The Directive (7 page)

I WASN’T GOING
to turn him. At least he hadn’t been wearing a live wire, broadcasting back to the US Attorneys as I made my pitch. There was no easy way out of this. I should have just walked away.

I started to, and Sacks lifted his cell phone and dialed.

I stopped and turned. “Don’t call the prosecutor,” I said. Lynch was listening. Sacks was going to get himself killed.

“Don’t move,” he replied.

“You don’t understand.”

“I understand perfectly,” he said, then lifted his phone. “I’ve got one of them here. No. Right around the corner.”

He started walking toward the courts, walking directly toward Lynch while diming him out. He was ordering his own execution.

I ran and grabbed his arm.

“They’re listening,” I said, seething in his ear. He shoved me away. I held on, pulled him closer. “They’ll kill you. You’ve got to run.”

He stumbled toward me. I caught him under the arms and kept him from hitting the ground.

Something was wrong. He groaned and his whole body went tight. I held him up for a second, but all the strength went out of him as he crumpled.

It was just a little spot at first. I could barely notice it through the blue of his sweater, but it was growing fast.

I tried to keep him from falling. I bear-hugged him, held him up. The warmth spread. I felt it leach through my shirt.

I eased him down to one knee, then to the ground, and laid him on his back. I took off my jacket, tore the sleeve off my dress shirt and balled it into a compress. He’d been shot in the chest.

Half a dozen people walked by as he lay bleeding on the dirt. Lynch’s car had disappeared.

My phone rang.

Sacks stared at the sky, unbelieving. He mouthed the words “Oh my God” over and over, but with the hole in his lung he had no breath to speak with. Thanks to the traffic, the wind, and the idling tour buses, I hadn’t even heard a shot. Maybe they’d used a suppressor. I knew Sacks had told the police where to find me. I had to run. I might have time to get away, but that would mean letting this guy bleed out on the Mall.

I held the compress tight. “What’s the directive?” I asked.

He was too far gone to hear me, to give any sign.

Four Capitol Police walked toward me across Madison. I lifted my hand off the balled-up cotton, saw blood pool and spill down his chest, then pressed it back down.

“What’s going on here?” the lead cop shouted.

“This guy’s hurt,” I said as they gathered around. “I don’t know what happened. Here,” I took one by the arm and guided his hand to the compress.

“I’m an EMT,” I said. “I’ve got my kit in my car.”

I jogged toward the rows of parked cars, picked out an Escalade, and circled around it. Once out of sight behind the SUV, I ducked down and sprinted across the street toward the trees surrounding the National Gallery.

“Hey!” I heard the police yelling behind me. I kept moving toward Constitution. As I wiped the sweat from my forehead, I succeeded in painting my face with my bloody hand.

The police must have put the word out. Soon I had company: Metro PD drove past on Pennsylvania, then pulled a U-turn and came back at me with the siren screaming and some ground-shaking
whoomp
emanating from the bottom of the cruiser.

I wheeled toward the Metro entrance. One escalator was out of order, the other two clogged with the lunch rush. Washingtonians can be a little cranky about the rules for the Metro escalator. It’s stand right, walk left. I needed something faster, so I jumped onto the sheet metal between the escalators, eased myself down on two hands, and turned sideways onto my hip as I slid. I hadn’t noticed them as I sized up the slide, but as I shot down the incline, little steel discs bolted onto the metal slammed hard into my tailbone every eight feet. I shot off at the end, lost my footing, crashed face-first into the filthy red tiles, and came up running.

Metro police spread out from the other end of the station. The only thing I had going for me was that we were at a stop on the stepchild Yellow/Green line, which serves some of the poorer parts of DC. It only comes every fifteen minutes, and the cars and stations are always packed.

The flash of the red lights along the platform and a cold rush of air announced that a train was coming. I worked my way toward the front, and waited until the last minute. As the crowd surged toward the doors, I pushed back and darted into a dark corner past the escalators, where an elevator entrance was framed in greasy sheet metal.

The police held the train, and as I rose in the elevator I watched them begin to search the cars, barking orders into radios. The elevator doors opened aboveground. I expected a wall of blue. But the police were still arriving, and had only covered the escalators, fifty feet away. I stepped out.

I had seen my reflection in the wired glass of the elevator car, blood streaked across my face. I needed to get myself cleaned up. As I sprinted away from where the sirens wailed the loudest, I ducked between two of the street vendors’ trucks that worked the tourists around the Mall. I took a deep toke of generator smoke as I passed through, grabbed a sweatshirt and a bottle of water, then darted through traffic across Constitution and threw myself under the thickest shrubs I could find.

I emerged a minute later, my head wet but no longer smeared with blood, wearing a too-small sweatshirt that read “You Don’t Know Me” across the front. Underneath, my dress shirt was damp, lukewarm with Sacks’s blood. The entrance to the Sculpture Garden was fifteen feet away. Soon I was just another tourist puzzling over Louise Bourgeois’s spider.

My car was parked back near the courthouse, but returning there wasn’t an option. Soon enough the police would realize I hadn’t taken the Metro, and the dragnet would spread.

I peered through the gates and saw a patrol car parked on the opposite corner. I circled the Garden to the other side, waited for some Park Police on bikes to pass, then exited onto Madison. More cops were coming, motorcycles from one direction, cars from the other, men on foot fanning out between the museums. I was trapped.

A hand closed on my arm.

I turned. It was my brother.

The black Chrysler idled a few feet away. Jack moved toward it. Lynch sat in the driver’s seat. “I can get you out of here,” he said.

The police closed in. I could feel Sacks’s blood dry, tighten like scales on my skin. To all the world, I was the gunman. I knew I should raise my hands and surrender, trust my life to the laws I had sworn to uphold, the laws that had torn my family apart.

Or I could give myself to the killers who had just framed me. The black car waited, my only escape. The rear door swung open. I was innocent, but I’d seen enough to know that the truth no longer mattered.

Cops circled the block.

Jack jumped in and stretched out his hand to me.

The only way out was to go in deeper.

I stepped into the car.

LYNCH PULLED AWAY
, and I ducked low behind the tinted windows.

“You fucking shot him?” I said to Lynch.

“It’s more complicated than it seems,” Lynch said.

I turned on Jack. “And what are you doing with them?”

“I was right there, Mike. They picked me up. They can get us out of here.” He looked over to Lynch. I could see the black-and-purple bruise under the bandage on Jack’s temple, see the fear in him. “They’re here to help.”

“We’ll get you someplace safe,” Lynch said.

“Dupont.”

“What?”

“Take me to Dupont Circle,” I said, looking over the missed calls and texts from Annie. “Or else my fiancée will kill me herself and deprive you of the pleasure.”

I had to talk to her before the news hit, to explain things before every network painted me as a murderer. But there was more to it than that. If I was going to run, I wasn’t going to do it without her.

“There’s a lot of heat,” Jack said.

“Dupont,” I said, and tried to think of a place where I could shower in the middle of the day.

Lynch looked at me as if he was humoring a seven-year-old, then said, “Fine.”

At the cross street with Florida, I stepped out at the red light. Jack started to open his door after me, but Lynch stopped him and let me go.

“We’ll get you through this, Mike,” Lynch said to me as I walked away. “Don’t worry. Just remember: Don’t do anything rash. It never ends well.”

I made it to the Hilton. I’d bought some clothes at the first store I saw, some trendy urban-style skate-shop boutique, then showered and changed at the community pool behind Marie Reed Elementary.

As I crossed the lobby, I realized that my outfit of khakis and a plaid shirt looked less casual Friday and more rapper going mainstream. In the main ballroom, busboys cleared dessert plates and knots of judges and lawyers stood around talking.

I waved to Annie on the other side of the room. She was carrying a heavy piece of engraved crystal and holding court in a small circle of prosecutors and judges. As the other people she was talking to saw me approach, I could see the concern grow in their faces, as if they were witnessing a car crash. I gathered they understood the significance of my bailing on what looked like Annie’s big moment.

“Michael,” said an older intellectual-property lawyer I was friendly with. “You finally made it. You’re looking at the newest Copeland Pro Bono Service Award winner.” He raised his glass to Annie.

“Congratulations,” I said. “I’m so sorry I’m late. It was an emergency.”

I leaned in to kiss her on the cheek. She was as receptive as a cedar shingle.

“You okay?” she murmured.

“Yeah.”

“What the hell are you wearing?” she whispered through a false smile that reminded me, awfully, of her grandmother’s.

“I’ll explain.”

On a TV at the end of bar, the news played. An army of cops and EMTs had converged on the spot where I’d left Sacks.

Before I could get away, I was being introduced around. I shook the hands of the other men and women.

“—and this is Judge Gustafson. Only one in DC who actually writes his own opinions.”

They laughed. I noticed the blood still under my nails. I was about to shake hands with a judge from the court where I’d met Sacks. I stood there like an idiot, staring at my hand, then reached out for his. For the life of me, I don’t know what we talked about or how long we stood there. My mind was filled only with sirens and the image of Sacks as he bled on the ground.

I expected my face to be on the news any minute.

“I have to go,” I said, cutting off someone’s anecdote.

Annie looked at me:
What are you doing?

“I’ll walk you out,” she said. “Excuse me for one minute.”

We walked into the lobby.

“Where were you?” she asked. “I was stood up by my own fiancé. Do you know what that looks like? I’ve had it with whatever’s going on with you all of a sudden. And why are you dressed like that?”

“I’m sorry. You’re right. Jack’s in real trouble.”

“What’s going on?”

“Some guys are after him. They’re threatening him.”

I hadn’t had time to think this through. My instinct was to run. But could I ask her to leave her whole life behind at a moment’s notice? Could I tell her everything?

No. She was strong, a fighter, and even if I tried to keep her out of this, she wouldn’t let me face it alone. I couldn’t tempt her. I had to protect her from this.

“Is he hurt?” she asked. “Are you part of it? You need to go to the police.”

But Jack had tried to go to the police. Sacks had tried to go to the police. I looked at her, here in her element. I was so damn proud of her. What was I thinking? That we’d run? Live in motels? Holed up somewhere like Whitey Bulger and his girl, wearing bad dye jobs, counting down to our last dollars, blinds down and fighting over the remote for the rest of our lives?

My hand in my pocket, I felt the digital recorder I’d pulled out of Sacks’s pocket as he lay dying. Dried flakes of blood crumbled off it. Sacks could have handed me over to the US Attorney. Lynch had protected me. It made me sick. My mind ran in circles, all the ways I could escape, all the lies I could tell myself.

But there was no comfort in them. There was only one conclusion, however much I fought it. There was no way out. Lynch owned me. That’s why he had let me walk away from the car. He knew I had no choice. I couldn’t ask her to run. I had a life here. Annie had a life here. I had too much to lose.

“You’re right. I’ll take care of it. It’s all going to be fine,” I said, and kissed her. “I’m so proud of you. Go celebrate. You deserve it. I’m going to make sure Jack’s okay, give him some counsel, and that will be the end of it.”

She pressed her lips together. “You’d tell me if you needed help?”

“Yes.”

“Fine,” she said. “And no more trouble. I’m going to head back. Our managing partner invited me over to the Cosmos Club, one-on-one. He’s probably going to fire me for doing so much pro bono work.”

“I doubt that,” I said. “You’re a machine. Just keep doing your thing. Are we cool?”

“Give me a little time,” she said.

I kissed her on the cheek. She turned back toward the ballroom.

I walked through the café area and pocketed a steak knife. As I passed the entrance to the business center, a woman stepped out. I let her pass, then stuck my foot into the door just before it closed.

I sat down at a computer. I knew that one phrase—the directive—and I knew where Sacks worked. With those two facts it didn’t take long to find out what Lynch wanted. If you’re after the biggest score in the world, forget the banks. Go to the source of all the money, the banks’ bank, the Federal Reserve.

Every eight weeks or so, a committee gathers near the National Mall in a marble citadel known as the Board of Governors of the Federal Reserve. Twenty-five men and women sit at a long wooden table with an inset of black stone shined to a high gloss. By noon they decide the fate of the American economy. They don’t announce their plan publicly until 2:15 p.m.

The Fed decides, but it doesn’t dictate. The newspapers always talk about it setting the interest rates, but it can’t just issue edicts to the banks or force them to make cheap loans.

So, at the end of the meeting, that committee in DC issues a directive to the trading desk at the Federal Reserve Bank of New York. That one desk is the Fed’s gas and brake for the entire economy. The traders buy and sell to steer the markets according to Washington’s orders. Known on Wall Street simply as “the desk,” it has a four-trillion-dollar balance sheet, backing the value of all US currency and bank accounts, and trades billions of dollars’ worth of securities a day.

I looked at a photo of the most recent committee meeting. And there, in a chair against the back wall, half hidden behind a column, sat Jonathan Sacks, looking like the most junior guy in the room.

The directive was the playbook for the American economy. The committee had been flooding the country with easy money, hoping to kick-start growth. But at some point, that would have to end. And knowing when the music would stop could earn you billions.

Lynch didn’t want a sneak peek at some bank’s earnings report. He was after the crown jewels of the Federal Reserve, and he wanted me to steal them.

I couldn’t run. I knew what I had to do.