The End Game (21 page)

34

Chelsea, New York City

I woke to the sound of Gigi busying herself at a kitchen range which occupied the center of the large loft. The sofa bed in one corner of the huge open-plan space was surprisingly comfortable and the low partition walls around it, though far from reaching the high ceiling, made the contained area feel like a separate room. The main bedroom had proper walls and a suspended ceiling, though I was still pretty sure I’d heard Gigi’s muffled wails of ecstasy during the night.

We’d taxied back to her place well after midnight, after I’d retrieved the holdall. Gigi had insisted we stop for some Thai food on the way back and, seeing as I was her guest, I could hardly tell her otherwise. I also needed the nourishment.

Without turning on the main lights she’d gestured to the corner, told me to make myself at home, then pulled Kurt toward the bedroom. I unfolded the bed, opened a couple of the screens, took off my boots and jeans, fell onto the bed and was asleep in under a minute.

“Hey, you want bacon with your pancakes?”

By the sounds of it, breakfast was definitely going to be better than a motel muffin loaded with enough preservatives to survive into the next millennium.

Gigi’s head peered around one of the screens. “Wanna keep me company? I gave Kurt a major workout last night, so I doubt he’ll be up for a while.”

The wink only made it worse and I shuddered. “Gigi, seriously. Way too much information.”

She gave me a curious look, the mischief never buried too deep. “But you’re happy for him, right? I mean, I can tell you like him. When he told me about you, I thought you must be using him, but he was adamant that you were a team.”

“I’ll deny it if he asks me, but yes, I am fond of Cid. Or Snake. Or whatever avatar he’s using today.”

“Good. Because I’m kind of fond of him too. And I wouldn’t want anyone messing with him. He’s a doll. And a surprisingly generous lover—not many of those around, let me tell you.”

I gave her the look.

“OK, OK, sorry.” Her expression shifted, her eyes now probing me. “Tell me something. You promised my big boy a get-out-of-jail-free card in exchange for helping you out. Which, let me tell you, while he’s with me—he ain’t gonna need, I’ll make damn sure of that. But regardless—you’re not in any position to help anyone out now that you’ve joined the dark side, are you?”

She was right. But I wasn’t going to encourage it. I needed her and Kurt in my corner. I just looked at her, and said, deadpan, “And your point is?”

She just stared at me, not moving a single facial muscle, just expressionless. Then she burst into a big grin. “I’m just messing with you. Hell, I’m happy to do it just for the fun of it.” She pulled her face back and headed back toward the kitchen area. “Come on, Squidward. Your feast awaits.”

The loft took up the top floor of a six-story, early twentieth-century building a couple of blocks east of the highline. From what I saw when we arrived late last night, it looked pretty iconic with its elaborate brickwork and beaux arts touches. The living space was huge and bright, even on a cloud-dampened day like today, enhanced by the light from the full-height windows at the front and the glass doors that lead to a small, private garden-like terrace at the back that was further enhanced by a commanding view of the Empire State Building. I glanced down from the window of my enclave. The street was lined with high-end furniture stores and quirky fashion showrooms, all with big logo-bearing flags outside marking their territory. Directly across from the building was a restaurant whose name I recognized, one of those big, trendy brasseries that are always packed. Gigi was clearly doing very well for herself, which I was curious about.

I pulled on my jeans and ambled out into the open space. It was dominated by a massive steel table at its center that was covered in stacks of every flavor of personal computer, server and router imaginable but only a single Mac. I guess that was yet another thing Kurt and Gigi had in common—a hatred of all things Apple.

A high-tech, glass-fronted cabinet stood along the sidewall, lights blinking asynchronously across the faces of the shiny new kit bolted within. I had no idea what any of it did, but I assumed that some of it was what enabled Gigi to roam the Internet undetected.

“Careful,” she said as she appeared from the kitchen. “That’s some highly tuned machinery you’re looking at.”

She explained that it was her gateway to the digital world, and I quote, “running across multiple fiber connections and defended by myriad firewalls, each and every IP packet bouncing both internally through spoofed IP subnets then externally through POPs at random and constantly changing locations around the globe and back again before reaching their destination.”

I just nodded like I even understood ten percent of it. I glanced around, took in the space and the technology, and told her, “Nice.”

She gave me a curious glance. “I know, right? And I bet you’re wondering who’s paying for it all?”

“I wouldn’t presume,” I said with a smile.

“Just another classic tale of a black-hat hacker turned corporate security consultant. I tell banks how not to get compromised. In return, they pay me considerably less than if I were hacking their firewalls and moving funds into my own account, but it’s still some serious green and at least I don’t have your cyber-crime buddies on my tail. And yes, I’ve done that, though I never kept a cent. It was just a thrill, but the whole thing’s got a bit boring, which is why I’m enjoying all this black ops stuff Kurt and you are into.”

I was happy to hear it was all legal. I was rapidly becoming a fan of Kurt’s gal and, although she was still breaking into all kinds of secret databases—a lot of it for me—I was glad she wasn’t involved in anything else that could land her behind bars.

I followed her to the gleaming white island around which the rest of the kitchen was arranged. An industrial-strength laptop was open at one end, so I sat at the other. Gigi was wearing an oversize Metallica T-shirt and track-pants, her hair scrunched up pineapple-style. Without makeup or a costume, she still looked pretty damn good. Maybe even more so. Kurt’s toast had definitely landed jam side up.

Gigi set down two plates piled with pancakes, bacon and fruit, then brought over a cafetière and two white china mugs.

She pushed the plunger down and poured us some coffee. She took a sip from her mug and started tapping away at her laptop keyboard.

I asked, “Anything overnight?”

“You’re extremely hot right now.” She realized what she’d just said and blushed, something I wouldn’t have guessed she was capable of. “I’m talking about the chatter. You’re not my type, though.”

“Duly noted.” I steered the conversation back on track as I dug into the pancakes. “FBI? CIA? Any others?”

She smiled. “All of them. The NSA has been particularly animated. Everyone’s asking how a killer got himself invited to dinner at the White House. Somewhere, I suspect, heads are about to roll.”

I shook my head sadly. “I never did get Angus Beef with the truffle-scented Merlot sauce.”

“All served on official White House china,” Gigi added.

“Of course.”

“Wow. That sucks.” She pointed at my plate. “Try the bacon. I fry it in maple syrup. It’ll run rings around that Angus Beef any day.”

“I don’t doubt that for a second.” I took another sip of coffee and bit into a strip of bacon. I was impressed. She saw the look on my face, and it clearly pleased her.

“You’ll be glad to know that the cops have been told to back off,” she added. “There’s no BOLO. No all-ports. No all-agency alerts.”

“Nothing about a missing FBI agent?”

“Not that I saw.” She set her mug down and fixed me squarely. “So . . . what do we do now?”

I finished my mouthful. “There was something else. This guy called me. Like with a proper, ‘Deep Throat’ vibe. Not the movie,” I added. “I mean, not
that
movie.”

She grinned. “I kind of got that.”

“He told me he had information for me. Stuff he wanted me to put out there. A record of something he was involved in. He said that the last person he reached out to got burned to death. Said he told the guy not to look into it before they’d met, but he did. Said it was in his blood and that he couldn’t help himself.”

That seemed to get some wheels turning. “You have any idea who your source was?”

“He never showed. The way things are going, he might be dead too. But the guy he talked about, I’m thinking he could be an ex-cop, maybe a private investigator.”

She put down her fork and started tapping away at her laptop’s keyboard.

“Let’s see . . . died, fire, news, in the last—what, month maybe?”

I nodded.

She went back to work. “Limit results to US news sites . . . OK.” Her eyes were scrolling down the screen, totally fixated. “Greensboro woman dies saving her three kids in a house fire, guy dies jumping into a fire at Burning Man . . .”

This went on for about a minute, then her face lit up. “OK, try this one on for size. Kyle Rossetti. Writes these big investigative pieces for
The New York Times
,
HuffPo
,
Vanity Fair
—quite the action man. Embedded with the troops in Afghanistan, did a big piece on the Deepwater Horizon oil spill that earned him a Polk award. Hot, too. The good kind, I mean. Check him out.” She flipped the screen around so I could see his head shot. Yes, I had to concur: the man had a rugged face and a gaze that pretty much conveyed the extremes of human behavior he must have witnessed.

“And?”

She flipped the screen back, and the edges of her lips turned south. “Electrical fire in his apartment, a condo at 113th and Adam Clayton Powell Jr Boulevard. He burnt to death. About two weeks ago. Wife’s a nurse. She was on night shift.” She stabbed a strawberry half with her fork and looked over at me. “These guys really don’t like reporters.”

“Can you find the coroner’s report?”

She chortled. “Please.” A few clicks later, she was there, her eyes scrutinizing the screen like laser scanners. “‘Accidental Death.’” Her fingers were soon away again, rapid fire, stopping only long enough for her to fast-read something, then she was off again. I was awed by the coordination between her fingers, eyes and mind, her ability to assimilate and filter through information at warp speed. “Of course there’s several blogs claiming he was murdered for something he was writing about. CIA, Mossad, Putin. The usual suspects.”

I gulped down some coffee, thinking about what to do next. “Who was the fire investigator?”

“Dan Walsh. A fire marshal out of Battalion Twelve. That’s with Engine Thirty-five on Third Avenue.”

“Can you get me his home address?”

Gigi gave me a mocking stare. “You really need to get with the program, G-boy.”

I smiled. “Duly noted. Again.” I finished my last mouthful of pancake and set my fork down. “OK. Will you see what else you can dig up about Rossetti? I need to shower. I have a fire marshal to visit.”

“On a Sunday? Is nothing sacred to a rogue FBI agent?”

I had to smile at that. Then I remembered Lendowski’s phone. “Can you get into a locked BlackBerry?” Before she gave me a look that could wipe the data off a terabyte array, I added, “An FBI BlackBerry.”

A beatific expression lit up her face. Clearly I was about to make this a Sunday worth remembering.

35

Mamaroneck, New York

The scene outside Tess’s house was markedly busier. Two local patrol cars had joined a second FBI sedan now parked along her street. The Stingray van was still close by, of course, but they’d moved it an extra block away to try and attract less attention. Gallo and Henriksson had at least managed to agree on that single point: the need to keep the story quiet and avoid letting the press and the blogs get hold of it. Because of the controversy over the rampant eavesdropping and the failures in recent foreign policy, the intelligence community was already trying to live down a constant barrage of criticism. The negative publicity of an FBI agent murdering a CIA agent was something they were both keen to avoid.

Annie Deutsch was back outside the house, leant against her car, oblivious to the cold. After the big meeting earlier that morning she’d had a private sit-down with Gallo in his office and, after thanking him for his support, she’d lobbied hard to be reassigned to keep tabs on Tess, despite the fact that she and Lendowski had already failed at that task once. Gallo had initially resisted but he’d ended up relenting, willing to accord her a chance to redeem herself and find out what happened to her missing partner.

Four agents, assisted by members of the local police force, were canvassing the area around where Lendowski’s car was found. They’d yet to yield anything useful.

Deutsch had yet to confront Tess. Even though she knew Tess had lied to her after she’d come home last night, she needed to get through to her. She needed Tess to feel Deutsch could be trusted. She didn’t know what was going on, but she was sure that Reilly would need help, and she had to do everything she could to make sure she was there to offer it if—or rather, when—that time came.

She was thinking about how best to approach Tess when a number she didn’t recognize lit up the screen on her phone. It had a Virginia area code.

She took the call with her customary, “Annie Deutsch.”

“Agent Deutsch? Alejandro Fernandez. Virginia DFS, Manassas. I was told you’re taking Agent Aparo’s calls?”

It took her a couple of seconds to process what he was referring to: Virginia’s Department of Forensic Science. Aparo’s work cell had been rerouted to the switchboard at Federal Plaza, as had Reilly’s. She didn’t know where Manassas was.

“Yes, that’s right.”

“I’m calling with the lab results on the second bullet. Agent Aparo had asked me to keep him in the loop.”

“I’m sorry—the second bullet?”

“From the shooting in Arlington?”

Deutsch straightened up. “I wasn’t aware of this.”

“The bullet from the body, that one’s conclusive. It matches up to the Glock we found at the scene, the one registered to Sean Reilly. We recovered a second bullet, though. It was embedded in the wall of the garage. You weren’t told?”

“No.”

“OK. I assumed you’d want to know.”

Deutsch felt her pulse race. “Of course. What did you find out?”

“It’s fresh. Recent. Could easily have been fired around the time the shooting took place.”

“What else?”

“Not much. We don’t have a casing, and the bullet was too badly damaged by its impact to give us anything we can run through the database. One thing, though. It wasn’t from the same gun.”

A burst of adrenaline flooded through her. “You’re sure?”

“Absolutely. Reilly’s gun was a Glock. This slug's a forty-five. I’ve sent it over to the CFL in DC, but I doubt they’ll find anything we couldn’t.”

Deutsch thanked him and told him to keep her appraised of any further developments. She hung up and was still thinking about how much a second bullet could help Reilly’s case when a passing car distracted her momentarily.

She turned instinctively as her eyes were drawn to it. It was a white Toyota Prius with a single occupant, a man with a shaved head and thick, black-rimmed glasses. She couldn’t see him clearly, but the impression she got was of a rather effete man. He slowed a bit as he passed—basic human curiosity, she assumed—glancing at the house and the uniforms outside before driving on.

Sandman’s eyes registered every detail as he took in the scene outside Tess Chaykin’s house.

His mind working like a 3D scanner he mapped out the house’s relative location to its neighbors, its entrance and driveway, the positions of the law enforcement vehicles watching it. He was even sure he glimpsed Tess Chaykin at her window, looking down at her new reality.

He noted the FBI agent he’d read about in the most recent report Tomblin had sent him, Annie Deutsch. They had her phone on special watch now in case the CIA liaison’s read was correct and she had more vested in the case than she’d admitted.

He thought of ways to apply more pressure on Reilly. Chaykin was the obvious soft target, of course. So were Reilly’s son and Chaykin’s daughter. He already knew where they went to school, knew the ideal spots on the likely route they would be taking every morning. School would soon be out for the Christmas holidays, but for the time being, he had that option if he needed it.

He wondered about Deutsch. Was she a potential pressure point too? Not as powerful, to be sure. But it was a possibility.

He turned the corner and drove away, headed for the café where he’d slipped Aparo his final condiment. The omelet baguettes looked to die for, he mused, enjoying his little joke, and he was famished.

It was there that he received an email alerting him to two new assignments, there that he first started imagining how he would kill the highly talented Marcus Siddle and the slightly creepy Ralph Orford.