Winter hung up. He felt sick and, except for once three years before, more helpless than ever.
65
New York, New York
Herman Hoffman read the note that had been placed on the table beside his Wedgwood plate, “I'll let you know what my orders are in a little while,” he said to the man who had delivered it.
“Yes, sir.”
“I need those call transcripts ASAP.”
The man vanished.
Herman cut a slice from the veal medallion and chewed it, keeping his eyes on the plate. He lifted the wineglass and sipped. He patted his lips with the edge of the linen napkin, then pushed the note to Ralph and watched as he read it.
“We have her located. What now?” Ralph asked, looking up.
“I'm considering what the appropriate response should be. Eat.”
Ralph cut a chunk of sirloin.
“Mrs. Devlin was at a pay phone in Richmond, Virginia thirty-three minutes ago. Richmond is a very big town to cover without assistance. With a transcript of the call, it might be possible to know if she is in a car passing through and picked out the phone at random, or is staying nearby and had no other access to a telephone. Or maybe she has access but knows better than to use a phone within close proximity of her hide.” Herman speared a red potato and, holding it up, examined it as though seeking some imperfection on its skin.
Ralph didn't interrupt, just listened and chewed.
“She escaped a marshal surveillance team,” Herman mused. “The woman vanished into thin air with the authorities covering airports, train and bus terminals. She has no one to turn to and can't gain access to her trust accounts or use a credit card without us knowing it.” Herman rubbed his chin. “Ralph, what would you do?”
“Wait until she uses up her cash and resorts to a credit card.”
“She may have resources we aren't aware of. The question is where is she heading and how soon. My instincts tell me that she will be staying in Richmond for a time, not because of her limited resources but the natural instinct to hide, keep a low profile. She will use the credit cards only to misdirect, so I'll ignore that. She will eventually have to go for her trust account, but we can't afford to wait her out. Not with Fifteen making such a ruckus.”
Ralph's fork was frozen in midair as he listened. He knew very well who Fifteen was, but he had no idea what sort of ruckus his boss was referring to.
“I'll send a pair to Richmond. That way at least we will be in the area when we get our next fix on her.”
“Send me, sir. I won't miss her.”
“I have just the pair in mind. I don't want to tell Mr. Russo yet that she is alive. With luck, I won't have to. He's such an excitable fellow. For the present, we'll just let that sleeping dog lie.”
Ralph nodded absently. “I'd like to go.”
“I feel much safer with you here.”
“Lewis says that if we don't take Massey out, he could be trouble later on.”
“I won't be prodded into sanctioning a man who got lucky. And if Massey wasn't lucky, I don't want to risk another man. I'll just let Fifteen deal with the deputy and I'll concentrate on the woman.”
“Lewis is different now. I can't put my finger on it, but he's changed.”
“Time and circumstances can do that. How's the wine?”
“Needs sugar.”
“I doubt the vintner would agree, but go ahead.”
Herman watched Ralph put a half spoon of sugar in the vintage Bordeaux and stir.
Herman was fast approaching the end of the trail, but he had never felt more alive. This operation, perhaps the last he would ever oversee, had been complex from its very inception. It could have fallen apart at so many junctures, but it had proceeded perfectly until Massey got in the way. Herman had rarely come up against a single adversary he could admire. On many occasions, he had ordered sanctions that pitted one, or several, of his men against a target protected by a large security force. Any single man who could kill four of his boys, as Massey had, clearly deserved respect. He was a remarkable warrior, but the skills that made him that hardly translated into his becoming a threat now that he was off the field—the fighting near him was over.
Herman would not send men against Massey for merely having been a remarkable obstacle. This was just a game, and sportsmanship dictated that coaches didn't punish opposing players for scoring.
66
Concord, North Carolina
While Winter and Lydia were clearing the dinner dishes, his cell phone buzzed from the bedroom. He got to it on the third ring.
“Yeah?” Winter answered.
“I found them. Those four men were Special Forces. But they died long before you met them.”
“That's crazy,” Winter said. “I killed ghosts?”
“You're thinking inside the box. You know what a cutout is? Technically anybody who drops their real identity in favor of a new one for security reasons is a cutout. A protected witness would be considered a cutout, as would a CIA or FBI agent who is going undercover.”
“You're sure they're cutouts?”
“Yes. As for Ward Field, it started out as a training base for pilots during the second world war and continued operations through 1974 before it was classified as redundant by the Air Force and closed. But the land and the base, although decommissioned in 1974, remains restricted airspace. According to a series of reports in The Washington Post, Ward was listed as one of the CIA's launching pads for sensitive operations. Remember Iran-Contra, when the CIA flew guns south and, according to some, ferried cocaine on the return trips in order to sell it on the streets to purchase more guns? According to the articles, Ward Field was a secret base where cargo planes landed and took off. Isolated plus restricted equals perfect.”
“You're saying the CIA is behind the assaults?”
“Involved up to their eyeballs. Maybe the FBI doesn't have their prints. It's possible they were purged after they were dead and buried. I know the CIA missed the fact that the real prints are still on file at the Pentagon. You'd figure they would have purged those fingerprint records to cover their tracks.”
“Unless someone wants to know when one of them is fingerprinted,” Winter speculated.
“I'm paranoid enough to imagine there might be a trip wire set to alert the CIA, NSC, or maybe even military intelligence. Maybe I'll have some questions to answer about how I came to have those prints.”
“The UNSUBs' bodies will match your print cards,” Winter said. “That's mighty strong corroboration.”
“Don't count on it. Those guys will certainly erase their trail, if they haven't already. I checked for similar reports of deaths in the Special Forces over a ten-year period. Even figuring that most are legitimate accidental deaths, there could be a lot of dead men still serving their country.”
“Maybe you should take a vacation.”
Reed chortled. “My bags have been packed all afternoon.”
“Do you have hard copies?”
“I'm mailing a set to a friend who will know what to do with them.”
“I need a set,” Winter said.
“This is sensitive stuff. This might end up being the only record there is of this. I think I better send it to somebody they aren't watching. You don't want them to come to you looking for these, do you? They've demonstrated that they can play rough.”
“Nobody's watching me,” Winter protested.
“You sure?” Reed asked him. “This isn't amateur night at the Apollo.”
Winter felt a stab of paranoia after Reed hung up.
If the men on Ward Field and Rook Island were CIA assassins and the FBI knew, it would be devastating. If Winter had the evidence, perhaps Shapiro could use it and, if nothing else, make sure Greg's name wasn't dragged through the mud. One thing was for sure—no one would ever believe the CIA was involved in this without the proof Reed had. Winter could believe the FBI was in on keeping the CIA's involvement covered up. The question was why the CIA would have gone to such unbel
ievable extremes to kill Devlin?
Was it possible that the CIA was working to help Sam Manelli? What in God's name was going on when the government murdered its own soldiers and agents for a mobster's benefit? Winter wondered if Manelli's history of invulnerability to arrest and conviction was due to something the CIA was afraid he could let out of the bag? Or was it something that Devlin knew?
What was obvious to Winter was that—if they would kill so many people to silence one witness against Sam Manelli—the CIA surely wouldn't hesitate to kill a few more.
67
Norfolk, Virginia
Fletcher Reed closed his telephone and placed the heavy manila envelope that he had carried in his overcoat pocket into the mailbox's open slot.
United States Marshals Service
Richard Shapiro, Director
600 Army Navy Drive
Arlington, Virginia 22202
He pushed it in, hearing it land on earlier deposits.
Fletcher breathed in the cool evening air, like a man without a care in the world. He looked up into the night sky to take in the stars. He was relieved he had spoken to Massey—that Massey now knew what he knew. There was safety in numbers, but two wasn't much of a number unless one was the publisher of The Washington Post. He took out a cigar and lit it, giving the smoke to the breeze. He didn't know how rapidly the cutouts could respond, but he had assumed he had a comfortable lead. He had decided he would accept the danger if this was brought to the attention of people who could do something to right it. Six sailors' deaths had to be avenged. If Massey was the man Reed thought he was, they might have a shot at dispensing justice.
Before he had left the shore patrol office, Fletcher made a stop on the other side of the building to help ensure he succeeded in his mission. He had climbed into his Taurus and drove, constantly checking traffic in his rearview. Shadows without form might just be paranoia. There was the old saying that just because you were paranoid didn't mean there weren't people after you. He had made several quick turns, then pulled up at the line of blue drop boxes across the street from the base's post office and took up a position in front of one of them. If he was lucky, he could hide out for a day or so, and he'd be safe.
Fletcher got back into his Taurus and drove off. At the light a block away, he looked in the mirror and saw a Jeep Cherokee pull over to the line of mailboxes. A man climbed out and walked briskly around behind them. So they were on to him.
Eyes on the man unlocking the box, Reed hadn't seen the second car coming, but now he felt it. He turned his head slowly and stared into the cold eyes of the man in the passenger seat of a silver Cadillac Catera, four feet distant. His heart raced when he saw the cutout's gun rise over the base of the open window like a periscope. Fletcher didn't hear the weapon go off, but he felt a sting in his neck like a mother's corrective pinch. He jammed the accelerator pedal down. The drug's effects were immediate—his face felt numb, his muscles started to lose touch with his brain and his eyes began to rapidly lose their focus. The Cadillac was behind him, following. The speedometer's needle climbed toward ninety.
Through the closing fog, Fletcher fought to keep remembering that he was running because they would torture the additional information out of him. It would mean failure, and he and Massey were dead men as soon as they had all of the evidence in their hands.
As darkness closed in on him, he managed to jerk the wheel, and felt the car take flight.
68
Richmond, Virginia
Sean couldn't remember ever having slept in her clothes as an adult, but she was wearing them when she stretched out on the bed in her room at the Hotel Grand. Her backpack was propped against the wall, waiting for her to grab it and slip down the fire escape to the alley. She had wedged a chair under the doorknob. It wouldn't hold up long under a determined assault, but it should give her time to get the gun in her hand.
Her father had done her a service by teaching her how to shoot guns. This Smith & Wesson fit in her hand like it had been designed for her grip. The hammer's click sounded like a promise that would be kept. It seemed to be charged with energy; anxious to roll its cylinder and strut its stuff.
She wasn't well versed enough in handguns to know if the standard .38 rounds in the chambers would penetrate the heavy wood of the hotel room door, but she was certain it would pass through clothing, skin, muscles, and vital organs. The thought of firing the weapon at someone made her shiver. On Rook Island, she had witnessed firsthand the extreme damage a bullet could do to tissue and bone. History was filled with examples of how a single bullet had the power to change the world.
Winter had killed only to preserve life. Dylan had killed for greed. On the other hand, Sam Manelli's killing was merely maintenance required to keep his world functioning as he designed it. The rules, which he strictly adhered to, were like oil, critical to keeping his machine performing smoothly.
Running away was a temporary solution because as long as Sam wanted her, flight just prolonged the inevitable. The four men coming onto the island and chasing her down were testimony to how badly he wanted her dead, what extremes he would go to in order to achieve that end.
Sean hated feeling trapped and helpless waiting to see what someone else was going to do. She didn't like the idea of waiting to see if the killers could find a stationary target. She wondered if she was better off as a target in motion, constantly changing her skin to confuse her pursuers. The urge to run appealed to her on a gut level because it was action that she could control. Reason told her that the safest move was no move, allowing her trail to go cold. When she did move, Sean wanted to have a long-range plan worked out.
She lay in the dark, like a rabbit in tall grass, listening for the elevator, a step on the fire escape. She tilted her head and studied the light strip at the base of the door, knowing that any breaking shadows could be a fox's feet.
69
Concord, North Carolina
As Winter lay in the dark, sleepless, his mind swarmed with troubling questions he had few answers for. He wanted to do something, but he was helpless unless Reed's discovery would help Shapiro make a difference. He wanted to be able to put this horror behind him, not become obsessed with things he had no way of resolving.
The doorbell rang, jolting Winter out of his thoughts. Twelve past ten. He slipped from his bed, put on jeans, lifted the Walther, and went to the front door, passing a worried Lydia standing in the hallway.
“I'll see who it is,” he said.
He turned on the porch light and saw the top of a man's head through the half circle of glass in the door. He held the pistol behind his back as he opened the door.
The man standing there had a crew cut. A dark jacket over a knit shirt and chinos gave him a casual air.
“Sorry to disturb you, Deputy Massey.” The badge case in his hand identified him as an FBI agent.
“What can I do for you?”
“If you'll accompany me,” the man said. “Agent Archer would like to have a word with you. If you'll come with us to the airport, you should be back in a couple of hours.”
“What's this about?”
The agent smiled. “It's about new information on a case.”
Winter relaxed. He welcomed a chance to talk to Archer, hopeful that the agent had new information on the investigation. “Come in. I'll get dressed.”
The agent came inside and stood with his hands clasped behind him at parade rest. “We should hurry.”
“Give me one minute.”
Winter passed by Lydia, who was peering up the hall at the stranger standing inside the doorway.
“I'll be back in a couple of hours, Mama. Official business.”
Winter put on a cotton shirt, his running shoes, and a zip-up leather jacket. He pocketed his wallet and badge case and slid the Walther into his jacket's right pocket, cell phone in the other. He kissed his mother on his way out.
A Chrysler waited at the curb, its driver a silhouette. The agent got into the rear,
so Winter climbed into the passenger's seat.
“I know this is a bit unusual,” the agent behind him said.
“Nothing is usual these days,” Winter replied.
“Ain't that the truth,” the driver said, nodding solemnly.
Winter felt the cold muzzle of a gun against the left side of his neck and the hand that came around the seat reached into his pocket for the Walther.
“Who are you?” Winter asked. He thought about Reed's concern about someone listening in on their conversations. Christ, how could he have been so stupid?
“Just stay calm and you'll be fine,” the man behind him said. “If I intended to hurt you, I'd have popped you when you opened the door.”
He supposed that was true enough. He also figured the odds of his staying alive to see the sun rise were slim.
Ten minutes later, the driver turned off onto the road to the airport. After going through the gate, the driver went down the alley formed by large hangars and pulled out to a parked Lear 35.
“We're all going to get out and walk to the plane,” the driver said.
The man who had been seated behind him climbed out and opened Winter's door. He motioned Winter out with a silenced SIG Sauer.
Winter got out. “Can I call my mother and tell her I won't be home? She'll be worried.”
“Later,” the man holding the pistol said.
Winter slipped out of the car. The driver entered the Lear's cabin ahead of Winter, the other man behind him. The pilots were going through their checklist when Winter sat down in the seat the driver pointed to and fastened his seat belt.
While the man with the pistol kept Winter covered, the car's driver reached into his pocket and took out a syringe loaded with clear liquid. As Winter stared into the barrel of the handgun, the driver pressed the needle into the side of his neck. At first, nothing happened, then slowly Winter's eyelids drooped.
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