Wall of Night

13

Latham had met the current director of the FBI several times, either at formal functions or in passing at the Hoover Building, but had never had reason to speak with him at length. Until now.

With a nod from the secretary, Charlie knocked once, then opened the door and walked through. Owens was already there. The director stood to shake hands. “Special Agent Latham. Thanks for coming. Please sit down. It’s Charlie, isn’t it?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Charlie, I’m going to get to the point. The Baker case is being put on hold for a while.”

“Pardon me? Why?”

“I’m not at liberty to say.”

“Sir, this is my case. If it’s being jerked out from under me, I deserve to know why.”

“The decision’s been made, Special Agent Latham.”

The hell with it, Charlie thought. “That’s unacceptable, sir.”

“Charlie …” Owens said.

Latham pushed on: “This is an active case; it’s moving forward. If the decision’s been made, fine, I’ll deal with it, but I’ll say it again: I deserve to know why.”

The director stared at him and then, to Latham’s surprise, he smiled. “You know what? You’re right. You have earned the right.”

Well, I’ll be damned …

“Surprised?” the director asked.

“Frankly, yes.”

The director chuckled. “I know my strengths, Charlie, and telling agents how to do their jobs ain’t one of them. Here’s the short answer to your question: The Justice Department has asked us to back off. Certain sections of the Commerce Department are under investigation for corruption, and Baker was one of the employees under the microscope.”

“What kind of corruption?”

“The JD believes that several U.S. computer manufacturers were bribing Commerce employees to approve overseas sales of restricted processor components.”

“These components are on the NCTL?”

“They are.”

“How much money are we talking about?”

“Perhaps millions. If so, that might explain Baker’s bank account.”

But not the slaughter of his family, Latham thought. “And the murders?”

“Hard to say. Maybe Baker broke. Stress, remorse, guilt …”

Latham didn’t buy it; he knew who was responsible. “We’ve still got a lot of holes,” he said.

“I know. And you’ll get your chance, but for now I’ve agreed to put our investigation on hold until Justice can wrap up theirs. I don’t like it either, Charlie, but that’s where we stand.”

Latham nodded. “Okay.”

The director stood and extended his hand. “Thanks, Charlie. Harry.”

Latham and Owens headed for the door.

“You know,” the director called, “it just occurred to me: Too bad there’s not a way to keep our plate warm while Justice does it’s thing.”

Latham smiled at him. “Yes, sir.”

“Loose ends … background stuff — that sort of thing.”

“Yes, sir.”

The director shrugged, gave a dismissive wave of his hand. “Oh well, just thinking out loud.”

Back in the Owens’s office, Charlie said, “What the hell was that?”

“That,” Owens replied, “was everything and nothing.”

Translation: Dig if you want to, but stay away from Commerce. “What do you think?”

“Your case, Charlie. It’s got to be your choice. I can run some interference, but not for long.”

“I know.”

“On the other hand, we shouldn’t count on Justice to wrap up any time soon. If we’re right about the Guoanbu—and I know we are — every day that passes, the colder the trail gets.”

“I keep thinking about those little girls — taped up, tortured, watching their mother shot dead … My own girls were that age once. I want to get the sons-of-bitches, Harry.”

“When was the last time you took a vacation?”

“Last year, I guess.”

“Might be nice to get away for a while.”

“It might at that,” Latham replied.

Three hours later, Latham was sitting on his patio grilling some chicken when Bonnie poked her head out the screen door. “You’ve got a visitor.”

“Oh?”

Paul Randall stepped through the door. “Nice apron, boss.”

Latham looked down at his “Kiss the Cook” apron. “Bonnie’s mother gave it to me. It’s sort of grown on me.”

“Where’s your chef’s hat?”

“At the cleaners. Can I get you a drink?”

“I’ll take a beer if you’ve got one.”

Latham dug into a cooler and handed across a plain, brown bottle. Eyes narrowed, Randall removed the top, sniffed, then took a sip. “Not bad.”

“It’s straight from the Latham Basement Brewery.”

“I like it. So, what’s going on with the Baker case? We’re off it?”

“For the time being.”

“And suddenly you’re on vacation.”

Latham shrugged, said nothing,

“Want some company?”

“No, Paul.”

“Too late,” Randall replied with a grin. “Harry’s already signed off on it.”

Latham stared at him. It. would be nice to have some backup … “Should I bother arguing?”

“I wouldn’t.”

Latham reached over and clinked Randall’s bottle with his own. “Welcome to the club. Now we just have to figure out where to start.”

“I think I’ve got that covered. I got an abstract of Skeldon’s service record.”

“And?”

“About half of it was blacked out, but I know what he did for the army: He was a Lurp.”

“A what?” Latham asked.

“LRRP — Long Range Reconnaissance Patrol. The name is different now, but Skeldon was a Lurp through and through. Sixteen years’ worth.”

“Which means?”

“He’s got some pretty scary talents. Lurps are trained to go deep into enemy territory, stay hidden for months at a time, gather intell, then get back out again.”

“I guess that makes sense,” Latham said. “I doubt Baker was paying him for his raking skills. The question is, Why did Baker and the Guoanbu need a former U.S. Army commando?”

It was almost eleven p.m. when Samantha Latham left Swem Library and began walking toward her dorm. She had an early morning study group and another hour of reading before she could go to bed. She stifled a yawn and kept walking.

Dew was forming on the grass and she could feel the dampness seeping through her canvas sneakers. In the distance she could see the lighted windows in Rogers Hall. What she wouldn’t give to have a room in Rogers; instead of having to trudge all the way back to Chandler, she’d already be in bed. Well, maybe next year …

She reached the path bordering Rogers, followed it to the end, then around the corner to Landrum Road. To her right, a couple hundred yards away, she could see the lights of Chandler.

Almost home.

She looked down the road, saw no cars coming, and started across.

Samantha would never remember which sensation registered in her brain first, the sound of the engine revving, or the glare of headlights washing over her, but in those last few seconds, as she saw the dark shape rushing toward her, she thought, He doesn’t see you. Run, Sammie, quick …

She was taking her first running step when the front bumper touched her.