“Get up!”
The blow knocked the breath out of him, but he attempted to pull his knees to his chest, trying to sit. It took a few tries but he did it.
“On your feet, you idiot.”
“I can’t.”
And the man reached down, yanked him by his arm to his feet, then shoved him in a chair. It was Willis, he realized. One of Barclay’s men. Trip shifted so his wrists weren’t pressing against the wooden back. “Where am I?”
“Shut up. Now where’s the bloody book?”
They hadn’t found it . . . Was it possible Byron hadn’t given Marty up? “I told you it’s safe. Hidden. And if anything happens to me, it goes public.”
“That right? Funny, seeing as how Byron said otherwise, right before we killed him. Said you were lying, and your brother-in-law? The one you blame for getting you fired? Byron said he’s got it.”
“I told you, Marty doesn’t have it!”
“Yeah. We figured that out when we killed him, dumbass.”
“Marty’s dead?”
“Just like your sister and her kid are gonna be if you don’t cooperate.”
Trip’s throat closed. It was several seconds before he could even breathe, move. And then an anger like he’d never known surged through him. “You bloody well better leave them alone!”
“Didn’t think we cared about them, did ya? Tell ya what. You cooperate, they live.” He reached out, grabbed Trip by the scruff of his collar and put his face so close that Trip could smell the tobacco on his breath. “So I’m gonna ask you again, and listen real careful like. Where’s . . . the . . . book?”
Trip stared at the man’s mouth, saw it moving as he spoke, tried to think. What had Marty done? Was it possible they’d all been pawns? All because of Marty? Or was this Byron’s doing? He tried to go over the conversation with Byron last night. Had he missed something? Byron said Marty had it. Where the hell was it?
“Well?” He shook Trip until his head jerked back.
“I’ll take it from here.”
Trip looked over. Eve? How long had she been standing there? “What’s going on?”
“Leave us!” she ordered.
Willis stood fast, holding Trip’s collar.
“I said leave!”
He hesitated a second, let go, then stalked out the door, the light temporarily blinding Trip as he tried to look out, see where he was.
The door slammed closed and he turned his attention to Eve. “I don’t understand. What’s going on?”
She walked up to him, leaned over, put her face close to his, whispering, “You need to listen very carefully. I don’t think they have your sister or niece yet, but it’s only a matter of time. You heard what happened to Byron and his family? To your brother-in-law? It’s important I find them first. Do you have any idea where your sister might be?”
He shook his head.
“Trip, you have to trust me. I can’t help you or them if you don’t cooperate. Where’s the book?”
“I swear, I don’t know,” he said, not believing her for an instant.
She sighed, then stood up straight. “Trip, you know if they find that book first, your life, their lives, aren’t worth a damn. The sooner you get me that book, the sooner I can help you.”
“I—I just need time.”
“How long?”
“Two days, three days, maybe?”
“I’ll try to hold them off.” She pulled a knife from her pocket, opened it, and sliced the rope at Trip’s wrists. “You have my number.”
She walked out, slammed the door, leaving Trip alone in the dark once more. It took him about two seconds to come to his senses. He bent down, loosened the knot at his feet, then stood, walked to the door and put his ear to it, listening. Hearing nothing that sounded threatening, he opened it, looking out into a dank alley in a part of town where it wouldn’t have mattered if he had screamed all night. No one would care. No one would come.
And how was that different from now? From this illusion of freedom he had as he hurried down the narrow alley to the street beyond? He ignored the stares from the few individuals who lingered in the shadows, as though they were sizing him up as a potential victim. But if any of the rat-faced men who stood in the dark corners thought about moving in his direction, they backed off with one look from him. He would fight to the death rather than jeopardize his sister and niece, and it must have shown on his face.
Now all he had to do was figure out where Marty hid the damned book.
27
“Are you busy?”
Sydney was surprised to hear Griffin’s voice on the other end of her phone. She expected that once Tex and Carillo had left for England, Griffin would have little official reason to contact her—which is not to say she didn’t want him to. “Not at the moment. Why?”
“I need to talk. I’d rather not relay it over the phone.”
“It’s not—”
“Carillo’s fine. With Tex.” She breathed a sigh of relief as he added, “Where can we meet?”
“Your office is fine. I’m just leaving my apartment.”
“See you in a few.”
Traffic was the usual stop and go at the morning hour, and it took Sydney about a half hour. Unlike her last visit, the man who’d barred her way yesterday greeted her, saying, “Mr. Griffin’s expecting you upstairs.”
“Thank you.”
Griffin was waiting for her in his office, along with Director McNiel.
McNiel stood, shook her hand, saying, “Good to see you again.”
“Likewise.”
But instead of taking a seat when she did, he said, “I’ll leave you two at it,” then left the room.
She found herself staring at the closed door, before forcing her gaze back to Griffin, when she realized he was speaking.
“I need someone with clearance and law enforcement powers to work some reconnaissance with me on the local level. We don’t currently have an ATLAS member with those qualifications.”
“Clearly a government oversight.”
“Since the current administration is not going to fix it anytime soon . . .”
“This is that overlapping investigation you were telling me about last night?”
“It is. We received word that a terrorist might be trying to come into the country, possibly through the refugee resettlement program.”
“Trip’s program? This Sticks and Bricks thing?”
“We don’t know. It could be a completely separate criminal enterprise taking advantage of an inherently flawed system. Whatever this hornet’s nest is that Sheila’s boyfriend stirred up may or may not be part of it. But we’d be foolish not to investigate further.”
“Does Carillo know?”
“He does now.”
“Pearson, or someone from foreign counterintelligence?”
“Pearson’s the one who informed us of the terrorist connection. He’s forwarded a number of suspicious circumstances reports from your office that we’re going to need to follow up on, which made me realize you would be an asset to the investigation. He suggested your name, but I wanted to ask you before I finalized anything.”
“There’s a first.”
He gave a half smile, as though to acknowledge that his agency had circumvented the normal channels in the past. He did not, however, comment, apparently waiting for her response on whether she was willing to work alongside him.
And that was a big question. They seemed to finally be at the beginning of an actual two-way relationship. Sure, it was more expedient to bring an agent on board who already knew ATLAS existed and what most of their protocols were, but what if they actually ended up sleeping together? “Are you okay with this?” she asked.
“I’ve worked with you before.”
“Not that part . . .” She let it hang there, since the door was still wide-open.
He glanced toward the doorway, then back at her. “You mean the part we almost but haven’t quite made it to?”
“Yes.”
“If we ever get to that part, I’ll let you know. So how about it? I need to call Pearson.”
“Forget Pearson. Why wouldn’t we get to that part? And if we do, is there some reason it would change your mind about working with me?”
He picked up a pen from his desk, clicking it open, closed, over and over, seemingly unaware he was even doing it. “I feel protective toward you. I don’t want the same thing that happened to Becca—”
Of course. His late wife. “I’m not her. And the feeling of wanting to protect the people you care about? It’s never going to go away.”
“I know that. Now. So I learn to work with it instead of against it.”
Sydney made a show of looking at her watch. “I have a few errands to run. Let me know what Pearson says.”
She started toward the door when he called out to her. She stopped, looked back at him.
He returned the pen to his desk. “The whole thing with Becca didn’t come out right.”
“Baby steps, Griffin. But let me warn you. I am so not waiting until next New Year’s eve.”
He followed her to the elevator. “What about a date?”
She looked at him, amused at the hopeful expression on his face. “A real date? Like dinner, that sort of thing?”
“Tomorrow night?”
“I’ll mark it on my calendar. But you better not stand me up.”
Griffin watched from his office window, saw Sydney crossing the parking lot to her car, very much aware of how close he’d been to mangling his peace offering. Comparing her to his late wife was not what he’d been trying to do, even though it seemed to have the desired effect. They were officially going out tomorrow night.
That was what he wanted, wasn’t it?
It was, except for one tiny detail, and he could almost hear Tex’s voice in his ear saying that he better tell Sydney about ATLAS’s involvement in her father’s case before their relationship went any further. A part of him knew Tex was right, but he also knew that Sydney would not take the news well. She’d shut down and any chance they had of making a go of it would be gone. He wasn’t sure he wanted to risk that.
He’d tell her.
But not yet . . . One day.
“How’d it go?”
Griffin looked over and saw McNiel in the doorway, and it took him a moment to switch gears, realize McNiel wanted to know if Sydney had agreed to work with him, not go out with him. “Fine. Fitzpatrick’s on board with it as long as Pearson agrees.”
“I’ll get started on her security clearance.”
Griffin called Pearson, got his approval, then phoned Sydney to let her know she was now on loan to ATLAS. She arrived after lunch, and he met her in the lobby, escorted her to the floor above his. “IT works up here. We need to get your fingerprint into the system.”
He opened the door to an office where three men and one woman sat at mismatched government surplus desks, surrounded by computers. One of the men looked up, saw Griffin, waved them over. “You’re Sydney Fitzpatrick?”
“Yes.”
“I’m Pete. I just need your right index finger . . .”
She held her hand out, and he guided it to a small glass box on his desk, pressed it to the surface, and her print appeared on his computer monitor. He then held out a small keypad, attached to his computer with a USB cable.
“Punch in a code and you’re done,” he said.
“Code . . . ?”
Pete turned away, giving her privacy, and Griffin said, “So you can get upstairs without an escort.”
She took the keypad from Pete, pressed the numbers, then handed it back, saying, “You mean I’m a member of the club now?”
Pete typed something into the computer. “That and a buck will get you a bag of chips from the break room, but that’s about it.”
She thanked him and they returned to Griffin’s office, where he gave her a file folder. “These are the reports on the theft of a radiation therapy machine from a hospital in California.”
“It relates how?”
“Because after the original theft north of Los Angeles, another report came in from San Diego PD saying they found the machine in a storage unit, dismantled, with the capsule containing the cesium 137 missing. That could be used to make a very effective smoky bomb.”
“Is that like a dirty bomb?”
“Similar principle, smaller scale, with the threat being from breathing in the smoke from the explosion. A whiff of cesium 137 will kill you in about four days, and it won’t be a pretty death,” he said as he handed her another folder. “More importantly, the description of the man last seen near the machine matches that of Yusuf. If it is him, that means he got into the country by taking on a new identity. So we now have several tasks on our hands. Find out where he is, what identity he’s using, and who issued the identity so we can close that loophole.”
She examined the photo inside, saw a pleasant-looking man with dark hair and eyes staring back at her. “Find the identity broker, maybe find Yusuf?”
“Find the right identity broker,” Griffin said. “Too many of them out there all looking to make a buck off the many refugees who have never had any form of ID, and find themselves in a Catch-22, unable to get into the country without identification.”
“And the refugee programs somehow facilitate this?”
“By helping the refugees obtain sometimes fraudulent documents that give them that much needed ID. Unfortunately it’s the same method used by the criminals and terrorists, who have a distinct advantage in a completely screwed-up system that is fueled on both ends by vast sums of money and a proliferation of corruption.”
“And what’s our role?” Sydney asked, sorting through the paperwork.
“Take a closer look at some of the local charities to see if any of them are involved. Considering what’s gone on with A.D.E. and From Sticks to Bricks, it seems like a logical place to start.”
“We’re just going to march up there? Tell them who we are?”
“Actually, no. I wanted to start with the refugees themselves. Tex and I chased Dorian Rose at one of the apartment complexes out near the naval yard. Dorian knew someone was after him then, so it stands to reason that someone there might know something.”
28
“Where to start?” Sydney asked Griffin once they arrived at the row of apartments.
“Somehow I doubt it matters.”
And he was right. They entered the first building, overpowered by the musty smell of mildew and mold. The hallway floor was uneven and soft in places, as though if one stepped too hard, the boards might cave in. Sydney knocked on the first door, and no one answered. A woman peered out of the second door they knocked on, smiled and shook her head, apparently not understanding English, and the language Sydney heard from behind the next door wasn’t one she recognized. At the third door, a young black child peered through the two-inch crack. “Is your mom home?” Sydney asked.
He cocked his head to one side.
She showed her badge, saying, “FBI.”
“Police?”
“Yes,” she said.
He opened the door wider, pointing toward the door leading outside, saying, “Offees.”
“Can you show us?”
The office, it turned out, was another apartment in the building next door. The boy ran off before they could thank him, and Sydney and Griffin walked in, finding the office was the first door on the left.
Before they even had a chance to knock, the door opened and a dark-skinned man standing about an inch taller than Griffin looked at the two of them, saying in a deep and melodious voice, “You must be the police. No one else comes here.”
“FBI, Special Agent Fitzpatrick,” Sydney said, and handed him her card. “And you are?”
“I am Ito Abasi. What can I do for you?”
His English was clear, but his accent strong, and Sydney couldn’t place it. “We’re looking for someone who might have known Dorian Rose.”
&n
bsp; He eyed the two of them, as though contemplating his next move. “Why?”
“He was killed several nights ago.”
The man’s mouth opened, then closed. He stepped to one side, saying, “Come in. Please.”
The apartment was cleaner than expected. Sure, the carpet was stained, worn in spots, the walls in need of one or two more coats of paint, but Sydney had seen worse. “Did you know Dorian?”
“I did. He was our liaison with the refugee program.”
“When did you last see him?”
“Less than a week ago. Around five I met with him at his apartment. I was waiting for him, to apologize, actually, for the article that came out in the paper about the state of the buildings and evictions. He had promised to speak with Mr. Redfern, the landlord, about the evictions, but did not, and so I felt our only recourse was to go to the press. Unfortunately I lost my temper. But we only argued, and then I left after he promised to address our concerns.”
“With Mr. Redfern.”
“Yes. I cannot say who is responsible for killing Mr. Dorian, but if anyone should be brought in for questioning, it is Mr. Redfern. He slowly murders people every day by allowing these buildings to stand in disrepair. They might not die violently, but if they stay here they will surely die.”
“We’ll make sure the police and Social Services look into the matter. Thank you for your time.”
“Are you not going to see for yourself, at least?”
She and Griffin both made a show of appearing interested in the apartment.
“Not here,” he said. “The new paint hides much. This way, please. The people who live in these buildings, they are all refugees from Africa.” He led them out, then down the hall, and the farther they walked, the heavier the stench. He knocked on a door that was opened by an older woman, a bright multicolored scarf wrapped around her head. Sydney couldn’t understand what was spoken between the two, but the woman allowed them entry into a living room, where at least ten people sat, mainly women and children. “There are two families who live in this apartment,” he said. “From Somalia. The charity Dorian works for, A.D.E., brought them in. They live here until the A.D.E. assistance runs out in the first month and hope the welfare kicks in. It is not enough to allow the families to find better housing or separate housing.”
The Black List Page 13