In the Company of Liars

ONE DAY EARLIER
MONDAY, FEBRUARY 9

Strange as it may seem, it’s plausible.” Paul Riley speaks in a hushed voice to Allison, though they are in a conference room with the door closed. “The likelihood of an acquittal is remote. So sooner or later, you’d fall into government hands. At that point, they would expect you to play whatever hand you could. Believe it or not, you’re safer this way, Allison.”

Allison starts, something like a nervous laugh.

“The timing is a bit concerning, I suppose,” Paul adds.

“Very.” Allison leaves her chair and paces around the long table. The contrast between this FBI office and the ones at Paul Riley’s law firm is staggering. “I want to do it now. They’re saying, ballpark, mid-May.”

“They must have some reason.” Paul sighs. “Not that they’ll tell us.”

Paul looks awful, out of sorts. He must be utterly exhausted. Since last night, when Allison reached him, and through a long day today-it’s close to eight in the evening-Paul has probably only slept a handful of hours. About twenty-four hours ago, he was probably dozing in front of a television on a lazy Sunday, waiting for a busy week of court appearances and meetings with clients. Instead, he has spent nearly twenty hours straight digesting a very complicated situation and attempting to frame a solution.

“Let’s go back in,” Allison says.

Jane McCoy sits in one of the chairs in Special Agent-in-Charge Irving Shiels’s office. Harrick paces about the room. Shiels is on his cell phone. United States Attorney Mason Tremont is reading the news coverage of Sam Dillon’s murder.

“What a mess,” Tremont says. This is the first time McCoy has met Tremont. He’s been U.S. attorney since the new governor came in, about four years ago. He is the first African American to hold the position. Word is, he was a big fund-raiser for the governor, but the word also is that he has done the office proud. He’s not a bad-looking guy, distinguished and fit in his mid-fifties, if a little too sober.

“She has to take this deal,” Harrick says, lapping the room. He’s wearing a sportcoat and tie today, a step up for him.

A knock on the door, and Allison Pagone enters with her lawyer, Paul Riley. Riley used to be an AUSA, part of the federal family, but he made his name prosecuting that mass murderer, Terry Burgos, back when Jane McCoy was in grad school.

Mason Tremont puts down his paper. Irv Shiels kills his cell phone.

“We have a deal in principle,” Riley announces. “We have to see it all in writing, formally, of course.”

“We’ll have it done very soon,” says Mason Tremont. “Immunity letter for Mateo Pagone, affidavits, the works.”

“Not just immunity,” Allison says. “He doesn’t even have to talk to you.”

“I understand,” says Tremont. “It’s a clean deal, Mrs. Pagone. He walks and doesn’t talk.”

“Good.” Allison claps her hands together. “So who’s going to kill me?”

McCoy laughs at the bluntness of her comment. She removes a photo from a file and shows it to Allison. It is a photograph of Ramadaran Ali Haroon.

Allison recoils-not, McCoy assumes, because he’s unsightly, because in truth Haroon is pretty handsome, but because he’s from the Middle East. You can talk about political correctness all you want, but Allison and her lawyer are already probably thinking along these lines, and now they’re surely suspecting that this operation involves international terrorism.

“The man in this photograph,” McCoy says, “is working with us.”

That will be the extent to which McCoy elaborates. This is all Allison Pagone needs to know. Ramadaran Ali Haroon is an undercover operative for the CIA, a non-official cover agent, but this is not something she would ever share with Allison. No, Allison Pagone cannot know Haroon’s name or his specific occupation, or even his employer. All she needs to know is that this unidentified man in the photograph is a friend, a friend who will be dispatched by Larry Evans to kill her at some point down the road.

“This guy is some kind of undercover agent?” Allison asks, nodding at the photograph.

“He’s working with Larry Evans, among others,” McCoy answers, though it is not really an answer to the question posed. “He’s calling the shots, Mrs. Pagone. He will insist that you be eliminated, and he will insist that he be the one who does it.”

“He’s supposed to kill me but make it look like a suicide.”

“Yes,” McCoy says. “The last thing they want anyone to think is that you were murdered. They want it to look like you were distraught, guilt-stricken, that kind of thing.”

Allison looks skeptical. McCoy had thought this idea had already been accepted.

“You were in theater, right?” Harrick says to Allison, sensing her hesitation as well. “So this is playacting. This man in the photograph will come in and pretend to kill you and make it look like a suicide.”

“I just-it seems so hard to believe that anyone wouldbelieve that.”

“Who’s ‘anyone’?” McCoy shrugs. “All that Larry Evans will know is what he hears through his eavesdropping device. It’s audio, not video. He’ll hear a man he trusts”-McCoy shakes the photograph of Ram Haroon-“he’ll hear this man enter your house, he’ll hear you scream or whatever, he’ll hear a struggle, he’ll hear this man forcing you up to your bathroom, he’ll hear a gun go off-a gun with blanks, of course, but he won’t know that-and then he’ll hear his trusted partner leave your house, and you just have to keep quiet for a few hours. Larry Evans will have no reason to think youaren’t dead.”

“I guess,” Allison says.

“And then Agent Harrick and I, we’ll come storming into your place early that next morning, and we’ll find you ‘dead,’ and Larry Evans will still be listening. He’ll hear me say, ‘Allison’s dead,’ and he’ll hear my partner say, ‘Oh, yeah, she’s dead, all right.’ And we will come to the conclusion that you committed suicide. I will say, loud and clear for Larry Evans to hear, that this is all my fault, because I had been squeezing you for information on the bribery scandal, and because I threatened Mat. Poor me. Poor you.”

Allison smiles sheepishly.

“Then we’ll whisk you out of there, on a covered gurney, hopefully before any press or local officials get to the scene. Within the hour, you’ll be sipping champagne in protective federal custody. Larry Evans will think he’s home free-that you’re dead with no questions asked-and he will complete his operation. And you will be totally safe.”

“Mrs. Pagone,” Harrick adds. “Larry Evans trusts the man in that photograph. He’ll believe he is hearing a murder, staged to look like a suicide. And when we come in the next morning, we’ll confirm it for him. There’s no way he’ll know the truth.”

“It’s not the first time we’ve staged a death,” McCoy adds. “The fact that Larry Evans will be listening in only makes it easier. We can use his bugging device against him.”

Allison raises her hands. “Fine. That’s fine.”

“So you’re clear on how this works,” McCoy asks.

Allison nods. “It’s a five-step plan.”

“Right. Step one?”

“Step one,” Allison echoes. “You’ll tell my lawyer, Paul, when it’s time to begin. Paul will get in touch with me and he’ll reference the murder weapon. That will tell me it’s time to begin.”

“Right.” McCoy looks at Paul. “Just say something like, ‘They still haven’t found the murder weapon.’ Something not too obvious.”

Paul nods.

“Then we get to step two,” Allison continues. “I will tell Mat, in my house, for Larry Evans to hear, precisely where I buried the murder weapon. Larry Evans will like that, because it adds something to the idea of my suicide. He will send that-that man in the photograph-to get the statuette, with the idea that he’ll put it beside me after I ‘kill myself.’ It is tantamount to a suicide note, a confession.”

“Exactly,” McCoy says. “But what you’re really doing is giving me the signal.”

“Right,” Allison agrees. “That’s step three. You will be watching the grocery store where I buried it. When you see that man in the photo retrieve the statuette from behind Countryside, you’ll know it’s time to work our plan.”

“Good,” McCoy says. “And step four?”

“Step four,” Allison sighs, “you will come to my house and introduce yourself to me as if we had never met. We will have a conversation for Larry Evans to hear. You will say you are investigating the bribery scandal. You will say that you are going to take a deal to Mat, that if he confesses, you’ll get the county attorney to spare me the death penalty.”

“Yes.”

“I will be distraught. Suicidal, I suppose. I will say things like, ‘My daughter is already losing one parent.’ And the obvious route for me to take-as someone who is looking at a surefire conviction and probably a death sentence-is just to take my own life, on my own terms.”

“Which is perfect, from the perspective of Larry Evans,” Harrick adds.

“And then,” Allison continues, “step five, I can expect a visit from that man in the photograph.”

McCoy brightens. “We’ll stage your death/suicide and get you somewhere safe.”

Paul Riley clears his throat. “There’s one wrinkle, folks.”

“A wrinkle,” Irv Shiels repeats.

“There’s a wrinkle?” McCoy asks.

“Yes,” Paul says. “We want this to happen very soon. We would like it to happen now-tomorrow, the next day-or at the latest, after she is charged. Your target date of mid-May is not acceptable.”

“It’s the only way,” McCoy says quickly. “We’ve told you that.”

It’s the only way because the scientist whom Larry Evans has compromised, Doctor Neil Lomas, apparently was extremely distraught about Sam Dillon’s death and has told Evans that he will cease working on the formula if anyone else is killed. Paul Riley is right, in theory. They should stage Allison Pagone’s “murder” very soon, a matter of days, and whisk her to safety. But reports of Allison’s death would be big news in town, news that would not escape the attention of Doctor Neil Lomas, and the Bureau needs Doctor Lomas to complete his formula. Their intelligence tells them that Ram Haroon will likely deliver this formula to one of the high-ranking members of the Liberation Front, and they need that to happen. They need Doctor Lomas happy and productive.

Which means Allison Pagone can’t “die” until the formula is completed, which is estimated at this point to be mid-May.

“We can’t give on that,” Irving Shiels says, standing in the corner in that military stance he so often assumes. “If we do this with Mrs. Pagone now, there’s no point in doing it at all. It has to be when we say, and it looks like mid-May.”

Allison Pagone looks at Paul Riley. McCoy expects them to leave the office and confer, but surely they’ve already discussed this. McCoy has never left any room for doubt on this point.

“Okay,” Allison says to Irv Shiels. “I’ll do mid-May, or whenever. Whenever you say. Whenever Paul comes to me with the talk about the ‘murder weapon.’ ”

McCoy sits back in her chair, looks at her boss, Shiels, who stands with arms folded, scowling. Scowling, but content. They have their deal.

“Your ex-husband, Mat, obviously will know about this,” Harrick says. “He will know about his immunity deal, and he will be the one who plays the partner in these staged conversations you will be having in your house for Larry Evans. You need someone to say these things to, and Mat makes sense. Your daughter, Jessica, remains in the dark.”

“Yes.” Allison shakes her head too eagerly. “She will not know the details.”

A pause. Everyone looks at one another.

“We have a tentative agreement, then,” Paul Riley says. “This is-I’ve only had today to digest an awful lot of information.”

“Understood,” Irv Shiels says. “But we don’t have much time. We would assume that Mrs. Pagone will be questioned very, very soon. And things will start moving against her very quickly.”

“You made sure of that,” McCoy says to Allison.

“We’ll get back to you tomorrow, when we see it in writing,” Allison says. “But as long as you accept my terms, I’m in.”

Irv Shiels is fuming. The others have left, leaving McCoy and Harrick to bear the brunt of his frustration.

“This woman,” Shiels says. “She’s well known?”

“Yes, sir,” McCoy says. “I read one of her novels. I think it was a bestseller.”

“That’s wonderful. Jesus H. So this will be a big story.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Sir.” Harrick clears his throat. “Sir,” he says, “we should bury this thing. Talk to the county attorney. Tell them to hold a press conference, say the murder of Sam Dillon is unsolved, and make Larry Evans feel safe. That makes more sense than going through with this whole charade.”

Shiels looks at McCoy, not Harrick, holds a stare on her. McCoy figures it’s one of two things. One, the boss is wondering what the hell Harrick is still doing in the room. Shiels is the SAC, and McCoy is running this operation. This isn’t a roundtable discussion. But Harrick is McCoy’s partner, and she’s made him her right hand on this operation, too. Jane has been on the other side of this before and never appreciated being left out.

Or two, Shiels is insulted.Don’t you think that occurred to us, Agent Harrick?

“That doesn’t work.” Shiels flicks a hand like he’s swatting a fly. “One, we’d have to share a whole helluva lot with Elliot Raycroft to make him do that. This is an election year. A huge homicide in his jurisdiction, and he has a primary challenger, if you hadn’t noticed. And he’s a Republican, too, Agent Harrick, if you hadn’t noticed that, either, so it’s not exactly a waltz to reelection. He’ll be crucified if this comes back ‘unsolved.’ ”

Harrick nods, too enthusiastically.

“And at any rate, this thing would boil for a while no matter what. The county attorney has to investigate this somewhat-a lot-before he just walks up to a microphone and says, ‘We have no idea what happened. We’re folding up shop.’ And this whole time, Larry Evans is watching Allison Pagone, and he’s wondering, and if the CA is too eager in pronouncing this ‘unsolved,’ he’ll wonder even more.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And you think”-Shiels’s face is hot now-“you think our friends in Virginia are going to let us confide in a local prosecutor about this?”

“Understood, sir.”

“To say nothing of Allison Pagone,” Shiels adds. “She’s in danger now, I think you’d agree, Agent?”

“Yes, sir.”

“How do you think we are most effective keeping her safe, Agent? Do we whisk her away to federal protective custody right now?”

Harrick, licking his wounds from the scolding, struggles for the answer that will be least offensive.

“No, we can’t do that,” Shiels says, answering his own question, “because the operation dies if Allison Pagone dies-or if they think she dies. Doctor Lomas folds up shop, and there’s no formula, and there’s no chance to catch Muhsin al-Bakhari or whoever. So that’s not acceptable. You see that, Agent?”

“Yes, sir.”

“So her being charged with murder is the best way to do that. She’s a big news item. Anything happens to her now, it would receive tremendous scrutiny. Larry Evans is smart enough to recognize that. And if he’s not, Ram Haroon will remind him. A spotlight shining on Allison Pagone is the best way to keep her alive and help us do what we need to do.”

Harrick, at this point, looks like one of those bobble-head dolls, he’s nodding so rapidly.

“So you see, Agent Harrick, where just telling Raycroft that we’re fighting an international terrorist operation, and could he please take a pass on this high-profile murder, maybe isn’t such a hot idea.”

“You made your point, sir,” McCoy says, hoping to interrupt the tantrum. “Several times over. It’s been a long day for everyone.”

She waits a beat. On the scale of career moves, this one didn’t rate a perfect ten. No, this one would fall slightly above kicking the boss in the balls.

“Okay.” Shiels runs a hand over his face. “Right.”

“We have to talk to Haroon, sir,” McCoy says. “He has to be clear on this.”

“I know. We need clearance.” Shiels sighs. “I have to call the director.”

“I’ll meet with him, sir, if you’d like,” she says. “I’ll talk to Haroon.”

“No,” says Shiels. “He’s my guy. I’m the reason we have this operation.”

Normally, this operation would probably be handled by CIA or the NSA, or some combination. But Shiels knows Haroon, from way back-he’s the reason Haroon pushed for this city as a locale-so Shiels is the logical choice to communicate with Haroon.

“God.” Shiels shakes his head. “I haven’t seen him for years.”

“He doesn’t know, does he?” McCoy asks. “He doesn’t know everything?”

Shiels closes his eyes, makes a face. “He doesn’t know, but he probably suspects.”

That makes sense to McCoy. Haroon is basically the bagman. He gets the formula from Larry Evans, he pays Evans, and he delivers the formula for the poison to the Liberation Front. Surely, Haroon must suspect that if he delivers the formula directly to a high-ranking member of the Libbies, the U.S. Special Forces will be ready to pounce. And he must know that he could be caught in the crossfire. He must have known this the moment he was sent to this city by the Libbies, and he contacted the U.S. government to let them know he was coming.

“All Ram Haroon knows,” says Shiels, “is that Doctor Lomas and Larry Evans will finish their formula, then give him a sample to verify the poison works. Haroon will pretend to sample it and will tell Evans that it’s acceptable. Then he’ll transfer the twenty-five million to an account that Evans specifies. Once the money transfer is made, Evans will deliver the formula for the poison to Haroon. Then Haroon will take the formula and modify it-change it, so that no matter what else happens, it’s not really a formula for poison-and he’ll deliver it to the Liberation Front. Haroon will be trusted enough to deliver it directly to one of theshura majlis. Directly to Muhsin al-Bakhari. We’ll nail Evans and put him away for life, we’ll catch Doctor Lomas, and we’ll catch the brains and spirit behind the Liberation Front.”

Shiels works the kinks out of his neck. “So yeah, Haroon is probably smart enough to know that this could end in an ambush. He knows he could be giving up his life for this. He already has instructions, if he’s caught by U.S. Special Forces, to identify himself as ‘Zulfikar,’ his given name, so they know he’s a friend. But in the midst of a gunfight to catch al-Bakhari, all bets are off. I’m sure he’s figured that out.”

“Haroon’s good,” McCoy says, more a request for confirmation than a statement.

“He’s good.”

“He’ll fool Larry Evans, no question?”

“No question,” says Shiels. “He’s been fooling the Liberation Front for over a decade.”