The Second Perimeter (13 page)

B
ill Smith of the DIA, who had no jurisdiction whatsoever in capturing Carmody and his cohorts, had arranged for the meeting to be held. Smith was not in attendance at the meeting; he was the wizard behind the curtain. He was always behind the curtain.
The attendees of the meeting were FBI agents Darren Thayer and Diane Carlucci; Emma and DeMarco; and the security officers for the four major naval installations in the Pacific Northwest: the shipyard in Bremerton, the Trident submarine base at Bangor, the Naval Undersea Warfare Center at Keyport, and the Whidbey Island Naval Air Station. For Emma, there was something about the meeting that struck her as vaguely familiar, but she didn’t know what it was, and after a moment she disregarded the feeling as just a puzzling occurrence of déjà vu.
A small amount of time was wasted before they got down to business because one of the security officers asked who Emma and DeMarco were. Agent Thayer clarified the issue by saying, “Uh, Bureau consultants.” Then he added, with a jerk of his head toward Emma, “She’s ex-DIA.” This made the security officers sit up a bit straighter.
Thayer began the meeting with an update on Carmody. Carmody, Thayer said, was still eluding the FBI and had last been spotted near Spokane, Washington. As Emma had previously said, the ex-SEAL seemed to be going in a circle and it appeared he was still headed back to where he had started. In Spokane, he was caught on a surveillance camera stealing a motorcycle from a Harley-Davidson dealership. Idaho cops found the motorcycle abandoned in the driveway of an expensive home in Coeur d’Alene, thirty-five miles
east
of Spokane. Emma said she thought this was just another bit of misdirection on Carmody’s part. Her guess was that after he ditched the motorcycle in a place where it was sure to be noticed and reported, he had most likely stolen another vehicle and was once again headed west.
“We think,” Thayer said to the security guys, “that a foreign government, we don’t know which one, has been running an espionage operation at the shipyard and—”
“Hey, we don’t know that for a fact yet, sonny,” Richard Miller, the square-headed security chief at the shipyard, said. “We’ve looked around the area where Mulherin and Norton worked and we can’t find anything missing. So there’s no evidence our security was ever breached and you shouldn’t go around saying shit like that.”
When young Agent Thayer started to sputter, Emma said, “Mr. Miller, the fact that nothing’s missing doesn’t mean they didn’t get something.” Miller started to protest again, but Emma raised her hand to silence him. “Look,” she said, “this meeting is not about what Carmody and his guys may or may not have taken from the shipyard, so you can calm down. What we’re worried about— I mean what the FBI is worried about— is that there may be another operation of some kind going on out here, and what Carmody is currently doing is distracting us from seeing that other operation.”
“What kind of operation?” Miller said.
“We don’t know,” Emma said, “but your bases— the operations at those bases, information stored at those bases— are all potential targets.”
“Yeah, but what are we supposed to do?” the security officer from the Trident submarine base said. Before Emma could answer, the officer said, “I mean, we can increase gate checks, station people in sensitive areas, increase controls for checking out classified material. Is that what you want?”
“No,” Emma said. “If we’re right, this is an operation already in progress. This government, whichever one it is, has
already
penetrated you. What you need to do is look for anything unusual, anything out of the ordinary.”
“But like what?” the Trident security officer said again.
“For example,” Emma said, “has anyone reported any suspicious activity to you? This whole thing started with Dave Whitfield saying that Carmody’s supposed training study looked ‘funny.’ So have any of your people reported anything out of the norm, something you may have dismissed as being inconsequential? Has anything unusual happened at your bases related to security, such as an unexplainable security system malfunction? Has anybody in a critical position quit recently or suddenly become rich?”
“No,” Miller said emphatically.
The security officers from the Trident base and the naval air station just shook their heads, but the man from the Undersea Warfare Center said, “Uh, there is one thing I can think of.”
“What’s that?” Emma said.
“Well, we had a guy drown yesterday afternoon. The guy was a civilian scientist, an expert on submarine acoustic stuff— you know, noise-quieting technology, sonar systems, towed and fixed arrays. That sort of thing. Anyway, he went fishing yesterday afternoon, by himself, and they found his boat overturned. The guy’s missing, presumed dead.”
“Any ideas what caused the boat to flip?” DeMarco asked.
“Yeah. In case you didn’t notice yesterday, it was windier than shit. The Coast Guard had issued small-boat warnings for Puget Sound, but according to this guy’s wife— his name’s Washburn, by the way— he said to hell with it, that he was going fishing. His wife said he had a real bug up his ass about going, like he was gonna die if he didn’t catch a salmon.”
“Is the Coast Guard looking for his body?” Emma said.
“Sure. Ever since they found the boat last night.”
Emma looked intently into the eyes of the Undersea Warfare Center security officer and said, “You need to search this man’s office and see if anything’s missing. Immediately.” Before the security officer could respond, Emma turned to Thayer and Carlucci. “This scientist may have died in a fishing accident but you can’t take the chance. This is too much of a coincidence, an expert like him disappearing at the same time Carmody is playing tag with us all over the country. You need to assume Washburn has been turned and is fleeing the country. Get his picture to every airport and train station and border crossing in the region as fast as possible. My guess is that while the Coast Guard is still searching for his body, he’ll fly out of one of the international airports in the area— Seattle, Portland, Vancouver— and he’ll have a passport with a false name. So you need to get his picture to the Transportation Security Administration
fast
and have them start looking at surveillance tapes and watching passengers.”
“I dunno,” Thayer said. “I mean before we get everybody all stirred up, I think we should—”
Diane Carlucci rose from her seat. “I’ll call TSA now and you,” she said to the Undersea Warfare Center security officer, “need to get me Washburn’s picture right away.”
That’s my girl
, DeMarco thought.

I
n a Ramada Inn located twenty minutes away from the Portland International Airport, John Washburn sat in a room, on the edge of the bed, looking mournfully over at her. She was going through his carry-on luggage for a second time, making sure he had nothing in it that would cause it to be opened by security. She had just tossed out a set of fingernail clippers, even though she knew such an item was not prohibited.
“I just don’t understand why you can’t come with me,” he said.
It was about the tenth time he’d said this, and she wanted to scream. Controlling her anger, she said, “I’ve told you why I can’t. There’s something I must do before I leave and it’s better if we travel separately.” She tried to make her voice sound loving when she added, “But in just two days, my dear, I’ll be with you in Manila. Only two days.”
In two days she would be nowhere near Manila, but
somebody
would meet John Washburn there.
Washburn put his head in his hands. “I still wonder if I’m doing the right thing,” he said. “I mean, you know how I feel about you, but—”
“Stop it!” she screamed. “You’re
committed
! It’s too late to back out now. You’ve been reported missing. They’re looking for your body. You can’t go back. In two hours you’re getting on a plane and you’re flying out of here. Do you understand?”
Washburn’s eyes grew wide. She’d never raised her voice to him before.
She took a breath. She only needed to control him a little longer. She just needed to get him to the airport and on a plane. She walked over to him and took his face in her hands. “You love me, don’t you?” she said.
It was so hard for her to feign looking tenderly into his face when what she really wanted to do was twist her hands and snap his neck.
“You know I do,” he said.
“Then be strong. And think about us. Think about us lying in bed, making love. Think about the home we’ll own, the cars we’ll drive, the places we’ll one day see together. Think about the years of bliss we have ahead of us.”
Then she bent down and gently kissed his lips.
She would be
so
glad when he was on that plane. She never wanted to touch him again.

D
eMarco was sitting in the bar of the motel where he’d been staying ever since coming to Bremerton. His room was beginning to feel like a prison cell. He was watching a ball game on TV, and in the long intervals between pitches, he was flipping through a newspaper, looking at used car prices, trying to find out what BMW Z3s went for in this area. He had called the dealership in Arlington yesterday and the silver Z he’d been looking at was still on the lot. They had to be asking too much for the damn car.
Emma was also in the bar, at a corner table talking to her daughter on her cell phone. Emma was an enigmatic cipher who skillfully avoided any attempt to penetrate her past, but one of the few things that DeMarco did know about her was that she had a child. Emma was gay and DeMarco didn’t know if her daughter was her biological offspring or adopted. He had no idea how she had managed motherhood during her high-powered career at the DIA. The one thing he did know was that she was fiercely protective of her child, something she had demonstrated with gusto last year when a man had been stalking her daughter. One of these days DeMarco was going to get her drunk enough to tell him how she came to be a mom.
Currently, DeMarco and Emma had absolutely nothing to do but sit and wait for something to happen. The FBI was still chasing Phil Carmody and the scientist from the Undersea Warfare Center had not been found, either dead or alive. They still had no idea who was controlling Carmody nor any clues to lead them to that person. They still had no evidence that classified material had actually been taken from the shipyard. And they still had no idea as to who had really murdered Dave Whitfield. When you added up all those zeros, you got zero. So they were sitting in a bar, killing time, waiting for something to break.
In the fourth inning of the ball game, two things happened. The first was that a guy bunted and the Mariners’ catcher swooped up the ball and threw it to first— and hit the batter right in the back of the head. The Mariners needed a new catcher. The other thing that happened was that Bill Smith came into the bar.
Smith walked over to the table where Emma was seated and waved an arm for DeMarco to join him there. Emma looked up at the two men in annoyance, said into her phone, “I love you and I’ll talk to you later,” then hung up.
“Yes?” she said to Smith.
“They got the bastard,” Smith said.
“Which bastard?” Emma asked.
“The noise guy, the scientist. He was trying to catch a plane in Portland. He was headed for Manila.”
“What did he say?” DeMarco asked.
“Zip,” Smith said. “He puked all over the floor when they put the cuffs on him and said all he was doing was ditching his wife and kids, but when they asked why he had a false passport, he asked for a lawyer.” Smith shook his head. “I’d like to go down there and attach a wire to his dick.”
“Did he have anything on him, anything classified?” Emma asked.
“No. Nothing. And they can’t find anything missing from his office.”
“Which means nothing,” Emma said. “He could have copied his files and manuals and given the copies to whoever’s running him.”
“Yeah,” Smith said. “They gotta make him talk.”
“I wouldn’t if I was him,” DeMarco said. “Right now the only crime he can be convicted of is having a false passport. And faking his death, I guess.”
“Did they see anyone with him at the airport?” Emma asked.
“No,” Smith said, “but they’re looking at tapes right now. I think I’m gonna…”
Smith’s phone rang. He listened for a moment, said thanks, hung up, and smiled broadly. “I guess this is our lucky day,” he said. “That was Dudley. Carmody’s checked into a Hyatt in Vancouver, B.C., and right now he’s just sitting in his room. Dudley’s watching him.”
“Who’s Dudley?” DeMarco said.
“Does the FBI know he’s in Vancouver?” Emma said.
Smith smiled again, this time a small, crafty smile. “Not yet,” he said.
“Who’s Dudley?” DeMarco asked again.
“Bill’s absurd name for his intelligence contact in the Mounties,” Emma said.
“Well you gotta admit he looks like Dudley, Emma. You oughta see this guy, Joe,” Smith said to DeMarco. “Wavy blond hair, big square chin.”
“He’s about five foot six,” Emma said.
“So who said Dudley Dooright was tall?” Smith said. “How can you tell, him sittin’ on his horse or standin’ next to little Nell?”
“This conversation is ridiculous,” Emma said.
“I’m heading up north right away,” Smith said. “I want to be there when the Canadians take him.”
“I’m going with you,” Emma said.
“Now, Emma, I don’t think that’s really necessary.”
“Maybe not, but I don’t like the smell of this. Something’s wrong here, Bill. Carmody’s managed to evade every law enforcement agency in the western United States for almost a week, and now we find him sitting in a hotel room. Something’s wrong. So I’m going with you and if you don’t let me go, I’ll call Mary.”
“What in the hell have you got on her, Emma? Did you guys, uh, you know, play field hockey together at a Catholic girls’ school?”
“No, and you’re a jackass.”
Smith pushed his glasses up on his nose and rose from the table. “I’m gonna call somebody and get us a helicopter.”
“Aren’t you going to call the FBI?” Emma asked.
“In a little while,” Smith said, his sly smile again curving his lips.
“A helicopter,” DeMarco said. “Wow.” He’d never flown in one before.

S
he had been at the airport when they captured Washburn.
She had been there to make sure he didn’t back out, fearful that at the last moment the weakling would change his mind. She had stood off to one side, near the security checkpoint, a floppy, broad-brimmed hat hiding her face from the surveillance cameras. Her eyes had
burned
into Washburn’s back as he stood in line, as if by her will alone she could propel him forward. She had been forced to spin around once when the fool had looked back at her— something she’d told him not to do— a frightened, lovesick expression on his face. Later she could only pray that she had moved fast enough or that none of the cameras had been in a position to follow Washburn’s line of sight.
She had watched, holding her breath, as he walked at last through the metal detector and picked up his carry-on luggage. She had just exhaled in relief, thinking “mission accomplished,” when two white-shirted TSA officers came up to him and took him by the arms. The last image she had of John Washburn was him on his knees, vomiting, as they placed the handcuffs on his wrists.
She walked away quickly, not looking back. It took all her resolve not to run. She went to the parking lot, got into her car, paid her parking fee, and left the airport. As she did each of these things, she did not allow herself to think about what had just happened. She forced her mind to focus only on the immediate task of escape.
Two miles from the airport she found a place where she could pull off the road and park behind a building and not be visible to passing cars. She exited her car and slammed the door shut. And then slammed it shut again. And slammed it again. And slammed it again. She was in such a red rage that if someone had come upon her at that moment she would have beaten the person to death.
How had it happened? How had Emma done it? How could she
possibly
have known about Washburn? She slammed her fists on the roof of the car. She would have wept, she was so frustrated, but weeping was something she seemed no longer able to do. She had cried away all her tears a long time ago.
Then she closed her eyes and took a breath. All was not lost. She had the files Carmody had copied, and although she hadn’t delivered Washburn, she had Washburn’s files. And by now Carmody should be in Vancouver. The most critical part of her plan was still intact.
She would give her government something much more important than what she had obtained from both Carmody and Washburn combined.