“Bullshit,” Scottie tossed off, his eye on the polygraph box. “You’re making this up. For the sake of the tapes, I categorically state: The source is fabricating. Next?”
Tonight’s conversation, like the one a few hours earlier, was being recorded, but Cuddy had been ordered to take notes. He was typing swiftly with a stylus into a palm-sized computer. “O’Brien. Any relation to Sophie Payne’s staffer?”
“Daughter.”
“Pure shit,” Scottie interpreted succinctly. “Utter caca. Tell us who Fist is, Eric. The folks back home need a laugh.”
“Fist is a killer by the name of Daniel Becker. Ex-soldier looking for another mission and willing to die for Mlan.”
“Sniper?” Cuddy suggested.
“Could be. But not Special Forces; too wacked. Why?”
“Lucky guess,” Scottie purred, “given that Dare Atwood had her head shot off. But please don’t let the facts interrupt your narrative, Eric.”
“Becker ran into 30 April in the woods a few years ago, before my time. He’s a Tim McVeigh in the making: trained by the army and then thwarted in his career. Hates government in all its forms. The list of operations Mlan gave him is long. Suicide bombers dispatched to malls; the destruction of the northeast power grid and the Port of Long Beach. His job is to recruit martyrs and spread panic.”
The memory of Dare Atwood’s shattered skull, the glass and blood scattered over the Oriental carpet, and the dog’s lacerated paws—Cuddy punched in Daniel Becker’s name and thought: He took aim over my shoulder while he crouched in the garden.
“Fist’s role is terror,” Eric said quietly, “but Tool is a more subtle animal altogether. Mlan understood something fundamental about Americans: If we read something in the paper or see it on TV, we tend to believe it’s true. We rarely question our sources, so their power is absolute.”
“Tool’s a journalist?” Cuddy asked quickly.
Eric’s eyes flicked toward his. “He covered the war in Bosnia and was embedded with a militia leader for a good while. Thirteen months ago he flew from D.C. to Prague and interviewed Mlan at a 30 April safe house. No cameras permitted; just a pad and pen. He printed his profile in the Post and probably received a Pulitzer. But Mlan’s real orders weren’t in the newspaper. Tool’s job is to undermine public faith in government by questioning political motives and methods at every opportunity. Particularly once Fist’s panic hits.”
Personally, Cuddy heard himself advising Caroline, I’d use the power of the pen for all it’s worth.
“Fucking hell,” he said out loud. “You aren’t talking about Steve Price?”
Chapter 47
ROCHESTER, PENNSYLVANIA, 10:30 A.M.
It was the look in his eyes that made her tumble to the truth: the flat, alien, inchoate hatred she hadn’t glimpsed while they’d chased leads together. The hatred was direct and personal, as shocking as a flood of icy water. Caroline had seen that kind of look before: in the eyes of Mlan Krucevic. Price meant to kill her.
His right hand snaked out and tore the latex from her cheekbone. She flung her left arm over the seat, scrabbling for her purse and the Walther she’d tucked inside.
But the man beside her grabbed her wrist in the vise of his fingers and jammed on the brakes. The car screeched to a halt on the lonely mountain road.
“You think you’re so goddamn tough,” he was shouting. “You think you can kill a man and call it justice.”
With her free hand she tried to open the car door. He’d locked it automatically.
And if she ran into the woods?
He’d hunt her down and leave her body for some lost hiker to find, in another decade.
Tom, she thought despairingly. Why hadn’t she told him the truth about where she was? She brought her left knee up and kicked out hard at Price’s groin. He grunted, took the blow, and smashed his fist into her face.
Her nose shattered. She cried out at the pain. He was bending her left wrist backward—the fingers that had reached for her gun—and the pressure was unbearable, force applied to a frail twig.
Her wrist would snap.
She hurled herself forward, her teeth sinking into his forearm; and with a guttural howl his grip relaxed.
She scrabbled for the handle, desperate to get away from him, her breath coming in tearing gasps.
His fist fell like a mallet on the bullet wound in her right shoulder.
Once, twice, three times—
There was nowhere for her to go. The agony was a cloud, blotting out all light from her brain. She struggled and saw his fist raised again.
Her shoulder exploded. She felt the shock ripple through her body.
Then nothing more.
The Greyhound bus station in Erie, Pennsylvania, sits on Route 19 between Davis and Beibel Avenues. It is neither a new nor particularly attractive building. Not far to the west is a shopping center bound by the interstate. The parking lot of the Millcreek Mall had become the FBI’s staging ground for hostage rescue, a good five hundred yards across the street from Daniel Becker’s fortified position. They had to assume he was armed with his sniper’s rifle and scope. They had to keep a proper distance.
A rolling carnival, Tom thought as his chopper set down in the wide grass median wedged between the interstate and the shopping mall, with a roving band of players. Maybe an hour had passed since he’d taken the Bureau’s call and heard the name of Erie, yet the parking lot was filled with vehicles and people. He picked out the field agents first, in their black bomber jackets with FBI emblazoned on the back; local uniformed cops and sheriffs; squad cars pulled up with lights flashing and sirens muted; law enforcement RVs; portable water tanks for the Pennsylvania National Guardsmen; paramedics in jumpsuits. Television crews. Vans with satellite dishes. Victims’ Assistance reps. Public relations people. Photographers. Reporters with ring-bound notebooks and laptop computers. There would be snipers working for the Good Guys, too, taking up position in a cordon around the bus station with their walkie-talkies and their tripods and their lethal slugs. Professionally trained hostage negotiators employed by the Bureau and the local police jockeying for positions at the mike. Religious chaplains of various orders, in case Daniel Becker asked to be absolved of his sins in his final moments. A S.W.A.T. team suiting up in Kevlar somewhere offstage, just in case. Hundreds of people.
And none of them was Caroline.
At the thought of her—which sprang, unbidden, into his tired mind—Shephard winced. He’d done his best to distance the woman who’d haunted him across two continents, tried not to dwell on the fact that she was walking a Long Island beach right now, happily beyond the fray, while he was single-handedly trying to keep all hell from breaking loose. He was hurt and betrayed and furious at Caroline Carmichael but he missed her acutely: missed the swift cut of her mind, her deep knowledge of the enemy. Missed her courage. She was the strongest woman he’d ever known. And the most vulnerable. Was it the combination of the two that had bewitched him?
What if there was more to her story than deliberate deceit and criminal misconduct and possible collusion with the worst terrorist group operating on U.S. soil? What if, God forbid, he’d misjudged her?
Fuck Caroline, he thought savagely. She’s married anyway. He jumped out of the chopper.
He moved crablike in his rotor-crouch toward the edge of the lot. A clutch of bodies detached themselves from the general mass and started sprinting toward him. Reporters. Didn’t I just see these guys in Wheeling? Or was that in D.C.? I don’t remember.
“Tom Shephard,” he said as the first body reached him—a woman in a black jumpsuit. “Thirty April Task Force.”
“Good to see you.” She extended her hand. “Lindy Asbill. Special Agent in Charge, Pittsburgh. Becker’s been positively identified by local police—caught his face in a scope not ten minutes ago. He’s got maybe fifteen people in there, we can’t be sure, and there are reports of casualties.”
“How many?”
“A
t least one dead in the main station area and more shots fired. We have no specifics; Becker refuses to answer the negotiator’s hail.”
They were walking toward the tight knot of technical equipment and figures ranged near a mobile police support unit set up opposite the bus station.
“He won’t answer the hail?” Tom repeated. “Let me try.”
It’d been nearly two hours since he’d killed the woman behind the ticket window and Daniel was running out of ideas. He’d hoped the bus for Pittsburgh would pull in before the news got out but no buses came, no behemoth rolled with a belch and a squeal of air brakes under the great outdoor portico behind the station. He’d been close to making it, but now the Zionist Occupation Government was closing in. I have faith, Lord, and I am Your Instrument and if You intend to gather me up I will take the Unclean with me.
He had forced his hostages against the plate glass windows facing the circus across the street so they could be seen and counted. He’d offered each a chance to join the Overthrow, to take the only stand with honor in the End Times, but one of the guys had hawked and spat and the fat mother of the little girl started to scream. Now they slumped, faces pressed against the glass, while he trained his scope over their heads.
I’m only one man, Lord, he thought as he swept the vehicles and enforcement personnel with that curious intimacy of the high-powered lens, and yet see how they fear me.
“Daniel,” a voice croaked behind him. “Daniel, where are we?”
Without moving the barrel of his gun he glanced over his shoulder and saw the boy—saw Mlan’s son, sitting up in the hard waiting-room seat. His face was dead white against the orange plastic and his eyes stared blankly from hollow sockets.
“Erie,” he said. “Greyhound. We’re not goin’ anywheres much for a piece.”
The boy surveyed the gun and the dozen terrified souls pressed against the station window, and a furrow of puzzlement cut his brow. “I don’t feel very well.”
“DANIEL BECKER!”
The amplified voice split the air of the bus station like the trumpet of God.
“DANIEL, THIS IS TOM SHEPHARD, FBI. THIS IS THE END OF THE LINE, DANIEL. THERE’S NO WALKING OUT OF THAT PLACE ALIVE, BUDDY, UNLESS YOU TALK TO US FIRST. IF YOU’VE GOT A PHONE OR CAN REACH ONE INSIDE, I’D LIKE YOU TO CALL THIS NUMBER.”
A stream of meaningless digits followed. Daniel ignored them. The megaphone paused to give him time to react, to reach out and touch someone. Jozsef stood up and took a hesitant step toward the window.
“I SAW YOUR PLACE IN HILLSBORO, DANIEL, OR WHAT’S LEFT OF IT. YOU MUST BE IN CONSIDERABLE PAIN. FIRST DOLF KILLED, NOW BEKAH. YOU CAN MAKE THE KILLING STOP, DANIEL. YOU CAN MAKE THAT CHOICE. NOBODY ELSE CAN.”
He stared coolly down his rifle. Motherfucking Fed trying to get all friendly. Only one’s gonna die is him.
One of the hostages let out a sob.
“Daniel.” Jozsef tugged on the seat of his pants. “I need a doctor.”
“WE’D LIKE TO SEND A MEMBER OF THE AMERICAN RED CROSS OVER TO THE DOOR TO TALK TO YOU, DANIEL. WE NEED TO VERIFY THE STATUS OF THE INDIVIDUALS PINNED DOWN INSIDE THE BUILDING. WILL YOU TALK TO THE RED CROSS? CALL THAT NUMBER AND LET US KNOW.”
Again, the stream of digits.
“Kid,” Daniel hissed, “take this and keep it trained on the sheep.” He pulled his automatic pistol from inside his jacket and handed it to the boy. Trusting him like he’d trust Dolf to back up his daddy when times got tough. He didn’t have to ask if Jozsef knew how to shoot. He’d been raised by the Leader, for Chrissake.
“DANIEL, WE’RE ASKING YOU TO LET THE WOMEN AND CHILDREN GO WITH THE RED CROSS. YOU LET THEM GO, DANIEL, AND WE’LL TAKE THAT AS A SIGN OF GOOD FAITH. YOU LET THEM GO, AND WE’LL HAVE A BASIS FOR TALKING TO YOU. UNDERSTAND?”
He watched a guy with slick blond hair and an apprehensive expression step forward beyond the mass of people and megaphones, waving a white flag bisected by a red cross. In the crosshairs of the scope, Daniel saw him swallow hard. Nervous as shit, he thought. Let’s give him somethin’ to worry about.
“DANIEL,” said the voice of God, “WE’RE SENDING MARK TARNOW OF THE RED CROSS TO TALK TO YOU. WE’LL HOLD OUR FIRE.”
You can hold whatever the fuck you like, Daniel thought as he chambered his round. Why don’tcha hold it between your knees. He followed the chicken-shit named Mark as he waved his silly little flag all the way across the street. He remembered Red Cross types from Bosnia. Always crying in their beer about atrocities and whatnot. Mourning the deaths of civilians. The quality of the drinking water, for Pete’s sake. He hated the namby-pamby bleeding-heart liberals who couldn’t hold a gun to save their lives but could lecture a man about the Geneva Conventions until he was ready to scream.
“DANIEL, WE’RE ASKING YOU TO CALL US NOW.”
He let Mark cross Route 19 and set his foot on the curb before he caught the dick right between the eyes.
Chapter 48
BERLIN, 7:08 P.M.
Josie had chosen the Austrian Steyr because it was ideal for a woman. Empty and without its scope, it weighed only eight pounds. The cheek piece and butt plate were adjustable and could fit almost any size shooter; the stock was synthetic with an integrated bipod. It took a .223 Remington magazine of five rounds. She didn’t expect to need more than one.
She was oiling the gun now, although it had been clean when she stowed it in her luggage the day before. The rhythm of preparation was important; routine calmed the nerves. And Josie’s nerves were jumping.
When she’d reached beneath the low-lying mattress in the Kurfürstendammer Hof two hours ago, the touch of the heavy contour barrel lying undisturbed had sent a wave of relief crashing through her gut. The sneak thief had tracked her down and entered her room and felt among her panties, but he hadn’t discovered the gun. She’d drawn it out into the light muttering a prayer of thanks to Patrick and all his saints; and then she’d sat down abruptly on the floor. A second slip of paper, wrapped around the scope. She’d read it immediately, hating him—whoever he was.
Your man was set up. He never saw it coming. Ask Scottie what he needed to hide.
It was this second note that sent her packing, sent her off on foot with the carpetbag and her suitcase in the persistent German rain, spooked to the core. Two underground trains and a taxi later she’d fetched up in Kreuzberg, on the outskirts of the old East German airport, in a dingy hotel she figured nobody could find. Except her former employer, who was hunting her now.
Nobody but a Company guy could connect Mary Devlin to Josie O’Halloran. Nobody but a Company guy would have access to all the right files and the history to make sense of them. For most people at the CIA those twilight days in Bogotá, before the drug cartels and the unaccompanied tours and the safe zones inside the embassy, were a different century. She was being hunted by someone who knew her as intimately as Scottie did; and for the life of her, Josie had no idea who it was.
If they know who I am and they know about the gun, then they know why I’m here. I’m being set up, too. Just like Patrick.
As she rubbed the oily rag, smelling comfortingly of gun ranges and certainty and .5 groupings, she asked herself one question. Why had they telegraphed the punch? If she was being sent out like a lamb to Scottie’s slaughter, why let her know that fact? Why attempt to save her? She had lived in the black world too long to believe in the kindness of strangers.
They don’t want me to reach the target, she thought suddenly, and set down the rag. They’re trying to scare me away. This was indeed possible but the idea was also somewhat pathetic: her last attempt to put Scottie back up on his pedestal. To trust and believe in his good faith. The truth was, she was blown. She’d been offered a warning to leave before she died just like Patrick.
Sheila and the boys would be just fine. She’d taken care of them all in her will, and there was enough money to make certain they never had to worry. But Josie wasn’t ready to die. She loved the small things of her exi
stence too much: the sharp fresh smell of brine in the mornings, the cheerful sight of Mike and his delivery truck. The tinkle of the customer bell over her shop door. The possibility of a plane flight and a different adventure just around the corner.
Ask Scottie what happened in Bogotá that night.
She folded the oiled rag in neat squares and stored it in a plastic Baggie. The Steyr was beautiful, resting across the arms of the hotel room’s occasional chair; she resisted the impulse to stroke it. She had a decision to make.
“You turned Caroline over to 30 April?”
Eric was staring at him, appalled, and Cuddy felt panic rise in his throat.
“I didn’t know,” he faltered. “The files in the disc you sent were blank. Encrypted somehow. Or designed to erase whenever the wrong person opened them. We had no idea—”
“So you did get the disc,” Eric insisted, his face bone-white. “How many other lies have you told me tonight?”
“I’ll call the FBI.” Cuddy reached for his cell. “There’s a guy who’ll help her—”
“It’s too late for that! She’s been in Tool’s hands for twenty-four hours! You really think she’s still alive?”
“There’s always a chance.”
“Wait, Wilmot.” Scottie stepped forward, his hand suddenly on Cuddy’s wrist. “Don’t make that call. Not yet.”
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