The Hunted

32

Douglas Knox spent the night at home pacing his study, an array of telephones lined up along the credenza: the white one provided a direct link to the White House; yellow was a secure line to Homeland Security; blue, the CIA; red rang through directly to headquarters. A corded phone, now rigged with electronic devices sprouting wires, served as his standard residential line. Although the number was unlisted, the Bureau had connected recording and listening devices to it in the event a ransom call came through.

But Knox knew better. The abductor did not want money. As he saw it, this was about power and leverage, and there were two scenarios. In the first, Melissa would be returned unharmed, with her successful abduction serving as a strong message as to what would happen if Knox chose not to cooperate: if she could be taken once, she could be taken again. But Knox knew she would not be returned alive the second time.

The other scenario was one Knox did not want to consider. For if she did not return alive, an unofficial all-out war would be declared on the responsible party. He knew it was Anthony Scarponi. But lacking proof Scarponi was behind the abduction made such an aggressive stance dicey. If the press grabbed hold of it, the FBI would be taken to task for heavy-handed tactics, the failed lessons of Ruby Ridge and Waco dredged up all over again. One thing the Bureau did not need was another bruise to its reputation.

However, for the past few hours Knox had not been concerned with public perception. At the moment, he was both an ordinary citizen whose daughter had been kidnapped as well as director of the most powerful law enforcement entity in the world.

Sylvia Knox’s eyes were dark and bloodshot. She sat in a corner chair, dabbing at her tears and staring vacantly at the wall in front of her, occasionally glancing over at her husband, whose rigid face and demeanor only partially conveyed his concern. Once, he had walked over to her, placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder, and then walked away to resume pacing.

In addition to Knox’s security detail, three Hostage Rescue Team agents were in the room, taking turns sitting, standing, reading magazines, and taking short breaks to smoke cigarettes on the porch.

Just as Knox had sat down to rest his legs after a continuous hour of pacing, a call came over the radio clipped to the HRT squad leader’s uniform.

“Repeat? Over.”

“We have Melissa Knox. She’ll be at the front door in fifteen seconds, sir.”

Sylvia’s whimper of delight pierced the sudden silence of the room.

The squad leader looked to Knox, whose eyebrows had arched downward toward his nose. “Give me that,” Knox said as he grabbed the radio. “Was anyone with her? Over.”

“No, sir. She said she was dropped off a few blocks away and ran home. Over.”

“Shit,” Knox said, handing the man back his radio. “If she saw any of them, I want an identification tech with a laptop here within the hour.”

Melissa was embraced and kissed by her mother and father, ate a container of yogurt, and then agreed to be debriefed by the HRT agents.

“And you only saw one of them,” Knox said.

Melissa nodded. “Just that one agent — I mean, man. He told me to lie down on the backseat so no one would see me. I asked him what was wrong, and he said he couldn’t discuss it, that it was very sensitive. Then after a while he got a call and he said he was taking me to a safe house. He gave me a blindfold to put on and said I wasn’t allowed to know where we were going because the CIA uses it, too.”

“How long did it take to get to the safe house?” one of the HRT agents asked.

Melissa shrugged. “I don’t know, we drove around for like an hour or two. After he got that call, it was like, maybe twenty minutes before we got there.”

“Did you hear any unusual noises? Bells, horns, jackhammers, trucks—”

“Maybe some trucks, big ones, you know, like tractor trailers.”

“Anything else?”

“It didn’t really seem like I was in a house. It smelled more like a cheap motel.”

Knox exchanged glances with the agent. “What makes you think it was a cheap motel?”

“It smelled like Lysol. And immediately after walking in, there was a really soft bed. I think I smelled cigarette smoke, you know, kind of like in the drapes or something. It was gross.”

“Then what happened?” Knox asked.

“He got another call.”

“Did you hear him mention any names? Did he talk about anything in particular?”

Melissa thought for a moment, then shook her head. “Not that I can remember.”

“What happened after he got that call?” the agent asked.

“That’s when we left. He said it was time to go, that everything was secure.”

“How long was the ride back home?”

“I don’t know.”

“What do you mean, you’ve got to give us some kind of an idea,” Knox blurted, his frustration evident. “Ten minutes, an hour, two hours—”

“I said I don’t know, Dad,” Melissa said just as firmly. “I fell asleep. When I woke up, he was stopping the car and telling me I was a few blocks from home and that I should run. I thought he was kidding.”

There was a knock at the door, and one of the HRT agents walked out of the room to answer it. A few seconds later, an identification technician walked into the kitchen, followed by a handful of relief agents for the security detail and the head of the HRT. Agents Waller and Haviland brought up the rear, shirts creased, ties removed, and collars splayed open.

“Take ten minutes to get up to speed,” Knox said to the HRT assistant special agent-in-charge. “Then I want you to assemble a fresh team. I want some of them on my house, some with my wife and daughter should either leave the house tomorrow.”

“Yes, sir,” the man said, turning toward the door.

“Waller, Haviland, come into my study for a moment.” They followed Knox in and watched as he closed both doors. “We’ve got us a situation here, one that requires you two to be privy to highly sensitive information.” Knox looked at each of the men, reading their faces. After a brief pause, he continued, “How much background did Lindsey give you on Scarponi’s release?”

Waller shrugged. “Just that he was granted a new hearing based on some bogus witness that came forward. The judge bought it and that’s why we had to find Payne.”

“He was under electronic surveillance,” Knox said, “using a new type of microchip the Bureau developed. It was embedded deep in the buttock and was supposed to locate the offender at all times to within a ten-foot radius using the GPS system. The device was supposed to be foolproof.” Knox sat down heavily in his desk chair. “A month after Scarponi was released, we received some odd readings, like he was moving almost in a drug-induced manner. A couple of agents were put on him and they finally found out why he’d been running in circles. He’d somehow removed the chip and placed it in a rat. Obviously, we lost track of him.”

Waller shook his head. “Jesus Christ.”

“Suffice it to say that for the past four months, he’s eluded our search efforts. This threat letter we received was the first indication that he might still be in the country.”

“He stayed to finish the job,” Waller said. “Payne’s the only one who can hurt him. He gets rid of Payne, his problem’s solved.”

Knox nodded. “The surveillance chip was a covert operation. He didn’t know it had been implanted. At least, we don’t think he knew. No one — no one gets wind of any of this, am I making myself extremely clear?” Knox looked hard at both agents. “There can be no misunderstandings, or I’ll have your careers.”

“What about Harper—”

“No one. No… one,” Knox said, emphasizing each word separately.

The agents exchanged an uneasy look, then turned back to Knox.

“Yes, sir,” Haviland said as the door to the study opened.

“Dad?” Melissa walked in holding her purse in one hand and a small electronic device in the other. “Did one of you put this in my bag?”

Just then, the device began to beep. Haviland jumped out of his seat and advanced on Melissa. “Give it to me real gently,” he said, holding his handout. “Jon, call the EOD unit and alert ATF. I think we’ve got us a small incendiary device.”

“A what?” Melissa asked.

“A goddamned bomb,” Waller said as he grabbed the red telephone.

“Everyone out of the house,” Knox yelled.

“Hold it,” Haviland said, still cradling the suspect device in the palms of his hands. “Are we sure the area’s secure? They could be using this as a way to flush everyone out into the street. Car bomb, sniper, even a drive-by — any of which could take us all out before we knew what hit us.”

Knox looked at the small device, which was about half the size of a television remote.

The lead HRT agent walked in, saw the unit in Haviland’s hands, and cursed under his breath. “Don’t make any sudden movements.” He stuck his head through the study door. “Vasquez, take three men with you and secure the area. We need a clear path to the HRT truck. You’ve got one minute.”

“Hold it,” Waller said. “One minute? In the dark—”

“One minute,” Knox said as the device continued to beep. “Then we all come out and take our chances.”

EOD, Metro Police’s bomb-disposal unit, was at the Knox home in less than nine minutes. Fifteen minutes would have been an acceptable response time, but that it was the director’s residence forced a quicker, more immediate reaction.

After having done their best to secure the vicinity, the agents began evacuating the neighbors in the surrounding two-block radius and secured both entrances to the street. Brief examination and X-ray analysis of the device revealed it was safe enough to move by robotic transport to the bomb detonation truck.

The Knoxes’ house was searched with bomb-sniffing dogs and was declared clear within ten minutes. The family was then moved, under cover, back into their home from the tactical room in the rear of the HRT vehicle. It took the bomb disposal technicians forty-five tense minutes of quarantine in their mobile lab to properly analyze the explosive device. When they finally emerged to brief the director on the unit and its capabilities, HRT agents were stationed at various points along the street and around the Knoxes’ house.

The director sat down wearily behind his desk and ran two hands through his damp hair. Melissa and Sylvia had gone to bed, and with the exception of half a dozen security-detail agents, only Haviland and Waller remained inside the house.

“It was a bomb all right,” the explosives expert said. “Very sophisticated, capable of taking down this house and a couple of the neighboring ones with it. But the two detonation-fuse leads weren’t attached.”

“Weren’t attached,” Haviland said. “You mean they came apart?”

“No, they were never together. They were purposely mounted a half inch apart.”

“Another message,” Knox said. His usually well-coiffed hair was disheveled and he had a sagging darkness about his eyes. “That he can do whatever he wants and there’s nothing we can do to protect ourselves.” He shook his head. “I’m tired of running, of being on the defensive.” Knox slammed a fist down on the table. “Damn it, I’ve had enough. We’re going after this son-of-a-bitch.”

Knox went over a few details with Waller and Haviland, then with a wave of a hand bid them good-night. “Go catch whatever sleep you can before the sun’s up,” he told them.

“And can you two give me a few minutes alone?” he asked two of his security-detail agents.

“We’ll be right outside if you need us,” one of them said.

“I’m sure we’ve had all the excitement we’re going to have for a while,” Knox said.

As soon as the door to his study clicked shut, he grabbed for the yellow phone. He punched a few numbers, leaned back in his chair, and rubbed at his eyes with the fingers of his right hand.

“It’s me,” he said after the phone was answered.

“Are you really innocent until proven guilty?”

“That depends. Are we secure?” Hector DeSantos asked.

“Not at the moment. But we’re going to be.”