she had received his message in the hotel bar. For the next two hours she moved from one location to the next, Kort probably watching her, and everything around her, at each and every stop. She was walking with wings on her feet, not only because of her newfound freedom but because of her feelings for him, and her realization that the two of them would now be together. He had saved her life—literally. He was her white knight; there was nothing she would not give him, nothing she would not do for him.
At a few minutes past eight she was riding in the passenger seat of the Toyota.
“You saved my life,” she said. “How can I ever thank you?”
“Take off your clothes.” He pulled a gray plastic bag from the backseat.
“Right here?” she asked, misunderstanding him.
“Change into these. Immediately. There’s no time!”
She didn’t argue. She unzipped the red leather skirt, raised her hips, and slipped it off. She continued to change as they talked.
“I need the key to the storage locker,” he said coldly. He was in no mood for sloppy sentimentality.
She nodded as desperation and fear replaced her ebullience. “You’re angry with me?” she asked incredulously. “You think I did something to cause this?”
“I don’t want to go into it.”
He was completely emotionless. A wave of intense cold swept through her. “It must have been the Greek. It wasn’t my fault.” She located the keys in her handbag and handed them to him. She asked, “How can you wear gloves when it’s this hot?”
“I live in these things.”
“It’s a private mailbox,” she said, referring to the key. “Do you want me to write down the address?”
“I know the address. This,” he said, pocketing the key, “is all I need.”
“Why did you do this? Why did you help me?” she asked, not wanting the answer.
“I need you.”
“That’s not why.”
“It is.” The light changed and he started off again.
“You’re going through with it?” She was stunned.
“Of course. We came to do a job. We’re going to do it.”
“You’re insane.” She felt tempted to tug the door open and run away.
He felt himself smile. He nodded in agreement. “It’s true.”
“Need me for what?”
“To baby-sit. You know how to cook, don’t you?”
32
* * *
He had come here to tell her about Duncan. About his decision. He had come here because he had no idea what the next few hours had in store for him, and yet Carrie deserved to be a part of it. Carrie had been the stabilizing force in his life these past two years and he needed her now, regardless of their present problems. He had come here out of selfishness. But when he opened his mouth to speak, he didn’t mention Duncan. He couldn’t bring himself to, for he knew through her eyes his decision had been the wrong one. But it was over now, and there was no going back. “I went to her the other night.”
She obviously didn’t need any names. She searched her purse for a cigarette and lit it.
“I came here. I parked out in the drive and I couldn’t bring myself to come inside.” When she failed to say anything he wondered if this was going to end up a lover’s monologue, and he feared if it was, then these few minutes might be their last together. “I thought we would argue. All we ever do anymore is argue.”
“What was she like?” Carrie asked spitefully. “Was she everything you dreamed?” She added bitterly, “You do dream about her, you know. You talk about her in your sleep.”
“It wasn’t like that. I wanted to sleep with her,” he confessed, “but she refused.”
“She really knows how to play you, doesn’t she?”
“Maybe she does.”
“I’ve been seeing someone,” she admitted, glancing up and blowing smoke over his head. It was an act of defiance; she knew how he hated the cigarettes.
He felt a stab of blinding pain shoot right through his lover’s heart, and he wondered with self-pity what else the world had in store for him today. And where he might have expected of himself intense anger and jealous fury, he felt only a weeping disappointment. He was too taxed to deal with this properly. He felt the air go out of him. “I wondered what that was about the other night.”
She nodded. “Yes. That was part of it.”
“Do I know him?”
She raised her eyebrows and coughed out a laugh. Smoke escaped with the laugh. “Do I know him? He’s a stranger. Someone I met recently, that’s all.”
“Is it everything you dreamed?”
That caused her some pain and he felt good about it. He had had his chance with Lynn and he hadn’t taken it. Regret overcame him. He didn’t want to lose Carrie. He didn’t want to stay. He didn’t want to lose Lynn, but he didn’t even have her yet. He had stepped out onto an emotional floating log and now, the faster he ran, trying to stay on, the more precarious his position. Several minutes passed. Some of the longest minutes of his life.
“I thought I had fallen in love with him,” she said.
“Past tense?”
“Just plain old tense right now.”
“Word games? You’re going to play word games at a time like this?”
“We play all sorts of games, don’t we? That’s the stage we’re in, isn’t it? We play games with each other’s emotions. We play games with ourselves.”
His heart wanted to hate her, but it lacked any punch. All the strength had gone out of him during the meeting. There was nothing left for his hate to feed on. “Why bother telling me?”
“No bother.” She forced an evil smile and took another drag. “I wasn’t going to. I’m not sure why I did. Probably because of what you said about her. I’m afraid of her. She’s everything I’m not.”
“She’s a friend. That’s all.”
“Bullshit.”
“So it’s bullshit.”
“So it is.”
“This isn’t why I came here.”
“Why then? You haven’t been here in months. It’s always your place. Always your terms. Always you, you, you. You know what that’s like for me?”
“Duncan’s been kidnapped.” There. He had said it. It was the only possible defense against the truth, and it had just the effect he was hoping for. “Sometime last night,” he added. Her anger and spite vanished magically, replaced by a wave of shock that swept through her, charging her eyes with sympathy and stealing her voice in fear. Just seeing her reaction tightened his throat. He remembered the term they had used: body fragmentation. It was how he felt. “I have to meet him tonight.”
“Who? What are you talking about?” Tears came to her frightened eyes and she placed down the cigarette and reached for his hand. Hers was cold.
He felt relief at having told her. He felt tired all of a sudden a
nd he welcomed the feeling. Anything, but what he had been feeling.
He found himself drawn to tell her what it was that had been going through his mind for the better part of the last few hours. To confess. This was why he had come: to make his confession. “It’s funny … You stand on high moral ground for most of your life, and then someone adjusts the scales like this and you find you’re no different than the people you’ve spent your life pursuing. Given the right set of circumstances there’s nothing we won’t do. Nothing. And if we’re no different, then we’re all the same. And if we’re all the same, then what does it matter who you lock up and who you let go free?”
“What are you talking about?”
“He thought he could blackmail me. Duncan’s life for some itineraries.”
She appeared nervous then. Her voice warbled. “What are you saying?”
“I couldn’t do it.”
“Cam?”
“Am I wrong?”
“Do what?”
“Was I wrong?”
“Wrong about what?”
“We’ll have a man at every station. Two, on the southbound platform, but only just me on the northbound. Just as he asked.”
“Who?”
“I’ve told you. The man who kidnapped him.”
“You’ve double-crossed him?”
“I love that boy. I knew that you, more than anyone, would understand that. You do understand, don’t you? I can’t play by his rules. They kill the hostage. They always kill the hostage.”
She was weeping, for now she understood. Her shoulders began to shake and her nose began to run and she made a sound like a dying animal. Alone, and distant. His face convulsed and his tears ran along with hers. Tears of betrayal. He had betrayed his only son. His vision blurred and he lost sight of her. He hated himself for what he had done. There was no forgiveness to be found. Not from this woman. Not from God. Not from anyone. Not ever. It was his decision and now he lived with it, while others were bound to die because of it.
They went on crying for a long time, and it occurred to him that they were in a premature mourning, and this terrified him. Her cigarette burned down to a long tube of gray ash, and was broken as the filter fell from the ashtray. “Thank you,” he said softly. He squeezed her hand and it collapsed under his grip.
She looked at him through a face made ugly by grief. Her fear was palpable, her hate tangible. It was out in the open then: She thought he had done wrong.
He stood, tempted to kiss her on the cheek, but simultaneously repulsed by the idea. “I’ll call you,” he said, but he doubted it.
He was halfway to the door when she called out in confusion, “But how did it happen?”
“I’m not sure.” He grabbed hold of the doorknob and its familiarity did something to him, sparked something inside him that tore at his heartstrings. He found himself staring at it, wondering if he’d ever be back here again. “No idea. No sign whatsoever of forced entry. Maybe Duncan let him in or something. I can’t believe he would have. Not in the middle of the night. Somehow he got into the house. Who knows?”
She started to come out of her chair, but changed her mind and sat back down heavily. He was grateful for that; he wanted out of here. “I’ll pray for you,” she said, her throat catching. “I’ll pray for you both.”
33
* * *
Parked five blocks away from Dupont Circle, Daggett waited nervously in the front seat of his car for the go-ahead. The face of the man in the backseat of the car parked directly across the street was hard to see, but as Daggett answered his car phone, hearing Pullman’s voice reminded him of the size and importance of this operation. In less than three hours, Pullman and Mumford had placed over sixty agents into the field. Each platform of every stop on the Red Line was now covered, as was the Metro Center, where it joined up with the Orange and Blue lines. Tech Services had equipped every one of these agents with communication so they formed an instant network across the city, and in some cases, into the suburbs. Fears persisted that the radio network might fail in certain areas, given the depth of the tunnels and the great distances involved. But as the minutes ticked down toward nine o’clock, communication vans with relay amplifiers were whisking across the streets of Washington to destination points established in four key areas. This city was WMFO’s sole territory. The special agents, squad chiefs, and executive officers took great pride in their ability to throw a net across it in a matter of hours.
“We’ve got a green light,” Pullman said.
“We wait to see if he’s going to produce the boy. We’re agreed on that,” Daggett reminded. The FBI was world-renowned for its handling of kidnappings. For every one case the public heard about, there were twenty other successes that went unmentioned. Even so, Daggett suddenly wondered about putting his trust in the Bureau. He prayed to God it wasn’t something he would regret the rest of his life.
“We’re all of us—down to a man—with you on this, Michigan. It took great courage to do what you’ve done.”
“Or great stupidity,” Daggett said before hanging up the phone and starting the car. Pullman said the most idiotic things. He glanced one last time to his right, and this time he could see Pullman, face pressed near the glass, his right hand shaking a thumbs-up signal. Jesus, the guy was all John Wayne. The hand of fear reached inside Daggett, took hold of his guts, and twisted. He might have vomited if there had been anything left.
He travels down the gray intestine that is the elevator, the itineraries folded inside the pocket of his letter jacket. The smells tell him he is deeper; he has left the fresh air for the stench of machinery and man. He is repulsed by it. He turns his head and looks back up at what is now a tiny, ever-shrinking black hole at the top of the tunnel. The increasing heat makes him think of hell. This is punishment for all his failure. Failure: he wears it like a waterlogged coat three sizes too big.
Nine o’clock on the dot. He tries to focus on the faces in the crowd. What crowd? It’s pretty thin down here now that the rush is over. People are out eating dinner, home watching television, gone for an evening swim at the club. Families in the safety and security of their homes. The very people that he and the others are sworn to protect. But they aren’t doing a very good job of it. For all the secrets, all the meetings, all the hardware and software, the expense accounts, the ciphers and fibers and fingerprints and videos, they have failed. Cheysson is at large. Kort is at large.
Kort is standing at the far end of the platform not forty feet away, staring at him. Smiling.
At first, Daggett can’t believe his eyes. He thinks like a cop. Can’t help it. The composite sketch isn’t exactly right: the chin isn’t quite as pointed, the ears stick out a little farther. He clears his throat for the sake of the microphone he’s wearing. The signal he’s made contact. He can picture the flurry of the resulting activity above on the street. Efficient bastards, the Techies. He’s glad for that.
He takes a few steps toward Kort, who raises his hand to stop him. It’s a smart move. From here, a kill shot would be unlikely. On a moving target, next to impossible.
The string of round lights embedded in the concrete of the platform begin to blink in unison announcing the arrival of a train.
A train!
Kort’s face twitches with recognition. He does the unexpected. With the simple motion of his index finger, he waves Daggett forward.
His eyes dart to the empty platform and Daggett can feel him calculating his timing.
They don’t have agents on any of the trains; that was agreed upon by all. Too many innocent lives at stake, too much left to chance. That was why at this moment they were so carefully guarding the stations themselves.
Daggett prays Duncan will be on the train, his face purposely shown in a window.
They are within ten feet of each other now. Neither will survive a gunfight at this distance.
“The itineraries,” Kort says.
Daggett produces them but does not relinquish the
m.
“Duncan,” he says back to the man, holding on to his bait.
The train pulls in. Kort’s eyes dance nervously between the itineraries and the train. The train slows.
“The itineraries,” he repeats.
Daggett shakes his head. “My boy.”
Only then do Kort’s eyes alert Daggett to trouble. It’s a middle-aged man in blue jeans and old, beat-up running shoes. His windbreaker is unzipped and his hand is going inside, and Daggett can see it coming. He’s either a plainclothes or off-duty cop with a nose for trouble.
“We got a problem here, fellows?” He flashes his badge proudly.
Neither Daggett or Kort so much as flinch.
The train doors slide open.
“Hey! I’m talking to you!” The other hand goes deeper into the jacket.
“Nice try,” Kort says to Daggett.
“FBI!” Daggett shouts at the other man, reaching for his ID.
But the itchy cop mistakes the move and comes out with his gun. Daggett dives, reaching for his own weapon.
Kort kills the cop with two shots to the chest, the second of which lifts the man off his feet. The screams echo eerily in the cement tomb.
Daggett remembers later that as he comes to his feet all the train cars appear empty because every single passenger is now on the floor. For it’s the train car where Daggett looks first. Only a split second later does he see Kort hopping off the platform into the darkness of the tunnel.
The tunnel? That’s suicide. That wasn’t in the plan! He shouts, “The tunnel!” Knows the microphone will pick it up.
He leaves the relative safety of the platform and follows into the encroaching darkness.
The footing is bad. It’s hotter than hell in here. He can’t see a thing. He has to slow down, it’s so dark. The grayness of image is dying, sucked dry by the ever-increasing black. A few more yards and he stops to listen. He can hear the fast footfalls up ahead. He continues on, around a long, graceful curve of tunnel. When he is finally swallowed by near pitch-black, a match fires off at his knees. He screams and falls to the tracks, finger on the trigger.
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