The Kill Order (10 page)

14

S
ydney hefted her overnight bag on her shoulder as she and Griffin walked through the terminal. “Since I didn’t bring a car,” she told him, “you can pay for my taxi. When am I doing this sketch?”

“The sooner we have it, the safer she’ll be. So I hope you don’t mind if we forgo the taxi and I take you straight there?”

As much as she didn’t want to ride back with him, she agreed. The faster she did the sketch, the faster she could wash her hands of him. They walked out of the terminal and to the parking lot in silence.

“Where is she?” Sydney asked, once they were in the car and on the freeway.

“With Lisette. She’ll remain there until she goes into witness protection.”

“All because of those numbers?”

“And who she saw.”

“Who is this person?”

“We believe one of the key figures of the Network. Someone we’ve only heard about, but have never been able to trace.”

“How long have you been looking?”

“Over twenty years.”

“So before you even started. Is he part of this W2 investigation?”

“I have no idea. We have every reason to believe W2 and the Network are connected. And if he’s as important as some of our sources have led us to believe, he may be at the heart of it.”

Sydney glanced over at Griffin, who was watching the road. Suddenly she was very interested in who this person was, what he looked like. Especially if he was connected to the W2 case. And if it took doing a drawing for Griffin to get more answers, she was willing to suffer his presence.

“Do me a favor,” Griffin said, when they arrived at Lisette’s apartment. “Don’t mention the witness protection angle. We haven’t told the girl yet, and I’d rather not leave Lisette with the fallout.”

“I won’t say a word.”

“And watch your belongings. She has a habit of taking things that don’t belong to her.”

“Seriously?”

“I seem to be a few dollars short after having spent a couple of nights with her. She ripped off Tex as well.”

“I’ll keep it in mind.”

Lisette’s Washington, D.C., apartment was typical government fare for government agents who didn’t spend a lot of time in the area. A prefurnished abode with no personality whatsoever. In fact Sydney had lived in one very similar when she’d first moved here. She’d hated it. The apartment didn’t seem to bother Lisette, who welcomed Sydney, kissed her on both cheeks, then drew her into the room to introduce her to Piper, who was watching TV.

The girl was not what Sydney had expected. Although her clothing seemed normal, blue pants and a pale pink shirt, her hairstyle had more of a punk rock look, short black hair with pink spiked tips. She also noted the slight mark on her eyebrow and lip, which had apparently once sported piercings. It seemed to Sydney a façade that did little to hide the vulnerable young girl beneath. “Hi. I’m Sydney. I’ll be doing the sketch with you.”

“Hi.” Piper rose, then stood there awkwardly for a few seconds.

Not sure what to say to the girl, Sydney walked to the dinette area. “Okay if I set up here on the kitchen table?”

“Probably the best place,” Lisette said, then glanced at Griffin. “Since you’re here, it’ll give me a chance to run a few errands. Marc’s taking a nap.”

“Have at it.”

“Make yourself at home,” Lisette told Sydney. “Fresh coffee’s in the pot and there are a few odds and ends in the refrigerator.”

After she left, Griffin pulled up a chair. “You don’t mind if I sit in, do you?”

“Feel free,” she replied, even though she did mind. It wasn’t her case, so it wasn’t like she had a say. Besides, if she wanted to find out who it was that was allegedly behind the whole W2 affair, probably best to mind her manners. He did not sit at the table, however, but pulled up his chair behind Piper so that she couldn’t see him while they worked. As Sydney had mentioned to Griffin in past sketches she’d done for him, there was less chance of outside influence when it came to recalling faces if the witness was not looking at one directly. To the same end, Sydney had Piper face her chair toward the wall, then explained the process, how long it would take, usually several hours, adding, “I will, however, have you go over things that happened well before the crime, as it’ll help bring out the more salient details you might miss otherwise.”

“Cognitive interview techniques,” Piper said.

Sydney, in the middle of arranging her pencils, eraser, and sketchbook on the table, looked up. “Yes. How did you know?”

“I remember things exceptionally well. It’s from a book I read on investigation techniques in college.”

“Not quite what I’d expect from someone of your age.”

“I like to read. So, where would you like me to begin?”

She was, Sydney realized, remarkably calm, although Sydney sensed a fragileness about her, as though it were all a façade that would crack at any moment. For that reason alone, she didn’t want to say the word
murder
, and so simply replied, “An hour before . . .” and let her fill in the blank.

“I was getting dressed, getting ready to visit my friend Bo. I sort of had a crush on him, so I put on my best black jeans.” Her face relaxed, as though the memory was pleasant, and, in comparison, it probably was. And without Sydney even directing her, she supplied the necessary details that Sydney would normally ask about. “It was around eight in the evening, and the weather was cold outside, in the upper forties. I remember thinking I should have brought a coat, but once I got on the bus, I wasn’t cold anymore.” She detailed the remainder of her activities, how she stole a pack of cigarettes, and then believed the man had called the police on her, adding that “I thought I saw him—the guy from the bus—talking to two men as I walked down the street toward Bo’s. It wasn’t him, though. I—I walked past them, not thinking that, well, anything was off. I mean, something was, but not anything like this. And then I went inside the shop where Bo works. He lives over it. That’s where I was when he was shot. I didn’t see that.”

“At what point did you see this man’s face? Brooks?”

“Right after the driver called him back to the car. He looked over at me just before I crossed the street.”

“That’s the moment I want you to remember.”

She nodded.

And so it began, much like every other drawing Sydney had done; she asked the basics, height, weight, general description, then on to the shape of the man’s face, his eyes, nose, mouth, and she took notes, jotting them down in the upper right corner, so that she could refer back as she worked. He was, according to Piper, about six feet tall, mid to late fifties, gray hair. The next step Sydney took was to draw an outline of the man’s face on the paper. She turned it toward Piper, who examined it, then looked quickly up and to the side, then back, saying, “His jawline is narrower, the face itself shorter. He was handsome. For a guy with gray hair.”

Sydney hid her surprise at the speed with which the drawing progressed. The process was usually much slower, quite often more generic, as her witnesses, even the most articulate of them, had difficulty describing what they saw. Sydney had her own theory on someone who was too helpful, too exact, but she tucked that thought away, as Piper proceeded to describe his eyes, nose, and mouth with equal precision. Sydney dutifully sketched, turned the sketchbook for Piper to see after finishing each step, then taking the directions on what needed to be changed. And she wondered what Griffin might be thinking at this point. Even he must surely realize that something wasn’t quite right. This was too easy, she decided, once again turning the sketchbook toward Piper, who shook her head. “The nose is wrong.”

At last, some changes, a mistake
, she thought, then asked, “What would you do to change this?”

Piper clasped her hands in her lap, indicating her reluctance to comment.

“You won’t hurt my feelings,” Sydney told her. “I assure you. The drawing is only as good as the witness.”

“The nose should be longer, the bridge of it narrower.” She pointed to the paper. “Here,” she said, indicating with her fingertip where she thought the nose should end.

And Sydney drew. They finished in less than an hour, a record in her experience, since the average drawing took three.

She held up the completed sketch, asking, “Is there any final change you’d make to this that might help?”

“No.”

“On a scale of one to ten . . .”

“Eight-ish? It’s probably as close as I can describe, without actually drawing it myself—one thing I am not good at.” Piper paused, as though trying to decide what she should say next.

“I think we’re done, then. Thanks for your time.”

The young woman looked at Griffin. “Is there anything else you need me for? I was thinking about taking a nap.”

“If there is, I’ll let you know. Thanks, Piper.”

She gave one last look at the sketch, then left.

When Sydney heard the door close, she turned to Griffin. “Something’s not right.”

He picked up the sketchpad, examining the drawing. “How so?”

“In my entire career, the few sketches I’ve done that were finished that fast, they turned out to be lies. The witnesses had made up the details in their heads.”

“I don’t believe that to be the case here.”

“Why not?”

“She has special talents.”

“Her exceptional memory that she mentioned?”

“Not exceptional. Eidetic.” He handed the sketchbook back to her.

“Eidetic? As in she recalls everything she reads?”

“Everything.”

“And what is it she’s read that has you so worried?”

“The numbers you copied.”

“Does that mean they’re not numbers to offshore bank accounts?”

“They are not.”

“Then what are they for?”

“I can’t tell you. It’s classified.”

“Why am I not surprised?”

“I can tell you this. If anyone knows she has this skill and what she saw? She’s in a lot more danger than just being a witness to a murder.”

15

The White House

Washington, D.C.

I
n hindsight, McNiel wished he’d never informed them of Piper’s existence, or turned in his report on her. But then who could have foretold that she might very well be instrumental in bringing down one of the most sought-after espionage agents in recent history? Or that she’d be the link to a code they’d worked so hard to keep out of anyone’s hands ever since they’d learned of its existence? All he could do now was damage control. And pray their only concern was for how this latest incident affected national security—not that ATLAS was indirectly the cause of her being placed in this position to begin with. He glanced over at the president, trying to read his expression, but the man’s face was a blank slate.

McNiel finished detailing what the girl had seen on the computer, but nothing about
who
she had seen, or that they were doing a sketch of the suspect. He had his reasons for that, and his search for Brooks wasn’t necessary for the purposes of
this
meeting. What was important was the girl’s eidetic memory, and he explained why he’d left it off the written report. “In light of what she may have seen on that computer,” he explained, “I firmly believe that what we know about her and what she is now carrying in her head needs to stay in this room.”

“Worst case scenario,” Roy Santiago, the assistant deputy director of national intelligence, said, when McNiel finished. “If this girl falls into enemy hands?”

“She won’t,” McNiel said. “We’re placing her in witness protection. The arrangements have already been made. They’ll be picking her up this afternoon.”

President Evanston looked directly at McNiel. “But if she does?”

“Worst case?” General Woodson said, before McNiel could answer. “She could start World War Three.”

“An exaggeration, don’t you think?” McNiel said.

“Hardly,” Woodson replied. “Let’s say you’re one of our allies, and you find out that we’ve been looking at every national secret that’s ever passed through your country’s databanks these last couple decades—”

“Seriously?” Santiago said. “Everyone’s spying on everyone else. I don’t see our allies suddenly turning this into an issue worthy of declaring war.”

“Nor do I,” McNiel said, somewhat surprised to see Santiago siding with him.

General Woodson, however, was a different matter. He dumped a packet of sweetener into his coffee cup. “I’m talking about our
declared
enemies, and the countries that are
un
declared, the wobbler countries who are just waiting for a reason to turn on us. What about when
they
find out we’ve been spying on them for X number of years? Watching their every digital move? And what about when the news gets out and the good voting citizens start figuring out how many times we’ve had to look the other way on certain attacks, all to keep these other countries from knowing what we know without letting on that we’ve been monitoring the lot of them for years?”

“What attacks did we know about?” Santiago asked.

“That’s not important,” Woodson continued. “What is, is that for the last two decades we’ve managed to convince the world that us having a backdoor entry into the world’s computer banks is one big conspiracy theory. A
theory
right up there with Washington, D.C., being built on a giant pentagram, directly atop a Masonic treasure. And now this girl could blow it wide open.”

“How?” McNiel asked. “She doesn’t even know what she’s seen.”

“Doesn’t matter. We might be the only ones who know what’s in her head, but others are probably thinking she could have a
copy
of this thing tucked away. They may be after her right now.”

Truer words were never spoken. Not that McNiel was about to admit to it. “
Nobody
besides us knows about her.”

“Nobody?
Somebody
was running a half-functional version of that program, or they wouldn’t have discovered her friend to begin with. They don’t call that thing the Devil’s Key for nothing. You want to chance that they’ll pick her up and put it together?”

McNiel didn’t like the direction this conversation was taking. “Of course not.”

“Then you have one choice,” General Woodson said. “Make sure she never reveals what she knows. Standing kill order.”

“Kill her? She’s barely an adult.”

“And what?” Woodson said. “You’ve suddenly grown a conscience?”

“Unlike you, I never lost mine.”

“No. Which is why I’m able to make the tough decisions that don’t allow our country to be placed in danger. Or are you forgetting what put us in this position to begin with?”

“Enough!” President Evanston said. “We’re not going to run around assassinating girls who are barely old enough to vote.”

“She’s the equivalent of a suicide bomber,” Woodson said. “One life versus how many? We can keep her contained, and we’re fully prepared to take action, should the unthinkable occur.”

The president looked right at McNiel. “He’s right. I think the military
is
better equipped to handle this sort of thing. Turn her over to them.”

“Sir—”

“That’s an order.” He turned to Woodson. “I’m counting on you to keep her safely contained.”

“We won’t let you down. But should the unthinkable happen?”

“I do not want her in the hands of our enemies. Not with what she’s carrying in her head. If that should happen—and I expect you to make sure it does not—you have the kill order.”

“Sir,” McNiel said. “She’s a girl. A victim of a crime, in fact. Witness protection is far better suited than a military prison.”

“Witness protection? We’re talking about a threat to national security. You, of all people should realize that such a program is fine for the usual criminal. It is
not
suitable in this instance.”

McNiel gathered up his papers. “We’ve used it successfully in the past,” he argued. “Why should this case be any different?”

The president was quiet a moment, then looked at Woodson. “Your opinion?”

“I know I argued otherwise . . .” Woodson eyed McNiel. “As much as this goes against my better judgment, she is, as Director McNiel said, practically a kid. God knows she’d be better off in a more normal environment.”

President Evanston leaned back in his seat as he contemplated the matter. “McNiel. If
anything
happens to her, it’s not only your head that will roll. It may very well be the end of ATLAS. There’s already a report being circulated about what agencies we can eliminate over the budget crisis, and ATLAS was one of them.”

Which moved the rumors that they were trying to shut down ATLAS to near-confirmation. Still, he couldn’t just hand the girl over, not when her life was at stake. “Understood.”

At the conclusion of the meeting, McNiel left without stopping to talk to anyone, and had just exited the building when he heard someone calling him. “McNiel!”

He turned to see Parker Kane hurrying down the hallway. Kane worked for the CIA, but he had not been in the meeting. His classification wasn’t high enough, though McNiel had heard that was likely to change. Kane headed up a unit at the CIA that was similar to ATLAS, though not as far-reaching. It was the sort of experience the president was looking for, and he was considering Kane for appointment as the next deputy national security adviser. Probably a good choice, even though McNiel didn’t necessarily like the man.

“You have a minute?” Kane asked.

“Sure,” he said, wondering what on earth Kane wanted.

“I read the report from South San Francisco.”

“I wasn’t aware you had a copy.”

“I’m sure it was forwarded to me because of, well . . .”

“Right. Congratulations, by the way.” So the rumor of the appointment was true. It just wasn’t formally announced yet.

Kane looked at his watch. “I have to run. Before I go, I just wanted to say that if you need any help, I’ll make my office available to you.”

“I appreciate it.”

McNiel hailed a cab, glad for the unexpected support, from at least one person, but unable to ignore the feeling that he had not walked out of that meeting with the upper hand.

For Piper’s sake, and his team’s sake, he hoped he was wrong.