by Cat Connor
“Crystal meth,” he said. “Arnie was a user.”
That was news. Or that was new. Or someone wanted us to think he was a user. The way things were going, I suspected the latter.
“Who are the shooters?” I asked.
“No idea. No doubt you’ll find out once you get them back for questioning,” Andrews said.
My phone rang. I knew it was Mitch. I wrestled the phone from my pocket, walked away a few feet and answered his call.
“You all right?”
There was no stopping my smile.
“Strange thing to ask.”
“There was a disruption in the force,” he replied. From anyone else that would’ve been weird, from Mitch it felt right.
“I’m okay. Shouldn’t you be asleep?”
“I nearly was, then something happened and all I could see was you.”
I swallowed hard.
“I’ll tell you about it tomorrow. Meanwhile, go to sleep. There won’t be any more disruptions in the force tonight.”
Mitch laughed softly. “As long as you’re okay.”
“I am. Goodnight.”
“’Night, El.”
With my phone back in my pocket, I rejoined Andrews and Kurt. Neither commented on my obviously personal call. Smart men.
Five
Set Fire to the Rain
“Houston we have a problem,” I mumbled sitting behind my desk and firing up my laptop. “Why kill my CI?”
Kurt watched me from the couch in my office. “Can’t answer that.”
“They can, the shooters. We’ll let them sit for a bit then go have a chat.”
Kurt smiled. “Coffee?”
“You buying?” I glanced at him.
He nodded. “More fetching, we’ll have to make do with the overcooked coffee from the break room.” Kurt stood up, smoothed his suit jacket and left the room.
He returned bearing our coffee mugs containing a black liquid impersonating coffee. Unpleasant but caffeine loaded. It’d have to do.
Twenty minutes later we were in the first interview room with candidate number one. I dropped a file on the table.
“Jan Trudenca,” I said. He didn’t look up, his gaze held by a small mark on the table surface. “We need to have a little talk about Arnie Arthur and his demise.” I flipped open the folder and spread out photos of Arnie, dead.
Trudenca said nothing.
Spinning the folder to face me, I read from the sheet of paper inside. “Jan Trudenca. Thirty-four years old. Born in Warsaw, Poland. Family immigrated to the USA when you were five, making their home in New Jersey. Your father is a doctor, your mother a nurse. You have three siblings. All younger. Two sisters and a brother. Both sisters are in medical school. Your brother died in a car crash two years ago. You were driving.”
I looked at him. This time he made eye contact. “Killing your brother must be hard to live with.”
His eyes sought the mark on the table once more. His expression gave nothing away.
I carried on. “You served eighteen months of a three-year prison sentence for aggravated robbery when you were twenty-two.”
Nothing.
“Stand up,” I instructed.
He did, fixing his eyes on the wall behind me. I gave the table a shove, moving it out of the way.
“Sit.”
He sat in his chair. I grabbed another chair and dragged it over to sit in front of him.
“Now, let’s talk.”
As soon as I spoke, he pulled his feet under the chair, hooking them around the legs. He ran one hand through this hair, then pulled at the neck of his tee shirt with the same hand before dropping it into his lap. Not as cool calm and collected as he first appeared.
“Your partner is talking,” I said. “He’s having a nice long chat with my partner about how who you work for and why you shot Arnie and fired on us.”
“Bullshit.”
“You wish.” I paused, listening to Kurt speaking via the comms link I wore in my ear. His partner was indeed talking. “He’s quite the Chatty Cathy.”
Trudenca lifted his head and stared at me.
“I want a lawyer.”
Crap! An internal snarl bounced off the walls of my skull.
“Great, I’ll arrange that for you now.” I stood up, picked up the file and photos from the table and left the room.
Kurt met me outside the door.
“He wants his lawyer,” I said.
“His buddy was too stupid to ask. We have information but still don’t know who hired them. Ashwyn Cox is saying Trudenca was the one who took the job and he didn’t tell Cox who hired them. All Cox knows is they were told to take out Arnie Arthur before he met you in Vienna. They got extra if they killed you.”
“Nice.”
“How’d they know Arnie was meeting me?”
“That I don’t know. Cox didn’t know. His information was limited.”
I was beginning to see why. He couldn’t be trusted to keep his mouth shut.
“Did he know a Rob?”
“No.”
“I’m calling the DA. If Cox and Trudenca took a contract to kill Arthur and were offered extra cash for killing me in the State of Virginia … we may be able to put the death penalty on the table.” My experience is that people tend to talk when faced with the death penalty.
“Extra cash for the death of a Federal agent sounds like a contract hit to me,” Kurt said. “I’ll make the call to the District Attorney.”
Kurt and I walked back to our offices. He left me at the door to mine and went to make the calls. I swung my door open to find Agent Troy waiting for me.
“Can I help you?” I asked, moving past him and sitting at my desk.
“Yes, ma’am … I mean SSA. I … have something to show you,” he said, passing me his tablet.
“Have you been home?” I asked, leaning back in my chair with his tablet in my hands.
“No, SSA.”
I smiled. Maybe he’d make a good agent. He seemed dedicated enough. I viewed everything he’d found. Unease filled me again. Unease was the new normal.
“This is starting to look like tradecraft,” I said, reaching for the phone on my desk as I checked the clock on the wall. Late. “Or it feels like tradecraft with a smattering of tourist thrown in to throw off the casual onlooker.”
I stretched my arm and pressed a series of numbers. It was too late to expect Iain to be in his office, so I called him at home. A few rings later, his answer machine kicked in.
“It’s me. Pick up.”
The phone clicked.
“What’s up?”
“One of my agents has found something you need to look at.”
I glanced up to see Troy smile proudly. He stopped when he saw me looking at him.
“You in your office?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll be right over.”
I hung up and spoke to Troy. “Get comfortable. He won’t be long.”
The dark night beyond the windows of my office captured the light from within and swallowed it whole.
I picked the phone up again and made another call. I knew Caine was still in his office. He was almost always in his office, or a meeting; dedicated. The FBI was his life and his family.
“Change of plans, I’ve got something here. We’re talking national security.”
Caine snapped, “I need someone on the ground in New Zealand.”
“Lee and Sam can handle it. I want Kurt with me.”
Not so much want as need him with me, there was something very odd going on in my head and for me to admit that meant it was very strange indeed.
“Done. Get them on that plane first thing. I want a full briefing on this new issue A-sap.”
“As soon as I know what this is, you’ll get it.”
Sam rocked through my doorway. Didn’t even need to use the bat signal, guess his trouble radar was active. He should have been home packing or sleeping or something.
“Chicky?”
“You and Lee are on the flight. Troy here has uncovered something sticky. Kurt and I will stay.” I decided not to mention our evening. Until I knew for sure, Arnie’s death and the shooters were a different situation. I felt my stomach roil.
That’s not evidence.
“Okay. We’ll see you when we get back.”
“Stay in touch.”
Sam grinned. “See you on the other side.”
“Sam?”
“Yeah?”
“There’s something hinky with the head thing. Extra care.”
He tipped his head to one side and looked at me. “Song?”
“Not this time, just call it gut instinct. Almost feels like we’re being distracted.”
“We’ll be careful.” He straightened his head, a thoughtful expression in his eyes. “If you’re right, then you and Kurt …” He didn’t finish his thought. He didn’t need to.
“The woman from the factory, where is she?”
“Immigration and Customs Enforcement have her. She’s an illegal.”
“ICE. Homeland. Campbell is with Homeland now.”
“So I heard. What’s with the interest in the woman?”
“I can’t explain it. But you should talk to her. It might have something to do with the heads.”
“All right. I will. I’ll try and get to her before we leave.”
“Good.”
“Eyes wide open, Chicky.”
“Alert and safe.”
“Always,” Sam replied and left.
Troy crossed his legs then uncrossed them.
“Go get a coffee if you want,” I said as I opened a new case file. “I wouldn’t say no either. Black, strong, go.”
He disappeared. I felt a smile settle on my lips. This mentoring thing might not be so bad. A few seconds later, I went out to Sandra’s desk.
“Might be a long night, you up for it?” I said. There wasn’t really room for debate but I was willing to listen to any concerns or issues posed.
“Without question, O fearless leader.”
“You already said goodbye to Sam?”
“Yes. He’ll call before they take off.”
“Great. This could be a long night.”
“I’m here, just let me know what you need.”
I walked back to my office and made the most of Troy’s absence by building a case file. By the time he got back with coffee, the file was ready to go: everything he’d come across so far included, and some of my own hurriedly sourced information.
Having friends in the State Department hurried a few queries along.
“Coffee, SSA,” Troy said setting the take-out cup on my desk.
“Thanks,” I replied motioning him to sit. “I’ve added you to the new case file so you can access the information and work within the file.” My eyes rose over the laptop screen. “Do you know who these women are?”
“Yes. I tracked them back to their entry into the United States.”
I knew that. But as far as I could tell, he hadn’t gone beyond that. They entered via Canada on New Zealand passports. There was a beginning to this story and it needed investigating.
“Have you seen the airport footage?”
He frowned. “No, SSA.”
“Would you like to?”
“Yes, SSA.”
I swiveled my laptop to face him. “Press enter when you’re ready. The highlighted file follows them from their origin airport all the way through to La Guardia a week ago.”
He watched in silence. When he was done, he looked up at me.
“They weren’t flagged at all, at any point,” he said with a small sigh.
“Nope. Would their behavior trigger anything in you?” I asked. I’d seen the footage. Nothing stood out but something wasn’t right. As a teaching tool, the video seemed innocent and useless. My gut said otherwise.
Troy shook his head. “What does that mean?”
I didn’t know if Troy’s question required an answer or not. Being his mentor meant I should explain if in any doubt. “Either they’re very good, it was an oversight, or they’re tourists.”
“Which do you think?” Troy asked. This time he wanted an answer.
“They’re close. The blonde women are in protection mode, and that indicates the dark-haired woman is important to them.”
“What does that mean?”
“I can’t answer that at this point.” Leaning forward, I pulled the video back and replayed a section. “Look, here,” I said pointing. The dark-haired woman and one blonde woman stood waiting at Toronto International Airport. “She how she’s standing?” I pointed to the brunette.
“Leaning on a wall with her ankles crossed and she’s looking at her phone,” Troy commented.
“She’s secure, safe, feeling good and trusts her traveling companions.”
“All that from one image,” Troy whispered.
“Feet don’t lie. Standing like probably means she doesn’t feel any sort of threat. She’s not in a ready position, she can’t move easily to evade or attack.” I made a mental note to get Troy on one of our in-house body language courses.
“But the blonde has a different stance.”
“That’s right. Right foot forward, left foot back, legs apart. She’s not as relaxed.” I played it again. “She’s alert and ready.”
“What could this be?” Troy asked.
“One person relaxed, the other constantly looking for trouble,” I replied. “Trust and protection. The blonde’s job is to protect her and the brunette trusts her to do just that.”
I watched Troy’s face, wishing I could see his legs. Legs and feet don’t lie. They’re governed by the limbic brain, not the thinking brain. Faces lie or mask. Game face. Feet don’t.
“So the dark-haired woman is someone who needs protection.”
“Yes.”
He watched some more. “Do you think they have connections here?”
“Yes, I think so. What sort of connections, I don’t know. But I’m in a betting mood and my money is on them having people on the ground that they know.”
His hand reached out to the laptop. I heard a key press. Then again. And again.
“SSA?”
“Problem?”
“The file disappeared.”
The video was supposed to be streaming from the airline site.
I spun my laptop back so I could see the screen. A black square and an orange traffic cone marked the spot where the file should’ve been.
“Erased,” I muttered. “Not good.”
I picked up my phone and called Sandra.
“Hey, a file just got deleted from an airline site, can you work some magic?”
“I’ll certainly try. Email the deets.”
Four keystrokes later.
“Done,” I said.
“I’ll get on it. Back to you shortly.” Sandra hung up.
Six
I’ll Be Waiting
Campbell knocked on my door and entered without waiting for a response.
“How’s it going?” I asked, looking up from my laptop. “This is Agent Justin Troy. Troy, Iain Campbell.”
They shook hands then Iain grabbed a chair and set it next to me.
“Rolling out favors in all directions for the FBI tonight,” Iain said with a smile. “Sam wanted to talk to the woman you found.”
I nodded, pleased that Sam made the call.
“Got something I want you to see.” I crossed my fingers.
“Show me.”
“Files are being deleted. Pretty much as soon as I see it, it’s deleted. Sandra is on it.” I clicked the mouse button. “But these I downloaded earlier.”
I played the selection for Iain, who watched with interest.
“What do you see?” I asked.
Troy leaned forward eager, waiting.
“I see a protection detail disguised as friends or traveling companions,” he said at the end of the viewing time. “They’re up to something.”
“So we though
t. Now, my question – can we get a drone?”
Iain grinned. “Within D.C. airspace? You want a drone?”
“Yeah. Can’t rely on traffic and surveillance cameras if someone is hacking in and erasing the files.” Not that I could confirm that was the case, yet. “A drone would provide us with our own feed.”
Catching sight of Troy’s intent interest in our conversation, hairs rose on the back of my neck. My limbic response interested me. Why did Troy’s interest in his own case cause a chill/fear response in me? Filing it for later examination, I gave Iain my full attention. I wanted a drone.
“And again, an Unmanned Aerial Vehicle in Washington D.C. airspace?”
“Yep, and Northern Virginia.”
“Three major airports feed into this particular piece of sky, not counting private airfields and helicopter companies. Dulles is the second busiest international gateway to the Eastern seaboard.”
“Is that a problem?” I found it harder and harder to maintain my innocent countenance, knowing damn well I was asking the impossible, but who better to ask?
“The FAA has not approved UAVs for use within the District or Northern Virginia.”
“Well, I know that. I’m not talking FAA approved flights here. I’m talking borrowing a CIA drone.”
“They still need permission to fly.”
“But you could get it, right? National security and all that?”
“You’re going to make me have that conversation with Tierney aren’t you?”
“Yep. He hasn’t set foot in my office since I shot his wife.” There was no way to make that sound good. She was a liability trying to kill an asset. Simple, really.
“He supplied some hefty help not so long ago, I recall,” Iain said. “You could ask him?”
“It’s been awkward since the shooting. But he has been there for me. He was there watching my back when that idiot chopped up my ex-brother-in-law.”
Troy shuffled in his chair.
“Problem?” I asked.
“Just. No. No, SSA.” He shook his head. “No problem.”
“Baptism by fire for the new guy?” Iain said with a grin. “Guess he hadn’t heard the stories.”
“I have, sir. Didn’t think they were true,” Troy said, moving his chair back a little. He tugged at his collar then rubbed his jaw. Nervous?
I smiled; it was more of a smirk and I knew it. I’d heard that before. Seems the stories float around the halls at Quantico but no one really believes them until suddenly they do.