There was a knock at the door, and another young agent came in. “Dallas-Fort Worth,” he said handing over a fax sheet. “The signatures match. He came in there and took a late flight to New York-La Guardia, got in after midnight local time on Friday. Probably caught the Shuttle down to D.C. to meet Moira. They’re still checking.”
“Beautiful,” Murray said. “He’s got all the moves. Where’d he come in from?”
“Still checking, sir. He got the New York ticket at the counter. We’re talking with Immigration to see when he passed through customs control.”
“Okay, next?”
“We have prints on him now. We have what looks like a left forefinger on the note paper he left Mrs. Wolfe, and we’ve matched that with the credit receipt from the airline counter at Dulles. It was tough, but the lab guys used their lasers to bring ’em out. We sent a team to The Hideaway, but nothing yet. The cleanup crew there is pretty good – too damned good for our purposes, but our guys are still working on it.”
“Everything but a picture on the bastard. Everything but a picture,” Murray repeated. “What about after Atlanta?”
“Oh, thought I said that. He caught a flight to Panama after a short layover.”
“Where’s the AmEx card addressed to?”
“It’s in Caracas, probably just a letterdrop. They all are.”
“How come Immigration doesn’t – oh.” Murray grimaced. “Of course his passport is under a different name or he has a collection of them to go with his cards.”
“We’re dealing with a real pro. We’re lucky to have gotten this much so fast.”
“What’s new in Colombia?” he asked the next agent.
“Not much. The lab work is going nicely, but we’re not developing anything we didn’t already know. The Colombians now have names on about half of the subjects – the prisoner says he didn’t know all of them, and that’s probably the truth. They’ve launched a major operation to try an’ find ’em, but Morales isn’t real hopeful. They’re all names of people the Colombian government’s been after for quite a while. All M-19 types. It was a contract job, just as we thought.”
Murray checked his watch. Today was the funeral for the two agents on Emil’s protection detail. It would be held at the National Cathedral, and the President would be speaking there, too. His phone rang.
“Murray.”
“This is Mark Bright down at Mobile. We have some additional developments.”
“Okay.”
“A cop got himself blown away Saturday. It was a contract job, Ingrams at close range, but a local kid popped a subject with his trusty .22, right in the back of the head. Killed him; they found the body and the vehicle yesterday. The shooter was positively ID’d as a druggie. The local cops searched the victim’s – Detective Sergeant Braden – house and found a camera that belonged to the victim in the Pirates Case. The new victim is a burglary sergeant. I am speculating that he was working for the druggies and probably checked out the victim’s place prior to the killings, looking for the records that we ultimately found.”
Murray nodded thoughtfully. That added something to their knowledge. So they’d wanted to make sure that the victim hadn’t left any records behind before they’d taken him and his family out, but their guy wasn’t good enough, and they killed him for it. It was also part of the murder of Director Jacobs, additional fallout from Operation TARPON. Those bastards are really flexing their muscles, aren’t they? “Anything else?”
“The local cops are in a pretty nasty mood about this. First time somebody’s put a hit on a cop that way. It was a ‘public’ hit, and his wife got taken out by a stray round. Local cops are pretty pissed. A drug dealer got taken all the way out last night. It’ll come out as a righteous shoot, but I don’t think it was a coincidence. That’s it for now.”
“Thanks, Mark.” Murray hung up. “The bastards have declared war on us, all right,” he murmured.
“What’s that, sir?”
“Nothing. Have you back-checked on the earlier trips Cortez made – hotels, car rentals?”
“We have twenty people out there on it. Ought to have some preliminary information in two hours.”
“Keep me posted.”
Stuart was the first morning appointment for the U.S. Attorney, and he looked unusually chipper this morning, the secretary thought. She couldn’t see the hangover.
“Morning, Ed,” Davidoff said without rising. His desk was a mass of papers. “What can I do for you?”
“No death penalty,” Stuart said as he sat down. “I’ll trade a guilty plea for twenty years, and that’s the best deal you’re going to get.”
“See ya’ in court, Ed,” Davidoff replied, looking back down at his papers.
“You want to know what I’ve got?”
“If it’s good, I’m sure you’ll let me know at the proper time.”
“May be enough to get my people off completely. You want ’em to walk on this?”
“Believe that when I see it,” Davidoff said, but he was looking up now. Stuart was an overly zealous defense lawyer, the United States Attorney thought, but an honest one. He didn’t lie, at least not in chambers.
Stuart habitually carried an old-fashioned briefcase, the wedge-shaped kind made of semi-stiff leather instead of the newer and trimmer attaché case that most lawyers toted now. From it he extracted a tape recorder. Davidoff watched in silence. Both men were trial lawyers and both were experts at concealing their feelings, able to say what they had to say, regardless of what they felt. But since both had this ability, like professional poker players they knew the more subtle signs that others couldn’t spot. Stuart knew that he had his adversary worried when he punched the play button. The tape lasted several minutes. The sound quality was miserable, but it was audible, and with a little cleaning up in a sound laboratory – the defendants could afford it – it would be as clear as it needed to be.
Davidoff’s ploy was the obvious one: “That has no relevance to the case we’re trying. All of the information in the confession is excluded from the proceedings. We agreed on that.”
Stuart eased his tone now that he had the upper hand. It was time for magnanimity. “You agreed. I didn’t say anything. The government committed a gross violation of my clients’ constitutional rights. A simulated execution constitutes mental torture at the very least. It’s sure as hell illegal. You have to put these two guys on the stand to make your case, and I’ll crucify those Coast Guard sailors when you do. It might be enough to impeach everything they say. You never know what a jury’s going to think, do you?”
“They might just stand up and cheer, too,” Davidoff answered warily.
“That’s the chance, isn’t it? One way to find out. We try the case.” Stuart replaced the player in his briefcase. “Still want an early trial date? With this as background information I can attack your chain of evidence – after all, if they were crazy enough to pull this number, what if my clients claim that they were forced to masturbate to give you the semen samples that you told the papers about, or were forced to hold the murder weapons to make prints – I haven’t yet discussed any of those details with them, by the way – and I link all that in with what I know about the victim? I think I have a fighting chance to send them home alive and free.” Stuart leaned forward, resting his arms on Davidoff’s desk. “On the other hand, as you say, it’s hard to predict how a jury’ll react. So what I’m offering you is, they plead guilty to twenty years’ worth of whatever charge you want, with no unseemly recommendation from the judge about how they have to serve all twenty – so they’re out in, say, eight years. You tell the press that there’s problems with the evidence, and you’re pretty mad about that, but there’s nothing you can do. My clients are out of circulation for a fairly long time. You get your conviction but nobody else dies. Anyway, that’s my deal. I’ll give you a couple of days to think it over.” Stuart rose to his feet, picked up his briefcase, and left without another word. Once outside, he looked for the men’s room. He felt an urgent need to wash his hands, but he wasn’t sure why. He was certain that he’d done the right thing. The criminals – they really were criminals – would be found guilty, but they wouldn’t die in the electric chair – and who knows, he thought, maybe they’ll straighten out. That was the sort of lie that lawyers tell themselves. He wouldn’t have to destroy the careers of some Coast Guard types who had probably stepped over the line only once and would never do so again. That was something he was prepared to do, but didn’t relish. This way, he thought, everybody won something, and for a lawyer that was as successful an exercise as you generally got. But he still felt a need to wash his hands.