Storm Front

CHAPTER 19

FAIRFAX, Virginia

Old FBI agents don’t die. They just start wearing more comfortable clothes.

At least that’s how Carl Storm thought of it.

The moment he got the e-mail from his son, Carl Storm went to work. He now had something domestic he could look into, and that was good. It was hard when Derrick was working on something foreign. Foreign meant CIA, and Carl had about as much trust in the CIA as he did in undercooked hamburger. Plus, Carl had few CIA contacts. Domestic, on the other hand, meant the Bureau. The Bureau would never let him down.

And Carl would never let Derrick down.

And so, just to make sure his son’s back was covered, Carl started making inquiries. He began with some of his old cronies, who promised to make some phone calls for him. Those cronies, in turn, called other cronies. The FBI had roughly fourteen thousand agents, but they all got around enough that a person with the right connections was never more than a few phone calls away from someone who knew something about what you were looking for.

It took about two hours before Carl heard from one of those someones.

“Carl Storm!” boomed a voice Carl had not heard in many years. “Jesus, how are you?”

“Tired and sick, and sick and tired. I’d bitch about it, but then I’d be another one of those old farts who sits around and bitches all day.”

“I hear you, I hear you. How long you been out now?”

“Six years.”

“Do those golden handcuffs fit as nice as they say?”

“It seems like you ought to be finding out pretty soon yourself.”

“Yeah. Unless Emma decides to go to graduate school, in which case I’m in for a few more years,” the man said. “How’s your boy doing?”

“He’s good. Not married, so no grandkids on the horizon.”

“So he’s good-looking and smart. Never could figure out how you were involved in making him.”

“Takes after his mother,” Carl said. “She was a heck of a woman.”

“I know. I know,” the man said, having heard that from Carl Storm before and wanting to change the subject. “Hey, I was thinking about you the other day. Remember Malibu Marv?”

“Of course.” He was one of Carl Storm’s old collars.

The guy laughed. “So apparently they let the son of a bitch out after twenty years. He had found Jesus, had given his life to God, was turning over a new leaf — all that shit the parole board loves. He went back to the bank where you popped him all those years ago, set up on the street corner, and started preaching there five days a week. With the donations he got, he set up a storefront church that was doing real well. A few hundred people coming a week. A real success story — until they nailed Marv stealing from the tithes.”

“Yeah, that’s Marv…,” Carl said, chuckling. “At least he’ll know his way around at San Quentin.”

“Too true, too true. Hey, I still owe you for Tucson. Don’t think I’ve forgotten that.”

“No, you don’t.”

“Yeah, I do. I think I’ll always owe you for Tucson. You saved my ass, Carl.”

Carl just grunted. This was another thing about old FBI agents: They never forgot. And just as it was important for Carl Storm to establish that the debt had been forgiven, it was just as important for the other man to insist that it had not been. It was still owed. What was about to come was another form of payment.

“Anyhow, I got something on that name you’re snooping around about. I might be able to put you in touch with someone who has information about something called ‘Operation Wafer.’ ”

“Operation Wafer. Jesus, the names these guys come up with. What’s that?”

“Something being put together by the boys in White Collar in New Jersey. I don’t know any of the details, just that it involves embezzlement and the guy you’re asking about. I don’t have the details, but apparently it’s big, and getting bigger all the time. What’s that kid of yours up to, anyhow?”

“Beats me,” Carl said, only somewhat honestly. “I’m just trying to make sure he doesn’t get in any more trouble than he’s already in.”

“Well, anyhow, you’ll get a phone call in a day or two. I’ll put you in touch with the guy heading the investigation. Can you sit tight that long?”

“No problem,” Carl said. “Thanks for the call.”

They hung up. Carl Storm stared at the wall for a second, wishing he wouldn’t worry, knowing that was an impossible order.

Fathers worry about their children. No matter how old the child gets.