Hayes blinked rapidly. “Sure. They were a couple of scientists. Biologists, I think. A little creepy, as I recall. I always assumed they worked in germ warfare.”
“You debriefed them but you didn’t know why they were being checked up on?”
Hayes frowned. “That was common practice back then. CIA practice. Everything was cutouts; nobody knew anybody else’s business. That’s why they got a lawyer to do the debriefings in the first place. I wasn’t privy to anything truly sensitive, so they could trust me not to give away any secrets by accident.”
That jibed with what Chapel knew of the CIA and its culture of compartmentalized information, but he was still surprised. “How did you even know what to ask them?”
“I had a script,” Hayes said. “ ‘In the last year, have you met with or spoken by telephone with anyone who identified themselves as an official of a foreign nation? Has anyone you don’t know approached you in a social situation and asked questions you felt uncomfortable answering?’ That kind of stuff. It was really just a checklist—they would say no to every question, I would make marks on a form, and then I would go home. I debriefed a lot of people. Scientists, defectors, former radicals who claimed to have gone straight. It was just part of my job.”
Chapel nodded. That wasn’t helpful at all—he’d really hoped Hayes might have known something about Taggart and Bryant that he didn’t—but at least it was one small mystery cleared up. There was another one, though. “You were also counsel when Christina Smollett sued the CIA.”
“Who?”
Chapel gritted his teeth. “A mentally ill woman in New York City. The suit was probably brought by her parents. She claimed the CIA was sending people into her bedroom at night to sexually assault her.”
Hayes made a disgusted face. “There were always cases like that. I hated them. Those people were obviously suffering, but it wasn’t our fault. It was my job to get rid of them as quickly as possible. Preferably without spending any money.”
“You don’t remember this case in particular?” Chapel asked.
“No. I could go through my old files,” he offered.
Chapel held up a hand. “No need.”
“Why her?” Hayes asked. “Why did you bring her up?”
Chapel leaned to the side and tilted his head a little to the left. Was there sweat on Hayes’s forehead? Just a trace. Not enough he would even notice it. And his pupils were a little dilated, Chapel decided.
Interesting.
Extremely interesting.
“Her name came up in one of my investigations, but it’s probably nothing,” Chapel said. No point in telling the judge that Christina Smollett was on the kill list.
Not when Hayes was lying to him about not knowing who she was.
Hayes was a good liar. He’d been a lawyer, once, so it made sense—he’d been trained how to keep his cards close to his vest. But Chapel had been trained in military interrogation techniques. He could spot the telltales. He knew when someone was withholding facts from him.
Hayes knew exactly who Christina Smollett was, Chapel was sure of it. And he knew why she was on the list.
DENVER, COLORADO: APRIL 14, T+57:36
“All right, let’s move on,” Chapel said, because he knew better than to push—if he started demanding information now, Hayes would just shut down and refuse to talk at all. There might be time to ask more questions later. “Talk to me about this itinerary. I understand you plan to move to a different location. Somewhere I’m not allowed to know about until we get there.”
“I’ve already seen that your systems can be hacked,” Hayes told him. “And Tom—Director Banks—told me that whoever released the chimeras has access to military technology. Apparently they used a Predator drone to break open Camp Putnam.”
Chapel hadn’t known that. He filed it away for later review. Right now he had to focus on keeping Hayes alive.
“I think it’s a bad move to change locations now. You’ll never be more vulnerable than when you’re in transit.”
“Whoever is giving the chimeras their instructions already knows I’m here. What they don’t know is the new location.”
“Which is?” Chapel asked.
Hayes surprised him by actually telling him. “I have a house up in the foothills of the Rockies. A little place outside of Boulder.”
“Is it secure? Can it be secured?”
“It’s six acres of land, mostly forested. All of it fenced. There’s one private road leading to it so we don’t have to worry about traffic. It’s hard to find if you don’t know where to look, and it’s not listed under my name—technically it belongs to my ex-wife, but she’s in Washington State now and won’t be dropping by.”
So, Chapel thought, it’s distant from the local police, and if they needed help it would be a long time coming. One road leading in meant only one escape route if they needed to flee. Forested land was Quinn’s favored terrain—it was where he’d grown up. Add to that the usual problems of a rural location: spotty cellular coverage (if any), frequent power outages, and it would be pitch-dark at night.
But Hayes did have a point. The Voice, the author of the kill list, wouldn’t know where they were going. And he’d been right to keep the information from Chapel as well—the last thing they needed was a repeat of Stone Mountain.
“Okay. We’ll leave tonight, about two in the morning—”
“The convoy is gathering right now,” Hayes said. “Reinhard has overseen everything. We’ll leave as soon as the lunchtime rush hour is over.”
Chapel sat back in his chair. He had pushed Hayes hard enough already. Maybe it was time to ease up a bit. Still, it wouldn’t hurt to try reasoning with him. “It would be safer at night. I’d also like to get you in a nondescript car. The black sedans your people use will make good decoys, but if you’re in a different car, then even if Quinn attacks during the transfer you’ll be safe.”
“I’m taking my limousine,” Hayes said, in a voice that wouldn’t brook disagreement.
Chapel sighed. “I’ve been trained in how to do this,” he said.
“So has Reinhard.”
Chapel shook his head. “I was flippant about it before, but really, whoever trained him had no idea what this situation was going to be like.”
“I’ve known Reinhard for nearly ten years,” Hayes said. “I trust him. He’s kept me safe through riots and protests and death threats from some of the most hardened criminals in Colorado. You, Captain Chapel, I’ve known in person for less than an hour. When we get to the house, he’ll accept your command. You can see to security there as you please. But right now I’m putting my life in his hands.”
“Okay,” Chapel said. “At least let me oversee the embarkation. The absolute most dangerous time is when you move from this office to your vehicle. I’ll feel better if I’m watching you while you make that switch.”
“As you wish,” Hayes said.
IN TRANSIT: APRIL 14, T+58:39
Chapel managed to get the judge into his limo and moving out without incident. If Quinn was nearby, he didn’t show himself. Chapel supposed that was the best he could hope for, at the moment. The sedans, several troopers on motorcycles, and a highway patrol vehicle formed up in a loose convoy, headed north.
Hollingshead had said it wouldn’t be enough. Hollingshead had been certain of that.
Chapel rode with one of the troopers, in the patrol cruiser, at the back o
f the convoy. Out on the road, under the big western sky, an attack could come from any direction. He strained his neck trying to look every way at once.
The mountains off to the west were wrapped in the green majesty of heavy pine growth, dappled here and there by the shadows of clouds that streamed across the big sky as fast as trailing smoke. It was a spectacle that might have taken Chapel’s breath away any other time.
“Are we likely to hit much traffic?” Chapel asked his driver, a grizzled old state trooper named Young.
She shrugged. “Could be. The road to Boulder is pretty heavily traveled all times of day. I’ve had no reports of congestion so far, but if there’s an accident . . . well, these roads really weren’t meant for all the people on ’em. There’s four million people in the entire state of Colorado, and two million of ’em live in this corridor, between Fort Collins and Colorado Springs.”
“Great,” Chapel said. He watched civilian vehicles go whizzing by on his left. They were moving fast enough he couldn’t get a good look inside any of them. Quinn wouldn’t know how to drive, himself, but the chimera in New York had proven how easy it was for one of them to commandeer a vehicle.
If Quinn was coming from the north, headed toward them, it would be easy enough to veer into oncoming traffic and ram the limo. Even a chimera would know the long car was where the judge would be. At highway speeds, that kind of collision might kill the judge outright.
Chapel touched the hands-free unit in his ear. “Is the judge wearing a seat belt?” he asked.
“No, he is not,” Reinhard called back. “Keep this channel clear, Captain. My men might need it in an emergency.”
Chapel shook his head. There was something wrong here. Reinhard was acting like this was just a Sunday drive and Chapel’s paranoia was irritating him, rather than reassuring him like it should.
“Get the judge belted in. If someone rams the limo, he’ll go bouncing around in there like a pebble in a tin can, otherwise. And keep that screen of motorcycles tight in his front left quadrant.”
“We’re doing good, Captain. I want this channel clear. If you have any more suggestions, keep them to yourself.”
Chapel watched a civilian car try to overtake them. A motorcycle drifted out to their right to block its advance. The civilian honked his horn but eventually got the point.
“If it’s any consolation, I think you were right,” Young said.
Chapel glanced across at the driver. “About what?”
“About the seat belt. You know how many people we have to scoop out of wrecks every year? That’s half our job in the summer,” Young said. “If people would actually wear those belts, a lot of them would survive.”
“Colorado doesn’t have a mandatory seat belt law?” Chapel asked.
“Well now, we do, but we can’t pull you over unless there’s some other reason,” Young told him. “Unless you’re under seventeen, we don’t even make you wear a helmet when you’re riding a motorcycle.”
“I guess things are a little different out west,” Chapel said.
“Sure are. We all think of ourselves as having a little cowboy in our souls, still. So we don’t much like the government treating us like children who have to be told what to do.” Young clucked her tongue. “Does make you think twice, though, when you get a report of some family of vacationers in a crashed car, and all you find is raspberry jelly all over the dashboard.”
Chapel laughed, despite himself. “That’s gruesome, Young. Truly gruesome.”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” she said. “I guess that’s what we call dark humor. Helps us get through our job. You know. You ever want to see gruesome for real, you come out for a ride along with me up in the mountains.”
“If I ever decide that yes, I want to see gruesome for real, I’ll do just that,” Chapel told her. He turned his head and saw one of the sedans full of Reinhard’s goons just ahead of him and to one side. “What about those?” he asked. “Tinted windshields. I thought those were illegal, too.”
“It’s a kind of iffy thing. You’re allowed to tint them down to twenty-seven percent, which means twenty-seven percent of available light gets through. I’d say those sedans are pushing the limit.”
“Only twenty-seven percent of available light? That’s ridiculous,” Chapel said. “How can they expect to see anything? They’re missing three-quarters of their visual perimeter like that.”
“I have a feeling, now, that Mister Reinhard figures, if you can’t see in, you can’t tell who’s in the car. So you can’t tell which car the judge is in.”
“Unless you notice that one of the cars is a limo, and the rest are sedans,” Chapel pointed out.
“That is what we might call, in my line of work, a clue,” Young agreed.
Chapel touched his hands-free unit. “Reinhard, your people can’t see anything through those tinted windows.”
“Captain Chapel? I told you to keep your thoughts to yourself,” Reinhard replied.
“Have them roll down their windows. It’ll be windy but they’ll survive,” Chapel ordered.
“Those windows are bulletproof, Captain. They’re up for a reason.”
Chapel grimaced. “Our guy isn’t a shooter. That’s not his style. Roll down the damned windows.”
“Chapel, I swear, if you don’t clear this—”
Reinhard’s transmission cut off in midsentence. At first Chapel thought something had gone wrong, that Quinn had somehow disrupted their communications, but then he realized Reinhard had just muted his microphone, presumably so he could talk to the judge.
“All right, Chapel,” Reinhard said, after a while. “The judge says I have to play nice with you. I’ll make you a deal. If I have them roll down their windows, will you promise to stay off this channel?”
“Cross my heart and hope to die,” Chapel said.
“I’ll hold you to that,” Reinhard replied.
Young laughed. “That boy does not like you, he surely does not,” she said. “You’d think the two of you might get along, being in the same line of work.”
“Oil and water are both liquids, but they won’t mix,” Chapel pointed out. He craned his head around, watching all the sedans. One by one they started lowering their windows and he could see the black-suited security guards inside. The guards blinked and squinted as the pure mountain sunlight hit their eyes.
“Tell the truth, now. Did you do that just to annoy ’em all?” Young asked.
“I think I’d like to have my lawyer present before I answer that—”
Chapel stopped talking, then.
“Something wrong?” Young asked.
“Yeah,” Chapel said.
One of the security guards, up in a sedan just ahead of Young’s car, didn’t squint or blink in the sun. No, he didn’t need to.
His third, black eyelid just slid down to protect his eyes.
Quinn had been with them the whole time.
IN TRANSIT: APRIL 14, T+58:51
“Angel? Angel, can you hear me?” Chapel called. There was no response. “Angel, come in! I need you to patch me through to the walkie-talkie system Reinhard’s people are using. Angel!”
Trooper Young glanced over at him. “Maybe we’re just out of cell range. Reception is still kind of spotty out here,” she suggested.
“Maybe,” Chapel said. Though he’d assumed that Angel’s signal was carried by the satellite network, not by cell towers. She’d reached him in all
kinds of strange places.
He tried the leader of the security guards. “Reinhard, come in. Reinhard—the assassin is riding in car three!” There was no response. Just as there hadn’t been since he’d first called the man. “Damn it, Reinhard—I know you can hear me!” The head security guard wasn’t responding. Maybe he’d been serious about clearing Chapel off his radio frequency. Maybe he’d turned off his walkie-talkie.
The timing suggested that was more than a coincidence.
He grabbed the handset of the radio unit built into the car’s dashboard. He tried to raise anyone and heard only static in response.
“That can’t be right,” Young said. “I ran a radio check not ten minutes before we left the courthouse. It was working just fine.”
“Somebody’s jamming it,” Chapel said. It was the only thing that made sense. Except it made no sense at all. “We have to let them know. There has to be some way to communicate with them.” Two of the sedans were way up ahead, one in front and one in back of the limo. Car three, with Quinn in its backseat, was just ahead of Young’s car, which was trailing at the back of the convoy. “Short of yelling at them—”
“There’s a thought,” Young said. Chapel looked at her, having no idea what she meant. She laughed and gripped the steering wheel with both hands. “I guess I’ve been doing this longer than you. I remember back before we had cell phones, before we had wireless Internet, before—”
“Young? What are you talking about?”
“Just hold on,” she said, and floored the accelerator.
The patrol cruiser shot forward, swerving to narrowly miss the rear bumper of car three. The sedan made way for them, though the driver flashed his lights and honked his horn. Young ignored him. “There’s a pen and paper in the door pocket by your right hand,” she told him. “Write a message, quick.”
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