The Firefly

by P. T. Deutermann

  “McNamara wants to see me. Here’s the list. I guess you can make some calls, if you feel like it. Most people were quite cooperative, but they all wanted some time to take a look through their records. I took the liberty of giving them your extension.”

  “No problem,” Gary said.

  Swamp went down to McNamara’s office.

  “I’ll get right to it,” McNamara said with a pained expression.

  “Let me guess: Somebody senior told you to send my ass back to West Virginia.”

  “Good guess,” McNamara said. “Really good guess. I think it was all the phone calls you made around town that did it for Hallory, and then for the director.”

  “Theirs or ours?”

  “I think both, actually.” He sat back in his chair, closed his eyes, and rubbed his temples. “You might say that I wasn’t invited to say much of anything.” He opened his eyes. “But it kinda pissed me off anyway.”

  Swamp shook his head in resignation. “I thought the whole point of this Homeland Security Department was to beat down this kind of turf shit.”

  “It’s Washington, Swamp. Turf battles are never going to go away, because if anyone ever took a really hard look, they’d realize we don’t need half the people we have working in government. That’s why the bureaucracy’s like that gazillion-ton supertanker—each new administration tries to put the rudder over, but nothing happens for two years.”

  “Okay, so what’s the deal?”

  “They want you gone. Deactivated. Decalled instead of recalled. But like I said, the whole time I was coming back to the office, I was thinking, This pisses me off, and I want to go up our chain of command. In the meantime, I think you should just fold your tents and steal away into the desert night for a little while.”

  “In what capacity?”

  “For starters, just leave town for twenty-four hours. Because I know I’m going to get some calls tomorrow, and they’re gonna say, ‘Is he gone?’ And I want to be able to say, ‘West Virginia.’”

  “And then?”

  McNamara leaned forward, lowering his voice. “And then I want you to do what you do best: Close this thing. Because, on balance, I think you’re right. I think there’s something going on, and I think that’s our frigging job, even if it looks like a firefly.”

  “Our job is OSI. Special Investigations. Intelligence.”

  “Well then, let’s fucking generate some intelligence, shall we? You go off the grid. Go find out what this crap’s all about. Cozy up to some of the spiders on your old web, but do it on a personal basis. Hell, Swamp, you know how to do this.”

  Swamp nodded. “Yes, I do. And I appreciate the hell out of what you’re saying, and doing. But I don’t want to get you across the breakers with agency directors.”

  McNamara smiled, his eyes gleaming. “We’re all here for a second run, Swamp Morgan. You and me. Only this time, we should at least try to do it right. I’d like nothing better than to hand both of those directors and Mr. Hallory a plate of shit, but preferably before somebody throws that plate of shit at the president. You go get some evidence. I’ll back you up as long as I can.”

  Swamp stood up. He hesitated, suddenly overcome by an emotion he couldn’t name. “I think anything I say right now would be mawkish,” he began.

  “Then get your ass out of here so I can make them think you’re fired.”

  Swamp grinned. “Can I use Gary as my line into the building?”

  “Does he understand he could get burned? He is Secret Service, after all.”

  “I think so. He should know how this goes. But I’ll warn him.”

  “Yeah, do that. But right now, get out of Dodge.”

  Swamp got back to his cube and called Gary over. He told him what was going down, then asked Gary to requisition a weapon for him. “I’m going to leave town, as instructed,” he said. “But not for long. I’ll call in, see what those realtors come up with, if anything.”

  “I’ll finish the list. And you’re going where?”

  “For public consumption? I’m going home, as ordered. For a day anyway. Then I might go up to see if I can talk to Ms. Wall, assuming she’s still with us.”

  “And that would not be for public consumption.”

  “Right. Everything to do with this little firefly is now off the books. Especially where PRU is concerned. I want to protect McNamara, as well as you. I’ll get that weapon from you tomorrow.”

  Swamp’s phone rang. He’d almost decided not to pick it up, but then he saw the caller ID number in the phone’s display window. Jake Cullen.

  “Morgan,” he said.

  “Not so loud, please,” Cullen said. His voice sounded a bit raspy.

  “Successful wake?”

  “Oh man. Irish whiskey. Don’t ever mess with Irish whiskey. So where are we with this thing?”

  “It’s complicated,” Swamp said. “How you feel about a little road trip?”

  An hour and a half later, they were gunning it out the Dulles-access toll road, right on the bow wave of the serious afternoon commuter traffic. Jake Cullen had met Swamp at the Ballston station with his overnight bag, then walked the three blocks over to the gas station to pick up the Land Rover. There’d been no sign of tails when Swamp left the office, nor at his apartment building. Apparently, they’d been called off, or a more sophisticated team was working him. Swamp had briefed the detective on what had transpired since they’d gone to the Royal Kingdom Bank. Jake whistled in surprise when he heard about the business with Lucy at the restaurant and the subsequent fallout.

  “Our people are getting some of the same vibes,” he said. “Secret Service going medium apeshit with this lockdown operation. You know about the cell phones—how they’re gonna kill all the transmitting towers in the city for this deal? On both sides of the river?”

  “Yeah, she told me,” Swamp said. “Good day to stay home and watch it on TV.”

  “Stay home my ass,” Jake said. “Every swingin’ dick on the force below the rank of lieutenant’s going into the bag for street duty. You watch—it’ll snow.”

  Swamp reached the Route 7 bypass around Leesburg and turned west. “My plan is to go straight up to Garrison Gap. See if we can talk to Connie Wall.”

  “Last time I called, they weren’t that encouraging about big conversations.”

  “I couldn’t get any real status,” Swamp said. “The sheriff may still have the shields up. I think we have to go there.”

  “So, are you suspended or what?”

  “I think that’s what my boss is trying to convey to the higher-ups. They didn’t tell him to suspend me. Just to make me ‘go away.’ They check back tonight or tomorrow morning, I’ll be gone.”

  Jake shook his head. “You guys in the G take some shit entirely too seriously.”

  “Tell me about it.” Swamp laughed. “But hell, they may yet be right. If Connie Wall fails on us, and the realtors all turn up empty, I’m probably done.”

  Jake had his notebook out. Swamp hadn’t realized the detective had been taking notes as he explained the situation. Cullen started reading from his notes. “Guy named Hodler buys a black Suburban with cash money from a Saudi bank. The papers go back to said Saudi bank. Same guy learns where Wall is going. A cop on the road spots a black Suburban traveling behind Connie Wall. That night, she gets knifed in Garrison Gap. You saw a black Suburban leaving Garrison Gap the morning after she was knifed. Interpol says Hodler is an alias for Heismann, which is a name mentioned in a transcript where some guy’s talking about blowing shit up next month. A transcript we get from the remains of a burned-out medical clinic, where Connie Wall worked. Where all hands got dead in nonlinear circumstances.” He looked up. “Lots and lots of coincidences?”

  “I know,” Swamp said, shaking his head. “I pitched all this to the Secret Service, in the person of Ms. VanMetre. She responds by having agents throw down on me—and put me under surveillance. Let’s see what Connie Wall can do for us.”

  They go
t up to Garrison Gap around 7:00 P.M. The ICU supervisor gave them a five-minute window, but not before first making them wash their hands and faces, don gauze face masks and latex gloves, and then pull scrub tops over their shirts. “She’s deep into the postop-infection window,” he told them. “Don’t touch her or even get that close.”

  “Is she conscious?”

  “Sometimes,” the doc said, already turning his attention to a set of orders a nurse had just brought him. “But not very.” He read the orders, signed them, and hustled out of the ICU. A waiting nurse took them down to the curtained bed.

  Connie looked severely diminished behind the stainless-steel frames of the ICU bed. Her face was as white as a death mask. The nurse did a quick scan of monitoring instruments and tubes, then stepped back, but she did not leave.

  “Connie,” Jake called, bending closer to the bed. He called her name again, and her eyelids fluttered, then opened. The nurse stepped forward, wet Connie’s lips with a Q-Tip, and gave her one tiny sip of water from a stainless-steel bottle, then another.

  “Connie, it’s Jake Cullen. And Special Agent Morgan, Secret Service.”

  The nurse’s eyes grew larger when she heard that, but Connie was just staring at both of them. Swamp was trying to think of how to ask her a question, when he saw her eyes cross and then one eyelid droop shut.

  “Shit,” he muttered, glancing over at Jake, who sighed. The nurse had an “I told you so” look on her face. She glanced pointedly down at her watch. Connie’s other eye closed and she made a noise in her throat.

  “What?” Jake asked, leaning forward again, but Swamp thought this was hopeless. Poor damned woman. He didn’t think she was going to make it. He signaled Jake with his head that they should back out. They had only reached the curtain when they heard Connie gasp out a single word behind them: “Him!”

  They turned around and went back. Connie’s eyes were still shut, but there were lines on her forehead now, as if she were concentrating. Lines and a fine sheen of sweat.

  “‘Him,’ Connie? Him who?” Jake asked.

  “Him,” she said again, a whisper this time. “Not…a…woman.”

  “Him,” Swamp repeated. “You mean the guy who got Ballard did this? The guy who tried to kill you down in D.C.?”

  The nurse looked positively alarmed now, and the monitors were coming alive. “That’s enough,” she said, motioning for them to move back.

  Swamp and Jake straightened up and moved back. Connie’s eyes were still closed, but there was a ghost of a smile on her face.

  “Okay, Connie, we got it,” Jake called. “You rest. Get better. We got it, okay? We got it.”

  They backed out of the room and walked down to the ICU station. The first nurse had stayed with Connie. There were two other nurses there and a new doctor. Jake showed his badge and police ID. “Listen to me,” he said in a voice that made them all pay attention. “She’s to have no visitors other than Special Agent Morgan here and me. And if anybody asks, you must—must—say that she’s as good as dead. On life support, but the prognosis is grave beyond telling. Can you guys do that?”

  Semi-shocked nods all around.

  “Okay. Please write that down in your pass-down logs. She’s safe—and you’re safe—as long as she’s a dying woman. Here’s my card. Anybody here on staff has questions, they can call me.”

  More worried nods. Swamp suddenly wondered if this was going to boomerang somehow. “And thank you for keeping her alive,” he added with a smile, trying to pour a little oil on the waters. Then they left the ICU and went back out to the parking lot. They got into the Rover and Jake fished out a pack of cigarettes while Swamp got the engine and the heater running. He opened Jake’s window so he could blow out a hefty column of smoke into the pristine mountain air.

  “So he dresses up as a woman, gets close to her, goes into the can with her, and then knifes her,” Jake said. “Just like that.”

  “And dresses up good enough to fool Connie Wall, and she’s a nurse, for Chrissakes.”

  “Yeah. This is spooky. But it makes more sense. There were wits who saw a woman in that hallway. One even said he saw a woman going into the men’s room, remember?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And I never could see some foreigner being able to just call Rent-a-Hitter and get something going that fast.”

  “But it means we’re looking for a goddamned chameleon,” Swamp said. “Some guy who’s had plastic surgery and who can transform himself into a woman well enough to fool a surgical nurse? This is getting to be a bitch.”

  “Did you see her face?” Jake said. “I don’t think she’s gonna make it.” He blew another draft of blue smoke out the window and then tossed the glowing butt into the remains of a snowbank in the parking lot.

  “Well, maybe,” Swamp said. “But she fought to tell us that. She’d been saving it up. Got it out. She’s a scrapper.”

  Jake was shaking his head as Swamp backed out of their parking space. “You really think the Saudis are getting behind another nine eleven? Right there in Washington?”

  “Remember who flew the planes on nine eleven?” Swamp said, pulling into traffic on the main drag. “That said, there are Saudis and there are Saudis. I’ve had some valuable help from that part of the world over the past few years.”

  “Still,” Jake said.

  “And those guys on nine eleven weren’t exactly members of the royal family. And changing Euros to dollars isn’t a crime. I’ve been reaching all along on that element.”

  “But the vehicle’s papers going back to the bank like that—makes my ass wonder.”

  “I’m pulling a separate string on that,” Swamp said. He told Jake about his queries to realtors in the city.

  “You get a hit on that question, I’ll personally take in a SWAT team,” Jake growled. Then his cell phone rang.

  “Detective Cullen,” he answered. Swamp kept driving as Jake listened. Two blocks down the road, Jake put his hand over the phone’s mouthpiece and told Swamp to pull over. He said, “Yes, sir” into the phone three times, snapped it shut, and swore.

  “Now what?” Swamp asked.

  “Apparently, my little speech to the ICU crew got the hospital all spun up,” Jake said. “They called District headquarters, demanding we move her out of there and back down to D.C., where we can protect her.”

  “Shit, I was afraid of this. Can she be moved?”

  “They say yes, and that was my boss’s boss. He said since I started this little shit storm, would I be so kind as to ‘manage’ it?”

  “In those exact words?” Swamp asked with a grin.

  “Not exactly. I guess we have to go back.”

  “We?”

  “Yeah, yeah, I know. I’ll ride down in the meat wagon with her. You go on home to Harpers Ferry. Have a drink for me. Hell, have two.”

  Heismann surveyed the collection of gleaming white marble blocks lining three walls of the master bedroom. The delivery had come right at three o’clock that afternoon and consisted of five pieces altogether. Four of them were three feet high and one foot square, sitting on two-foot-square wooden pallets with steel bands on four sides. There was one larger piece, five and a half feet high and eighteen inches on a side. It sat right out in the middle of the empty room now, centered on the plywood stack. There was also a flat crate, made of heavy cardboard and reinforced with wooden battens. The crate measured three feet on a side and was marked TOOLS. It was leaning up against the wall by the bedroom window.

  He’d had the deliverymen place the bulk of the marble blocks along the walls to minimize the stress on the floor’s center. He’d turned off the heat in the house an hour before the delivery, opened the windows, and had met the deliverymen dressed in jeans, winter boots, a bulky turtleneck sweater, a knit watch cap that covered most of his head, and those oversized square glasses. The cold house accomplished two things: It allowed him to cover himself up and it expedited the delivery crew, who wanted nothing more than to unload
the marble, haul it upstairs, and get the hell out of there. The truck had come and gone by the time he heard his neighbor climbing the steps to her front door.

  He stood in the middle of the room, next to the taller piece of marble, and read the delivery manifest in the failing light of late afternoon. He was pretty sure Mutaib had changed the delivery sequence, and these papers would tell him. Each piece of marble was listed, along with its provenance, metric dimensions, and weight. The largest piece, the one out in the middle of the room, had one additional dimension, expressed in centimeters; this looked like a typo on the line of regular dimensions. Ten centimeters. That was it.

  Then he went over to the flat crate, and, using a large kitchen knife, opened one end of the outer cardboard box. He slid out a flat package of sculptor’s tools—hammers, chisels, other steel cutting tools, and a plastic bag filled with small wooden wedges. He found a measuring tape delineated in metric units in the package and put one end right in the center of the top face of the marble piece. Draping the tape down one side, he measured off the distance in centimeters and then made a mark with a pencil on the side of the block. He repeated this measurement on the remaining three sides of the block.

  He dumped the tool package out on the floor. Taking a hammer and a pointed steel chisel, he returned to the block in the center and began tapping the point on the marks he’d made earlier. When he got to the third side, his tapping bore results: Bits of white plaster fell out onto the floor. Plaster, not marble. Moving the chisel up the side of the block about two inches, he tapped again and produced more plaster. He nodded to himself again and put the tools away. When the time came, he would tap an entire vertical line of plaster-filled holes out of the side, then use the wedges to split the block from end to end. But he’d found out what he needed to know: The weapon had arrived.

  Just to make sure, he put the tools to one side and looked into the box. He pulled out a smaller cardboard box, opened one end, and saw the cell phone. He set that down and felt around in the cushioning material. His fingers encountered a steel plate, which felt as if it was about eighteen inches on a side. Only the edge of the plate was visible, but it was clearly almost an inch thick. He nodded and closed the flaps of the cardboard box.