“All the things that got Director Wynne concerned,” said Silver. “Plus, there’s an additional detail that worries us. I have to admit, I didn’t pick up on the significance myself when I first heard the recording.”
“Which recording?”
“The call she made to that radio station. We asked a Defense linguist to analyze her speech. Her grammar was perfect—almost too perfect. No contractions, no slang. The woman is clearly not American, but foreign born.”
“The Boston PD negotiator made the same conclusion.”
“Now this is the part that worries us. If you listen carefully to what she said—in particular, to that phrase she used, ‘the die is cast’—you can hear the accent. It’s definitely there. Russian maybe, or Ukrainian, or some other Eastern European language. It’s impossible to distinguish her precise origins, but the accent is Slavic.”
“That’s what’s got the White House worried,” said Conway.
Gabriel frowned. “They’re thinking terrorism?”
“Specifically, Chechen,” said Silver. “We don’t know who this woman is, or how she got into the country. We know that Chechens often use female compatriots in their attacks. In the Moscow theater siege, several women were wired with explosives. Then there were those two jetliners that went down in southern Russia a few years ago, after taking off from Moscow. We believe both were brought down by female passengers wearing bombs. The point is, these particular terrorists routinely use women in their attacks. That’s what our director of National Intelligence is most afraid of. That we’re dealing with people who have no real interest in negotiation. They may be fully prepared to die, and spectacularly.”
“Chechnya’s quarrel is with Moscow. Not us.”
“The war on terror is global. This is precisely why the DNI’s office was created—to make sure 9/11 never happens again. Our job is to make all our intelligence agencies work together, and not at cross purposes, the way they sometimes did. No more rivalries, no more spy versus spy. We’re all in this together. And we all agree that Boston Harbor’s a tempting target for terrorists. They could go after fuel depots or a tanker. One motorboat loaded with explosives could cause a catastrophe.” He paused. “That female hostage taker was found in the water, wasn’t she?”
Conway said: “You look dubious, Agent Dean. What’s bothering you?”
“We’re talking about a woman who was forced into this situation by accident. You’re aware she was brought to the morgue as a drowning victim? Admitted to the hospital after she woke up?”
“Yes,” said Silver. “It’s a bizarre story.”
“She was a lone woman—”
“She’s no longer alone. She now has a partner.”
“This hardly sounds like a planned terrorist operation.”
“We’re not saying this hostage taking was planned. The timing was forced on them. Maybe it started as an accident. Maybe she fell overboard while being smuggled into the country. Woke up in the hospital, realized she was going to be questioned by authorities, and she panicked. She could be one arm of the octopus, part of a much larger operation. An operation that’s now been prematurely exposed.”
“Joseph Roke isn’t Russian, he’s American.”
“Yes, we know a bit about Mr. Roke from his service record,” said Silver.
“He’s hardly your typical Chechen sympathizer.”
“Did you know that Mr. Roke had explosives training in the army?”
“So have a lot of other soldiers who didn’t wind up as terrorists.”
“Mr. Roke also has a history of antisocial behavior. Disciplinary problems. Are you aware of that?”
“I know he was given a dishonorable discharge.”
“For striking an officer, Agent Dean. For repeatedly disobeying orders. There was even some question about a serious emotional disorder. One army psychiatrist considered a diagnosis of paranoid schizophrenia.”
“Was he treated for that?”
“Roke refused any and all medications. After he left the army, he essentially went into seclusion. We’re talking about a guy just like the Unabomber, who withdrew from society and nursed oddball grudges. With Roke, it was all about government conspiracies, delusions of persecution. This is a very bitter man who believes his government has misused him. He’s written so many letters to the FBI about his theories that they have a special file on him.” Silver reached for a folder on the coffee table and handed it to Gabriel. “A sample of his writing. It’s a letter he sent to them in June, 2004.”
Gabriel opened the folder and read the letter.
… I’ve provided you with case after case of documented heart attacks that were secretly induced by PRC-25 mixed with burning tobacco. The combination, as our Defense Department well knows, results in a deadly nerve gas. Scores of veterans have been murdered this way, so the Veterans Administration can save millions of dollars in health care costs. Is there no one at the FBI who cares?
“That’s just one of dozens of nutty letters he wrote to the Bureau, to his Congressmen, to newspapers and TV stations. The Washington Post got so much of his paranoid crap, they just toss out anything with his name on it. As you can see from that sample, the man is intelligent. He is verbal. And he’s utterly convinced that the government is evil.”
“Why isn’t he under psychiatric care?”
“He doesn’t believe he’s crazy. Even though everyone else can see he’s clearly around the bend.”
“Terrorists wouldn’t recruit a psychotic.”
“They might if he’s useful.”
“You can’t control them. You can’t predict what they’ll do.”
“But you can incite them to violence. You can reinforce their beliefs that their own government is against them. And you can use their skills. Roke may be paranoid, but he also knows his explosives. This is an embittered loner with military training. The perfect terrorist recruit, Agent Dean. Until we have evidence to the contrary, we have to assume that this situation has national security implications. We don’t think Boston PD is up to handling this on their own.”
“So that’s why John Barsanti is here.”
“Who?” Silver looked bewildered.
“Agent Barsanti from the FBI’s deputy director’s office. The Bureau doesn’t normally send someone straight from Washington when there’s a local field office to call on.”
“I wasn’t aware the FBI had stepped in,” said Silver. An admission that startled Gabriel. The DNI’s office wielded authority over the FBI; Silver should certainly have known about Barsanti’s involvement.
“The FBI won’t be handling the rescue,” said Silver. “We’ve authorized a special antiterrorist unit from the Strategic Support Branch to come in.”
Gabriel stared at him. “You’re bringing in a team from the Pentagon? A military operation on US soil?”
Senator Conway interjected: “I know it sounds illegal, Agent Dean. But there’s a recent directive called JCS Conplan 0300-97. It authorizes the Pentagon to employ antiterrorist military units within our borders when the situation calls for it. It’s so new, most of the public doesn’t even know about it.”
“And you think this is a good idea?”
“Frankly?” The senator sighed. “It scares the hell out of me. But the directive is on the books. The military can come in.”
“For good reason,” said Silver. “In case you haven’t noticed, our country is under attack. This is our chance to take out this nest before it can launch a strike. Before more people are endangered. In the larger scheme of things, this could prove to be a lucky accident.”
“Lucky?”
Too late, Silver registered his own insensitivity. He held up his hand in apology. “I’m sorry, that was a terrible thing for me to say. I’m so focused on my mission, I sometimes get a case of tunnel vision.”
“It may also be limiting your view of the situation.”
“What do you mean?”
“You look at this siege and automatically you
think terrorism.”
“I have to consider it. They forced us to adopt this attitude. Remember that.”
“To the exclusion of all other possibilities?”
“Of course not. It’s perfectly possible we’re just dealing with a pair of crazies. Two people who are trying to avoid capture after shooting that police officer in New Haven. We’ve considered that explanation.”
“Yet you focus only on terrorism.”
“Mr. Wynne wouldn’t have it any other way. As director of National Intelligence, he takes his job seriously.”
Conway had been watching Gabriel, reading his reactions. “I can see you’re having problems with this terrorism angle.”
“I think it’s too simple,” said Gabriel.
“And what’s your explanation? What are these people after?” asked Silver. He had settled back in his chair, long legs crossed, hands relaxed on the armrests. Not a sign of tension in his lanky frame. He’s not really interested in my opinion, thought Gabriel; he’s already made up his mind.
“I don’t have an answer yet,” said Gabriel. “What I do have are a number of puzzling details that I can’t explain. That’s why I called Senator Conway.”
“What details?”
“I just attended the postmortem on that hospital guard. The man our Jane Doe shot to death. It turns out he wasn’t a hospital employee at all. We don’t know who he was.”
“They ran fingerprints on him?”
“He doesn’t turn up on AFIS.”
“So he has no criminal record.”
“No. His fingerprints don’t turn up on any databases we’ve checked.”
“Not everyone has fingerprints on file.”
“This man walked into that hospital carrying a weapon loaded with duplex rounds.”
“That’s a surprise,” said Conway.
“What’s a duplex round?” said Silver. “I’m just a lawyer so you’ll have to explain it to me. I’m afraid I’m illiterate when it comes to guns.”
“It’s ammunition in which more than one bullet is loaded into a single cartridge case,” said Conway. “Designed for greater lethality.”
“I just spoke to Boston PD’s ballistics lab,” said Gabriel. “They recovered a cartridge from the hospital room. It’s an M-198.”
Conway stared at him. “US Army military issue. That’s not what you’d expect a security guard to carry.”
“A fake hospital guard.” Gabriel reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper. He smoothed it flat on the coffee table. “And here’s the next detail that concerns me.”
“What’s this?” asked Silver.
“This is the sketch I made at the postmortem. It’s a tattoo on the dead man’s back.”
Silver rotated the paper to face him. “A scorpion?”
“Yes.”
“So are you going to explain to me why this is significant? Because I’m willing to bet there are more than a few men walking around with scorpion tattoos.”
Conway reached for the sketch. “You said this was on his back? And we don’t have any ID on this dead man?”
“Nothing came back on his fingerprints.”
“I’m surprised he doesn’t have prints on file.”
“Why?” asked Silver.
Gabriel looked at him. “Because there’s a good chance this man is military.”
“You can tell that just by looking at his tattoo?”
“It’s not just any tattoo.”
“What’s so special about this one?”
“It’s not on his arm, it’s on his back. In the marines, we call them ‘torso meat tags’ because they’re useful for identifying your corpse. In a blast, there’s a good chance you’d lose your extremities. So a lot of soldiers choose to get their tattoos on their chest or back.”
Silver grimaced. “A morbid reason.”
“But practical.”
“And the scorpion? Is that supposed to be significant?”
“It’s the number thirteen that catches my eye,” said Gabriel. “You see it here, circled by the stinger. I think it refers to the Fighting Thirteenth.”
“That’s a military unit?”
“Marine Expeditionary. Special ops capable.”
“You’re saying this dead man was an ex-marine?”
“You’re never an ex-marine,” Conway pointed out.
“Oh. Of course,” Silver corrected himself. “He’s a dead marine.”
“And that leads us to the detail that bothers me most,” said Gabriel. “The fact his fingerprints aren’t in any database. This man has no military record.”
“Then maybe you’re wrong about the significance of this tattoo. And the duplex ammo.”
“Or I’m right. And his fingerprints were specifically purged from the system to make him invisible to law enforcement.”
There was a long silence.
Silver’s eyes suddenly widened as he realized what Gabriel was implying. “Are you saying one of our intelligence agencies purged his prints?”
“To conceal any black ops missions within our borders.”
“Whom are you accusing? CIA? Military Intelligence? If he was one of ours, I sure wasn’t told about it.”
“Whoever this man was, whoever he was working for, it’s now obvious he and his associate showed up in that hospital room for only one reason.” Gabriel looked at Conway. “You’re on the Senate Intelligence Committee. You have sources.”
“But I’m totally out of the loop on this one,” said Conway, shaking his head. “If one of our agencies ordered a hit on that woman, that’s a serious scandal. An assassination on US soil?”
“But this hit went very wrong,” said Gabriel. “Before they could finish it, Dr. Isles walked in on them. Not only did the target survive the hit, she took hostages. Now this is a huge media event. A black ops screwup that’s going to end up on the front pages. The facts are going to come out anyway, so if you know, you might as well tell me. Who is this woman, and why does our country want her dead?”
“This is pure speculation,” said Silver. “You’re following a pretty thin thread, Agent Dean. Extrapolating from a tattoo and a bullet to a government-sponsored assassination.”
“These people have my wife,” Gabriel said quietly. “I’m willing to follow any thread, however thin. I need to know how to make this end without someone getting killed. That’s all I want. That no one gets killed.”
Silver nodded. “It’s what we all want.”
FIFTEEN
Darkness had fallen by the time Maura turned onto the quiet Brookline street where she lived. She drove past familiar houses, familiar gardens. Saw the same redheaded boy heaving his basketball at the hoop over his garage. Missing it, as usual. Everything looked as it had yesterday, just another hot summer’s evening in suburbia. But tonight is different, she thought. Tonight, she wouldn’t be lingering over her glass of chilled wine or her latest issue of Vanity Fair. How could she enjoy her usual pleasures, knowing what Jane was enduring at that moment?
If Jane was still alive.
Maura pulled into her garage and walked into the house, grateful for the cool breath of central air-conditioning. She would not be staying long; she’d come home only to grab a quick supper, to shower, and change clothes. For even this brief respite, she felt guilty. I’ll bring back sandwiches for Gabriel, she thought. She doubted the thought of food had even crossed his mind.
She had just stepped out of the shower when she heard her doorbell ring. Pulling on a robe, she hurried to answer it.
Peter Lukas stood on her front porch. Only that morning, they had spoken, but judging by his wrinkled shirt and the tense lines around his eyes, the hours since then had taken a toll. “I’m sorry to just show up here,” he said. “I did try to call you a few minutes ago.”
“I didn’t hear the phone. I was in the shower.”
He gaze dropped, just for an instant, to her bathrobe. Then he looked past her, focusing on a spot over her shoulder, a
s though he was uncomfortable staring directly at an undressed woman. “Can we talk? I need your advice.”
“Advice?”
“About what the police are asking me to do.”
“You’ve spoken to Captain Hayder?”
“And that FBI guy. Agent Barsanti.”
“Then you already know what the hostage takers want.”
Lukas nodded. “That’s why I’m here. I need to know what you think about this whole crazy setup.”
“You’re actually considering it?”
“I need to know what you’d do, Dr. Isles. I trust your judgment.” His gaze finally met hers and she felt the heat rise in her face, found herself tugging her robe tighter.
“Come inside,” she finally said. “Let me get dressed, and we’ll talk about it.”
As he waited in the living room, she hunted in her closet for clean slacks and a blouse. Pausing before the mirror, she winced at the reflection of smeared eye makeup, tangled hair. He’s only a reporter, she thought. This isn’t a date. It doesn’t matter what the hell you look like.
When she finally walked back into the living room, she found him standing at the window, gazing out at the dark street. “It’s gone national, you know,” he said, turning to look at her. “Right this minute, they’re watching it in LA.”
“Is that why you’re thinking of doing this? A chance at fame? The fact you could get your name in the headlines?”
“Oh yeah, I can see it now: ‘Reporter gets bullet in brain.’ I’m really crazy about that headline.”
“So you do realize this is not a particularly wise move.”
“I haven’t decided.”
“If you want my advice—”
“I want more than just your advice. I need information.”
“What can I tell you?”
“You could start by telling me what the FBI is doing here.”
“You said you spoke to Agent Barsanti. Didn’t you ask him?”
“I’ve heard there’s an Agent Dean involved as well. Barsanti wouldn’t tell me a thing about him. Why would the Bureau send two men all the way from Washington, for a crisis that would normally be handled by Boston PD?”
His question alarmed her. If he already knew about Gabriel, it would not take long for him to learn that Jane was a hostage.
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