“Staying long?” the jowly clerk asked. The words sounded like they were formed somewhere in her sinus cavity, then came out her nose. El Jerga mused that the Midwest was home to perhaps the least pleasing incarnation of the gringo’s tongue he’d yet encountered. New Yorkers were bad, but at least they didn’t draw out the agony by speaking so slowly.
“Two nights,” El Jerga lied, noticing the clerk’s eyes travel immediately to his throat upon hearing his wrecked voice. Her gaze snapped self-consciously back up to his eyes. He’d long ago accepted the inevitable reaction as a lingering effect of his injury.
He handed her his driver’s license and credit card. They both said Juan Capistrano. “Like the saints and the swallows?” the clerk said. Swallows sounded flat and nasal, as if she were attempting to make the word as ugly as it could be.
El Jerga nodded without smiling, received the key card from her chubby hand, and rolled his empty suitcase past the elevators to the computer room.
It was empty, so he took a seat at the terminal furthest from the door.
He typed a long URL into the browser window. It was a nonsensical collection of four words, followed by the .biz top-level domain identifier. The page that loaded contained nothing but a text entry field, with no instructions.
El Jerga entered another long string of unrelated words, yet another password he’d had to memorize for this job. He hoped he’d remembered it correctly.
The website accepted his password, and a single page loaded.
At the top of the page was a single sentence: “I should have given them to you in the first place.” El Jerga scrolled down and discovered a picture, obviously a formal portrait of someone in a blue military uniform with a bunch of shiny objects and ribbons on his breast, lapels, and epaulets, taken in front of a black background and an American flag.
It gets serious, El Jerga thought. Already, we provoke the gringo military.
But El Jerga was just as much a soldier as his target, accustomed to following orders and getting paid handsomely for his trouble.
And he wasn’t about to question an order that would allow him to unleash his demons. He relished another ecstatic orgy of murderous depravity, irrespective of the purpose behind it.
His mind had begun formulating a plan of attack, engineering a situation where his target wouldn’t have an opportunity to use his military training, when he noticed a second photograph beneath the first.
He felt growing elation as he scrolled down the page, revealing a tall, poised, stunning redhead photographed while crossing a street in yoga pants, sports bra, and dark sunglasses. He felt vague recollection, but he couldn’t place the context. He didn’t know her, but he had seen her somewhere before.
He looked with growing glee at her flaming red hair, full breasts, tight belly, fair skin and strong, athletic legs.
El Jerga longed to savor her tastes and smells, and he wondered how her voice would sound, begging for mercy, screaming in agony, moaning in defeat and abject resignation to the fate that he would visit upon her in a slow and measured way.
She was meant to be relished, her quality and uniqueness thoroughly enjoyed, her every curve explored and defiled.
He would take his time with her.
51
When in doubt, stop doubting, Sam reminded herself.
She and Brock had thoroughly discussed their next move, and despite their many misgivings, they had ultimately agreed that this was their only real option.
They strode into the Homeland Security headquarters building as if they owned the place. Heads turned, and Sam noticed the whispers and sideways glances as they made their way toward the executive offices. The gossip had clearly made its rounds.
“Hi, Patty,” Sam said as she strode past Ekman’s secretary. Patty opened her mouth as if to protest, but didn’t.
Sam strode past her, Brock in tow.
She opened the closed door to Ekman’s office. “Hi, Frank,” she said lightly. “Brock and I thought we’d chat with Jarvis now. You’re invited, too.” It was an outrageous presumption, employed for its shock value, and Sam didn’t wait for a reply before turning on her heel and leaving.
Ekman followed, a heartfelt protest about scheduling Jarvis’ time in advance failing to slow Sam’s pace.
Feeling a little awkward on Ekman’s behalf, Brock said hello and shook his hand, still walking quickly to keep up with Sam as she crossed the short distance to Jarvis’ corner office.
Jarvis’ secretary was also unable to forestall the arrival of Hurricane Sam, and Jarvis’ eyes opened wide as she walked into his office.
“Hi Tom,” Sam said. “Brock and I thought it was probably time for us to have a conversation.”
Sam sat in one of the two chairs arranged in front of Jarvis’ desk, and Brock followed her lead, feeling both amused and awkward watching Sam run roughshod over her bosses.
Tom Jarvis found his voice. “I take it you’ve been well, Sam?” His face settled into a frown. “Mere mortals typically inform their supervisors of their whereabouts when they take a couple of days off. You’re obviously in a different category. At least in your own mind.”
“My apologies, Tom. It was probably tough for you to keep the crosshairs on me. It must have been frustrating.”
Jarvis took off his reading glasses and set them on his desk, a look of disapproval crossing his face. “So you’ve been off on your own, making up your own rules, running your own private investigation?”
“Someone had to.”
Jarvis snorted. “You think you’re above all of this, and all of us, but you’re not. You’re a person of interest in an open investigation. I’ve given you a hell of a lot more leeway than you deserve, and I don’t appreciate your lack of respect.”
Sam chuckled. “Tom, don’t ever confuse deference and respect.”
Her gaze turned hard, vicious even. “If I’d rolled over for you, stayed home darning my socks while you and the rest of your professional clock watchers took turns bungling this investigation, Brock and I would be dead. No doubt about it. Just like Jensen, Quartermain, Cooper, and Abrams. Four stiffs, Tom!” Her voice echoed off the paneled walls.
Jarvis’ face reddened and his jaw clenched. Ekman sighed heavily behind her.
“If you had any idea what to do about this case,” Sam said, “you’d have already done it.”
“That’s it, Sam,” Jarvis spat. “You just don’t know when to stop pushing, do you? As of right now, I’m placing you on administrative leave.”
Sam laughed. “Whatever helps you feel better, Tom. But first, you should get out a tape recorder and a pad of paper. Brock and I have a few things to go over with you, and you’ll want to take careful notes.”
Sam’s patronizing tone did nothing to reduce Jarvis’ agitation. “You will have nothing to do with this case, and you will remain in protective custody until it’s solved.”
“Sure thing, Tom. Anything else?”
“I’m also going to convene a retention review panel. I’m not convinced your continued service as the chief of the counterintelligence branch is warranted, in light of your erratic behavior.”
Sam smiled. “Let it all out. Don’t bottle up those emotions.”
Jarvis reddened more, and a vein in his neck throbbed noticeably.
Brock put his hand on Sam’s thigh as if to restrain her before she did any more damage, but she simply grabbed his hand and held it as if they were at the movies.
Sam smiled at Jarvis. Her face held no sign of remorse, submission, or even acknowledgement of the severity of the administrative blows Jarvis had just inflicted on her.
Time to play the trump card, she thought.
“What’s rule number one?” she asked.
Jarvis pounded his fist on the top of his desk. “Don’t fuck with me, Sam!”
“I wouldn’t dream of it, Tom. I’m just curious – when did they change rule number one? I must have missed the memo.”
“You know full well tha
t an agent in the field is always authorized to take the actions necessary to preserve life and limb,” Jarvis said, seething. “That has never changed, but if you think–”
“It’s the sacred covenant,” she said, cutting Jarvis off. “And it’s interesting that you recited it just now, because I thought I heard you say something very different just a minute ago, Tom,” Sam said quietly.
She waited a moment before going on. “What you said a minute ago was that following your desires for this case was more important than taking the actions necessary to preserve our lives and our limbs. Brock’s and mine. Because it isn’t a question of whether someone has a bead on us. It’s a question of when they will catch up to us.”
“You could have had Homeland protection, Sam,” Jarvis said angrily. “You would have had protection, if you hadn’t gone rogue for a week.”
Sam shook her head. “You’re not getting it, Tom. These guys aren’t ragheads waving AK’s around in the desert, or self-radicalizing teenagers in a DC slum somewhere. They’re on the government payroll, doing terrible things to other Americans, on American soil. They’re cops, or Agency goons, or mercenaries, or Homeland people, or all of the above, and they’re killing other officers who are also on the job, Tom.”
Sam let it sink in.
“Think about that,” she said. “Who can you trust if the system is after you?”
Another long pause. Ekman squirmed. Jarvis clenched his jaw. Brock gripped her hand way too tightly.
Sam pressed her attack. “So while you were thinking about how to spin all of this during the next staff meeting, we were out in the real world trying to keep from getting our damned throats slit. By the good guys, Tom.”
Sam’s eyes bored through Jarvis.
He met her gaze, took a deep breath, and finally nodded. “I see your point.”
Brock loosened his crushing grip on her hand. It had tightened painfully as the tension in the room had reached a peak. The blood returned to Sam’s fingers, and she gave his hand a grateful squeeze.
“So what’s changed?” Jarvis asked, his face returning to its normal sallow hues. “Why come in now?”
“Because everything I’ve learned so far says that the finger points back at the government. I’m here to force the issue with you. If you’re involved somehow, or Ekman,” she’d almost forgotten about him, but now shot him a glance over her shoulder, “I’m here to smoke you out. And if you’re on the good guy roster, I’m here to tell you it’s time to stop pussyfooting around, because this thing is already miles beyond ugly.”
Jarvis nodded slowly. “Ballsy move,” he finally said.
“Practical, really,” Sam said. “It’s a lot of work hiding from everyone.”
“Except for Dan Gable,” Ekman said. “I know he’s been talking to you behind my back.”
Sam laughed. “Are you jealous, Frank?”
Then she got serious again. “I just never really got the trustworthy vibe from either of you, even after I took the polygraph.”
Ekman looked at her, incredulous. “You can’t be serious, Sam. What about the Dibiaso connection? I mean, holy shit, what would you have done?”
Sam shook her head. “I would have gone to bat for my agent, Frank. But you treated me like a suspect and left me completely exposed. You very nearly had blood on your hands.”
Ekman was silent.
Jarvis spoke up. “Frank and I were looking forward to hearing Brock’s explanation about his connection with Dibiaso, before he disappeared yesterday.”
“Sorry about that,” Brock said. “I was attacked in my kitchen by a cop.”
“Is the blood yours?” Ekman asked.
Brock shook his head. “Nope. I caught him in the leg with a butcher knife.”
“I doubt the attacker went to a hospital, but we need to run a check anyway,” Sam said.
Jarvis shook his head. “This is beyond anything I’ve ever seen, or even heard of. Are you sure the guy was a cop?”
“All I know is that he wore a Metro uniform and pulled a Taser on me,” Brock said.
“And you believe this?” Jarvis looked skeptically at Sam.
“I don’t have to. I watched the security camera footage.”
“I’ll want a copy, of course.”
Jarvis’ brow furrowed, and he rubbed his chin, a troubled, thoughtful look on his face. “The attack is certainly important,” he said, “but let’s get to the Dibiaso thing. I need you to clarify your relationship with him, Brock.”
“Easy,” Brock said. “There’s no relationship.” He and Sam spent the next few minutes bringing Jarvis and Ekman up to speed on the unfortunate slug line coincidence that had erroneously linked Brock with Dibiaso.
“This doesn’t prove anything, Sam,” Jarvis said. “The fact remains that Brock and Dibiaso rode together, twice within a couple of weeks.”
“Right. That is undisputed fact,” Sam said. “But there is no relationship there. No phone calls, no texts, no other meetings, not so much as a word exchanged between them. It’s freaky and unnatural to ride silently in cars with strangers, but that’s the Pentagon for you.”
“She’s right,” Ekman said. “I’ve looked through the phone records several times already. There’s nothing else connecting them.”
“That doesn’t mean they’re not working together,” Jarvis said.
“You’re right,” Sam said. “But it sounds like you’re asking us to prove a negative. You know that’s impossible, Tom.”
Jarvis contemplated. He leaned back in his chair and crossed his legs, then spoke again. “Minton. I want to know how you know Minton.”
“Trust me, I have plenty to say about Minton,” Sam said. “But first, I’d like you guys to run a name for me.”
She looked closely at Jarvis’ face. “The name is Avery Martinson,” she said.
Jarvis’ pupils dilated, and his face held a wooden expression for a fraction of a second.
You know him, you bastard, Sam thought.
“That’s the name that Dibiaso used to sign in to the Pentagon visitor log,” she said.
“Dibiaso visited the Pentagon?” Ekman asked.
“You know he did, unless you didn’t bother to plot the cell phone locations on a map. You did that, didn’t you?”
Ekman stayed silent again.
“My God, Francis,” Sam said. “And you guys wonder why I don’t trust you. You’re both completely useless.”
“That’s enough,” Jarvis said, tired of Sam’s insubordination. “Stop browbeating us, and let’s figure this out.”
“I’d like that, Tom. Let’s start by talking about how well you know Martinson.”
“I didn’t say I knew Martinson,” Jarvis protested.
Sam smiled. “You may not have said it,” she said. “But you definitely told me.”
“You’re mistaken.” Jarvis said, but his flushed face and fluctuating pupils told her otherwise.
Confirmed, she thought. I’ll have to circle back to that one. Feels significant.
She decided to take advantage of Jarvis’ mental backpedaling. “I’ll give you a pass on Martinson for the moment, Tom. But it’s a rock you know I’ll have to turn over eventually. For now, though, what stops you from crossing us off your list of persons of interest?”
Jarvis’ eyes narrowed slightly. Sam wondered whether her play was perhaps a bit too aggressive, but she quickly dismissed the thought. She didn’t have time to waste.
Jarvis thought about it for a while. “If I buy your carpool theory,” he finally said, “and I’m not saying I do, but for the sake of argument, let’s pretend I do. If I buy that theory, I’m still really troubled by your relationship with Edward Minton.”
“Easy,” Sam said. She and Brock explained their relationship with Fatso, and went into detail about the frequency and content of their correspondence over the years. Sam filled them in on her trip to Dayton to question Minton, and explained Executive Strategies’ mercenary contracting niche.
> “I would say that Executive Strategies is a lead we’ll have to pursue carefully,” Sam concluded, “because of the turf problems we’ll run into.”
She looked closely at Jarvis and said, “Fatso’s company obviously works for the Agency.”
She noticed the strange, wooden expression on Jarvis’ face again.
Maybe the rumors are true, and Jarvis is an Agency mole, she thought. It would certainly explain a few things.
And possibly make this conversation the biggest mistake of my life.
But it occurred to her that she was well beyond the point of no return. There was nothing to do now but move forward.
“There’s another tiny detail worth mentioning,” she said. “Fatso was flying the airplane that likely bombed our house.”
Jarvis raised his eyebrows. “Are you sure?”
“Dan confirmed it.”
Time for the haymaker.
“And Frank knew that already,” Sam said. She looked at Ekman icily. “Didn’t you, Frank?”
Ekman put on a surprised expression.
Sam didn’t buy it. “Spare me the theatrics. You stopped by the FAA on Monday.”
Ekman flushed and glanced at Jarvis, who shook his head just slightly.
“I wasn’t fishing just now,” Sam said. “I know it’s a fact. I went to the FAA myself.”
Sam saw sweat pool on Ekman’s upper lip. Such an amateur.
He nodded reluctantly. “I did.”
“But you didn’t think I needed to know what you learned?”
Ekman glanced again at Jarvis, who took the cue. “Frank didn’t have authorization to tell you.”
Sam nodded slowly, a fire in her eyes. “So it wasn’t just a bad feeling, after all,” she said. “You two really were hanging me out to dry.”
“Of course not, Sam!” Jarvis sounded artificially upset.
He spoke quickly, his eyes avoiding Sam, and she was certain he was conjuring his explanation. “The FAA information was inconclusive, and there was still reasonable doubt about your involvement–”
“Bullshit,” Sam cut him off. “You had a warrant. It took you fifteen minutes to figure out the connection with Minton. Even if you didn’t know for certain whether Minton dropped that bomb on us, you knew it was a strong possibility.”
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