by Gene Riehl
Then he thought about someone else he hadn’t heard from yet. William should have called by now. Monk reached for the phone again, hit the numbers for William’s office. It rang twice before an automated voice came on. “The number you have dialed is no longer in service, and there is no new number.” Monk frowned. He must have misdialed. He tried again, and discovered he hadn’t made a mistake.
Next he tried William’s cell phone, but it was the same message, this time from the cellular company he used. Monk stared at the phone for a few seconds before tossing it aside and heading for William’s office.
It wasn’t there anymore.
When Monk got to the third floor, William’s office was gone.
Monk stood in front of the NSA man’s door, staring at the empty spot where there should have been the brass-plated POTOMAC ENGINEERING sign. He shook his head as he realized he must have made a mistake, that in his rush to get here, he’d gotten out of the elevator on the wrong floor.
He hurried back to the elevator, but saw when he got there that he wasn’t wrong, that he was on the third floor. Scowling, he went back to William’s door. He tried the knob, but the door was locked. He knocked on it, softly at first, then harder, but there was no response.
“William?” he called. Nothing. “William!” Still no response.
Monk heard a voice to his right, and turned to see a thin short man down the hall, twenty feet away.
“Moved out,” the man said. “Last of the movers just left a few minutes ago.”
Monk walked down the hall until he was standing in front of the man.
“William?” he said. “William Smith just moved out?”
“I don’t know what his name was, but the man in that office is gone.”
Monk described William.
“That’s the guy,” the short man said. “But I never did meet him.” He paused. “Had to be a hell of a workaholic, though. Here when I got here in the morning, here when I left at night, but …” The short man shook his head. “No wonder he had to move out. The sign on the door said he was a civil engineer, but I never saw any clients.”
“You say the movers just left?”
“Not ten minutes ago.” The man chuckled. “Now that I think about it, he couldn’t have gone broke.”
“Why would you say that?”
“Man who’s belly-up doesn’t hire movers … not movers like those guys, anyway.”
“Those guys?”
“I’ve never seen so many, for one thing … and I’ve never seen any who looked like they did.”
Monk didn’t say anything. The man was itching to tell him the rest of it.
“Had to be twenty men,” he told Monk. “White coveralls, white shoes. Hell, they were all white, and I don’t mean just their clothes.” He shook his head. “You know what movers look like these days. About one step from homeless, most of them. Not the drivers … the day laborers who do the heavy lifting. But these guys didn’t look like that at all. Come to think of it, they looked more like you.”
“Twenty? Twenty movers?”
“Took ’em about half an hour, start to finish. I walked down there when they were gone. Never seen an office look so clean after a move.” The short man glanced up the hall in the direction of the empty office, then turned back to Monk. “It’s a whole lot cleaner in there than it was when your friend moved in.” He shook his head. “Matter of fact, it looks like he never moved in at all.”
Now Monk had to go to Fort Meade.
He drove to the Beltway and headed toward Maryland. When he hit I-295 he turned north, and half an hour later found an empty space in the immense parking lot outside the equally massive black-glass headquarters of the National Security Agency. Inside at the reception desk, a young man in an earnest blue suit took Monk’s credentials and examined them closely before looking up from behind the computer screen on his desk.
“What can I do for you, Special Agent Monk?”
“I’m here to see Director Carter.”
“Of course.”
The young man typed on his keyboard for a moment, then leaned toward the monitor and examined the screen before looking up again and shaking his head. “I don’t see your name here. When did you make the appointment?”
“I don’t have an appointment, but call upstairs anyway. I have a hunch he’s expecting me.”
The young man frowned. “I can’t do that … You can’t just walk in and.…”
His voice died as Monk turned and walked away, toward the bank of elevators beyond the reception desk.
“Hey!” the young man shouted. “Get back here! You can’t …”
Monk didn’t bother looking back. The young man would summon the guards without any further help from him. They would show up before he actually reached the elevators. Seconds later they did. Two of them, one on either side of Monk as he slowed to a stop. Big guys in dark blue uniforms. Wide shoulders, no perceptible necks. Large black pistols in the holsters on their hips. The shorter one stood at least six-four and he did the talking.
“What’s the problem here?” he wanted to know.
Monk showed his credentials again. “FBI,” he said. “Puller Monk. I’m on my way up to see the director.”
The guard frowned. “Why would you think you can just walk into the director’s office without an appointment?”
“Because I’m here to find out what happened to William Smith. To ask why William and his office have disappeared.”
“William Smith?” He glanced at his partner. “Is that name supposed to mean something to us?”
“I’m not here to see you.”
Both guards stepped closer to Monk. The bigger one reached out and grabbed his arm above the elbow. “You’re not here to see anybody,” he growled. The other guard took his free arm. Monk allowed himself to be pulled back toward the big front doors.
“William Smith,” Monk repeated before they got halfway there. “William Smith and …” He couldn’t make himself say any more, not to these guys. “If I don’t talk to Philip Carter about Smith, I’ll have to go to my own director.”
Which was meaningless drivel, but they wouldn’t know that. And it worked. Suddenly they stopped. Suddenly they were looking at each other. They didn’t exchange a word, but Monk could hear them just as clearly as if they were talking out loud. Like the security guards in Franklin’s secret vault, these guys weren’t about to proceed without shifting the responsibility to somebody else.
The shorter one let go of Monk’s arm and stepped off to the side to use the phone he plucked from his wide black belt. Monk couldn’t hear what the guard was saying, but he came back and grabbed Monk’s arm again.
“Let’s go, pal,” he said. “The only place you’re going is back to your car.”
Monk tried to yank his arm free, but the guard had a grip like a pit bull.
“What are you talking about?” he said. “Did you tell Carter what I said?”
“I told his chief of staff.”
Monk shook his head. “Not good enough. Carter himself has to be told I’m here. And why I’m here.”
“The chief of staff spoke to the director. I could hear him talking on the other line.”
“You heard him tell Carter that I’d go to my own director if Carter doesn’t see me?”
“That’s what I heard.”
“And?”
“And Mr. Carter says he has no idea what you’re talking about. He says nobody does … and nobody will. He says no matter how many times you come back here, nobody will.”
FIFTY
This was where he was supposed to quit.
Back in the Ferrari, back out on the highway toward the District, Monk realized Philip Carter’s message couldn’t have been clearer. Go back to your cubbyhole, the NSA director was telling him. Go back to the SOG and forget this whole thing ever happened. Cash in your chips and get out of a game you’ve got no chance of winning.
Well, fuck that.
Monk stomped on t
he gas and the Ferrari seemed to come off the ground in its eagerness to run. And he felt the same way. He was tired of losing, and the best way to recover was to throw some more chips on the pile.
He grabbed his cell phone and asked for information, then got himself connected. “Tell him it’s the FBI,” he told the switchboard operator at the Global Panoptic Building when she answered. “Tell Franklin it’s Puller Monk.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Monk,” the woman told him. “The chairman’s in Gettysburg. He left strict instructions not to be—”
“I don’t give a damn what he said. If you have any hope of keeping your job, you’ll get him on the phone right now. You’ll put him on the line with me … or you’ll tell him to expect to see me as soon as I can get there.”
“One moment, please, Agent Monk. I’m sure he’d like to speak with you.”
“I had an idea he might.”
Monk’s fingers drummed the steering wheel while he waited.
“Monk?”
Franklin’s voice was clearly angry. “What the hell is the meaning of this? Do you have any idea what’s going on here tod—”
“Shut up, Franklin! I’m coming for Sung Kim.”
“For … What did you say? You’re coming for what?”
“Your art thief. Pyongyang’s assassin.”
“Pyongyang?” Silence. “I have no damned idea what you’re talking about, Monk, but I can’t see you today. I’m at the farm for the rest of the day.”
“And I’m on my way.”
A longer silence this time. “I’ve got people coming. Believe it or not, more important people than you.”
“I don’t care if the pope himself is on the way. You will be available for me when I get there. You’ll have the woman there, too. Or you can have your guests watch me drag you away in handcuffs.”
“Handcuffs? What the hell are you talking about?”
Monk said nothing, letting his bluff play out. Fifteen long seconds passed without a sound.
“Be at my building in an hour,” Franklin said at last. “I’ll send my helicopter for you.”
Monk spent a half hour calling the Metropolitan P.D. about Eleanor, and trying again without success to get hold of Lisa. When he got to the Global Panoptic Building, the red and white Sikorsky was ready for him. Stepping out of the elevator on the roof, he stiffened his body against the rotor wash from the helicopter sitting on the circular pad, and stiffened his mind against the prospect of yet another flight inside what wasn’t much more than a large tin can.
He saw that there was only one pilot this time. The dark blue helmet made it impossible to tell if it was one of the two who’d flown them to Battle Valley Farm the other day. The passenger door was open and the pilot raised a gloved hand without looking at him, motioning for Monk to get in. He did so, then climbed into the nearest of the six seats and forced himself to fasten the shoulder and lap belts, adding even further to his feeling of confinement. Jesus, Monk thought. When this was all over, he had to get some help for his claustrophobia.
The pilot said nothing before they lifted off. The Sikorsky climbed rapidly and Monk stared out the window, down at the District of Columbia as it passed underneath. Just as the other day, the traffic was horrific. The highways were crawling, the surface streets not moving at all. This way he’d be at the farm in twenty-five minutes. Monk glanced at the back of the pilot’s helmet, then began to prepare.
It didn’t take long.
All he knew for sure was that William Smith’s office was gone and that the director of NSA had done just as he promised and was disavowing any knowledge of their agreement. Philip Carter had decided the operation to catch Sung Kim was out of control, and the best thing to do was lay back and wait for another chance. A chance that didn’t involve the president’s closest buddy and the bureaucratic shit storm that would annihilate Carter should he fail.
Monk glanced at the back of the pilot’s helmet, wanting to call out, to urge more speed. Thomas Franklin had the answers. Every minute of delay in getting to him was another minute for the man to cover his tracks.
Meanwhile, he had to try Lisa again.
Maybe she was back in her office.
He reached for the sports jacket he kept in the Saab at all times, that he’d transferred to the Ferrari and then to the helicopter. He fumbled in the pocket for his cell phone, then remembered using it in the Ferrari and leaving it there. Damn it. He stared out the window, then realized there had to be a phone in the chopper.
He looked around, but couldn’t see one. He searched for the headset he’d used the other day with Franklin. He could ask the pilot where the phone was kept. He opened the console built into the armrest of his seat and found the headset. Pulling it out, he slipped the headphones over his ears just in time to hear a man’s voice.
“When?” the voice asked. It was Thomas Franklin, Monk realized. Franklin talking to the pilot. “And how soon can you get here?” Franklin was saying. “After … afterward, I mean.”
“I’m ten minutes from the farm,” the pilot answered. A woman’s voice. Hearing it, Monk frowned. “I’ll need about an hour,” the pilot said, then hesitated. “It’ll take me an hour to get to you.”
Monk stared at the back of the pilot’s helmet, then unbuckled his shoulder harness and moved up to the copilot’s seat. He was still wearing the headset when he got there, the microphone still in place in front of his mouth. Wraparound sunglasses hid the pilot’s eyes, but Monk didn’t have to see them to know who she was. He tried to keep the puzzlement out of his voice.
“What are you doing here, Bethany? What are you doing in this helicopter?”
Her voice was dead flat. “Sung Kim, Puller. My name is Sung Kim. And all I’m doing is my job.”
He stared at her. Sung Kim? Bethany Randall was Sung Kim? How could that be? He knew this woman. He’d known her five years ago. She was engaged to an NSA agent, for Christ’s sake. She and William had been about to get … Monk’s brain paused for an instant before he got it.
“You doubled William,” he said, “but now you’ve killed him.” There couldn’t be any other explanation for the office that disappeared. “Why would you do that? How often do you get a chance to penetrate NSA?”
“I didn’t double him. I realized I’d never be able to turn William.”
Monk’s mind filled with that night in the hot tub. “You thought you had a better chance with me? You thought that fucking me in the hot tub was all it would take?”
“A girl’s got to try.”
Monk’s tongue seemed to thicken in his mouth. He couldn’t make himself ask the next question, but she must have seen it in his eyes.
“She’s here, Puller. Lisa’s here with us.”
Monk turned in the seat, his eyes everywhere at the same time, but the chopper was small, hardly more than the six seats and pilot’s compartment. There was no room for anyone to be hidden.
“I said here … not in here.” Bethany glanced backward and down.
Following her gaze, Monk’s vision blurred as he realized what she was telling him. That Lisa was in the luggage compartment at the rear of the chopper. That Lisa’s body was … Monk shook his head.
“No way,” he said. “No way in hell she’d let you get close enough.”
Bethany shrugged. “Have it your way. Doesn’t make any difference to me what you think.”
Monk looked for a tell, desperate to see that she was lying, but he saw nothing. Lisa’s not dead, he told himself. She’s not in this chopper. She’s back in her office, getting ready to go home to the loft.
“She knows nothing, Bethany. Lisa thinks you and I are having an affair, but that’s it. She doesn’t have to die.”
“I can’t help that now.”
Monk’s hands began to flex as he fought the urge to leap across the seat and kill her. “What about the other night … our dinner at your house?” He shook his head. “Why try to seduce me like that? Why bother with a man you knew you were going
to kill?”
“Orders. I was given one last chance to make you one of us.” She paused. “We could have had a lot more nights like that one in the hot tub.”
Monk stared at her. “You and me, Bethany … and Thomas Franklin.” He shook his head. “Surely you’re not that stupid.”
“Sung Kim,” she said. “I told you my name is Sung Kim.”
Monk turned away, his eyes searching out the luggage compartment again, but before he could turn back, he felt the chopper decelerate, then heard the suddenly much louder roar of the rotor blades. He spun around just in time to see Bethany sliding the door open, then reaching for a bright red knob in the control console between the seats, shoving the knob all the way to the firewall.
The engine roar died. The chopper seemed to come to a complete stop.
Bethany swung herself through the open door and dropped onto the landing skid below the door. Now Monk could see the small sport chute strapped to her back. He vaulted across the empty pilot’s seat in a futile attempt to grab her, to haul her back inside, but he was too late. He could only watch as Bethany gathered herself to jump from the skid.
Before he could think about what he was doing, Monk leaped after her.
His much heavier body caught her an instant after she hurled herself from the skid. He landed on her back and slid down to her waist as his desperate grip held fast.
As they tumbled together into the sky.
FIFTY-ONE
Over the shriek of wind in his ears, Monk could barely hear the roar of his own voice as they hurtled away from the dying helicopter, as they plummeted toward the forest below. He clung to Bethany, his arms and hands locked around her waist in a grip she’d have to kill him to break.
A moment later her chute exploded directly into his face, then shot past him and opened with a bone-wrenching jerk that seemed to yank the two of them all the way back to the chopper. The sudden deceleration tore his hands away, and he felt himself slipping down her body. His fingers clawed into her, and he stopped sliding just as the helicopter exploded.