FORTY-EIGHT

Washington, D.C.
Wednesday, 5:47 P.M.

The sun was sinking low, and there was a chill in the air. The odor of diesel fuel wafted thinly from the aircraft at the base. It reminded Herbert of when he and his wife, Yvonne, used to be at a military airfield in some foreign land, waiting to be airlifted to or from a mission for the Company.

The light, the smell, the taste of the air reminded him in particular of the field at the U.S. air base in Ramstein, Germany. That was where he and Yvonne had their last meal before heading to Beirut, where she died and he lost the use of his legs. They had gone to the base commissary, grabbed a couple of sandwiches and coffees, and took a card table onto the field. It was a little too windy for candles, so they used a menorah the quartermaster had in storage. It was the best grilled cheese and coleslaw Herbert ever had. Yvonne never looked more beautiful and heroic to him. What a role model she had been. Always pushing him and herself to do a better job. She was convinced that whatever they did in Lebanon could help to bring peace to the region.

It did, to the nearly three hundred U.S. troops who died in the embassy bombing. Including Yvonne.

It was difficult for Herbert not to crash, burn, and smoulder for hours whenever that day came upon him — typically by surprise, like a mugger. It could be a song Yvonne might have been listening to on the trip over. It could be a feeling in the air, like now. Even the smell of grilled cheese took him back. All Herbert could do was swallow the awful lump, concentrate on what he was doing, and get the hell out of that bittersweet place. Yesterday’s EM explosion made the feeling even more immediate.

Stopping bad guys usually worked. That was what Herbert was trying to do now. The problem at the moment was not just wrestling down memories of Yvonne but fighting off the desire to hurt Paul Hood. As his grandfather used to put it back in Mississippi, he wished he could “sock him in the snot box and shake loose some intelligence.” The firing of Mike Rodgers offended him like nothing else in the past quarter century. When this was over, Herbert would have to decide if he could still work with the man. The way he was feeling, maybe he and Mike should open their own version of Murder, Inc. Something like, Revenge, Inc. He even had the slogan. “You pay, then they pay.” That would give them both a chance to act out in grand style.

For now, though, he had to find out what he could about Lucy O’Connor. Darrell had called to say that he and Maria were headed to her apartment. If she was not there — and McCaskey did not expect her to be — he needed to know where she could have gone.

“There is one thing about her you should know,” Herbert told him.

“What is that?” McCaskey asked.

“She was busted while she was a student at Carnegie-Mellon,” Herbert informed him.

“For what?”

“Riding the horse,” Herbert said.

“Lucy was a heroin addict?”

“That’s what the Pittsburgh PD records say,” Herbert said. “Did six months in the pokey, where she went through rehab.”

“Impossible. That would have showed up on her background check,” McCaskey said. “She never would have been allowed near Congress.”

“Unless someone had the file buried and told her one day there would be payback,” Herbert said. “A real-life Don Corleone.”

“Orr or Link,” McCaskey said. “So how did you find the record?”

“I didn’t,” Herbert said. “Routine check of her college years turned up a bust at the frat house where Lucy lived. Her name wasn’t mentioned. I called one of the kids who did time. She said, hell, yeah, Lucy was with her in the clink.”

“She would have known how to give the injections,” McCaskey said. “That’s one more reason to believe she is the killer.”

“Most likely. You’re an aspiring journalist who screwed up, someone rescues you, gives you all kinds of access — there are people who would kill to protect that,” Herbert said. “There are people who have killed for less.”

“True, though I’m not going to sign on to that until I talk to the woman,” McCaskey said.

“I agree.”

“Speaking of which, if we don’t find her at home, you have any suggestions where we should try next?” McCaskey asked.

“I sent Stephen Viens over to the NRO,” Herbert said. “He’s got an hour on the Auto-Search program in the Domestic Surveillance Platform.”

The DSP was a new Homeland Security satellite. It was located in a geostationary orbit and kept pointed on the metro D.C. area. It had the ability to pinpoint cars by shape, weight, and the specific configuration of the dashboard electronics. Once spotted, the onboard camera could zoom in to read the license number. If suspicious individuals were seen getting into a particular vehicle or renting a specific car, the DSP could find and track them with relative ease.

“How did Viens swing time on that?” McCaskey asked. “The DSP is Homeland’s baby.”

“All I know is that Paul made a call,” Herbert told him. “He got us the hour.”

“Impressive,” McCaskey said.

“I guess someone figured they owed us one or else felt sorry for us,” Herbert said. “Anyway, Ms. O’Connor drives a red Mustang convertible. If she is on the road, we will find her.”

As Herbert was talking with McCaskey, he got an instant message on his borrowed laptop.

Viens1: We have your car. It is just crossing the Woodrow Wilson Memorial Bridge headed west.

“Darrell, we’ve got your perp,” Herbert said. “She’s on 95 crossing the river. She could be headed to the airport.” The irony of Lucy O’Connor being on a bridge named W. Wilson was not lost on him.

“We’re on 395 east now,” McCaskey said. “I’ll turn and go for an intercept. Can Viens stay with her?”

Herbert forwarded the question to Viens, who wrote back that the NRO’s Homeland Security liaison, Lauren Tartags, said he could take the time, barring a crisis. Herbert told Viens to thank Ms. Tartags for her generosity. Op-Center’s imaging expert wrote back:

Viens1: It’s not kindness. She says she has no choice.

That was odd, but Herbert did not worry about it now. The intelligence chief told McCaskey to remain on the line. He said he would forward any new information immediately.

Through the open line Herbert could hear McCaskey and his wife conferring. The mutual respect he heard in the exchange made him smile. Maria was a tough, swashbuckling, headstrong, old-school law officer. She was the kind of cop who did not knock on doors but kicked them in. She was a perfect counterbalance to the more meticulous McCaskey.

He was happy for them. And he envied them.

Despite receiving data from the new satellite, Herbert felt as if he were back in the technological Stone Age. Before the electromagnetic blast, he would have been sitting in his office looking at the images being forwarded directly from the DSP. He could do that in the Tank, but that would mean hanging with Paul Hood. That was something he did not want to do right now.

Especially when he could still do his work out here and let the mechanized odor of the parking lot transport him to another time and place. To a point in his life when he had the best team a man could have, a wife who was his devoted personal and professional partner.

Maybe that was why Paul Hood did not understand the bad judgment call he had made. He never had an Yvonne in his life. He did not understand the meaning of partnership. Maybe that was why Herbert had judged Hood so harshly. Because he did have that perspective.

And here, in the breezy quiet, where memories took form in the dark shadows beside the buildings, he had her still.

Загрузка...