by Davis Bunn
When Matt turned west on the 495 Beltway, Judy asked, “What can you tell me about the day?”
It was clear that the question worsened Matt’s internal battle. Even so, she felt his loss with such severity she wanted to weep for him. He gave her a few terse sentences about the despicable. Then shut down entirely.
Judy let the silence hold until she felt it was safe to ask, “Describe for me your mother’s finest quality.”
“Joy.” The poor kid didn’t even need to think. “She looked at a person and saw only the best.”
The way he choked on that last word, she knew he would not give her anything more. She watched him openly, framing what she would write.
There had been problems early in her pregnancy. The doctor had warned that they might not be able to have another child. She hoped she lived to see her baby boy grow up big and strong and make babies of his own. But if he ever had to talk about his own mother after her passing, she would lie content if he spoke of her with such love.
When Matt took the Rosslyn exit, Judy realized with genuine regret that their time was almost at an end. “Okay, Matt Kelly. What did you want to ask me?”
“You broke the story that right-wing fanatics were most likely behind the bomb.”
“That’s right.”
“Where did you get the information?”
“I can’t give you names.”
“I understand.”
“A senior member of the police force spoke to me in confidence. And it was confirmed by someone close to the mayor.” Judy’s emotions might have been raw and wounded from the drive, but she was still a reporter. She could see that the information gripped him hard. “Why is that important?”
“I’m not going to deal in hypotheticals.” Matt Kelly went back to the cold and the steel. Which was remarkable. Matt compartmentalized better than a crime reporter. “If I have something definite, I’ll give it to you.”
“You’re going after your mother’s killer?” The thought gave her a double thrill. Stronger than the idea of an ongoing exclusive was the certainty that he was going to make Lexington Market sausage of whoever had targeted that lady.
Matt replied simply, “If I have something, it’s yours.”
“Okay.” She looked around. The Key Bridge was straight ahead, Georgetown just beyond. “Where are you headed?”
“Work. I shouldn’t be long.”
“You’re in intelligence, is that right? CIA?”
“State Department.”
It meant nothing to her. Judy pointed at the Metro station sign. “I’ll get out here and take the rails back.”
“I can drive you if you want to wait.”
“Thanks, but if I want to make the morning edition, I need to scoot. Besides, I can write on the way.” She offered her hand. “Stay in touch, okay?”
Downtown Rosslyn could hardly have been any more faceless or bureaucratic or boring. Rosslyn possessed not a single decent after-hours gathering spot. People who worked in Rosslyn fled across the Key Bridge to Georgetown the first chance they got. The place was a tangle of six-lane streets, parking lots, and hostile high-rises. Workers emerging from the Metro never bothered to look up. The sky was as imprisoned as they were.
State Department Intelligence was housed in the Diplomatic Security Building on North Lynn. International ops occupied the eighteenth and nineteenth floors. National and international threat analysis covered floors four through nine. The Rewards for Justice program, the prize money for information leading to the capture of known terrorists, was on the eleventh. The Embassy Courier Service and the Anti-Terrorism Assistance Program were housed a half-mile away, but their directors all worked out of DSB-1.
Analysis and ops were both divided into military-intelligence type regions. This was hardly surprising, since Ambassador Walton was a former chief of Air Force Intelligence. The regions were not split based on size or population, but threat assessment level: Western Hemisphere Affairs, Africa, Middle East, Southeast Asia, China, and so forth. Just like the military.
DSB-1 was classed as “emergency essential,” which was intel-speak for keeping fully trained specialists on duty 24/7. The State Department was known for having no esprit de corps. Most State staffers were viciously proud of their backstabbing skills. The exception was this building, most especially within ops. Ops was never referred to as operations. Ops was ops. This was where the work got done. Regional security officers were a clan unto themselves. They were posted abroad. They acted alone. They were responsible for the security of all American government nonmilitary establishments, including every embassy, in the entire world. Any terrorist threat that might be linked to one of these targets fell within their domain. They handled extremely dangerous assignments. Trust was essential. The same level of trust and camaraderie was true of CIA and defense ops as well. But State had one essential difference that had attracted Matt from the outset.
Size.
Defense devoured 85 percent of the nation’s intel budget. And that did not count the quick-strike network farmed out to the Delta Force and Rangers. CIA ops numbered in the thousands or the tens of thousands if in-country locals were included.
State Intel ops was minuscule. The total number of operatives was a highly guarded secret. But they numbered less than five hundred. They were overworked and overstretched and liked it that way. They were known throughout the intel world as highly trained, extremely adaptable, trustworthy, and completely void of jealousy. They did not trade information. They gave it away. This made them unique among America’s intel divisions. State ops scorned the intel battle over turf. They were too small to do anything alone. They were out there, hanging in the wind, hoping for allies. They gave what they had whenever they had it. In return, they asked only that someone be on the other end of the phone when it came down to life or death.
The Diplomatic Security Building’s exterior was as nondescript as modern architecture could achieve. Locals might pass the entrance a hundred thousand times and see nothing. No name denoted who worked inside. DSB-1 employees were taught to disengage whenever asked about what they did for a living, or where. The foyer was blank marble. Nobody entered without authorization. A uniformed sentry stood just inside the doors, there to accept all deliveries and field all unauthorized queries. The reception desk was tucked behind a battery of palms, so it was possible to see the bulletproof glass and armed guard and sensors only once a visitor was buzzed through the locked entrance. The employee turnstiles looked normal enough but required both a badge and a numeric code that changed weekly. Between the turnstiles and the elevators was a trophy wall of photographs. The most recent were of agents killed in Afghanistan and Iraq. In keeping with State Intel’s low profile, there were no names.
Ambassador Walton ruled State Intel from a fiefdom the size of one city block, a series of carefully guarded offices covering the entire twenty-fourth floor. There was no nickname for either his penthouse or the man himself. He scared people that badly.
After retiring from the air force, Walton served as ambassador to two war-torn Central African states. He held the posts under two different presidents, one from each party. The people who had served under him came in only two sizes. Either they preferred being strapped to the business end of a howitzer to another day on his staff, or they considered him the finest man alive.
Ambassador Walton’s personal office was severely functional. The only extravagance was a wall-sized view over the Potomac to the forests and spires of Georgetown University. The man himself was a human bulldog. Bald-headed, big-eared, face tightly scowled, his square teeth made to gnaw bones. A bark to match. “Kelly! Good to see you up and about. How’s the leg?”
“Better, sir. Thank you for asking.”
“Don’t stand there at attention, son. I left our man’s army nine years ago. No, the other seat’s more comfortable. You want anything, coffee?”
“I’m good to go, sir.”
“That’ll be all, Jack.” When the door cli
cked, Ambassador Walton demanded, “Now what’s this Van Sant tells me about you and the CIA?”
“I’m afraid it’s true, sir.”
“Haven’t you heard, Kelly? They eat their young over in Langley.” When Matt did not respond, Walton added, “We’re talking, so I assume there’s room for discussion.”
“I haven’t completely made up my mind, sir.”
“CIA is notorious for how they treat new recruits. They’ll either work you to death or bury you in the subbasement reserved for rookies. You’ll be one of a thousand greenies. Take it from me, son. You know the expression ‘goat-rope’?”
“That’s a new one, sir.”
“Picked it up in the Gulf. You tie a herd of goats together, it still doesn’t mean they’re going where you want. What you’re walking into over there, Kelly, is a glorified goat-rope. It’s no fun being last in line when somebody’s herding goats.”
“They’ve promised me a move straight to the field, sir. Advance training, covert intel, black ops, the works. No time spent in analysis at all.”
“Now you listen to me, Kelly. I’ve read your file and I like what I see. Smarts and combat skills and ambition. That’s about as good a combination as I could ask for in somebody who doesn’t have a day’s experience in the field.” Walton rose from his chair and began marching the length of his office. “I’m surrounded here by analyst clones. Ops and analysis are worlds apart. You served with the police, right?”
It was all in his file, but Kelly confirmed it anyway. “Twenty-nine months between university and law school.”
“Where was that?”
“Vail. My father was running a hotel. I wanted some time off school and thought I’d give it a try. Loved the work but not the smallness of the job.”
“Rule one in this town, Kelly. Wear your medals. An example. Your record says you took the SWAT training at the Denver academy. You came out where in your class?”
“First.”
“Same again at FLETSE. Which brings us back to the subject at hand.” He stabbed at the floor below his polished broughams. “These analyst clones don’t have idea one why my field ops do what they do, where the risks lie, and what the take is. Analyst clones live and breathe the clock. They want reports on every meeting. They want details that don’t mean diddly. Know why? Controlling the clock means controlling the man. It has nothing to do with getting the job done. I want a man in that outer office who knows how to spell results. What I want to know is, are you that man?”
Matt scoped out the view and held back. Not yet. But soon.
“You want ops, Kelly? I’ll give you ops. But first I want to train you. Me. A two-year crash course in how to rule the world. After that, we’ll set you up with DS in Paris. You know what we handle from the Paris embassy, son?”
“All of North Africa.”
“Right the first time. Not to mention being an independent top gun at the snazziest address in Europe. Place de la Concorde. The mademoiselles will stop by after tea to take a number and stand in line. We’ll have to bring you home for periodic blood transfusions.”
The man’s intensity was as strong as his aftershave. Matt asked, “You’ll let me have this in writing?”
Two pale blue marbles gleamed with triumph. “That’ll be your first task. Draft the orders for my signature. Two years to the day after you sign on as my adjutant. Do we have a deal?”
“Absolutely. But before I can start, I need help with a personal matter.”
“Name it.”
“I want to be assigned to the Baltimore field office.”
Walton’s shock was enough to send him back behind his desk and into his chair. “You’d rather die a slow death in a backwater Homeland Security field office than run with the big dogs? You’re not talking sense, Kelly.”
“Temporary assignment only. I have three weeks coming, sick and compassionate leave combined. That should do it.”
“To what end?”
“They haven’t found my mother’s killer. A case like this, it’ll never be declared cold, not officially. But the local cops are under growing pressure to deliver a suspect. They’ll arrest a warm body, run him through the courts. Whatever the verdict, they can then claim they’ve done their job.”
“Know this for a fact, do you?”
“I’ve seen it happen in Vail, sir.”
“You want to make sure they stay honest.”
“That’s it in a nutshell, sir. I want the right man taken down. And I want to be there when it happens.”
Walton pondered that. “I do this, you’ll commit to two years with me, five in the field.”
“Seven years for three weeks? That’s—”
“That’s a take it or leave it offer, Kelly.” Walton saw the waver and started laying ground fire. “Let’s see. Death of a senatorial candidate’s wife, we must have an in-house division that could conceivably look into the issue.”
“Office of Protective Intelligence Investigation,” Matt supplied.
“Done your homework. Good. I like that. So what’s your answer, son?”
“I accept, sir.”
“That’s my man.” He hit the speaker button. “Jack, get in here.”
“Sir.”
“Jack van Sant’s the guy you’ll be replacing. Have him give you the ten-cent tour.”
“If you don’t mind, sir, I’d like to get things moving in Baltimore before close of business today.”
“No problem with taking the fire to the enemy. Next time you’re down is fine.” He waved his aide forward. “Jack’s office shares the same view as mine. Don’t know how much time you’ll have to enjoy it. Jack is off in two months to, where is it you’re headed?”
“Baghdad, sir. Deputy Chief of Green Zone Security.”
“Jack, cut this man some orders. He’ll tell you what needs doing.”
“Roger that, sir.” He offered Matt his hand. “Good to have you on board, Kelly.”
“You need anything, Jack is your man. But I want to be kept in the loop. Savvy?”
“Yes sir. Thank you.”
“The only thanks I want from you is good work. And one more thing.” Walton waved a warning finger. “Everything you’ve heard about me? It’s all true. I’m a take-no-prisoners kind of boss. You do bad work, you’ll be out so fast the revolving door will fan the entire twenty-four floors. You do good, you get the gold. We clear?”
“As crystal, sir.”
“That is all, Kelly.”
Detective Lucas D’Amico’s morning started with a typical emergency. There had been a lot of those recently, most due to the fact that his wife was no longer around to help deal with their daughter. June had passed on fifteen months earlier. Lymphoma. An urgent call from headquarters meant getting his daughter up before she was ready. Katy was twenty-three and the anchor of his world. She had a severe learning disability. Her developmental progress had been arrested at around age five. When everything went well, she was an angelic child. But Katy did not like having her routine disturbed. On days when work compressed their morning routines, Katy tended to have what his late wife called messes. With Katy, messes covered a lot of ground. But Lucas had finally gotten Katy dressed a second time and in the car and deposited at her school.
Ian Reeves, the pastor who ran the center, stepped from his office to greet the pair of them. He accepted Katy’s hello-hug with, “Now isn’t that grand.”
Katy had two voices, an almost-whisper and a train-whistle shriek. Today it was soft and sad. “Katy’s been a bad girl.”
“I don’t believe that for an instant. Not an angel like yourself.” He patted her shoulder and guided her into the office. “Go and find Anne. I’m certain I heard her asking for your help.”
When his daughter had disappeared, Lucas started in, “I know I’m still overdue for our talk. But things—”
“There’s no need to be going on like that. Don’t we all know the burdens you’ve been facing? How are you, old friend?”
“In a hurry.”
“Then I’ll walk you to your car.” Ian waited until they were outside to say, “A place has opened at the home. I thought you should know.”
“I don’t want to put Katy away.”
“That’s precisely the reaction I’d be expecting from you. But you’re alone now, and the child is a burden. And we’re not talking about putting her away anywhere, which you well know. I hope we’re friends enough for me to speak frankly.”
“I don’t know what I’d do without her,” D’Amico replied.
“She wouldn’t be moving to the other side of the world, Lucas. Just half a block down from here. You could walk over and see her every day of the week.” Ian shut the car door and said through the open window, “Katy is alone a great deal more than some might call healthy.”
Lucas had been raised within the Sacred Heart community, as tight a Catholic neighborhood as had existed in old Baltimore. Raised there, took communion there, schooled and churched there. But he had been married in the Methodist church on Mount Vernon Square. June had never asked him to convert, but the change had been a natural outcome of loving a woman who was far too good for the likes of him. His mother had thought otherwise and had noisily carried her shame to the grave. Lucas started his car and replied, “I’ll think about what you’ve said.”
Hannah Bernstein was the first female homicide chief in the city’s history. She had been Lucas’s boss for six months now. Word had it she might one day become the first female police commissioner. There was a lot of hostility within the department to Bernstein’s advancement. Before she was known, she was marked.