The Witness (54 page)

“We were told you’d already offered.” Cabot smiled very slightly. “It’s on its way up. The agent you made is taking a lot of guff from his colleagues.”

“I’m sorry. I was expecting you’d send someone in if you had the opportunity. And I’m very observant.”

“You’ve managed to stay off the radar for a long time.”

“I wanted to stay alive.”

“And now?”

“I want to live. I’ve come to understand there’s a difference.”

Cabot nodded. “We’ll want to record this meeting.”

“Yes, I’d prefer you did.”

“Set it up, Agent Garrison. I’ll get that,” he said, at the knock on the door.

Garrison took a computer out of a case. “I’d like to ask why you chose me as your contact.”

“Of course. You have an exemplary record. You come from a solid family base, and while you excelled in school, you also took time for extracurricular activities, formed lasting friendships. I concluded you were well rounded, intelligent and had a strong sense of right and wrong. Those were important qualities for my purposes. In addition, in studying your higher education and your record at Quantico, then in Chicago, I concluded that, while ambitious, you wished to succeed and advance on your own merits. You have a healthy respect for authority and the chain
of command. You may shave the rules, but you respect them as a foundation for the system, and the system as a means to justice.”

“Wow.”

“I apologize, as some of my research on you included invasions of your privacy. I justified that by the desire to serve as a source on the Volkov organization. The ends justify the means. That’s often no more than an excuse for doing the wrong thing, but in this case, at that time, I believed it was my only viable option.

“Would you like me to pour the coffee, Assistant Director?”

“I’ve got it.”

Abigail held her silence a moment as she took a self-evaluation. Nerves, yes, she admitted. Her pulse beat rapidly, but without the pressure of panic.

“I assume you verified my identity from prints on the room-service dishes.”

Again, Cabot nearly smiled. “You assume correctly. Agent?”

“Yes, sir. We’re set.”

“Will you state your name for the record?”

“I’m Elizabeth Fitch.”

“Ms. Fitch, you contacted the FBI, though a liaison, expressing a desire to give a statement regarding events that occurred in the summer and fall of 2000.”

“That’s correct.”

“We have your written statement as provided, but again, for this record and in your own words, would you tell us about those events?”

“Yes. On June 3, 2000, I argued with my mother. This is important, as I had never to that point argued with her. My mother was—is still, I imagine—a dominant personality. I was a submissive one. But on that day I defied her wishes and her orders, and it set off the events that followed.”

As he listened to the retelling, Brooks’s heart broke again for that
young, desperate girl. She spoke carefully, but he knew her now. He knew those slight pauses when she struggled for composure, the subtle changes in inflection, in her breathing.

How many times would she have to say it all again? he wondered. To the prosecutors, to judge and jury. How many times would she have to relive it all?

How many times would she have to start and stop, start and stop, as the listener interrupted with questions, with demands for clarification.

But she didn’t waver.

“Marshals Cosgrove and Keegan both stated, and the preponderance of evidence supports those statements, that Marshal Norton was down when they entered the safe house for their shift, that they were fired upon and returned fire upon person or persons unknown. They were unable to access the second floor at that time. As Cosgrove was wounded, Keegan carried him out of the house. When he called for assistance, he observed an individual fleeing the scene. He was unable to determine the identity of the individual, as there was a rainstorm and visibility was impaired. At this time, the safe house exploded due to what was later discovered to be a deliberate sabotage of the gas furnace.”

“Yes.” Hoping she appeared calm, Abigail nodded at Cabot. “That’s an accurate synopsis of their statements. They lied.”

“It’s your contention that two Deputy U.S. Marshals gave false reports?”

“It’s my sworn statement that these two men, in collusion with the Volkov organization, killed Marshals Theresa Norton and John Barrow.”

“Ms. Fitch—”

“I’d like to finish. William Cosgrove and Steven Keegan, under the directive of the Volkov
bratva,
intended to kill me to prevent me from testifying against Yakov Korotkii and others. They rigged the explosion to cover themselves. It’s my sworn statement that both these men continue on the Volkov payroll.

“John Barrow died in my arms while trying to protect me. He gave his life for mine. He saved my life by telling me to run. If he hadn’t, I would’ve died in that house.”

She rose, went to the open suitcase on the bed, took out a sealed bag.

“This is the sweater and the camisole Terry gave me for my birthday that evening. I went upstairs to put it on before Cosgrove and Keegan arrived. I was wearing it when I held John, bleeding from multiple gunshot wounds. This is his blood. It’s John’s blood.”

She paused when her voice broke, bore down hard.

She handed the bag to Garrison. “John and Terry deserve justice, their families deserve the whole truth. It’s taken me a long time to find the courage to tell that truth.”

“There isn’t any concrete proof on the shooter from that day, but again, there is evidence that could be interpreted as a young girl, nerves stretched past the breaking point, who killed her protectors in an attempt to escape the situation.”

Abigail sat again, folded her hands in her lap. “You don’t believe that. You don’t believe I could have attacked and killed two experienced marshals, wounded another, blown up a house, then escaped. It’s certainly possible, but it’s not logical.”

“John Barrow taught you how to handle and shoot a sidearm,” Garrison commented.

“Yes, and he taught me very well, considering the limited time we had. And yes, I asked for and received five thousand in cash from my trust,” she added, before Garrison could. “I wanted the security and the illusion of independence. I know the explosion damaged some evidence, but you would’ve been able to reconstruct. You would know Terry died in the kitchen, and John on the second floor. You would also know from their reports, and from the reports, interviews and statements from the Child Services representative assigned to me, that I exhibited no signs of that kind of stress.”

She took another moment before going on. “If you’ve studied my
background at all, if you know anything about my home life before that June, you’d understand that rather than stressed, I was, in fact, more content than I’d been in my life.”

“If Cosgrove and Keegan are responsible for the deaths of Marshals Norton and Barrow, they will be brought to justice. Your testimony in the murders of Alexi Gurevich and Julie Masters, and in the death of Deputy U.S. Marshals Norton and Barrow, is essential to the investigations. We’ll need to place you in protective custody and transport you back to Chicago.”

“No.”

“Ms. Fitch, you’re a material witness, and a suspect.”

“Suspect is stretching credulity, and we all know it. If you put me in protective custody, you’re killing me. They will get to me, and through whoever you put in their way.”

“Elizabeth. Liz,” Garrison said, leaning forward. “You’ve trusted me with key information that’s led to arrests, to convictions. Trust me now. I’ll personally take the lead in your protection.”

“I won’t be responsible for your death, for your parents’ grief. I promise you, if I live long enough I’ll run again rather than testify. I’m good at hiding, and you’ll never have my testimony.”

“You have to believe we won’t let anything happen to you.”

“No, I don’t. Who else might you trust with my life? What about Agent Pickto?”

Garrison sat back. “What about Pickto?”

“Special Agent Anthony Pickto, age thirty-eight, assigned to Chicago Bureau. Divorced, no children. His weakness is women. He enjoys them more when they’re reluctant. He’s funneled information on investigations in exchange for access to women the Volkovs bring to the States from Russia, then force into prostitution. They pay him, too, but that’s secondary. He’s digging for the FBI contact—you, Agent Garrison. He’s getting closer. If he learns who’s receiving the data that’s led to these arrests, to these busts, you’ll be taken. Questioned, tortured,
raped. They’ll threaten you with the torture and death of everyone you love, and perhaps will select one as an example to demonstrate how serious they are. When you’re of no further use, they’ll kill you. Agent Pickto reports to you, Assistant Director.”

“Yes,” Cabot confirmed, “he does. You’re making very serious accusations about an agent in good standing.”

“They’re not accusations, they’re facts. And only one of the reasons I won’t put my life in your hands. I’ll help you put these people away, help you break the Volkov organization, but I won’t tell you where I am. If you don’t know, you can’t divulge the information under duress.” She reached into her pocket, took out a flash drive. “Check the information I’ve correlated on Pickto, then ask yourself if, before reading it, checking it, you would have trusted my life, this agent’s life, others under your command, others in the Marshals Service, to this man.

“You would never have found me, but I came to you. I’ll give you everything you need, and all I’m asking is you let me live. Let Elizabeth Fitch live to help get justice for Julie and Terry and John. And when she’s done, let her die.”

“I can’t promise to do this your way. I have people to answer to.”

Impatience shimmered through. “Do you think I’d have come to you if I didn’t
know
you could authorize exactly what I’m asking? You have power, you have evidence, and considerable leverage. My way, and the Volkovs will be done in Chicago, in New York, New Jersey, Miami. You’ll weed out agents and other law enforcement and judiciary officials who have worked for them—by choice or out of fear.”

No longer able to sit, pretend a calm she didn’t feel, Abigail surged to her feet. “I was sixteen, and yes, I had poor judgment. I was reckless. One night of my life, I broke the rules. But I don’t deserve to die for it, any more than Julie did. If you take me in against my will, this will leak to the press. And they’ll talk of that young girl, of twelve years in exile, in coming forward to offer help at great risk.”

“Is that a threat?”

“Yes, it’s very much a threat. Your superiors wouldn’t be pleased with the bad press, especially at a time they’re working to break the Volkov
bratva,
especially when trusted FBI agents like Anthony Pickto are implicated. Perhaps explaining that to those you answer to will give you additional leverage.”

“Pause the recording, Agent Garrison.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I’m going to make a phone call.” With that, he strode out of the room.

Abigail sat again, folded her hands in her lap, cleared her throat. “Ah, should I order more coffee?”

“No, thanks. I’m good. You play hardball, Liz.”

“I’m playing for my life.”

“Yeah. Pickto. You’re sure?”

“I wouldn’t impute someone’s name, reputation and career otherwise.”

“Okay. He’s been asking some questions. Nothing that bumped my radar, nothing out of line, but I’ve heard he’s asked some questions about the last couple Volkov busts. And when I put those questions in this context, it bumps my radar, hard.

“I’d have trusted him,” Garrison admitted.

“Of course.”

“You know, if he’s ordered to bring you in, Cabot will have you locked down tight. I want you to know, if that happens, I
will
keep you safe.”

“If he takes me in, I’ll get away, however tight he locks me down. I’ll find a way. You’ll never see or hear from me again.”

“I believe you,” Garrison murmured.

“I can be very resourceful.”

It took twenty minutes for Cabot to come back. He sat. “I think we can work out a compromise.”

“Do you?”

“An elite two-man team, known only to me, to guard you in a location again known only by me.”

“And when they learn, and they will, you have the information, and they take your wife or one of your children, when they send you a hand or an ear, who will you save?”

Cabot’s fists balled on his knees. “You think very little of our security.”

“I have your address, I know where your children go to school, where your wife works, where she prefers to shop. Do you think they can’t access the same, won’t use any means to access it when their organization is threatened?

“I’ll cooperate. I’ll speak with the prosecutors, with your superiors. I’ll testify in court. But I won’t go into a safe house again, and I won’t go into witness protection once it’s done. That’s my price, and it’s very little for the value I’m offering.”

“And if we move on this, push forward on this, and you run again?”

She reached over, picked up the bag holding the bloodstained sweater. “Terry’s sweater, John’s blood. I’ve kept this for twelve years. Wherever I’ve gone, whoever I became, this was with me. I need to let it go, and at least some of the pain and guilt and grief. I can’t until I do what I need to do for Julie, for John, for Terry. I’ll keep in daily contact via computer. When it’s announced I’ve been found, and I’ll testify, they’ll do everything they can to find out who knows where I am, who’s protecting me. But they’ll find nothing, because there won’t be anything to find.

“And when I walk in the courtroom that day, it ends for them. It ends for all of us. That’s the deal.”

When they left her, finally left her, she lay down on the bed.

“Will he keep his word?” She closed her eyes, imagined Brooks there with her instead of just watching. “Will he? I’m so tired. I’m so glad you’re here. Right here,” she said, and, fisting a hand, laid it on her heart.

Brooks watched her drift off, and thought if Cabot didn’t keep his word there would be hell to pay. And he would exact the payment.