“Moving on,” Irene said, “the backchannel chatter leads us to believe that al-Amin may be on the verge of forcing our hand. We believe that they’re planning to target high-value assets here on American soil.”
Something fluttered in Jonathan’s gut. “You mean, like kidnapping a congressman’s daughter?”
“Something very much like that,” Irene confirmed. “The plan, as far as we can tell, is to target a subject, snatch him—or her—and then boogey them off to the Sandbox. It’s entirely possible that embassies are cooperating with the bad guys, but we cannot confirm that as yet. What we have been able to confirm from multiple assets is that the targets will be elected officials—either themselves or their loved ones. Actually, until your op down on I-95, we thought it was exclusively the actual elected officials. Now it seems that they’ve cast a wider net.”
Jonathan thought it through as they strolled toward the embassies of the Republic of Trinidad and Tobago and Peru. Up ahead, on the other side of Seventeenth Street, he could see the flag of the Philippines flying above their embassy as well. But he doubted that they would walk that far.
“You’re thinking that Stepahin was here as part of that plot, don’t you? Al-whatever.”
“Al-Amin,” Irene said. “What would you think if you were in my pumps?”
The phrasing made Jonathan laugh. “I would think that the thing that looks like a duck and quacks like a duck might very well not be a sparrow.”
“Bingo. The stars aligned too closely to be a purely random event. I’ve seen the reports coming out of Prince William County, and while the news media will likely never get the information to report it, those guys you killed in the motel room—we can drop the hypothetical trope, right?—were in fact part of an al-Amin cell. To have Stepahin in the same sphere at the same time tells me that he was planning some kind of operation. Hell, for all I know, there are five hundred thirty-five separate assault teams—one for every member of Congress. Now, throw in the cabinet and the Supremes, and that’s a lot of people to frighten and then guard.”
Something in the hypothesis wasn’t working for Jonathan. “Let’s stipulate that you’re right,” he said. “We’ll assume for the sake of argument that Stepahin— professional bad guy—was here for nefarious purposes. How on God’s half-acre does a coffee shop kid take out a trained asset?”
“From everything I’ve read, the kid cold-cocked him,” Irene said. “Stepahin had let his guard down, and why wouldn’t he? Who’s going to be afraid of a coffee shop kid?”
Another bell rang in Jonathan’s head. “You seem to know a lot about this case”
Irene pointed ahead and to the right. “Let’s go back down Seventeenth,” she said, proving Jonathan correct: they weren’t going to make it as far as the Philippines. “While we didn’t know he still existed until Mother Hen sent me the name, we’re trying a forensic effort to figure out what he was up to.” Irene gave him a knowing smirk. Now that they were on their way back to the cathedral, their meeting was likely coming to an end. “I cannot afford to have a record of any of this,” she said. “Those renditions back in the day were simply too dirty. The whole reason we used criminals in the first place was to prevent a record from ever being established. I sure as hell don’t want one established now.”
And there it was. Wolverine had played her hand perfectly. “You’re hiring me, aren’t you?” Jonathan asked.
“Can you think of a more motivated contractor?” She gave him her most demure smile.
Jonathan bowed his head, silently acknowledging that he’d been had. “Okay, boss,” he said, “what exactly do you want me to do?”
“I want you to find out why Stepahin was here, what he was doing.”
“Is this al-Amin group affiliated with al Qaeda?”
“Who knows? Anymore, it matters less and less. Boko Haram affiliated with ISIL, ISIL affiliated with al Qaeda, who’s joined at one level with the Taliban. They all stand for the same murder, so I personally don’t get lost in the distinctions. And I don’t think they’ll prove to be all that relevant to you.”
“What about the guys we offed at the Sleeping Genie Motel? You said they were al . . . Amini. Is that even how you say it?”
“I have no idea how they say it. I said they were affiliated. That doesn’t necessarily mean they were believers. This wasn’t their first kidnapping.”
Jonathan scowled.
She did the eyebrow thing again, indicating that he was being dense.
“Ah,” Jonathan said. “Previous contractors?”
“Bingo. Born and bred in the USA,” Irene said. “Which makes Stepahin all the more interesting. If I’m right, then al-Amin isn’t depending on zealots to accomplish their goals. They’re using local talent pursuing a very capitalistic agenda.”
Jonathan laughed at the absurdity. “Doesn’t matter who triggers the body count so long as the body count happens.” They’d barely made the turn onto Connecticut Avenue for a second time when Jonathan started to recap the conversation in his head. “So, let’s be clear,” he said. “You want me to poke around and find out why James Stepahin resurfaced. I’m going to need a back door to some difficult-to-access files. The kind of files that you don’t like to show people.”
Irene nudged him with an elbow. “If you need it, you can have it.”
Jonathan thought through the logistics. Finding an unknown among the unknown was a monumental undertaking.
“Do what you have to do,” Irene said. “But I cannot overstate how on your own you will be if this somehow goes public. I’ll hang you out to dry like a laundry sheet.”
The harshness of Wolverine’s words startled him. Not the content—the rules were the rules—but the vehemence with which she stated them.
“This Stepahin stuff is a real source of shame for you, isn’t it?” Jonathan kept his tone soft.
“Beyond any words I can use to describe it,” Irene said. “But such is the nature of the job I signed on for. Twice.”
Jonathan returned her elbow-nudge. If a van hadn’t been following them, he might have offered a hug. Or probably not. Theirs was a complicated relationship. Always all-business, but always something more. He’d volunteered more than once to take a bullet for her, and he sensed that he was about to do it again.
“Don’t you dare feel sorry for me,” Irene said, as if reading his mind. “No one thrust this bullshit onto me. I’m here of my own free will.”
Jonathan raised his hands in playful surrender.
“This thing with Ethan Falk,” Irene continued. Her tone was softer, and she’d slowed her pace. “That’s not your responsibility. You gave him his freedom, and he chose to kill a man. Those are two entirely different transactions. Your obligations are fulfilled.”
Jonathan appreciated the words, but he rejected them. “He killed the predator that I allowed to live,” he said. “I didn’t finish the job I started. Are we done here?”
“I’m not,” Irene said. “One of the things I’ve always admired about you, Digger, is the line you draw in the sand about what you do. If I’ve heard it once, I’ve heard it five hundred times. You are not an assassin. Ring any bells?”
Of course it did, but Jonathan didn’t acknowledge.
“Your mission with Ethan Falk was reunite the boy with his family. You did that. That’s a victory. Don’t you scoff at me.”
She’d read his response for exactly what it was.
“Some stories just don’t have happy endings, Dig. Cut yourself a break.”
Jonathan appreciated her words. But in his world, justice often wasn’t measured in what was reasonable. He preferred to measure it in terms of what was right.
Jonathan pulled to a halt and offered his hand. “Wolfie, in a city that’s full of shitheads, you’re one of the finest people I know. I’ll do what I can to get to the bottom of what Stepahin was up to.”
Irene cocked her head as she accepted his hand. “You’re going to go jousting at windmills, aren’t y
ou?”
He winked and flashed his most charming smile.
Chapter Nine
Wendy Adams stood as she heard the lock turn in the heavy steel door—a bit of an effort since her chair, like the other three chairs and the steel table, was bolted to the concrete floor. A glance through the wire-reinforced window in the door revealed a frail-looking skinny young man in an orange jumpsuit. She could only assume that the unseen person with the key was one of the deputies.
The door opened outward into the dingy hallway of the Braddock County Adult Detention Center, and there stood her first head-to-toe vision of her newest patient. After only four days in custody, he’d already taken on the institutional pallor that was so common among incarcerated people. She’d noticed that the pale skin was more common among younger prisoners than older ones, and more prevalent among males than females. At first glance, she noticed that his hair appeared greasy and stringy, and that his fingernails were uncut and dirty. An array of zits dotted his forehead. They looked a little like the outline of Florida, but tipped over on its side.
“Go on in,” said a male voice from the hallway outside her view.
Wendy knew from the file that this prisoner was twenty-three years old, but he looked eighteen. She hoped that would play to his favor in the eventual trial. “Hello, Ethan,” she said. “My name is Dr. Wendy Adams. I believe that your attorney, Mr. Culligan, told you to expect me.” She stepped forward to shake his hand, then saw that his handcuffs were attached to a restraining belt around his waist. Another chain ran from the belt to the shackles around his ankles.
“Deputy?” Wendy said.
A middle-aged bald guy with a beer gut and a brown uniform stepped into view.
“Keep my patient’s hands cuffed if you must, but I insist that you release them from the belt.”
The deputy started to argue.
“I’ve had this argument before with your supervisor,” she preempted. “Let’s not do it again. I’m not asking you to set him free. I’m merely asking you to give him the ability to scratch his nose if he so desires.”
“Ah,” the deputy said, reaching for a key that he’d stuffed into his Sam Browne belt. “You’re that one.” Ten seconds later, Ethan had use of his hands, though they were still bound together.
“Are the cuffs loose enough, Ethan?” Wendy asked.
The prisoner looked wary. “I suppose. You get used to them after a while.”
“We good?” the deputy asked.
Wendy nodded, and the deputy nudged Ethan farther into the room and pushed the door closed.
She tried the handshake thing again, and Ethan begrudgingly returned the gesture. “That thing with the handcuffs,” he said. “Was that you being the good cop?”
Wendy gestured to the chair opposite hers, and turned. “I’m not a cop at all,” she said. “I’m not an investigator, I’m not a lawyer, and I’m not a federal agent, either. I’m a psychologist.” She sat, but Ethan hadn’t moved. That was fine.
“So, I guess we’re going for an insanity defense?” Ethan said.
“I have no idea. Like I said, I’m not a lawyer.”
The kid’s eyes narrowed. “But Culligan told you to come.”
“He asked me,” Wendy corrected. At this stage of the doctor-patient tarantella, words mattered.
“Why would he do that if he wasn’t trying to get me declared insane? I’m not, you know. Insane, I mean.”
Wendy sat erect in her seat, her hands folded on the gray steel table. “Okay,” she said.
“Okay, what?”
“Okay, we’ll stipulate that you’re not insane.”
“Then I guess you can go home now,” Ethan said. His posture read tough, but his eyes read terrified.
“You’d rather be locked in your cell?”
“I don’t want to be manipulated,” Ethan said. “I’m tired of people telling me what to do.”
“I’m not here to do that.”
“What, then?”
Wendy pointed to the chair opposite hers. “Have a seat and I’ll tell you.” God, how she hated this place. In her heart, she didn’t understand how any prisoners kept their sanity in here. The aromas of cleaning solvents and dirty feet combined in a toxic stench that never changed, and that never dulled for the duration of every visit, and there had been many. Fluorescent light tubes that had no doubt been purchased from a low bidder provided the only light, and it was at once glaring and dull, thanks in no part to the yellowed wire-reinforced glass that covered them.
Ethan’s chains rattled as he shuffled to the chair and sat down. “Thanks,” he said. “For the hands, I mean.” He held up his cuffed wrists.
She bowed her head to acknowledge.
“Just so you know, whatever this is, I can’t afford to pay you,” he said.
“Don’t worry about that.”
“Is Culligan paying you?”
“Don’t worry about that, either,” Wendy said. “And frankly—not to be unfriendly—that’s none of your business.”
“I need to know who your allegiance is to,” Ethan said. “How do I know you’re on my side if I’m not paying you?”
It was a savvy question, and not unreasonable. It just was not relevant in this case. “You are my patient,” Wendy said. “What you say to me cannot be reported outside of this room.”
“Suppose I threaten to murder someone?” Ethan asked through a deep scowl.
Wendy knew she was being tested. Clearly this kid had been around the block a few times, and had learned to trust no one. “Well, in that case, I’d be ethically bound to rat you out.”
He weighed her words for a few seconds. “Right answer,” he said.
“I knew that.”
Then he clammed up. He sat in his chair, shoulders slumped, elbows resting on the table, watching her with casual disinterest.
Wendy read his posture as a power play, a way to maintain control. If the circumstances were different, she might have just stared back at him, testing to see who would break first. Not this time, though. “I guess this is my meeting, isn’t it?” she asked.
He looked at his hands. Couldn’t care less.
“Have you read the police narrative of your incident in the parking lot?” Wendy asked.
“I’ve read it and retold the story a thousand times. You gonna ask me to do it again?
“I don’t know. Is the report accurate?”
Another shrug. “More or less.”
“What’s the less part?”
Another few seconds of silence, followed by a smirk. “Okay, you got me. It’s accurate.”
Wendy tapped the table with her fingertips. “Very well, then. No need to recap it again here.”
Ethan started to stand. “Short meeting,” he said.
“Not done yet,” Wendy said, holding out a hand. “In fact, we haven’t really begun. Have a seat.”
This time, he didn’t resist. He just sat. And waited for the rest.
“I want you to tell me more about your previous encounter with the man you killed.”
“Nobody believes that part,” Ethan said.
“Because it’s hard to believe,” Wendy countered. “I mean, think about it. A kidnapping that didn’t happen, with a nameless kidnapper who just happened to be in the same spot as you, eleven years after the fact.”
Ethan locked up again. His posture said that he wanted to cross his arms, but of course that was not possible with cuffed hands.
“Don’t misunderstand,” Wendy said. “I want to believe you.”
“So you can get me declared crazy when I stabbed the guy.”
“So German Culligan can get you exonerated of any wrongdoing,” she fired back.
He recoiled. Clearly, that wasn’t what he was expecting.
“Ethan, you need to divorce yourself of this notion that everyone is your enemy. I don’t know what all you’ve endured in the past, but I’m telling you that you have an ally in me, and in German.”
“Why?”
“Why should you trust us, or why are we your ally?”
“Both, I guess.”
“The simple answer is because that’s our job,” Wendy said. She sensed that Ethan had a finely tuned bullshit meter, and she wanted to stay far away from any trip wires. “But that’s not really it. I can’t speak for German, but I want to believe you. It makes no sense to me that a young man such as yourself—no angel as far as the law is concerned, but no history of this kind of violence—would go all Rambo on a stranger. There has to be a reason for something like that to happen.”
“So, I’m your research project.”
Wendy sighed. “If it makes you feel better to be cynical, then yes, you’re my research project. And if I do my job right, maybe—just maybe—we can put your life on the track that it’s supposed to be on.”
“And if you’re wrong?”
She fired straight from the shoulder. “Then this does not end well for you. I don’t know what you’ve heard of J. Daniel Petrelli, but he’s the most vicious prosecutor in the Commonwealth, perhaps in the nation. If you’re convicted, he’ll do everything he can to see you with a needle in your arm.”
Ethan looked stunned.
“Young man, if you’re looking for someone to sugarcoat your situation, I’m the wrong person. And unfortunately, you’re stuck with me. I want this to be the beginning of a relationship that is blunt, direct, and truthful. You impress me as someone who would appreciate that. Am I right?”
He took his time answering. “It would be a refreshing change from the bullshit artists in this place.”
“That was too easy,” Wendy said. She kept her tone dead serious. “I want a real answer from you. Are you willing to do your best to work with me? To help me help you?”
“I don’t have much choice, do I?”
“You certainly do,” Wendy said. “Drop that victim crap when you’re dealing with me, or we’ll be done before we start. You may have no choice where you live at present, but you have infinite choices on how you live. This is one of them. Do you promise to work with me, or not?”
Ethan’s head bobbed.
“Say it.”
He rolled his eyes. “Okay, I—”
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