“Fred, there's a hot dog stand downstairs out front. Go there now.”
The hot dog stand was where Fifteen said it would be. As Fred approached it, the smell of cooking sausages made his stomach churn. As he stood there he was aware of someone standing beside him and turned to find Fifteen wearing a trench coat, a wide-brimmed fedora, and sunglasses.
“I'd like one fully loaded,” Fifteen told the vendor, who had the good taste not to stare at his mutilated customer.
Fred couldn't think of anything to say. He had never been out in public with Fifteen before.
Fifteen took the hot dog, piled so high with chili and onions it looked to Fred as though it would be impossible even for a man whose mouth opened fully to eat without making a mess.
“Aren't you eating?” he asked Archer.
“Not at all.”
Fifteen made no move to pay for his meal, so Archer reached into his pocket, pulled out a ten, and gave it to the vendor.
“Keep the change,” Fifteen said.
Archer followed his benefactor to the stone steps where Fifteen sat, perching the hot dog on his lap. Archer sat down beside him, aware that people were staring at the odd couple.
“Did he tell you how he came to be inside that building?”
“No.”
“Did he tell you anything he saw while he was there?”
“Not a word.”
“I didn't think he would say anything. You'll let me know if he does?”
“Yeah, sure. But he told me that he knew somebody had gotten to me. The director wants me to—”
“I know what your director told you, Fred. Shapiro put the brakes on the interrogation with an offer your director's boss couldn't turn down.”
“Yeah.”
“Here you are, headed to New Orleans to do battle with that old crocodile Sam Manelli. Remember our deal?”
Archer remembered the favor Fifteen had asked in return for the Rook Island evidence that had all but solved the most important case of his career. The Russian connection, evidence on Nations, the search warrant leading to the instant picture of Dylan dead. This should have been over—but for Massey's interference, it would have been.
“This is divine providence, Fred. Sean Devlin can get you to him, so this deal is a very opportune one for you. You are about to get credit for solving the most important case of the decade and avenging all of those unfortunate deaths. This is where you take your step into the national spotlight, Fred. I so envy you.”
Archer's brain formed an image of him standing at the FBI podium staring out at an ocean of correspondents and knowing that untold millions would be hanging on his every word, memorizing his face as he spoke. He smothered a shit-eating grin with his hand.
“Two or three years here in New York, as assistant FBI director, heading the largest FBI office. Solving one high-profile case after the other until everybody in America is chatting you up. Book deals, movies based on your triumphs, Meet the Press . . .” He broke a piece of the wiener off and chewed it thoughtfully. “And then, when the time is right, FBI Director Fred T. Archer. That's our goal for you, Fred. That's going to be your future—if you do this right.”
Archer nodded.
Fifteen said, “I'll tell how you should proceed from here.”
Archer listened, taking the information in and filing it neatly in his mind.
“Once your team gets to New Orleans, things will be fluid and you'll be using an encrypted tactical radio channel. We'll be able to monitor your operation and advise you of minute-by-minute developments if we are to make sure this comes off without complications.”
Fifteen wiped chili from his scarred lips. “You will get full credit for taking Manelli down, and nobody will ever know you had help. You'll look brilliant.”
“I can't begin to tell you how much this means to me.”
“Don't bother trying, then.”
When a Lincoln Towncar pulled up to the curb, Fifteen stood. He turned to Archer and touched his hat's brim before climbing into the car and disappearing into morning traffic.
84
Charlotte, North Carolina
Hank hated using the computer instead of the encrypted phone because his typing was so slow, but Chief Marshal Shapiro was understandably wary about telephones now. The e-mail system they were using was routed through personal accounts on Yahoo! Shapiro told Hank it was the safest method there was, because unlike electronic transmissions, the NSA wasn't able to spot-check the millions of personal e-mails for matches.
Hank—Just spoke to W.M.—he's alive and well. Bring S. to Express Aviation Charlotte 1200 hours today—You will be escorting her to New Orleans for a day or two. Full explanation/written orders on plane. Take W.M. the copied set of the pages you faxed to me. Courier me the originals.
Hank was elated Winter was safe. He had made a copy of the pages Lieutenant Commander Reed sent Winter in order to preserve fingerprints on the originals so they could be matched later to a specific copier or printer. He kept an overnight bag in his car so he and Sean could make the noon flight easily. Now he needed to put Lydia at ease.
She answered on the first ring.
“Lydia, your boy is fine,” he told her. “It was like I thought. He got sidetracked and couldn't call.”
“Thank God. I've been going crazy. I can't believe he would act so irresponsibly. Actually I can.” Her tone was sharp. “Where is my son?”
“New Orleans.”
“New Orleans?”
“Lydia, is my wife still there?”
“Yes, she is.”
“Can you ask her to bring me a change of clothes for Winter and his gun rig?” Hank's wife, Millie, had been waiting with her for word on Winter since seven that morning.
“What was he thinking?” she said, her anger rising to the surface. “He had me worried to death. I don't know how much more of this I can take.”
“I'm sure he'll explain everything to you as soon as he can. Lydia, I need those things pronto.”
“I'll collect them.”
Hank's secretary buzzed him.
“I've got to go,” Hank said. He pressed the button, switching lines.
“Sir, Eddie says he's got your bullet.”
Hank strode through the bullpen, down the corridor past the booking room and the holding cell to the door marked EVIDENCE LAB.
Eddie Morgan ran the lab where evidence collected by the deputy marshals was packaged and shipped. He also ran the fingerprint table and the mug shot camera, and maintained their electronic equipment. He was short and overweight, balding, and had nervous, darting eyes. Sean's computer was open, and the technician was studying the electronic guts that he had spread out under a lighted magnifying glass on an adjustable armature.
“Get my bullet?”
Eddie held up a small plastic bag with a mushroomed bullet zip-locked inside it. “Stopped against the battery.”
“Forty-five?”
“Two-hundred-twenty grain, .45-caliber hollow point. The motherboard and the power supply are toast.”
“Ed, I want you to carry the gun and this bullet to the D.C. lab. I want the chain of this evidence unbroken, so you are to personally hand it over to the lab boys.”
“This is worth looking at.” With the eraser of his pencil, Eddie pointed to an object. “This little guy sure isn't a factory part. It was connected to the power supply.”
Eddie stood back to allow Hank to look through the glass. The small apparatus consisted of a gray plastic box the size of a folded matchbook and a disc no larger than a half dollar. There was nothing at all printed on the shell.
“What is it?”
“I've never seen anything like it.”
“Well, box it up, too, and then I want you to get on a plane. If there is no flight immediately, tell Eloise I said she's to lease you a fast one. I'll alert HQ you're on the way.”
“If you say so, Chief.”
“I just did.” Hank patted Eddie on the shoulder.
85
Her mother's face, so like her own, floated into her thoughts. She missed Olivia. The soft side of Sean, the good parts, had come from her mother's genes and the safe environment she had fought so hard to create for her daughter. From her father, Sean had inherited an ability to see solutions logically, to separate herself from emotion, and to think clearly in stressful situations. She had never once panicked, never been frozen by fear, and that was why she was still alive. She had never been so aware of how fortunate she was in the evolutionary lottery—the Lucky Sperm Club.
She was concerned about Winter and knew that she wasn't alone in that. What she felt for her lost protector was complex, but there was a great deal of affection in the mix.
She was comfortable with Hank Trammel. His initial gruffness had melted away to reveal a rough gentleness. In her mind, his sending someone out for her toiletries and new clothes had been an act of thoughtful generosity.
When she came out of his bathroom, Hank was sitting behind his desk looking over some papers. “We're leaving in an hour,” he said, looking up and smiling at her improved appearance. “To meet Winter.”
“Where is he?” she asked. She felt like jumping in the air.
“New Orleans.”
The two words hit Sean like a blast of arctic air, filling her with dread. “New Orleans?” Her mind fought to understand what this sudden development meant. She fought to mask her feelings.
So, Winter was alive and well. She tried to concentrate on that one fact and not to think about who else was in New Orleans.
She couldn't let on that she was certain that once she got to New Orleans, she wouldn't be leaving again.
86
Charlotte Douglas International Airport
A stainless-steel briefcase waited for Hank Trammel on the table separating two of the facing leather seats in the Cessna Citation III's cabin. Hank sat with his back to the crew, giving Sean the seat facing forward. From across the table, she watched him dial a combination, open the case, and lift out an envelope, leaving a laptop computer and its components inside. Before he broke the foil seal and slipped out a stack of several sheets of paper, Hank put on his reading glasses. While the plane taxied, lifted off, and for the first five minutes of the flight, he studied the documents in silence, idly twisting the tip of his mustache. After finishing, he removed his glasses. The playful light that had been in his eyes before he read the papers Shapiro had sent was out. Clearly Hank was seething, but she couldn't imagine what he had just read that had darkened his mood.
“Is it bad news?” she asked.
“It's sure not good. You know, it's a bit odd that you haven't asked me once why I'm escorting you to New Orleans.”
“You said to meet Winter.”
Hank frowned. “That was as much as I knew until I read this,” he said, putting his hand on the stack of pages. “Remember when I told you Shapiro tracked you to Richmond by setting a net to catch your voice pattern?”
Sean nodded, uncertain where this was going and increasingly unsettled by Hank's chilled manner.
“The NSA generates transcripts of intercepted calls.”
Even before he handed two stapled-together sheets of paper to Sean, panic bloomed inside her.
Verbatim transcription. Call initiated Tuesday 10/22/02 at 22:31:21 hours EST. Phone of origination: Bernhard's Exxon, 221 N. Service Road, Richmond, Va. Number called is a mobile listed to Palma Hamamagian, 221 Norway Street, Chalmette, La. Voice tag positive for subject Sean Marks Devlin. Second subject positive for suspected organized crime figure John Michael Russo known associate of Sam Manelli. Due to continuing request for any call containing individuals listed with Organized Crime tags additional copy forwarded to FBI-OC task force. Call duration 1:21.
Russo: What?
Devlin: You tell Sam I didn't know anything about it.
Russo: Hey, kid, you okay? We were worried you might of got hurt in that mixup. It's cool, I mean, but you need to tell him face-to-face. He knows it wasn't your fault. We're cool, you and me, right?
Devlin: Mixup? I understand he had to stop him. But they came for me, too. They've tried to tag me twice now. Two were after me tonight. They left a mess.
Russo: What are you saying? That's crazy talk. You know, this ain't no conversation for a telephone. Face-to-face only, you know that. I'll meet you. Where you at?
Devlin: You think I'm stupid, Johnny?
Russo: Nah, kiddo, you sure ain't. It's cool. I swear. There is no trouble from us. We don't know what's happening. Let me help you.
Devlin: Help by calling them off.
Russo: Hey, kid, I don't know what you're talking about. Listen, nobody sent nobody to see you. We have to talk this out.
Devlin: I will talk only to Sam from now on. Where is he?
Russo: I'll send somebody for you. I'll come personal. We can't ask him to . . . you know . . .
Devlin: I'm not crazy enough to walk in there to see him or meet you.
Russo: Give me a number and I'll have him get back to you.
Devlin: I'll call you back. You have him near your phone tomorrow afternoon. Anybody takes another run at me, all bets are off, Johnny. I haven't done or said anything, so don't make that change.
Russo: This is all crazy. We'll fix it if we know what's going on. We would never let nobody—
Devlin: (interrupting) You sounded really surprised to hear my voice. If what you say is true, why is that?
(called disconnect 22:32:42 hours EST)
Russo: Aw, flying Christ.
(call terminated 22:32:46 EST)
She handed the transcript back to Hank. Her mind felt like it had been deadened with Novocain.
Hank's glare was icy, his facial muscles tense. “See where the FBI's Organized Crime section was copied on this? Both Director Shapiro and the FBI are naturally curious about this call. I have to admit I'm wondering about it myself.” He slammed the transcript facedown on the table.
Strangely, somewhere beneath the fear, she felt relieved that he finally knew. But it didn't alter anything except perhaps to reinforce his opinion that she hadn't been honest with him in his office. She had been as truthful as she could afford to be. “You want to know what, exactly?” she said calmly.
“We are going to New Orleans because the FBI is going to swap Winter for you.” His tone was suffused with disgust.
Being delivered to the FBI was an unpleasant surprise.
“As part of the deal between Shapiro and the FBI, he has expressly ordered me not to interrogate you. I suppose the FBI wants to do that themselves. I reckon they don't want us to know what you are going to tell them, which I doubt you would tell me anyway.”
“Okay, so you can't interrogate me. What would you want to know if you could?”
“I'd start by asking how you, someone I honestly believed was as innocent as the driven snow, would know to call a phone number that's listed to whoever this Palma Hamajama is, to speak to this thug Russo about Sam Manelli and what are obviously the attempts on your life. How do I know you aren't lying about what happened in Richmond?”
“That's all true. Everything I've told you is true.”
“Why didn't you level with me? That means you have lied, if only by omission. You are a threat to Manelli, aren't you?”
“The truth is I'm not a threat to him—he's a threat to me.”
“Obviously Manelli thinks you are. And, had I just been interrogating you, you would not have answered my question truthfully.”
“I'm not responsible for what Sam Manelli believes. I do want you to believe me, because I am a total innocent in this. I swear to you—that's the truth.”
Hank glanced down at the papers, then back up. “I don't want you to be blindsided by what is going on. Monday morning I showed Winter evidence the FBI had compiled on the assaults. They had proof that Greg Nations sold Manelli the location of the safe house and the time Dylan was being moved.”
“You think that Greg could have done that?”
“Somebody inside WITSEC gave the operation up to Manelli. Shapiro says the FBI was planning to make the case that Winter was in on it with Greg—still can if they want to.”
“I don't understand. How can they say that?” she asked, genuinely confused.
Hank reached into his bag and took out a bottle of water. He offered it to Sean and, when she declined, opened it and drank half of it. “Shapiro's letter says that Winter's home phone records show that he called Cherry Point and then Norfolk Navy Base yesterday. There's no way to know what he discussed. Those calls were followed by an incoming call from a cell phone registered to the shore patrol at Norfolk. Last night, after seven P.M., there was a call from that same cell phone to Winter's cellular. Shapiro thinks that one was Reed giving him the information that we got by FedEx this morning. Worse still, Reed was shot last night while he was driving his car, a few minutes after his call to Winter. He crashed. Military cops found a dart from a gun in his neck. Witness saw a car chasing his.
“Around ten last night, a man showed up at Winter's house and took him away in a car. Winter told his mother it was official business and that he'd be back in two hours. Lydia called me at six this morning because he hadn't returned, so I called Shapiro.”
“Was that man working for Manelli? Did he take Winter to New Orleans?”
“The FBI found Winter in the basement of a building that blew up in New York early this morning. They took Winter to New Orleans because that's where your friend Mr. Manelli is. The FBI has a large-scale operation in motion, built around you.”
Inside Out Page 31