The Directive (27 page)

I EXPECTED THE
full spectacle of the Washington scandal to swallow me up. The press vans would swarm my house. The FBI would fan out, rounding up every corrupt official, pulling all the hard drives and files from Bloom’s offices, slowly working its way up from her goons to the paymasters in high places who had helped her get away with it all. I pictured the resignations and press conference denials; pictured photographers kneeling on the Senate floor as the investigation reached its peak; pictured the perp walks as justice was served.

But there was none of that. Instead, at an afternoon press conference, Emily Bloom stood flanked by an assistant attorney general, a US Attorney, and a Secret Service agent as they announced their success in one of the largest money-laundering cases in the history of the Department of Justice. It was a shining example of the effectiveness and efficiency of private-public partnerships in law enforcement.

That was the price I paid for my life, for Annie’s, for my father’s. I managed not to be sick when I watched it on TV. For months, as I watched this all unfold, witnessed Bloom work her magic as she papered over the truth, I couldn’t shake that unclean feeling, like oil on my skin.

There were questions and rumors and hints at deeper secrets, of course, but soon it was election season. There were more important stories: the president’s dog passed away. The usual obsession with political tactics, one-upmanship, and winning the day filled the papers. The press moved on.

Clark was sentenced to two years in a prison without fences, which destroyed his reputation. I didn’t know you could bet completely wrong on the markets and still be convicted of insider trading. It didn’t speak well to his skills as an investor, but given everything I knew about Wall Street, I assumed it would be about six years before people once again started handing him their money.

I tended to avoid Bloom on the dinner party circuit, but I kept up the threat. Lynch had to answer for the murder on the Mall or else I would take us all down. She told me she had it taken care of.

Lynch retired from the Bureau right after the Fed job and moved to New Mexico. There had been an investigation of him at Justice, supposedly. Asking around, I learned that his case had been “sent to Florida”—handed off to an agent or assistant US Attorney who was due to retire in a year or two. He’d be told something like:
Here’s the folder, don’t kill yourself on it. One call a week and memo it to the file. If anyone asks, “We don’t comment on ongoing investigations.”
That bought them time for everyone to forget what had happened.

I wouldn’t let up. Then Bloom sent me the clipping. Lynch had been shot and killed during a robbery at a gas station around the corner from his house. There were no suspects and no leads. His passing was very convenient for her, but as she had once told me, these things have a way of working themselves out.

I didn’t ask.

This was politics, the efficient alignment of power and interests, and it was a terrifying thing to see up close.

I knew that victory in the real world could feel like defeat. I would do what I always did: put my head down and get back to long hours of hard work, doing what good I could do.

THAT WOULD ALL
come later. That first day of freedom after the heist, after dealing with Jack on the waterfront in Alexandria, all I felt was relief. I had pulled a job I had initially thought was impossible. I’d survived, escaped the fall they’d laid out for me, and turned the trap back on Lynch and Bloom and Clark. And I was prouder than I care to admit that I had gone head-to-head with Jack and outconned him. My family was safe. I was out. All I wanted was to return to sweet, boring workaday life, exploring the finer points of QuickBooks with my accountant neighbor, dragging my trash cans to the curb, and holding Annie on the couch as she fell asleep during a movie.

But after sending Jack off at the docks, I had one more job to do.

I drove fast and made it there by ten. I circled along the fence to the side gate near the creek. The latch wasn’t much trouble. I reached through the bars and shimmed it from the inside. The owner probably wasn’t too concerned about people getting through, because it was a lethal place for trespassers.

I picked my way through the woods around the property, waiting for them to strike. They made no noise. I had to hope I could catch their glowing eyes before they closed their jaws on my throat.

But I had a secret this time. I walked past the outbuildings. It was familiar ground. I was on the open lawn, near the pools and tennis courts. I had never consciously cased the property, but old habits die hard, so in my mind I had a ready map of the security lights and motion sensors. I worked a circuitous route through the blind spots.

First I heard the panting breath of the dogs, then the fast drumbeat of their feet on the ground. A hundred pounds of sleek muscle and teeth shot toward me. Their eyes flashed like coins in the night.

“Hutz!” I commanded.

In an instant they sat, waited for me to approach, then licked my fingers like family dogs. I continued on, and they loped beside me in a silent pack as I neared the house. I guess that day I had spent hanging out with Jürgen the dog trainer hadn’t been such a waste of time after all.

There were only a few lights on in the massive house. I saw figures moving, but they weren’t who I was after. The place was a fortress, alarmed and secured with Medeco cylinders all around. I didn’t have tools, but that didn’t matter. I had an inside man.

I circled to the rear of the house, bounced a few pebbles off a high window, then tinked a few more.

The light came on. A black silhouette appeared.

“Annie,” I said.

The window was closed. She couldn’t hear me. I found an inside corner near the spa room. I stepped onto a window ledge, then grabbed a lantern and hoisted myself up, then onto a first-story roof. I climbed across the tiles and dormers, and from there it was an easy haul to Annie’s window.

I tapped on the glass three times. “It’s Mike.”

The window opened. And there was my bride, with a cricket bat over her shoulder, ready to strike.

“It’s me, hon,” I said. “Sorry I surprised you.”

She leaned the bat against a vanity, reached out and hugged me hard for a minute, then eased up and pressed her face against mine.

I took her hand and led her onto the roof. We sat side by side. She leaned against me, laced her fingers between mine.

“You know we have a front door, right?”

“Your grandma’s been intercepting my calls.”

“I could strangle her.”

“There’s been enough of that sort of thing. I couldn’t deal with her right now, so I came around the back.” Armed guards, gold vaults, and psycho killers, no problem, but I couldn’t face down Vanessa.

“Probably a good idea. Between today and your performance at the shower, you’re non grata. I’m not in much better shape. She couldn’t believe it about Dad. I had to give her some tough love.”

“How’d she take it?”

“Shock, cunning retreat. She’s probably planning her revenge.”

“Your Dad okay?”

“Do you want him to be okay?”

“I don’t want the bastard to get killed.”

“He’s taking a deal.”

I nodded. “That’s good. There’s going to be a lot of compromises, but we can make some real good come from all this, bring your father’s clients to justice.”

We were silent for a moment, tracing the constellations over the black contours of the Blue Ridge. I’d never gotten over how many stars you could see out here.

“Annie, I kept you in the dark. You were right about Jack. I thought I could bring everyone together. I thought if I worked hard enough, somehow I could fix everything, fix the past, fix our families, fix Jack.”

“You were doing what you thought you needed to do. And it’s a good thing that you try, that you have that hope.”

“I wanted to talk to you about everything. It’s stupid, but I was worried I would disappoint you or scare you off. Everything that happened, the violence with our old boss, it got so out of control. I never wanted you to see me like that. I never wanted to be like that. It’s not me. It’s not my nature.”

“I know. You don’t scare me, Mike. Just let me in next time. I can handle it. It’s what I want, what I signed up for. All of you. You don’t have to protect me.”

“I’ve noticed. You’re pretty good behind the wheel. Thanks for saving my ass.”

“Don’t worry about it. I’m sorry about my father. Jesus, I don’t even know where to begin. Is that why he was being nice to you recently?”

“Yes. I knew something was up. It was misdirection. He could finally relax because he’d figured out how to destroy me.”

“You’re lucky you signed that prenup,” she said. “The Clarks are broke.”

I laughed with her, pulled her in close and pressed my lips to her temple. She put her hand in mine.

“What are you thinking?” she asked.

“What I’ve been thinking since the first time I met you. I nearly blurted it out in the middle of the conference room. ‘I love you. Let’s get married. Run away with me.’ ”

“Yes,” she said.

I looked at her.

“Thanks. I was worried about whether this whole thing was still a go. You can take your time. I’m just glad you’re talking to me.”

“No. I’m saying let’s go. Right now. We’ll drive through the mountains, find a place to stay, look up a justice of the peace or a chapel in the morning.”

“Are you serious?”

She punched me in the arm. “You’re going to sneak up to a girl’s window like that and not elope with her? Have some class, for God’s sake.”

“You asked for it,” I said.

She gave me a suspicious look. “So this wasn’t your plan when you came out here?”

I ducked it. She could see right through me.

“What about the wedding?” I asked.

“We can still do something like that if we want. There’ll be time to sort it out. But this will just be you and me. Our thing.”

I stood and helped her to her feet. “I love it. Let’s go.”

She smiled, then leaned in for a long kiss. “You’re in for it,” she said. “And if you think I’m going to take it easy on you just because of a little gunshot wound, you’d better think again.”

Maybe I wouldn’t make it out of this alive. I led her from the roof to the gable, then guided her steps as we climbed down the windows. I caught her as she jumped down, then held her to me, my co-conspirator.

We ran across the lawns and through the thick stands of trees, headed for the river and my Jeep. For a moment, I lost her in the shadows. Then she took my hand and pulled me into the night.

Thanks to my wife, Heather, a continual inspiration who stayed up late many nights fleshing out the plot with me and gamely helped act out the fight scenes. And to our families for their enthusiasm and support. I’m particularly indebted to my mother, Ellen, who was my second set of eyes on every draft.

For help and encouragement along the way, I’m grateful to Jeff Abbot, Marc Ambinder, Allen Appel, Arianne Cohen, Zoë Ferraris, Joseph Finder, Annie Lowrey, Justin Manask, Sommer Mathis, Mike Melia, Ben Mezrich, Peter Nichols, Roger Pardo-Maurer, James Patterson, Pradeep Ramamurthy, Cullen Roche, Kevin Rubino, Dan Wagner, Daniel H. Wilson, Matt Yglesias, Rafael Yglesias, International Thriller Writers, and Mystery Writers of America.

Steven Davis and Evan Macosko guided me on medical details. The advice and work of Deviant Ollam, Wil Allsopp, Kevin Mitnick, Marc Weber Tobias, Bruce Schneier, and Chris Gates at Lares Consulting were invaluable for the Fed break-in plot and the finer points of physical security. Gary Cohen and Doug Frantz helped with background on private intelligence and corporate espionage. John Dearie, Mike Derham, and several others who asked not to be named were kind enough to talk to me about Federal Reserve operations. I took a few liberties: the foil trick is slightly more complicated in practice; DC has a new evidence warehouse; and I changed the particulars of how the Board of Governors transmits the directive to the Fed’s New York trading desk.

I’m honored to have the backing of an absolutely first-rate team at Little, Brown and Hachette Book Group: Heather Fain, Miriam Parker, Amanda Lang, Tracy Williams, and everyone who helped get these books into readers’ hands. I would especially like to thank Wes Miller for his excellent revisions, Peggy Freudenthal and Chris Jerome for a great copyedit, and Marlena Bittner for her humor and the unbelievable job she did spreading the word about Mike Ford. I’m indebted to the foreign editors and translators on this series and the booksellers and readers who make this work possible.

My agent Shawn Coyne has been an essential partner, at my side from the first notion to the last page. My editor, Reagan Arthur, saved the day on this one with her patience and unerring judgment. This book wouldn’t have been possible without their guidance, and I’m incredibly lucky to have them in my corner.

Matthew Quirk studied history and literature at Harvard College. After graduation, he joined
The Atlantic
and spent five years at the magazine reporting on a variety of subjects including crime, private military contractors, the opium trade, terrorism prosecutions, and international gangs. He is the author of
The 500
. He lives in Washington, DC.

The 500

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