by Nora Roberts
“And when you weren’t … eliminated?”
“They forgave half, and required him to work off the rest. The fee, even though I lived, was considerably more than the fee for Anya Rinki. You’d have to conclude Korotkii is worth more to Sergei Volkov than Dimitri Bardov.”
He spoke quietly now, and with absolute certainly. “They’ll pay, Abigail, for what they did to you, to Anya Rinki, to all the others. I swear it to you.”
“I don’t want you to make a vow over something you may not be able to control.”
His gaze never wavered from hers. “Whatever it takes, however long it takes.”
Because it touched her, and frightened her a little, she glanced out the window. “We’re starting our descent.”
“Nervous?”
“No.” She took a moment to be sure. “No, I’m not nervous about what happens next. It’s surprising, really, how completely I was convinced I could never do this. And now how completely I’m convinced I can, and must. And the difference is …” She took his hand, linked fingers. “This. Just this.”
“This”—he tightened his grip—“is pretty damn important.”
SHE CHECKED IN A FULL THIRTY MINUTES before Brooks, so by the time he knocked on her door she’d already positioned the cameras and mics in the sitting area of what the hotel called an executive suite. In his room—across the hall and two doors down—she set up the monitors, linked the equipment.
In just over an hour, she’d set, interfaced and tested the equipment.
“As soon as we make contact, the feds will put men on the hotel,” Brooks told her.
“I know. But the sooner the better.” Nothing more to do, she determined. No more precautions to take. “Let’s make the call.”
She had to wait alone, but found it comforting to know he could watch her. So she worked while she waited, and, when she had confirmation on the warrant on Cosgrove’s and Keegan’s electronics, programmed a time lag of two hours—long enough for the surveillance to be in place—to send her blackmail note.
A pebble in the river, she thought, and looked directly at the camera and smiled.
As she monitored activities, she knew exactly when the plane carrying Assistant Director Gregory Cabot and Special Agent Elyse Garrison cleared for takeoff to Dulles International.
“They’re on their way now,” she said clearly, “and should land at Dulles in about an hour and forty minutes.”
She checked her watch, calculated. “I’d estimate they’ll be in the hotel by ten. They may still opt to watch and wait until morning, but I think they’ll come to me tonight, as it puts control in their hands, or they’d believe it would.”
She rose, wished she could open the curtains. But with the right equipment, the right angle from a neighboring building, they could watch her in the room.
“I think I’ll order a meal. It would give them an opportunity to put an agent undercover as a room-service waiter, so they can get a visual of me and the room. The confirmation I’m here, alone, might be helpful.”
She ordered a salad, a large bottle of water, a pot of tea. Finding it oddly intimate, she continued a one-sided dialogue with Brooks as she switched the TV on, volume low, as she assumed someone alone in a hotel might do.
She checked her makeup, her wig—though she really wished she could remove both—and as an afterthought, rumpled the bed a little so it might look as if she’d stretched out with the television.
When the food arrived, she opened the door for the waiter, gestured toward the table in the sitting area.
He had dark hair, a compact build and what she thought of as quick eyes.
“Are you in town for business, miss?”
“Yes, I am.”
“I hope you have time for some fun while you’re here. Enjoy your dinner,” he added, when she signed the bill. “If you need anything, just pick up the phone.”
“I will. Thank you. In fact … perhaps you could arrange for more water, or coffee, if they prefer, when the assistant director and Special Agent Garrison arrive.”
“Excuse me?”
“Your shoes, your eyes and the weapon under the waiter’s jacket. I hope you’d communicate to the assistant director and agent that I’m ready to speak with them tonight if that suits them.”
And that, she thought, telegraphed clearly that the control remained in her hands.
“It can wait until tomorrow if they prefer keeping me under surveillance longer, but I don’t intend to go anywhere. It should save time to talk tonight. And thank you for bringing the meal. The salad looks very nice.”
He gave her a long look. “Ma’am,” he said, and left her alone.
“That wasn’t just impulse, and it wasn’t showing off. Exactly. I felt if they understood I understand, we might move more smoothly through this process. The pebble dropped into the river while I was speaking to the FBI waiter,” she added. “I think I’ll eat. The salad does look nice.”
In his room, munching on some minibar nuts, Brooks just shook his head.
What a woman he had.
When she’d finished, she set the tray outside the door. Plenty of fingerprints, she mused, sufficient DNA as well. They could run her prints and save yet more time.
She sat, drinking her tea, monitoring her computer for alerts and thinking how much she wished to be home with Brooks, her dog, her gardens. She knew now, really knew, how lovely it was to wish for home.
When the knock came, she switched off the computer, rose, walked to the door to look out through the security peep at the lanky man and the athletically built woman.
“Yes?”
“Elizabeth Fitch?”
“Would you please hold your identification up so I can see it?” She knew their faces, of course, but it seemed foolish not to take this step. She opened the door. “Please, come in.”
“Assistant Director Cabot.” He held out a hand.
“Yes, thank you for coming. And you, Special Agent Garrison. It’s nice to meet you in person.”
“And you, Ms. Fitch.”
“Elizabeth, please, or Liz. We should sit down. If you’d like some coffee—”
“We were told you’d already offered.” Cabot smiled very slightly. “It’s on its way up. The agent you made is taking a lot of guff from his colleagues.”
“I’m sorry. I was expecting you’d send someone in if you had the opportunity. And I’m very observant.”
“You’ve managed to stay off the radar for a long time.”
“I wanted to stay alive.”
“And now?”
“I want to live. I’ve come to understand there’s a difference.”
Cabot nodded. “We’ll want to record this meeting.”
“Yes, I’d prefer you did.”
“Set it up, Agent Garrison. I’ll get that,” he said, at the knock on the door.
Garrison took a computer out of a case. “I’d like to ask why you chose me as your contact.”
“Of course. You have an exemplary record. You come from a solid family base, and while you excelled in school, you also took time for extracurricular activities, formed lasting friendships. I concluded you were well rounded, intelligent and had a strong sense of right and wrong. Those were important qualities for my purposes. In addition, in studying your higher education and your record at Quantico, then in Chicago, I concluded that, while ambitious, you wished to succeed and advance on your own merits. You have a healthy respect for authority and the chain of command. You may shave the rules, but you respect them as a foundation for the system, and the system as a means to justice.”
“Wow.”
“I apologize, as some of my research on you included invasions of your privacy. I justified that by the desire to serve as a source on the Volkov organization. The ends justify the means. That’s often no more than an excuse for doing the wrong thing, but in this case, at that time, I believed it was my only viable option.
“Would you like me to pour the coffee, Assistant Dire
ctor?”
“I’ve got it.”
Abigail held her silence a moment as she took a self-evaluation. Nerves, yes, she admitted. Her pulse beat rapidly, but without the pressure of panic.
“I assume you verified my identity from prints on the room-service dishes.”
Again, Cabot nearly smiled. “You assume correctly. Agent?”
“Yes, sir. We’re set.”
“Will you state your name for the record?”
“I’m Elizabeth Fitch.”
“Ms. Fitch, you contacted the FBI, though a liaison, expressing a desire to give a statement regarding events that occurred in the summer and fall of 2000.”
“That’s correct.”
“We have your written statement as provided, but again, for this record and in your own words, would you tell us about those events?”
“Yes. On June 3, 2000, I argued with my mother. This is important, as I had never to that point argued with her. My mother was—is still, I imagine—a dominant personality. I was a submissive one. But on that day I defied her wishes and her orders, and it set off the events that followed.”
As he listened to the retelling, Brooks’s heart broke again for that young, desperate girl. She spoke carefully, but he knew her now. He knew those slight pauses when she struggled for composure, the subtle changes in inflection, in her breathing.
How many times would she have to say it all again? he wondered. To the prosecutors, to judge and jury. How many times would she have to relive it all?
How many times would she have to start and stop, start and stop, as the listener interrupted with questions, with demands for clarification.
But she didn’t waver.
“Marshals Cosgrove and Keegan both stated, and the preponderance of evidence supports those statements, that Marshal Norton was down when they entered the safe house for their shift, that they were fired upon and returned fire upon person or persons unknown. They were unable to access the second floor at that time. As Cosgrove was wounded, Keegan carried him out of the house. When he called for assistance, he observed an individual fleeing the scene. He was unable to determine the identity of the individual, as there was a rainstorm and visibility was impaired. At this time, the safe house exploded due to what was later discovered to be a deliberate sabotage of the gas furnace.”
“Yes.” Hoping she appeared calm, Abigail nodded at Cabot. “That’s an accurate synopsis of their statements. They lied.”
“It’s your contention that two Deputy U.S. Marshals gave false reports?”
“It’s my sworn statement that these two men, in collusion with the Volkov organization, killed Marshals Theresa Norton and John Barrow.”
“Ms. Fitch—”
“I’d like to finish. William Cosgrove and Steven Keegan, under the directive of the Volkov bratva, intended to kill me to prevent me from testifying against Yakov Korotkii and others. They rigged the explosion to cover themselves. It’s my sworn statement that both these men continue on the Volkov payroll.
“John Barrow died in my arms while trying to protect me. He gave his life for mine. He saved my life by telling me to run. If he hadn’t, I would’ve died in that house.”
She rose, went to the open suitcase on the bed, took out a sealed bag.
“This is the sweater and the camisole Terry gave me for my birthday that evening. I went upstairs to put it on before Cosgrove and Keegan arrived. I was wearing it when I held John, bleeding from multiple gunshot wounds. This is his blood. It’s John’s blood.”
She paused when her voice broke, bore down hard.
She handed the bag to Garrison. “John and Terry deserve justice, their families deserve the whole truth. It’s taken me a long time to find the courage to tell that truth.”
“There isn’t any concrete proof on the shooter from that day, but again, there is evidence that could be interpreted as a young girl, nerves stretched past the breaking point, who killed her protectors in an attempt to escape the situation.”
Abigail sat again, folded her hands in her lap. “You don’t believe that. You don’t believe I could have attacked and killed two experienced marshals, wounded another, blown up a house, then escaped. It’s certainly possible, but it’s not logical.”
“John Barrow taught you how to handle and shoot a sidearm,” Garrison commented.
“Yes, and he taught me very well, considering the limited time we had. And yes, I asked for and received five thousand in cash from my trust,” she added, before Garrison could. “I wanted the security and the illusion of independence. I know the explosion damaged some evidence, but you would’ve been able to reconstruct. You would know Terry died in the kitchen, and John on the second floor. You would also know from their reports, and from the reports, interviews and statements from the Child Services representative assigned to me, that I exhibited no signs of that kind of stress.”
She took another moment before going on. “If you’ve studied my background at all, if you know anything about my home life before that June, you’d understand that rather than stressed, I was, in fact, more content than I’d been in my life.”
“If Cosgrove and Keegan are responsible for the deaths of Marshals Norton and Barrow, they will be brought to justice. Your testimony in the murders of Alexi Gurevich and Julie Masters, and in the death of Deputy U.S. Marshals Norton and Barrow, is essential to the investigations. We’ll need to place you in protective custody and transport you back to Chicago.”
“No.”
“Ms. Fitch, you’re a material witness, and a suspect.”
“Suspect is stretching credulity, and we all know it. If you put me in protective custody, you’re killing me. They will get to me, and through whoever you put in their way.”
“Elizabeth. Liz,” Garrison said, leaning forward. “You’ve trusted me with key information that’s led to arrests, to convictions. Trust me now. I’ll personally take the lead in your protection.”
“I won’t be responsible for your death, for your parents’ grief. I promise you, if I live long enough I’ll run again rather than testify. I’m good at hiding, and you’ll never have my testimony.”
“You have to believe we won’t let anything happen to you.”
“No, I don’t. Who else might you trust with my life? What about Agent Pickto?”
Garrison sat back. “What about Pickto?”
“Special Agent Anthony Pickto, age thirty-eight, assigned to Chicago Bureau. Divorced, no children. His weakness is women. He enjoys them more when they’re reluctant. He’s funneled information on investigations in exchange for access to women the Volkovs bring to the States from Russia, then force into prostitution. They pay him, too, but that’s secondary. He’s digging for the FBI contact—you, Agent Garrison. He’s getting closer. If he learns who’s receiving the data that’s led to these arrests, to these busts, you’ll be taken. Questioned, tortured, raped. They’ll threaten you with the torture and death of everyone you love, and perhaps will select one as an example to demonstrate how serious they are. When you’re of no further use, they’ll kill you. Agent Pickto reports to you, Assistant Director.”
“Yes,” Cabot confirmed, “he does. You’re making very serious accusations about an agent in good standing.”
“They’re not accusations, they’re facts. And only one of the reasons I won’t put my life in your hands. I’ll help you put these people away, help you break the Volkov organization, but I won’t tell you where I am. If you don’t know, you can’t divulge the information under duress.” She reached into her pocket, took out a flash drive. “Check the information I’ve correlated on Pickto, then ask yourself if, before reading it, checking it, you would have trusted my life, this agent’s life, others under your command, others in the Marshals Service, to this man.
“You would never have found me, but I came to you. I’ll give you everything you need, and all I’m asking is you let me live. Let Elizabeth Fitch live to help get justice for Julie and Terry and John. And when she
’s done, let her die.”
“I can’t promise to do this your way. I have people to answer to.”
Impatience shimmered through. “Do you think I’d have come to you if I didn’t know you could authorize exactly what I’m asking? You have power, you have evidence, and considerable leverage. My way, and the Volkovs will be done in Chicago, in New York, New Jersey, Miami. You’ll weed out agents and other law enforcement and judiciary officials who have worked for them—by choice or out of fear.”