Edge

Chapter 3

MANY GOVERNMENTAL AGENCIES are wedded to initials or acronyms to describe their employees or departments, but in ours, for some reason, nicknames are the order of the day, as with “lifter” and “hitter.”

The basic bodyguards in our organization are the close protection officers, whom we call “clones,” because they’re supposed to shadow their principals closely. Our Technical Support and Communications Department is staffed by “wizards.” There are the “street sweepers”-our Defense Analysis and Tactics officers, who can spot a sniper a mile away and a bomb hidden in a principal’s cell phone. The people in our organization running surveillance are called, not surprisingly, “spies.”

I’m in the Strategic Protection Department, the most senior of the eight SPD officers in the organization. We’re the ones who come up with and execute a protection plan for the principals we’ve been assigned to guard. And because of the mission, and the initials of the department, we’re known as shepherds.

One department that doesn’t have a nickname is Research Support, to me the most important of all our ancillary divisions. A shepherd can’t run a personal security job without good investigative research. I’ve often lectured younger officers that if you do research up front, you’ll be less likely to need tactical firepower later.

And I was lucky to have as my protégée the person I considered the best in the department.

I called her now.

One ring. Then: “DuBois,” came the voice from my earpiece.

It was the woman’s secure mobile I’d called, so I got her work greeting. With its French origin, you’d think the name would be pronounced doo-bwah but her family used doo-boys.

“Claire. Something’s come up.”

“Yes?” she asked briskly.

“Loving’s still alive.”

She processed this. “Alive?… I’m not sure how that could happen.”

“Well, it has.”

“I’m thinking about it,” she mused, almost to herself. “The building burned… There was a DNA match. I recall the report. There were some typos in it, remember?” Claire duBois was older than her adolescent intonation suggested, though not much. Short brunette hair, a heart-shaped and delicately pretty face, a figure that was probably very nice-and I was as curious about it as any man would be-but usually hidden by functional pantsuits, which I preferred her wearing over skirts and dresses. The practicality of it, I mean.

“It doesn’t matter. Are you in town? I need you.”

“Do you mean did I go away for the weekend? No. Plans changed. Do you want me in?” she asked in her snappy monotone. I pictured her having breakfast as the September morning light slanted through the window of her quiet town house in Arlington, Virginia. She might have been in sweats or a slinky robe but picturing either was impossible. She might have been sitting across from a stubble-bearded young man looking at her curiously from over a sagging Washington Post. That too didn’t register.

“He’s after a principal in Fairfax. I don’t know the details. Short time frame.”

“Sure. Let me make some arrangements.” I heard a few brief clicks-she could type faster than any human being on earth. Half to herself: “Mrs. Glotsky, next door… Then the water… Okay. I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

I suspected duBois had a bit of attention deficit disorder. But that usually worked to my advantage.

“I’ll be on the road with the principals but I’ll call you with the assignments.”

We disconnected. I signed out a Nissan Armada from our transportation department and collected it in the large garage beneath the building. I drove up King Street and then through the quaint and narrow avenues of Old Town Alexandria, on the Potomac River, the Virginia side, not far from Washington, D.C.

The SUV wasn’t tell-all black but a light gray, dusty and dinged. Cars are a big part of the personal security business and, like all of ours, this Nissan had been modified to incorporate bullet-resistant glass, armor on the doors, run-flat tires and a foam-filled gas tank. Billy, our vehicle man, had lowered the center of gravity for faster turning and fitted the grille with what he called a jockstrap, an armored panel to keep the engine protected.

I double-parked and ran inside the brownstone town house, still smelling of the coffee I’d brewed on a one-cup capsule machine only an hour earlier. I hurriedly packed a large gym bag. Here, unlike at my office, the walls were filled with evidence of my past: diplomas, certificates of continuing-education course completions, recognitions from former employers and satisfied customers, including the Department of State, the CIA, the Bureau and ATF. MI5 in the UK too. Also, a few photos from my earlier years, snapped in Virginia, Ohio and Texas.

I wasn’t sure why I put all of this gingerbread up on the walls. I rarely looked at it, and I never socialized here. I remembered thinking a few years ago that it just seemed like what you were supposed to do when you moved into a good-sized town house by yourself.

I changed clothes, into jeans and a navy windbreaker and a black Polo shirt. Then I locked up, set the two alarms and returned to the car. I sped toward the expressway, dialing a number then plugging the hands-free into my ear.

In thirty minutes I was at the home of my principals.

Fairfax, Virginia, is a pleasant suburb with a range of residential properties, from two-bedroom bungalows and row town houses to sumptuous ten-acre lots ringed with demilitarized-zone barriers of trees between neighbors’ houses. The Kesslers’ house, between these extremes, sat in the midst of an acre, half bald and half bristling with trees, the leaves just now losing their summer vibrancy, about to turn-trees, I noted, that would be perfect cover for a sniper backing up Henry Loving.

I made a U, parked the Armada in the driveway, climbed out. I didn’t recognize the FBI agents across the street personally but I’d seen their pictures, uploaded from Freddy’s assistant. I approached the car. They would have my description too but I kept my hands at my sides until they saw who I was. We flashed IDs.

One said, “Nobody paused in front of the house since we’ve been here.”

I slipped my ID case away. “Any out-of-state tags?”

“Didn’t notice any.”

Different answer from “No.”

One of the agents pointed to a wide four-lane road nearby. “We saw a couple of SUVs, big ones, there. They slowed, looked our way and then kept going.”

I asked, “They were going north?”

“Yeah.”

“There’s a school a half block away. They’ve got soccer games today. It’s early in the season so I’d guess it was parents who hadn’t been to the field yet and weren’t sure where to turn.”

They both seemed surprised I knew this. Claire duBois had fed me the information on the way over. I’d asked her about events in the area.

“But let me know right away if you see them again.”

Up the street I saw homeowners mowing late-season grass or raking early leaves. The day was warm, the air crisp. I scanned the entire area twice. I’m often described as paranoid. And I probably am. But the opponent here was Henry Loving, an expert at being invisible… until the last minute, of course, at which time he becomes all too present. Thinking of Rhode Island again, two years ago, when he’d just materialized, armed, from a car that he simply couldn’t have been inside.

Except that he was.

Hefting my shoulder bag higher, I returned to the Nissan and noted my reflection in the window. I’d decided that since Ryan Kessler was a police detective, what it took to win his confidence was looking more like an undercover cop than the humorless federal agent that I pretty much am. With my casual clothes, my trim, thinning brownish hair and a clean-shaven face, I probably resembled one of the dozens of fortyish businessmen dads shouting encouragement to their sons or daughters at the soccer game up the street at that moment.

I made a call on my cold phone.

“That you?” Freddy asked.

“I’m here, at Kessler’s.”

“You see my guys?”

“Yes. They’re good and obvious.”

“What’re they going to do, hide behind the lawn gnomes? It’s the suburbs, son.”

“It’s not a criticism. If Loving’s got a spotter on site, I want him to know we’re on to him.”

“You think somebody’s there already?”

“Possibly. But nobody’ll make a move until Loving’s here. Anything more on his position or ETA?”

“No.”

Where was Loving now? I wondered, picturing the highway from West Virginia. We had a safe house, a good one, out in Luray. I wondered if he was driving near it at the moment.

Freddy said, “Hold on, just getting something… Funny you asked, Corte. Got some details from the team at the motel. Okay, he’s in a light-colored sedan. No year, no make, no model that anybody saw.”

Henry Loving stimulates the amnesia gene. But it’s also true most people are simply extremely unobservant.

Freddy continued, “I say at least three hours before he’s even in the area. And he’s going to spend some time staging before he gets to the Kessler place.”

I said, “Are you owed any favors-the Virginia State troopers?”

“No, but I’m such a lovable guy, they’ll do what I ask.”

I have trouble with Freddy’s flippancy. But whatever gets you through the day in this difficult business.

“Can you get his picture to the state police? Have it sent to all the cars between here and West Virginia on an orange notice.” The officers on patrol would get a flash on their computers and they’d be on the lookout for light-colored cars and a driver who fit Loving’s description. The orange code meant he was dangerous.

“I’ll do it but I know you’re a math wizard, Corte.”

“And?”

“Divide a million cars by forty troopers. Whatta you get?”

“Thanks, Freddy.”

We disconnected and I called Ryan Kessler.

“Hello?”

I told him who I was and that I’d arrived. I’d be at his door in a moment or two. I wanted him to call Freddy and check on my appearance. This was a good security measure but I also did it to increase his paranoia. I knew Kessler, as a cop-and a decorated street cop at that-would be a reluctant principal and I wanted him to sense the reality of the danger.

Silence.

“Are you there, Detective Kessler?”

“Well, sir, I told Agent Fredericks and those men outside… I see you out there too, Agent Corte. I told them this isn’t necessary.”

“I’d still like to talk to you, please. If you don’t mind.”

He made no attempt to mask his irritation. “It’s really a waste of time.”

“I’d appreciate it,” I said pleasantly. I tend to be overly polite-stiff, many people say. But a calm, structured attitude gets people’s cooperation better than bluster, which I’m not very good at anyway.

“All right, fine. I’ll call Agent Fredericks.”

I also asked him if he was armed.

“Yes. That a problem?” Testy.

“No,” I said. “Not at all.”

I would rather he wasn’t, but as a police officer he was entitled, and asking a cop to give up his weapon was a battle rarely worth fighting.

I gave him some time to call Freddy, while I considered the house.

Nearly all single-family residences are indefensible.

Visibility, permeable construction, susceptibility to fire. They’re naked to thermal sensors and have limited escape routes. Tactical cover is a joke. A single bullet can take out the power. A proudly advertised five-minute response time by central station security companies simply means the lifter knows he has a guaranteed window for a leisurely kidnapping. Not to mention that the paper trail of home ownership, automobiles and financial documents will lead the perp directly to even the most reclusive citizen’s front door in no time at all.

Principals, of course, always want the security blanket of their homes but I remove them from their beloved residence as fast as possible.

Seeing Ryan Kessler’s house I was determined to spirit him and his family away from the insubstantial two-story colonial as soon as I could.

I walked to the front door, checking windows. Ryan opened it. I knew what he looked like from personnel files and my other research. I glanced past him at the empty downstairs and moved my hand away from the small of my back.

He moved his from the holster on his hip.

I introduced myself. Shook his hand. I showed him my ID, which has my picture, name and a federal government logo on it, eagle included like the Justice Department’s but our own brand of bird. There’s nothing specific about our organization. I’m described simply as a “United States officer.”

He took a fast look and didn’t ask the questions I would have.

“Did you call Agent Fredericks to check on me?”

“No.” Maybe he felt his cop’s intuition could verify my credibility. Maybe it didn’t seem very macho.

Ryan Kessler was a solid man, broad shoulders and black hair, looking older than his years. When he tilted his head down, which he had to do because I was shorter and a step below, a double chin rolled outward. A round belly above tapering thighs and hips. His eyes were inky and focused. It was as hard to imagine a smile on his face as on mine. He’d be good at interrogation, I surmised.

“Well, Agent Corte-”

“Just Corte’s fine.”

“One name? Like a rock star.”

My ID has two initials but I never use them or anything more than Corte. Like some people, Ryan seemed to consider this pretentious. I didn’t explain to him that it was simply a wise strategy; when it came to my business, the rule was to give people-good people, bad or neutral-as little information about myself as possible. The more people who know about you, the more compromised you are and the less efficiently you can do your job protecting your principals.

“Agent Fredericks is on his way over,” I told him.

A sigh. “This is all a big mixup. Mistaken identity. There’s nobody who’d want to threaten me. It’s not like I’m going after the J-Eights.”

One of the most dangerous Latino gangs in Fairfax.

“Still, I’d like to come in if I could.”

“So you’re, what, like protection detail?”

“Exactly.”

He looked me over. I’m a little under six feet and weigh about 170, a range of five pounds plus or minus depending on the nature of the assignment and my deli-sandwich preference of the month. I’ve never been in the army; I’ve never taken the FBI course at Quantico. I know some basic self-defense but no fancy martial arts. I have no tattoos. I get outside a fair amount, jogging and hiking, but no marathons or Iron Man stuff for me. I do some push-ups and sit-ups, inspired by the probably erroneous idea that exercise improves circulation and also lets me order cheese on my deli sandwich without guilt. I happen to be a very good shot and was presently carrying a Glock 23-the.40-in a Galco Royal Guard inside-the-pants holster and a Monadnock retractable baton. He wouldn’t know that, though, and to Ryan Kessler, the protection package would be looking a little meager.

“Even them.” His eyes swung toward the FBI car across the street. “All they’re doing is upsetting my wife and daughter. The fact is, they’re a little obvious, don’t you think?”

I was amused that we’d had the same observation. “They are. But they’re more a deterrent than anything.”

“Well, again, I’m sorry for the waste of time. I’ve talked it over with my boss.”

“Chief of Detectives Lewis. I spoke to him too on the way over here.”

Ronald Lewis, with the District of Columbia’s Metropolitan Police Department. Squat, with a broad face, dark brown skin. Outspoken. I’d never met him in person but heard he’d done a good job turning around some of the more dangerous neighborhoods in the city, which was one of the more dangerous cities in the country. He’d risen high in the MPD from street patrol in South East and was a bit of a hero too, like Ryan Kessler.

Ryan paused, registering that I’d been doing my homework. “Then he told you he doesn’t know any reason I’d be a target. I really will have to ask you to leave now. Sorry you wasted your time.”

I said, “Mr. Kessler, just do me a favor? Please. Let me come in and lay out a few things. Ten minutes.” I was pleasant, not a hint of irritation. I said nothing more, offered no reasons-arguments held in doorways are hard to win; your opponent can just step back and close the door. I now simply looked up at him expectantly. My eyes never left his.

He sighed again. Loudly. “I guess. Come on. Five minutes.” He turned and, limping, led me through the neat suburban house, which smelled of lemon furniture polish and coffee. I couldn’t draw many conclusions about him or his family from my observations but one thing that stood out was the framed yellowing front page of The Washington Post hanging in the den: HERO COP SAVES TWO DURING ROBBERY.

A picture of a younger Ryan Kessler accompanied the story.

On the drive here Claire duBois, as efficient as a fine watch, had given me a backgrounder on Ryan. This included details of the officer’s rescue. Some punk had robbed a deli downtown in the District, panicked and started shooting. Ryan was en route to meet an informant and happened to be in the alley behind the deli. He’d heard the shots, drawn his weapon and sped in through the back door, too late to save the husband and wife who owned the place, but he had rescued the customers inside, taking a bullet in the leg before the robber fled.

The story ended with a curious twist: The woman customer had stayed in touch with him. They’d started going out. She was now his wife, Joanne. Ryan had a daughter by his first wife, who’d died of ovarian cancer when the girl was six.

After delivering the bios, duBois had told me in the car, “That’s pretty romantic, saving her life. Knight in shining armor.”

I don’t read much fiction but I enjoy history, medieval included. I could have told her that knight’s armor was the worst defensive system ever created; it looked spiffy but made the warrior far more vulnerable than a simple shield, helmet and chain mail or nothing at all.

I also reflected that getting shot in the leg seemed like a rather unromantic way to get a spouse.

As we moved through the cluttered family room, Ryan said, “Here it is, a nice Saturday. Wouldn’t you rather be hanging out with your wife and kids?”

“Actually, I’m single. And I don’t have children.”

Ryan was silent for a moment, a familiar response. It usually came from suburbanites of a certain age, upon learning they’re talking to an unmarried, family-less forty-year-old. “Let’s go in here.” We entered the kitchen and new smells mingled with the others: a big weekend breakfast, not a meal I’m generally fond of. The place was cluttered, dirty dishes stacked neatly in the sink. Jackets and sweats were draped on the white colonial dining chairs around a blond table. Against the wall the number of empty paper Safeway bags outnumbered the Whole Foods four to one. Schoolbooks and running shoes and DVD and CD cases. Junk mail and magazines.

“Coffee?” Ryan asked because he wanted some and preferred not to appear rude, only discouraging.

“No, thanks.”

He poured a cup while I stepped to the window and looked out over a backyard like ten thousand backyards nearby. I observed windows and doors.

Noting my reconnaissance, Ryan sipped, enjoying the coffee. “Really, Agent Corte, I don’t need anybody to stand guard duty.”

“Actually I want to get you and your family into a safe house until we find the people behind this.”

He scoffed, “Move out?”

“Should just be a matter of days, at the most.”

I heard sounds from upstairs but saw no one else on the ground floor. Claire duBois had given me information on Ryan’s family too. Joanne Kessler, thirty-nine, had worked as a statistician for about eight or nine years, then, after meeting and marrying widower Ryan, she had quit to become a full-time mother to her stepdaughter, who was ten at the time.

The daughter, Amanda, was a junior at a public high school. “She makes good grades and is in three advanced placement programs. History, English and French. She’s on the yearbook. She volunteers a lot.” I’d wondered if some of the organizations were hospitals or devoted to health care because of her mother’s death. DuBois had continued, “And she plays basketball. That was my sport. You wouldn’t think it. But you don’t have to be that tall. Really. The thing is you have to be willing to bump. Hard.”

Ryan now said, “Look, I’m just a cop handling some routine nonviolent cases. No terrorists, no Mafia, no conspiracies.” He sipped more of the coffee, snuck a look at the doorway and added two more sugars, stirring quickly. “Agent Fredericks said this guy needed the information, whatever it is, by Monday night? There’s nothing I’m working on that has a deadline like that. In fact, I’m in a down period now. For the past week or so, I’m mostly on some departmental administrative assignment. Budget. That’s all. If I thought there was something to it, I’d let you know. But there just isn’t. A mistake,” he repeated.

“I had a principal last year I was protecting.” He hadn’t invited me to sit but I did anyway, on one of the swivel stools. He remained standing. “I spent five days playing cat and mouse with a hitter-a professional killer-who’d been hired to take him out. It was all a complete mistake. The hitter had been given the wrong name. But he would have killed my principal just the same. In this case, it isn’t a hitter who’s after you, it’s a lifter. You ever heard that term?”

“I think. An interrogator, right? A pro.”

Close enough. I nodded. “Now, a hitter’s one thing. Mistake or not, you’d be the only one at risk. But a lifter… he’ll target your family, anything to get an edge on you-some leverage to force you to tell him what he wants. By the time he realizes it’s a mistake, someone close to you could be seriously hurt. Or worse.”

Considering my words. “Who is he?”

“His name’s Henry Loving.”

“Former military? Special ops?”

“No. Civilian.”

“In a gang? Organized crime?”

“Not that we could find.”

In fact, we didn’t know much about Henry Loving, other than he’d been born in northern Virginia, left home in his late teens and had maintained little contact with most of his family. His school records were missing. The last time he’d been arrested was when the sentence involved juvenile detention. A week after he was released the magistrate in the case quit the bench for reasons unknown and left the area. It might have been a coincidence. But I, for one, didn’t think so. Loving’s court and police files vanished at the same time. He worked hard to hide his roots and protect his anonymity.

I looked out the window once more. Then, after a brief conspiratorial pause and a glance into the still-empty hall, I continued, speaking even more softly, “But there’s something else I have to say. This is completely between us?”

He gripped the coffee he’d lost his taste for.

I continued, “Henry Loving has successfully kidnapped at least a dozen principals to interrogate them. Those are just the cases we know about. He’s responsible for the deaths of a half dozen bystanders too. He’s killed or seriously injured federal agents and local cops.”

Ryan gave a brief wince.

“I’ve been trying… our organization and the Bureau have been trying for years to collar him. So, okay, I’m admitting it: Yes, we’re here to protect you and your family. But you’re a godsend to us, Detective. You’re a decorated cop, somebody who’s familiar with tactical response, with weapons.”

“Well, it’s been a few years.”

“Those skills never go away. Don’t you think? Like riding a bicycle.”

A modest glance downward. “I do get out to the range every week.”

“There you go.” I could see a change in his dark eyes. A bit of fire in them. “I’m asking for your help in getting this guy. But we can’t do it here. Not in this house. Too dangerous for you and your family, too dangerous for your neighbors.”

He tapped his pistol. “I’m loaded with Glasers.”

Safety bullets. Powerful rounds that can kill, but they won’t penetrate Sheetrock and injure bystanders. They’re called suburb slugs.

“But Loving won’t be. He’ll come in with M4s or MP-5s. It’ll be carnage. There will be collateral damage.”

He was considering all that I’d said. His eyes took in the dirty dishes, seemed to notice them for the first time. “What’re you suggesting?”

“You, another officer and I’ll form the guard detail. We’ll get you and your family into a safe house that’ll give us a defensive advantage over Loving. My people and the Bureau’ll try to take him on the street or his hidey-hole, if they can find him. But if he gets through, and he could, I’ll need you. I have a safe house in mind that’ll be perfect.” I was speaking very softly now, making clear that what I was asking was off the record.

“You sound like you’ve been up against this guy before.”

I paused. “I have, yes.”

As he debated, a female voice came from the hallway: “Ry, those men’re still out there. I’m getting-”

She turned the corner and stopped quickly, glancing at me with narrowed brown eyes. I recognized her face immediately from the photos duBois had uploaded to me. Joanne Kessler. In running shoes, jeans and a dark zippered sweater sprouting a few snags, Joanne had a handsome, though not pretty or exotic, face. She got outside a lot, sun wrinkles and tan, gardening, I guessed, from the short nails, two of which were broken. She didn’t seem athletic, although unlike her husband she was slim. The hair was dark blond, frizzy and long, pulled into a ponytail. She wore glasses, which were stylish, but the lenses were thick, a reminder of her prior career. If anybody looked like a statistician for the Department of Transportation, it was Joanne Kessler.

Her face had registered a moment of shock seeing me-apparently she hadn’t heard me arrive-and then went completely blank. Not stony or cold in anger. She was numb-a bookish woman, I guessed, who’d been thrown by these events.

“This is Agent Corte. He works with the Justice Department. He’s a bodyguard.”

I didn’t correct Ryan about my title or employer. I shook her limp hand and offered a momentary smile. Her eyes remained uninvolved.

“Mrs. Kessler-”

“Joanne.”

“You’re familiar with the situation?”

“Ry told me there’s been some mixup. Somebody thought he was being threatened.”

I glanced at Ryan, who tipped his head in response.

I kept a calm visage and said to Joanne, “There may be a mixup, yes, but the fact is that there’s no doubt a man has been hired to get information from your husband.”

Her face deflated. She whispered, “You think we really might be in danger?”

“Yes.” I explained about lifters and Henry Loving. “A freelance interrogator,” I summarized.

“But you don’t mean he tortures people or anything like that, do you?” Joanne asked softly, her eyes eerily emotionless as she stared at her husband.

I said, “Yes, that’s exactly what I mean.”