The Kill Order (25 page)

“Why?” she asked, looking around. They still had to take a train to the airport.

“There are government agents watching the trains. Leo has just informed me that they are searching for a group. Two women, one man. We think they took the names from the passenger list at the Venice airport. Yours, Lisette’s, and Piper’s.”

“What about me?” Piper said, hearing her name.

Marc ignored her, and in Italian asked Giustino, “The U.S.? Any particular branch?”

“The military.”

Lisette glanced at Marc, saw the worry in his eyes. The military was the one instructed to carry out the kill order.

Which meant there were two groups after Piper, and she glanced at the girl, suddenly wondering if this capacity for memorizing things carried over to languages. But Piper, thank God, did not seem to understand Italian, as Marc said, “The military wants her dead, and the Network wants her alive. Either way, this is not good. Maybe we should come up with a different plan.”

“Perhaps not,” Giustino said. “Your flight leaves before the Venice flight. They can’t possibly have discovered the names
you
are traveling under, since they’ve never been used before. No one outside the four of us knows of them.” In fact, their passports were brand-new, the names clean, the photos only added that morning by a trusted specialist that Giustino regularly used. No electronic data had ever been passed. And, as an extra precaution, Lisette’s plane ticket had been purchased separately from Marc’s and Piper’s, in case they were searching for groups of three.

Marc surveyed the terminal as he handed two of the train tickets over to Giustino. “You take Lisette. I’ll take Piper. When we get to the airport, stay behind us, watch for anything unusual. We meet on the plane.”

Giustino nodded, then drew Lisette with him. Neither spoke until they were on the train to Fiumicino, in a different car from Marc and Piper. Finally Lisette leaned toward him. “What if we don’t make it?”

“You must not think like that. You will.”

42

San Francisco, California

T
he long night was wearing on Griffin. Though they could have flown directly into Sacramento, he and Sydney took a late flight into San Francisco.

After spending the night at Doc’s, they were on the road to Sacramento by eight that morning and pulling up in front of the
Sacramento Weekly Review
by eleven.

The editor, Bob Michaels, a man in his sixties, with a crown of white hair and a craggy face, wore gray slacks and a white dress shirt, but no tie. He asked them back to his office, a room with a window that overlooked the freeway.

“Sorry about the mess,” he said, pushing aside a stack of papers on his desk, along with a half-eaten bagel. “Deadlines. Gets a little hectic around here. Coffee?”

“No thanks,” Griffin said. Sydney also declined, and after they were seated in the two chairs opposite his desk, Griffin thanked him for seeing them on such short notice.

“Least I could do. Tim Ronson was a good guy. I never liked the way they threw him to the wolves in San Jose.”

“So what happened?” Griffin asked.

“He was blackballed, plain and simple. When his story about the government funding their ops with drug money broke, it was huge news.” He leaned back in his chair, looking out the window a moment as though trying to recall the events of so long ago. “What I do remember is that his editor publicly lambasted him in the paper, saying he was unable to prove his allegations. And then the CIA mouthpieces made certain that the other major newspapers,
L.A. Times
, New York, Washington followed suit. You can imagine. His career was over. A year before, he could’ve written a ticket to any paper in the country. After? He had two choices. Wal-Mart or here.”

“That had to have shaken him,” Griffin said, thinking it could be a good cause for suicide.

“Not just him. A lot of starry-eyed journalists woke up when they saw him hit rock bottom. It ain’t all Clark Kent out there, dig for a story, then have everyone cheering you on as you win a Pulitzer exposing the evil ways of the world. They forget those big corporate papers are usually part of major holdings. And those businesses didn’t get that big without a few backroom deals made by political types. In other words, don’t step on the wrong toes, especially when they’re attached to a sleeping tiger.”

“He ever talk to you about it?” Griffin asked. “What he was investigating? Whose toes he stepped on?”

“Not much more than what I’ve told you. All he wanted was something to pay the bills, so he could continue investigating, earn his name back. Thing is, we don’t have the budget those big papers have. I told him if he wanted to work on that on the side, he was welcome to it, but on his time and his dime.”

“And what was it?”

He didn’t answer right away, as though trying to decide at this late date if perhaps he’d said too much. “Where’s this going, anyway?”

Griffin looked at Sydney, gave her a slight nod. She was good at garnering sympathy for the cause, so to speak. And she didn’t disappoint.

“My father was murdered around the same time, and we think the cases might be connected. That his case and Mr. Ronson’s might have been involved somehow.”

“But you’re with the FBI?”

“I am. But I’m not investigating it for the FBI.”

“Who was your father?”

“Kevin Fitzpatrick.”

And before either of them could say anything about it, he typed the name into his computer to see what would come up.

Sydney took a breath, probably wondering the same thing as Griffin. Would anyone be monitoring her father’s name? God knew they had back when she’d been looking into the case. But perhaps Kane’s focus would now be elsewhere. “Santa Arleta . . .” Michaels apparently read what was on the screen, then nodded. “You’ll have to forgive me, but when I got the call you’d be coming out, I started thinking, you know, maybe it wasn’t a good idea to say anything. Pretty powerful people when they can get an entire police department and the coroner’s office to say he committed suicide. There is no way that man killed himself.”

“But he
was
depressed.”

“Yeah, he was depressed about not getting a decent press job. What do you expect? Pulitzer Prize winner forced to write copy for a two-bit paper funded by single white male ads? After the suicide ruling, well, first thing I did was hide his calendar and case notes, and they’ve sat there ever since.”

“Can we see them?” Sydney asked.

“Sure. They’re in the basement. Archived in the old classifieds.”

They took the stairs down, the dull, industrial, once-white linoleum tiles now worn clear through to the cement in some spots. As they passed through the hallway, a line of fluorescent lights flickered overhead, the ballasts apparently close to giving out. Michaels led them into a room at the end of the hall, which held dozens of file cabinets. And though he’d apparently hidden the thing there eighteen years or so ago, he knew right where to go for it. Second drawer from the bottom, about midway back, he pulled out a file folder with a lot of carbon-copy type forms people must have filled out for whatever advertisements they’d bought.

He handed it to Griffin, saying, “I think this is one of the reasons I’ve never bothered to clean out the place. In the back of my mind, I knew this was here. I just didn’t know what to do with it.”

“Is there someplace we can sit down to read this?”

“Hell. Take it. I never did feel safe having it here, but it wasn’t like I knew who to call.”

“Thanks.”

“Sure thing. Just do me a favor. Vindicate him.”

O
nce outside the building, Griffin looked at the packet, about an inch thick. “Where to?”

“Working lunch? There’s a Japanese restaurant on the other side of the freeway. Kamon’s on Sixteenth. I used to eat there back when I was a cop.”

He gave her the keys, since she knew the area. Once in the car, he checked his voice mail, found out that Carillo had called. Griffin called him back.

“I’m assuming you want the update on Piper’s brother?” Carillo said.

“Yes. You found him?”

“We weren’t the only ones. There were two goons at the kid’s school when I got there. I’m guessing they were Kane’s men.” Carillo briefed him on what happened.

A mixture of relief and worry went through Griffin’s mind. Kane seemed to have a handle on every step they were taking. “Where is he?”

“With a mutual friend. Safe for now,” he said, undoubtedly in case anyone was listening in. “Not that the kid can’t take care of himself to some extent. If not for his quick thinking, we wouldn’t have made it out of there.”

“Runs in the family,” Griffin said, recalling Piper’s actions the night he met her. “We’ll touch base later.”

Sydney pulled into the restaurant parking lot, a gray-blue building in a rundown strip mall. The interior, however, was pleasant, although a bit dark. Sydney asked for a table at the back, which would offer them a touch of privacy, and once seated, ordered an assortment of appetizers—gyoza, something called a firecracker roll, and stuffed mushrooms—which would allow them to easily eat while they worked.

Griffin broke open the manila envelope, which was still sealed, curious as to what, if anything worthwhile, they might find. It appeared to be mostly pages torn from a spiral notebook, the majority handwritten, though there seemed to be several copies of newspaper articles. He handed half the stack to Sydney, then started sorting through the other half.

“Any idea what we’re even looking for?” she asked after several minutes of reading.

“I’m hoping it’ll jump out at us,” he said as the waitress brought the firecracker roll, which turned out to be seared tuna in some sort of panko-covered
inari
wrapper, then deep-fried and covered with a spicy sauce. Griffin popped one in his mouth, was surprised at how good it was, and when the waitress returned with the other two appetizers, he said, “Add another firecracker to the order.”

Sydney looked up from a letter she was reading. “That’s usually the reaction when someone tries it for the first time.”

He was about to quip that she should have ordered two to begin with, but his eye caught on a blue piece of paper with writing that did not look like Ronson’s. He picked it up, saw it was written on both the front and the back, and realized by the signature it was from Lydia Hettinger, the journalist’s widow Sydney had spoken with at Fort Marcy Park.

Dear Mr. Ronson,

I apologize for the brevity of the phone call. I no longer trust that I’m not being listened to or watched.

The night my husband was killed, he met with an informant who promised to give him the information he needed to prove that Deputy White House Counsel Gannon Ferris was murdered. He called me that night, excited about the meeting, which is why I don’t believe he would go back to his room and kill himself. When the authorities found him, all his files were missing, or I would have gladly sent them to you along with his appointment book. They were not in his car or his motel room although he had them when he left.

Unfortunately I have little else to offer. He did not discuss his work with me. The only thing I know for certain is that he received a call the morning before he left to meet with this informant, and I overheard part of it. He said something about meeting with Brooks about someone’s sins.

I wish I could be of further help.

Sincerely,

Lydia Hettinger

He gave the letter to Sydney to read. “Brooks?” she asked once she’d finished. “You think it was Parker Kane who met up with him that night?”

“Assuming Kane is Brooks.”

“Sins? I’m assuming it’s the program Izzy was talking about?”

“Probably.”

“Which stands for . . . ?”

“Strategic Integrated Network Case Management System. SINCMS, shortened to SINS.”

“SINS? Devil’s Key? Who thinks of this stuff?”

“The official name for the version that was sold to the various countries was simply called the product key. We didn’t hear about the Devil’s Key until rumors started to surface that there was a back door built into the SINS program.”

“Well, you now have Brooks mentioned in the same sentence as SINS. If you’re looking for further proof, here it is.”

“A nearly twenty-year-old letter isn’t going to do it.”

Sydney pulled out another sheet. “How about a list of the major points that allegedly prove why Gannon Ferris was murdered? Looks like Ronson was on to something. Number one,” she read. “Intended to expose SINS. Number two, no gun found at scene. Number three, broken driver’s window on his car, blood on seat, seat in wrong position. Number four, Fort Marcy Park Police assigned homicide investigation have never worked homicide. Number five, no shot heard, even though there were houses located less than five hundred feet away . . .” She scanned the list. “It just gets worse from here. How’s it possible anyone could ignore— Did you know this? They fired the head of the FBI the day before Gannon Ferris’s alleged suicide . . . ?”

“Are you starting to see a pattern here? That’s what they did to McNiel. You eliminate anyone who is getting too close to the issue. Whether it’s by removing them from power or killing them. Either method works. One’s just more permanent than the other.”

Sydney stared at the document, then turned an accusing glance his way. “If Gannon Ferris was killed by government agents, because of the SINS program—”

“We don’t know that.”

“Let’s say that’s the case. We just assume they’re working for the dark side. The point being, how is that different from a government-sanctioned kill order? Going after me, for instance? Or Orozco? You get the government’s blessing, it’s okay?”

“Is anything I say going to make a difference in what you think?”

She leaned back in her chair, crossed her arms. “Probably not. Let’s just say I have a vested interest in your answer.”

“The reasons behind a kill order are for national security. The safety of our nation and the people who live in it. One life to protect many lives. What Kane is doing by killing anyone getting in his way is strictly to benefit a small group of individuals. A personal agenda. When Orozco stole the Devil’s Key, the possibility existed that he could turn it over to the enemy, that it could be used against us. Against our country. The kill order followed the key and who had possession.”

“That just doesn’t make sense.”

“Sydney. I—”

“This whole Devil’s Key being the precursor to the next war, just because a handful of nasty countries discover we’re spying on them. That’s utter and complete bullshit. For God’s sake, we’ve been spying on them since the dawn of time. There has to be something we’re missing. Something bigger than a case management program that opens the back door into someone else’s computer . . .”

It took him a moment to realize she had switched gears—and frankly, he was grateful. “There is. The program, the back door, it’s present in hundreds of thousands of computer chips that are already in circulation.”

“I’m not sure I’m following you.”