4
Nero Jefferson Chiligiris assessed his situation. He’d been arrested by some kind of a SWAT team, bound in chains, and flown to a detention center on the outskirts of Denver.
He had no idea how long ago that had been. They’d confiscated his watch, along with his wallet, shoelaces, and belt, and put him in a windowless holding cell.
It wasn’t like a prison cell. There were no bars. It was just a six-by-eight room, no bigger than a broom closet, with concrete walls and a chair and a fluorescent light overhead that hummed and buzzed. There was no switch in the cell, and the light stayed on the whole time. Nero was certain there was a camera in the light fixture as well, keeping tabs on him.
He still had no idea why they’d taken him. Nobody had said a word about it, and all of his questions went unanswered. “You’ll find out in due time, Mr. Chiligiris,” one of the men in black had said.
Which had Nero thinking. Sure, he didn’t work for a great guy. Even the name was a little bit off-putting. Money. Like, I’m The Man. Arrogant to go with it, and a pretty dangerous temper.
Not that Nero had ever given Money cause to lose his temper. Nero was a model employee. He never skimmed, never peeked, never asked questions, never moonlighted, never screwed up. Nero was pretty much a perfect hire for a guy like Money.
And Nero was a model citizen. Family man. Even had a minivan. He hadn’t knowingly dabbled on the sketchy side of the line for eons.
So the current mess had to be on Money.
And Nero’s recent rationalization to Penny, who was concerned that Nero couldn’t really describe what business Money was in, felt a little bit silly in light of his new circumstances. “Maybe Money’s not doing anything illegal at all,” he’d said. “Maybe he just doesn’t trust bankers and guards. Maybe he just likes to do security his own way.”
“And maybe I’m Miss America,” Penny had said.
And maybe she was right about Money, the way she was right about almost everything.
Not like him. He was a little bit too stubborn. You could always tell Nero, his mom used to say, but you couldn’t tell him much. Good advice usually didn’t stick except in hindsight.
This was one of those hindsight-type situations, Nero figured. He alternately cursed his deliberate naiveté, then defended the Money decision by asking himself rhetorically where else he could possibly have found a job that paid enough to keep a roof over their heads.
Anyway, how the hell did they find him? He left his cell phone at home — a serious risk, given that there were no pay phones around for an emergency — and he drove a shitty 1990’s car without any GPS tracking on it. Just like Money insisted on. He had no pager. He didn’t even use a burner phone. He didn’t use a credit card, ever. Way too easy for people to track your movements and stake out your regular haunts. He didn’t have anything to hide, but you couldn’t be too careful.
He was as clean as clean could be, yet they’d swooped in on him almost as soon as the transaction took place.
Could they have tracked the other guy, the one who showed up to exchange duffel bags near the Kansas border? Definitely a possibility. They arrested that guy, too, but it could have just been for show, to protect the other courier’s identity as a stooge. You could never rule anything out.
Still, it seemed weird. He had taken so many precautions to keep his nose as clean as possible, to make himself as hard to track as possible.
Could it be some tax thing? He was a W-9 employee, which meant he had to hire a guy for an arm and a leg to figure out all the wherefores and therefores. And there might be a few stacks of bills — cash bonuses for jobs done well and with minimum fuss — that Nero might have neglected to mention to the IRS.
But the cash was in coffee cans, in holes, often on public land, with nothing but GPS coordinates to point the way, which were themselves on a yellow sticky in a safe deposit box, all of which would have required The Man to have a serious burr up his ass to go after.
And seriously, what did the IRS care about fifty grand? It probably cost that much to send the helicopter team after him.
Besides, wouldn’t they need a warrant for all of that, anyway?
And why hadn’t they read him his rights?
Which brought him back to where he started: where am I, and why the hell am I here?
The door opened, breaking the unproductive mental loop in Nero’s head.
In walked a Special Agent America looking guy. Big barrel chest, veins like a geography map carved in bulging forearms, thick neck, short haircut, 9mm sidearm strapped to his trim waist, clipboard clenched in a beefy paw.
Nero saw a second guy positioned just outside the door. The two agents could have been twins.
Nero stood up. He wanted to be polite. He wanted to be helpful, and get to the bottom of things, and demonstrate that he didn’t know the first thing about anything that any law enforcement-types might be interested in.
“Mr. Chiligiris,” Special Agent America said. “Please have a seat.”
Nero sat back down on the chair.
“Do you know why you’re here, Mr. Chiligiris?”
“No, sir. I was hoping you could tell me.”
America looked disappointed. “Cooperation is always best, Mr. Chiligiris.”
Nero nodded. “Trust me, sir, I’m willing to cooperate. I got a job and a wife and kids to get home to.”
“You’re married?”
Nero blushed a little bit. “Well, not technically, but me and Penny have been together for years.”
America made a note on the clipboard.
“You’re a convict, Mr. Chiligiris.”
Nero bristled. “Ex-con. I’m past all that now. Like I said, I got a family. Responsibilities. Can I call home?”
“Do you know why you’re here?” America repeated.
“Like I said, sir, I was really hoping you could clarify that for me. And maybe you could tell me where I am, while you’re at it.”
America eyed Nero. The agent’s jaw muscles worked. His eyes seemed preternaturally clear. Hard. It had a spooky effect.
“You’re in Denver,” America said. “In a holding facility belonging to the Department of Homeland Security.”
“Can you tell me why I’m here?”
“What do you think, Mr. Chiligiris?”
“What do I think? I think I’d like to know how I can help you, so I can get out of here and go home. Has anyone called Penny, let her know I’m OK?”
“No calls have been made on your behalf, Mr. Chiligiris.”
“Can I call her, please?”
America shook his head. “Not at this time.”
“Am I arrested? Are you charging me with something?”
“You are not under arrest.”
“So you’re releasing me?”
“No. Your present status is as a detainee.”
“Detainee? What the hell is that?”
“Don’t raise your voice, Mr. Chiligiris.”
“Don’t you have to read me my rights? And what about that Habeas Corpse thing?”
“Corpus.”
“What?”
“Corpus,” America said. “It’s Habeas Corpus. Your right to be brought before a judge and formally charged.”
“Exactly! That’s what I mean. What are you charging me with?”
America wrote on his clipboard. “Mr. Chiligiris, The USA Patriot Act and the Military Commissions Act set aside Habeas Corpus in cases like this one.”
“Case? You have a case against me?”
America shook his head. “Not like you’re thinking. Not with clerks and lawyers and a judge.”
“Then what?”
America clicked his pen, lowered his clipboard, bored through Nero with those freakishly clear eyes for another long moment.
He rose. “Mr. Chiligiris, you are being detained on suspicion of conspiracy to commit acts of terror against the United States of America.”
Nero’s jaw dropped.
“You
’re insane.”
“I’m afraid not, Mr. Chiligiris.”
“You’re absolutely out of your mind.”
America shook his head. “Not in the slightest,” he said. He rapped on the door. The latch clacked. The door opened. America turned to leave.
Nero rocketed out of his chair. “What the hell? I’m a US citizen! I’m clean! I have rights! I want a goddamned lawyer!”
A giant fist shoved Nero back into the seat. A small smile crossed America’s face. “You’re not getting it, Mr. Chiligiris. Involving yourself with terrorists takes you off the citizen list. We take the gloves off for cases like yours.”
America left. The door slammed shut in his wake.
Nero trembled with fear and rage. His hands balled into fists. He rose, paced, cursed.
He smacked the wall with his hand. Timidly at first, then again with more force.
Then a flurry of fists, flying with an irrational, helpless abandon. He pounded the walls, hands numbing with pain, a howl leaving his throat, like a caged animal.
He collapsed back into the chair.
“I’m fucking innocent.”
He was certain no one heard him.
5
Sam found a seat at a bistro in the Brussels airport. She fired up her government laptop, a big black paperweight sold by Dell, and it began its lengthy startup sequence. The space shuttle booted up faster than that damn thing. She watched the spinning blue wheel with growing impatience.
Maybe the desk job wasn’t a great idea.
Despite a queasy feeling in her stomach, she ordered breakfast. Eggs, bacon, vegetables, and coffee.
She switched her iPhone back on after its long in-flight slumber. It woke up, then ting-tinged with a message from Brock: “Just bought my tickets (ouch!). Can’t wait to see you on Saturday!”
She smiled. She was beyond ready to climb on top of her man and ride him until they were both spent. All work and no play was bad policy, and it was catching up with her. She and Brock badly needed some time away together, to rediscover and revel in their ferocious mutual need, to reconnect with their primal humanity. They were going to get reacquainted in Budapest, no less, one of Europe’s most gorgeous cities. It was going to be a glorious week.
Her food arrived about the time her government laptop finished its boot sequence. She ate while she wrestled with the airport Wi-Fi connection.
She had finished her meal by the time she’d established a remote connection to the Homeland server. Email slowly stacked up in her inbox. Cortisol built in her body as she read the subject lines and senders.
Sexual assault awareness training. Mandatory, of course.
Computer security procedures training. Overdue. The IT admin threatened account suspension unless she got her act together.
Performance summaries on Dan Gable and two other direct reports needed revisions. Due next week.
A thunderstorm warning. Sam chuckled at the ridiculousness of an emailed weather warning.
And a note from Tom Davenport. It had a red exclamation point next to his name. Sent with high importance. The subject line just said Urgent.
Tom hadn’t been her boss for more than a month or two, but already there was tension. Tom replaced Francis Ekman, who ate a bullet in Caracas. Ekman’s only crime was an unreasonable crush on his subordinate, and maybe a little too little operational savvy to stay alive in a hostile environment. Self-critiquing on both counts. Sam had once been discovered by her boyfriend with her boss’s love-lever buried to the hilt someplace the boyfriend felt was exclusive territory. That was back when she was drinking. Years of sobriety hadn’t dulled that particular lesson, and she no longer played where she worked. Plus, Ekman wasn’t her type. Too much milquetoast in him for Sam’s liking.
Tom Davenport was a different animal altogether. Political down to his very mitochondria. Tom made no decisions. He merely relayed news up and down. You couldn’t be fired if you were never wrong, and you’d never be wrong if you never decided anything.
Plus, he was a true believer. Those were dangerous people. They did what they were told, even when what they were told made no sense, and even when it could get people killed.
Against her better judgment, Sam opened Tom Davenport’s note.
Special Agent Jameson,
I’m afraid I have some bad news. I’m sorry to have to tell you that Deputy Director Farrar has canceled your leave. He has a priority eyes-only tasking for you. Please book a return flight as soon as the Mark Severn fatality case permits.
I’m sorry, Sam. Nothing I could do about this one.
Sam read it three times. By the third trip through the message, the words had become difficult to see. Tears welled. Her hands trembled. This kind of thing happened all the time in her line of work, but it somehow felt different, more injurious, more painful, more costly this time.
Why her? Why now? Why the sudden emergency? There were floors full of idle DHS agents. None of them would fill the bill?
It felt personal, like a betrayal, like she was being jerked around. Sam hated being jerked around.
Even if her bosses had a good reason, it wouldn’t be good enough.
She hammered out a reply that began with the words “Are you out of your damn mind?”
Then she reconsidered, erased, retyped.
“I quit.”
Reconsidered again. Erased again. Hovered over the keys, fingers flexing into fists, hands still shaking with rage.
She deleted her reply and slammed the laptop shut with far more force than necessary. Heads turned at adjacent tables, but Sam didn’t notice.
She considered calling Brock. She considered pretending not to have read the message. She considered turning around and going home. She considered tendering her resignation.
Her flight to Budapest was announced. She walked on wooden legs to her gate, phone in hand, Brock’s number called up, hovering over the call button.
Then she found Davenport’s number. She stopped short of dialing.
She took a deep breath. She needed to calm down before she talked to anyone important in her life, she decided. The phone went into her purse.
Sam stood in line to board the sardine can. She stared straight ahead, lost in her conundrum, mind whirring through alternatives and alternate realities.
Her turn came. She handed her boarding pass to the attendant. She barely managed a smile as the attendant wished her a nice flight, as if such a thing were possible.
She was committing a cardinal trade craft sin, Sam knew. Being knotted up in your own private drama was a great way to miss important things. A great way to get hurt, maybe. But she lacked the energy or inclination to keep her senses sharp.
She found her seat, closed her eyes, and tried to relax.
6
Sam calmed down to a slow smolder during her flight. She began thinking clearly enough to formulate a plan.
Direct confrontation was usually her style, but she had long ago discovered the hard way that direct confrontation via email usually backfired.
So Sam decided to passively resist. She decided that the Mark Severn thing would probably develop unforeseen complications requiring her extended presence in the picturesque European gem of a city. Brock’s presence alongside her would remain their little secret. What the douchebag desk-weights in her chain of command didn’t know wouldn’t hurt them.
But forewarned was forearmed. She availed herself of the in-flight Wi-Fi, courtesy of her government credit card, to start a static-laced voice-over-internet conversation with Dan Gable.
It was just before midnight DC time. The first sound Sam heard as Dan answered was of a screaming child. Her hunch was right: the youngest, who’d been inflicting a vicious case of colic on Dan and Sarah for the better part of a month, had kept everyone in the Gable household awake yet again.
“Sorry to bug you again,” Sam said.
“Don’t worry, you’ll see it on my time card.”
“Reminds me, I need to si
gn yours.”
“It would be nice. They’re going to turn off our power.”
“Burn your furniture for light and heat.”
“You’re a solutions-minded boss. I’ll be sure to include that on my employee satisfaction survey this year.”
“I need a secretary to keep all this crap straight,” Sam said.
“Or you could use a calendar. Works for seven billion other people.”
“I’ll take it under advisement. Anyway, I just got the long-distance bend-over from Farrar and Davenport. Leave canceled, come home ASAP, eyes-only case, blah blah. Have you heard anything about this?”
Dan laughed. “By definition, ‘eyes-only’ means I haven’t. Isn’t that the point?”
“But you hear things. And you’re a network administrator.”
“What are you suggesting?”
“Nothing. I was just hoping you’d know something.”
“So this is really a deniable request for me to dig around?”
“I’ll deny that if anybody asks.”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. And did you learn anything about the asshole in 32A on the Brussels flight?”
“Yes. The asshole’s name is Gertrude Annalise LeJeune. She’s a sixty-four-year-old grandmother from Verviers, Belgium.”
Sam shook her head, lips pursed in frustration. “He switched seats.”
“Or you’re hallucinating.”
“Or that,” Sam said.
The seat belt sign illuminated, and the “sit down, shut up, and strap in” speech ensued over the PA system, delivered much more politely than Sam was used to hearing on American carriers. Mutually-assured bankruptcy evidently hadn’t yet taken hold of the European airline industry as it had in the States.
“Thanks, Dan,” she said after the announcement ended. “And maybe try some Jack Daniels.”
“What?”
“For the colic. I hear it works wonders.”
“That’s barbaric,” Dan said.
The Essential Sam Jameson / Peter Kittredge Box Set: SEVEN bestsellers from international sensation Lars Emmerich Page 57