Machado walked away, giving Santiago room to work. The lieutenant took a clean handkerchief from his pocket, squatted in front of the PFM Captain, and dabbed his forehead. “Why not tell him what he wants to know?” Santiago said. “We will find the girl sooner or later. Why suffer?”
Esparza shook his head, flinging droplets of blood and sweat. “I don’t know where she is.”
“This can all be over,” Santiago prompted. “Tell us where the recordings are and I promise you a quick death. You won’t feel a thing.”
Crying now, Esparza said, “I don’t know about any recordings. Six months ago, Alejandra filed for an extended leave of absence, something about a family emergency, and I haven’t heard from her since. I had no idea she infiltrated your organization. I swear.”
Santiago stood up, looked at Machado and shrugged.
Machado grabbed a hatchet from a table near the door and brought it down on Esparza’s kneecap. The PFM Captain shrieked. Bright red blood pissed from his leg in arterial squirts.
Santiago skipped backwards to avoid the spray.
Machado felt the warm blood soak through his track suit. He brought the hatchet down again. “Tell me!” He bellowed. “Tell me what I want to know!”
Esparza screamed until his vocal cords ruptured and the only thing coming out was a thin exhalation of air.
Santiago turned away.
In his rage, Machado hacked off both of Esparza’s legs and then buried the hatchet in his chest. When it was over, Machado stormed out of the basement and up the stairs to the first floor, followed by Santiago.
Henry Pennyworth Blythe, a middle-aged Brit with thinning hair and a paunch, was sitting in an armchair looking over a copy of yesterday’s Daily Telegraph. He looked up as they entered. “No luck, I take it?”
Santiago shook his head.
Blythe folded his newspaper, stood up, and smoothed his slacks. “If those recordings get out…”
“I am well aware,” Machado told him. He looked at Santiago. “Find Alejandra and we find the recordings.”
Santiago said. “She may be dead, el Jefe.”
“Then go find her body,” Machado said.
“I’ll put my best men on it,” Santiago said.
Machado jabbed a thumb over his shoulder. “And get some men in here to clean that up.”
“Sí, el Jefe.”
When Santiago had gone, Blythe said, “Maybe I should make a call?”
“And say what? That we secretly recorded our business dealings?” He shook his head. “We will find Alejandra and when we do, I’ll make her tell me where the recordings are.”
“It may all be for nothing.” Blythe took off his glasses and cleaned them on his sweater vest. “Those recordings do not guarantee an ROI.”
“There is one thing I am sure of,” Machado said.
Blythe raised his eyebrows. “What’s that?”
“Power corrupts,” Machado told him. “Once you have it, you’ll do anything to hold onto it.”
“I hope you’re right,” Blythe said.
Machado clapped a hand on his shoulder, leaving a bloody handprint. “You worry about the money. I’ll worry about our friend.”
Chapter Fifteen
BY SEVEN O’CLOCK the next morning, Gregory Hunt was back in D.C. He had showered, shaved, and was running on less than four hours’ sleep. He pulled into Langley at 7:27 a.m., stopped his BMW at the yellow- and white-striped barricades and buzzed his window down. A guard in dark blue fatigues compared Hunt to his photo ID while another guard ran a mirror on a stick under the vehicle, checking for explosive devices. When they were satisfied, the guard stepped back inside his shed and pressed a button. The barricades swung up.
The National Clandestine Service is headquartered on the second floor and takes up most of the northwest corner. Hunt passed a sea of cubicles to a frosted glass door marked Deputy Director. The room beyond was paneled in blonde wood with deep-piled carpet and a leather sofa for people to sit while they wait.
Foster’s secretary, Ginny Farnham, reminded Hunt of his grammar teacher at Thayer Academy. A pair of reading spectacles rode low on her nose, her red hair was pulled up in a bun and crow’s feet were starting around her eyes. Dark eye shadow and lipstick did a decent job hiding her age. God only knew how long she had been with the Company. Probably since the Clinton administration. Directors come and go, but good secretaries last forever. She looked up at the sound of the door, saw who it was, and pulled off her glasses.
“Mr. Hunt,” she said with a smile. “Always a pleasure. How was Florida?”
“Overrated.” Hunt perched himself on the edge of the desk, crossed his arms over his chest and turned on his smile. “Did you miss me?”
“I counted the hours.” One hand toyed with the collar of her button-down blouse.
Hunt leaned in just enough to invade her personal space and caught a whiff of jasmine. Something about a woman’s perfume got Hunt’s motor running. Old or young, it didn’t matter. He just liked it when they smelled nice. “Forget Florida,” he said. “Ever been to Aruba? White sands. Crystal clear water. All the pina coladas you can drink. You and I could be sitting on the beach this time tomorrow.”
Pink colored her cheeks. “Careful Mr. Hunt. Some people would call that sexual harassment in the workplace.”
He laughed and tipped a nod at the inner door. “Is he in?”
“He’s waiting for you.”
“Duty calls.”
The Deputy Director of the Clandestine Service sat behind roughly an acre of cherry wood with a phone pressed to his ear. He pointed Hunt to an empty chair.
Before sitting down, Hunt unbuttoned his jacket and hiked up the legs of his trousers to avoid ruining the creases. He took special care in the way he dressed. Clothes make the man, after all. Hunt lived by the motto, “Dress for the job you want, not the job you have.” If that were true, Foster must be angling for a job teaching history to undergrads.
The walls were covered in awards and commendations. A picture of a yellow lab stood on one corner of the massive desk. Foster had no wife and no girlfriend. Hunt figured a guy had to be pretty desperate to put a picture of a dog on his desk. But Hunt was smart enough to keep observations like that to himself. He wouldn’t tell Foster it was pathetic to keep a picture of a dog on his desk any more than he would tell him to shave off the wispy strands of hair around his ears. Why keep a few loose gray strands? Like anybody was fooled? Just shave it off, Hunt thought. Shave it off and be bald with some damn dignity, for crying out loud.
He uncrossed and re-crossed his legs while he waited. Foster dragged the conversation out, a subtle way of letting Hunt know his place in the world. That was okay, let Foster have his day in the sun. This office would be Hunt’s one day. He wondered if he would be bald by then and some younger man would be sitting across from him thinking the same things.
Hunt smoothed a hand over his hair. It wouldn’t happen to him. His father was sixty-seven and still had a full head of hair. Besides, Hunt told himself, if he started to go bald, he would have the good sense to shave it off. Or maybe adopt a hat. A fedora, like Frank Sinatra used to wear.
“Keep me in the loop,” Foster said and hung up. He turned his attention to Hunt. “What happened? Where is Noble?”
Hunt felt like he was back at Thayer, sitting in the headmaster’s study. “We’re not sure.”
“I thought you put a listening device on his boat?” said Foster.
“I did,” Hunt told him.
“And?”
“Those microdots were never intended to be used as tracking devices,” Hunt said. “They send audio over a short distance. Once Noble left the harbor, we lost the signal.”
Hunt laid out the whole operation from beginning to end.
Foster propped his elbows on the desk and formed a steeple with his fingers. “So Burke walked into your op unannounced and Noble disappeared for approximately two-and-a-half hours? Have I got that right?”
“That’s ac
curate,” Hunt said, happy to shift the focus away from his failure and onto Burke’s unexplained appearance.
“Those two are thick as thieves,” Foster remarked. “Burke recruited Noble, trained him. Taught him everything he knows.”
“Do you think Burke is working with Noble off the reservation?”
Foster shook his head. “That’s a line Burke would never willingly cross, but he’s right up against it. Close enough to get burned. We have to assume he’s feeding Noble information.”
“The unauthorized dissemination of classified information is a federal offence,” Hunt said, reciting from the textbook.
Foster dismissed that with a wave of his hand. “You’ll never make that stick. Burke has been with the Company a long time. Longer than me. He and Wizard are on a first name basis. Thankfully Burke doesn’t have any political sense, or he’d be sitting in my chair.”
“May I ask what’s going on?” Hunt asked.
Foster leaned back, sized up Hunt and then said, “One of Noble’s old Army buddies went missing in Mexico.”
“And you think Noble will go to Mexico to look for him?”
“He’s probably already on his way,” Foster said.
“Say the word. I can be in Mexico before sundown.” Hunt kept his expression carefully neutral. Inside, he felt like a dog pulling at a leash. He was dying for another crack at Noble. Taking down a rogue operative would be the perfect addition to his resume. It was just the sort of thing upper management likes to see when it comes time for promotion.
Foster frowned and shook his head. “No. Unless Noble obtained new passports through back channels, we know all of his legends. Flag his identities. Let the Mexican authorities do the heavy lifting. If they pick him up entering their country on a fake passport, Noble will spend the next ten years in a Mexican jail. That should keep him out of our hair.”
It was an effort to hide his disappointment, but Hunt nodded. “I’ll get right on it.”
Chapter Sixteen
SAM MET TAGGART at McCormick and Schmick’s on K Street a few minutes before eleven o’clock. The smell of sizzling beef made her stomach rumble. A long bar of polished mahogany dominated one wall. There was a cold fireplace on her left as she entered. Square tables covered in crisp white linen crowded floor. Two dozen customers were already seated, filling the restaurant with friendly chatter and the clink of silverware. A waiter leaned against the bar, chatting with the bartender. Taggart was by himself at a table in the corner. He lifted a hand in greeting.
They had spent half the night going through the FBI Director’s life with a fine-tooth comb. Secretary of State Rhodes had pulled strings and gotten them a complete copy of every FBI case file with Standish’s name attached. It was a thick stack. Standish had been with the Bureau for thirty-two years and investigated everything from serial killers and organized crime to government corruption. Sam had studied the first dozen folders with interest. It was a rare glimpse into the inner workings of the FBI. America’s alphabet soup of law enforcement agencies are not known for sharing. It was a rare chance to see how the FBI ran their shop and a look into the life of the FBI director himself. From what Sam could gather, he was by the book, methodical and dogged in his pursuit of justice. He was, as Taggart had already suggested, a real boy scout. And that wasn’t hyperbole. James Standish had been a decorated Eagle Scout in his youth.
The files didn’t turn up anything incriminating however, or even shady. Sam and Taggart had called it quits sometime after two in the morning. She hadn’t even made it to bed when Taggart sent a text asking her to meet at McCormick and Schmick’s for an early lunch.
Now, exhausted and running on a few hours’ sleep, Sam cut her way across the dining room to Taggart’s table in the corner. “I didn’t figure you for a steak guy.”
“I’m a vegetarian,” Taggart said. He sipped from a glass of water garnished with lemon.
The waiter appeared. Sam ordered a cappuccino.
“So what are we doing here?”
“Taking a meeting,” Taggart said.
“With who?”
Taggart thrust his chin at the door.
Senator Randal Dodd had just waddled in. He was a portly man in an ill-fitting suit with knees that buckled under his own ponderous weight. Broken blood vessels spread across his bulbous nose, from decades of alcohol abuse.
“Recognize him?” Taggart asked under his breath.
“I watch the news,” Sam muttered, flashing the senator a polite smile.
Dodd had been serving in congress since the early nineties. He shuffled over and planted his bulk in a chair. The spindly wood legs groaned ominously. He spoke with a Daffy Duck lisp that sent droplets of spittle sailing across the table. “Always nice to see you, Guy. I haven’t heard from anyone in Rhodes’ camp since the start of campaign season.”
Sam casually repositioned her cappuccino to avoid spit.
“Working for the Ice Queen doesn’t leave much time for a social life,” Taggart said.
Dodd turned his attention on Sam. “And who’s this lovely young lady?”
“Senator Dodd, meet Vanessa Klein,” Guy said. “Vanessa’s a constitutional lawyer.” The lie came off his lips so easily it was impossible to tell if he had thought it up in advance or if lying was second nature. Either way, Sam decided, he had the makings of a first-rate politician.
“Nice to meet you, Vanessa.”
Dodd ordered a coffee with brandy, the clam chowder, wild Alaskan halibut, crab cakes, steamed mussels, and a mushroom spinach sauté. It was enough to feed seven.
Sam ordered the Mahi Mahi and Taggart had a salad.
“To what do I owe the pleasure?” Dodd asked after the food had arrived and he had tucked a napkin into his collar. He spoke around a mouthful of halibut. Small bits of fish flew from his lips like shell casings launched from the breech of an automatic rifle. “I assume you didn’t bring me here to introduce your latest conquest.”
Sam arched a brow.
“I suppose you’ve heard about the FBI director’s remarks?” Taggart asked.
Dodd mopped his mouth with his napkin and bobbed his head. “Who hasn’t? It’s a serious accusation. Is it true?”
“Completely unfounded,” Taggart said.
Dodd barked a laugh. “Then our girl has nothing to worry about.”
Taggart shot him a flat look. “This is serious, Dodd. A scandal like this right before the election could ruin us and put the Republicans back in the White House.”
“No one wants that,” Dodd said.
“You went to school with Standish. We were hoping…” Taggart trailed off.
“That he’s secretly queer?” Senator Dodd shook his head with a rueful grin. “No such luck, old boy. Standish bleeds red, white and blue. I doubt if he cheats on his taxes, much less his wife.”
Taggart bared his teeth in frustration. “There has to be something. What about his kids? They ever been in trouble? Did the wife belong to any radical groups in college?”
“I can’t help you, Guy. Believe me, I wish I could. No one wants to see an outsider in the driver’s seat, but you’re wasting your time digging into Standish.” Dodd put down his fork and spread his hands. “He’s one of those rarest of Washington specimens.”
Sam questioned him with a look.
“He’s honest,” Dodd said.
Taggart hadn’t even touched his salad. Sam couldn’t blame him. It was full of spit and bits of clam chowder. He sat scowling, lost in thought.
Dodd cut off a piece of crab cake and shoveled it in his mouth. “Want my advice?”
Taggart nodded.
“Make sure you aren’t the one left standing when the music stops.” Dodd motioned for the waiter and ordered another brandy.
Taggart picked an invisible piece of lint from his powder blue tie. “Thanks for the advice.”
“My pleasure.”
After lunch, standing on the sidewalk in front of McCormack and Schmick’s in the sweltering
heat of the Foggy Bottom, Taggart hailed a cab and said, “On to plan B.”
“Which is?” Sam asked.
Taggart opened the back door and climbed in without waiting for Sam.
She was forced to scramble in after him and pretended not to notice.
“The State Department,” Taggart told their Pakistani driver, then turned to Sam. “If the FBI Director hasn’t got anything to hide, we’ll have to create something.”
“I’m not sure I like where this is going,” Sam said.
Taggart snorted and gave her a disapproving glance. “All part of the game, Vanessa. There’s no place for truth in politics. We do what it takes to win. If that means planting evidence on a fed, that’s what we’ll do.”
He motioned out the window to the traffic on K Street. “Take a look around. You honestly think John Q Public has any idea what it takes to run this country? Americans are knuckle-dragging Neanderthals, clinging to the antiquated notion that a genie in the sky is running the show.”
Taggart jabbed himself in the chest with a finger. “We run the show. We always have. Elections are a dog and pony show. The power structure in Washington decides who gets to be president. We just let the people think they have a choice.”
“How do you explain an independent in the election?” Sam asked.
“A fluke,” Taggart said. “People rallied behind him because he talks tough and doesn’t play by the rules, but don’t be fooled. He hasn’t got the backing of anybody on the Hill.”
“So the Washington machine calls the shots,” Sam said. “Is that it?”
Taggart inclined his head.
“So much for democracy,” Sam muttered.
“Democracy is overrated,” Taggart told her. “People need a ruling class, whether they realize it or not. Provide them with fast food, football and cable television, and they’ll keep forking over tax money and voting us into power.”
“The illusion of freedom,” Sam said.
“That’s right.”
“To be clear,” Sam said. “You’re asking me to help plant false evidence against the Director of the FBI?”
“Think of this as an opportunity,” Taggart told her. “What you have here is a chance to collect a few chips in the big game—to ingratiate yourself with the real power in Washington.”
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