The Obsidian Chamber

20

Special Agent in Charge Rudy Spann ran a hand through his whiffle cut and stared at the evidence bag on his desk, inside of which gleamed a worn gold ring and a bizarre, partly melted medallion, along with a letter and envelope. He had mixed feelings about this case that had suddenly, and with such big noise, arrived on the doorstep of the New York Field Office of the FBI. An agent had been kidnapped. It wasn’t just any agent, either, but A. X. L. Pendergast. Spann, who had only recently become SAC of the New York FO, did not know Pendergast well. But he had certainly heard the rumors. This Pendergast had a kind of special dispensation; he was a sort of agent-at-large, who picked and chose his own cases. Apparently he was enormously wealthy, accepting only a one-dollar annual stipend — a far cry from the salary normally earned by a GS-15, Step 10. Rumor had it that Pendergast was a maverick, even something of a rogue agent, who pushed the rules and was protected from above. Frankly, he was not well liked among the younger agents; they resented his freedom, his wealth, his elitist mannerisms. The old-timers in the office, on the other hand, held him in a kind of awe: a wary sort of respect. But nobody loved him; he was not a warm personality, he wasn’t the kind to go out after work for a beer or hang out at the shooting range on weekends. For those reasons Spann had little to do with him directly, beyond providing the basic support of the field office. The agent rarely showed up at Federal Plaza.

But he was a federal agent. And if there was one thing that was absolute in the FBI, it was the loyalty and camaraderie that bound them together. If an agent was killed or under threat, the Bureau would move heaven and earth to get the perps.

For this reason, the kidnapping of Pendergast had caused an immediate furor; and it was Spann’s case to win — or lose.

He glanced at his cell phone, lying on the table. The initial contact with the kidnappers would be in a few minutes, and he was determined to handle it with vigor. This was the kind of case that could make his career. Spann was apprehensive, but also stoked: he knew he was a damn good agent, he’d graduated at the top of his class at Quantico, and his career since had been stellar. At forty, he was one of the youngest SACs in the FBI, in the most important field office in the country. This was the sort of opportunity that came knocking only once. If he cleared this one — and he believed he could — the sky would be the limit.

Since the package had arrived that morning, he had exploded into action, dropping everything; he’d put together a small but powerful strike force, who would be arriving in minutes. He’d kept it small, elite, and nimble. An “agent down” was priority one. Whatever was needed — warrants, lab work, forensics, analysis, IT — would be done instantly, taking priority over every other case. He had already put out the word to all their labs, to ensure everyone was ready at a moment’s notice.

His secretary announced the arrival of the strike force. He rose and went into the outer office, carrying the evidence bag. They all appeared at once: three men and one woman, all top-class agents, filing in the door, silent, grim. They took their places in the small seating area. Spann nodded to everyone and signaled his secretary for coffee; he strode to the end of the room and placed the evidence bag on the display table, below a whiteboard.

Just as he was about to begin speaking, the door opened again. Everyone stared in silent surprise. Spann did not know the new arrival personally, but the man was a legend in the FBI: Howard Longstreet, who bore the rather mysterious title of executive associate director for intelligence. The Directorate of Intelligence, which Longstreet oversaw, was rather far from Spann’s own; although senior to Spann, he had no official supervisory role. Which was all well and good.

Longstreet cut a figure almost as eccentric as Agent Pendergast’s, but in a different way: his hair was long and gray, his suits rumpled, his profile aquiline. His black eyes gleamed from underneath a deep, craggy brow. His voice was like a growl, and he was freakishly tall: six feet, seven inches. Perhaps as if to make up for it, or from a lifetime of ducking through doorways, he was bent ten degrees from the vertical, a posture very different from the ramrod military bearing common to the Bureau. Longstreet had a mellow, self-deprecating way of working that made him very popular with his subordinates. And, of course, there were the whispered rumors about his time in the legendary — some said mythical — Ghost Company. That, Spann suddenly realized, must be why he was there: the ring in the evidence bag indicated that Pendergast had been a member of the same unit.

Spann hesitated. “Director Longstreet, this is a surprise.”

Longstreet turned his cliff-like face to him. He nodded toward an empty seat. “Do you mind if I join you?”

“Not at all.”

Longstreet took a seat in the back, behind the others.

His sudden presence threw Spann off balance, but he recovered quickly. “Thank you all for coming,” he said. “The ring and medallion are confirmed to be genuine. SA Pendergast’s latents are on them: deliberately pressed there, it seems, to leave us no doubt that the unsubs have him. Exhaustive tests on the four items — ring, medallion, letter, envelope — have turned up no latents besides his. No DNA, fiber, hair — nothing.”

He started the PowerPoint presentation with the press of a button. An envelope appeared on the screen. “This was postmarked at the General Post Office, 10001, at three PM yesterday. It was dropped in a post box around the corner and arrived this morning. Since today is Tuesday, it could have been dropped in the mailbox anytime Sunday or Monday up to three PM, as the first collection of the week in that box is at that time. The letter itself is dated Monday, but that means very little. There are no cameras on the mailbox itself, but plenty along the avenues and streets leading to it; all those are being reviewed.”

He pressed on to the next image: a long windswept beach.

“This was where Agent Pendergast was last seen, at dawn, sixteen days ago. He was on extended leave, working a private case. I won’t go into the details of that case because they almost certainly aren’t relevant. He struggled on the beach with a deranged killer, and both were swept into the sea and disappeared. An exhaustive search turned up nothing. The water was fifty-five degrees, in which a man can live for about an hour. We believed he was dead until we received this package. So he was either picked up by a ship or washed up on a beach somewhere. In either case, those who discovered him — once they discovered his identity — have decided to use the agent as bait in a prisoner exchange. We’re doing an exhaustive analysis of any ships that might have been in the area at the time, as well as of the tidal currents.”

Another press of the button and a scanned copy of the letter appeared.

“The letter was typed on a computer with a fixed-pitch font and then photocopied multiple times to blur any telltale characteristics. Here it is.”

“And here is the email we received today.” Spann pressed a key and another slide came up: the photo of a man — Pendergast — looking shockingly emaciated but clearly alive, lying on a dirty piece of canvas. Next to him, unfolded, was a copy of USA Today, carrying yesterday’s date. “We’re throwing all our best IT resources into tracking that email address, but it looks like the setup is double-encrypted and probably untraceable.”

Spann now went through the plan he had worked out for negotiating with the hostage takers. It was classic, based on the Bureau’s — and his own — long experience with abduction and kidnapping situations. Don’t agree; lowball the first offer; keep the perps continuously engaged; buy time with small requests. Wear them out, slowly remove their control — all the while tasking all the best agents with tracking them down.

He went through all this with the group, putting one agent in charge of each aspect of the investigation. He reserved the actual negotiations for himself.

“And in the end,” he said, “we have a fallback: if this strategy doesn’t work, we give in to their demands. We release Arsenault. And we get Pendergast back.”

He paused and looked around, waiting for comments.

“Of course you know they’re going to kill Pendergast regardless,” said Longstreet in a low voice.

“Killing a federal agent would bring the death penalty down on them,” Spann said. “Once their man is released, why take such an extreme step?”

“Because Pendergast would be the witness who would put them away for life.”

A silence. Spann wondered how to respond. “Mr. Longstreet, these men are clearly not stupid.”

At this, Longstreet unfolded himself from his chair in a sort of easygoing way, then strolled to the front of the room. “I’m sorry to be blunt, Agent Spann, but I believe this plan of yours will pretty much guarantee Pendergast’s death.”

Spann stared at Longstreet. “I respectfully disagree. This is classic, exhaustively researched and tested SOP.”

“Which is exactly why it will fail.” Longstreet turned easily toward the group. “Pendergast is on a boat. Drug smugglers, almost certainly. He got pulled from the water; they eventually realized who he was; and they cooked up this scheme. It is a very stupid scheme and these are very stupid people — although they clearly believe they are being very clever. That is why Pendergast is in such extreme danger. If they were smart, as you believe, your plan might work. But they are not. Whatever we do, they are going to dump the body and run.”

“Drug smugglers?” Spann asked. How the hell did he know this?

“Arsenault is a drug smuggler. It stands to reason these are his colleagues. They’re desperate to free him before he sings.”

Longstreet was now strolling along, back and forth. “So what do we do?” He held up a spidery finger. “A: We stage a panic. We give in to all their demands immediately. We appear to do anything necessary to save our precious agent. We keep them engaged — as long as we’re talking to them, Pendergast won’t die.” He held up a second finger. “B: We lean on Arsenault, hammer and tongs—but very quietly. Maybe he’ll ID them. C: They’re hiding in a boat somewhere, so we scour the Atlantic seaboard. D, and this is most important: We smoke them out. How? By bringing Arsenault down from Sing Sing to New York. I might add that this entire operation needs to be kept absolutely secret: not only from the press, but also from the NYPD and even compartmentalized within the FBI, limited to this team and a few of the top brass.”

SAC Spann stood there, looking first at Longstreet and then at his strike force. They had focused their entire attention on Longstreet. Without anyone realizing it, just like that, Longstreet had taken over. Spann felt the slow burn of humiliation and anger.