Текст книги "Hidden Order: A Thriller"

Автор книги: Brad Thor

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Текущая страница: 18 (всего у книги 26 страниц)

CHAPTER 48

The smell of a burnt tire was worse than driving behind a bubbling asphalt truck. The smoke had left black streaks up the front of the building from where it had escaped out the front door and where the firemen had smashed the front windows.

Inside, you could trace the smoke’s path along the upper walls and ceiling straight back to the bathroom. Unless there was something terribly interesting he had to see in there, he’d put off ground zero for the tire burning for as long as he could. What he was most interested in was the victim. He followed Cordero into the living room.

Her partner was there waiting, smug as usual and looking fresh as a daisy with his hair combed, face shaved, and shoes shined. He’d probably gotten a great night’s sleep as well.

“Looks like you were wrong about the killer’s next stop being Fort Hill,” he said.

“Let’s not start, Sal,” said Cordero. “Okay?”

“I’m just saying, our golden boy here isn’t right about everything.”

“Why don’t you sit down and give your mind a rest, Sal,” Harvath said as he brushed past him.

Cordero joined him in the living room. “Can we not do this, please?” she asked quietly.

“Without looking at the body, how do you expect to figure anything out?”

She cut him a look and tilted her head toward her partner in the entry hall. “You know what I’m talking about.”

“I’ll try,” Harvath replied as he approached the gang box. As he got closer, he began to pick up another scent.

Cordero could smell it, too. “What is that?”

“Pine.”

“Like Pine-Sol?”

Harvath shook his head as he noticed a couple of stray feathers near the gang box. “Pine tar.”

“What is—” she began, but stopped when she looked into the box and saw the horrific state of the body.

Harvath stood next to her and looked at the corpse as well. For several seconds neither said anything. Then, he stated, “Pine tar was used in the colonies to preserve wood on sailing ships and to weatherize rope. It was also used for a form of physically and emotionally painful public humiliation called tarring and feathering.”

As seasoned as she was to death and murder, this one was particularly rough to look at. “Do you think he died from the tarring and feathering? Or from having his head shackled to the bottom of the box and having it filled up with pine tar? Feel it,” she said, reaching her hand out to touch the metal. “It’s still warm.”

Harvath didn’t need to feel it. He would take her word for it. What he was interested in was the message painted in red on the underside of the lid. In addition to the crossed bones with the skull and crown hovering above was a sentence, which read How strangely will the Tools of a Tyrant pervert the plain Meaning of Words! Beneath it were the letters S.O.L.

“Any idea what that phrase means?” she asked.

Harvath was unaware of its historical context, but he had a pretty good idea of why it had been chosen by the killer. Bill Wise had mentioned something about how the Fed purposefully obfuscated what they did in order to divert attention. If he had to bet, that was what he’d put his money on. As far as who said it, he had no idea.

“Sam Adams,” said Cordero’s partner, who had come into the living room to join them. He held out his smartphone and read, “From a letter to John Pitts. January twenty-first, 1776.”

She couldn’t tell if Harvath was warming up another jibe or not, but she decided to circumvent it and keep the conversation focused. “What do we know about the victim?” she asked.

Harvath had already identified him, but he wasn’t about to spill that information to anyone but Cordero. And it would be done in private.

“Right now,” replied the male detective, “we don’t have anything. He’s a John Doe. We’ll see what the ME gets prints-wise and if they turn up anything. If there’s nothing on file for this guy, we’ll have to attempt dental records, and maybe facial reconstruction.”

“How about the fire?” asked Harvath. “Any clues there?”

The man shrugged. “Go ask the arson investigators. They’re back in the bathroom.”

Harvath figured Sal had already gleaned a preliminary report from them and could have easily filled him in, but he had promised Cordero he’d try to go easy on him.

Walking to the bathroom, he stopped just short of the doorway. The lingering odor was terrible.

“What do you guys have?” he asked.

“Who are you?” one of the investigators asked tersely.

“Emily Dickinson,” he replied just as tersely, sensing that was about the only thing this guy was going to respect. “Now tell me what you’ve got.”

His partner held up a plastic evidence bag with what looked like charred and half-melted circuit board. “Pretty simple setup. A timer and an igniter. Left it sitting on top of the tire. Tire was soaked with gasoline or kerosene. Consensus right now is that he wanted to send a smoke signal, not burn the building down.”

“Think you’ll be able to trace those parts?”

“Maybe, but they look rather basic. Could have come from anywhere. I wouldn’t hold my breath if I were you.”

That was exactly what Harvath was doing, and he needed some fresh air. Passing through the apartment, he signaled for Cordero to join him.

Outside, he stepped away from the building and took in a couple of deep breaths.

“You all right?” she asked.

“I’m fine. I just hate that smell.”

She wrinkled up her nose. “It is pretty awful. Why’d you want me to follow you out here?”

“I think I know who the victim is.”

“You do? How? A huge part of the poor guy’s face was melted off and he’s covered in feathers.”

“It’s Peter Whalen from Chicago,” said Harvath. “In the file I have on him, it describes him as being five foot five. The other missing man, Renner, is six foot two. You wouldn’t have been able to fit a six foot two man in that box unless you sawed him in half. Make sure to tell the ME to look for scars on the victim’s knees once they get all the tar and feathers cleaned off. Whalen was a skier. He’d blown both his knees and had to have them repaired back before the surgery got a lot less invasive. The scars should be pretty obvious.”

“I’ll let them know.”

He took a breath and said, “This means there’s only two left now.”

Cordero nodded. “Do you think the killer plans to do them both here in Boston?”

Leaning against the side of a police cruiser that had been parked up on the sidewalk, he tried to think. “I honestly don’t know,” he said.

“Whalen went missing in Chicago, right?”

“Right.”

“Well, if the killer brought Whalen here, why not the others?”

It was a good question, except for the fact that all five missing candidates had been grabbed on the same night, which meant there had to have been teams involved. At least one of those teams had brought Peter Whalen from Chicago to Boston. Had the others been brought here, too? Anything was possible.

“The remaining two could be here,” said Harvath. “I suppose.”

“You’ve had one murder in Georgia and two now, unfortunately, in Boston. I’d say just numbers-wise Boston is your best bet.”

“So what do you suggest?”

“First, coffee,” said Cordero.

“And then what?”

“And then we try to figure out where the killer is keeping the remaining two and get to them before he can kill again.”

CHAPTER 49

WASHINGTON

DISTRICT OF COLUMBIA

“Go easy on him,” said Wise, as he watched them secure the CIA operative. “You don’t have to hurt him.”

Bob McGee looked up at the man like he was nuts. “In case you missed what just happened, Mahatma, this guy wasn’t here for yoga class. He came to kill you. In fact, he came here to torture you and then kill you. Why are you so bent out of shape about how tight I put the cuffs on him?”

“Because I know Samuel, and I want you to treat him with respect.”

McGee shook his head. “This is a big boy. We’re trussing him up tight. After that you can show him all the respect you want. Fair enough?”

Wise knew there was no point in arguing. In fact, he wanted McGee to restrain Samuel as tightly as possible. If he didn’t, and the man got loose, they’d all be in trouble. What’s more, by petitioning for kind treatment, Wise was already conditioning Samuel for interrogation. The gruffer and more inconsiderate of Samuel that McGee was, the more it played into Wise’s plan.

“There,” said McGee, as he stood back and admired his handiwork. “This fella ain’t going anywhere anytime soon, are you?”

Samuel did not reply.

Wise looked at Ryan and said, “You can lower your weapon now.”

Ryan looked at McGee, who nodded, at which point she aimed the muzzle of her weapon down, but didn’t put it away.

Samuel had been secured to a support column and was facing away from the living area. Wise brought over a pair of shooting muffs.

Showing them to Samuel, he said, “This is only going to be for a few minutes while we discuss what we’re going to do. May I?”

Samuel nodded and Wise slipped the muffs over the man’s large head. They almost didn’t fit. When he had them in place, he laid his hand on Samuel’s shoulder for a moment and then walked away to join the others.

They gathered on the other side of the glass display case with the sewing machines and the typewriters. It was not only an additional sound barrier; it also allowed them to keep Samuel in their sight. McGee was the first one to speak.

“Why are you so deferential to that guy? Do you have any idea who he is? What he does?”

“Of course I do. I trained him.”

“Wait. What?”

“Maybe trained is the wrong word,” said Wise. “Samuel was under my tutelage for a time.”

McGee looked at Ryan. “I told you I knew who this guy was.” Looking back at Wise he stated, “You’re that guy from the Agency they called Dr. Kill. Some of our people in the Special Activities Division worked with you on a couple of your projects.”

“Can we back up for a second? Can you please better explain who you both are and what you’re doing here?”

In the chaos of taking down Samuel, getting him secure, and helping a dazed Bill Wise to his feet, there hadn’t been time for introductions. Ryan stepped forward and did so now.

It was a bit of an intellectual standoff. Ryan and McGee wanted more information about why Wise had been made a target, while Wise felt he was owed the same explanation from Ryan and McGee. “You are in my house” battled against “If it wasn’t for us, he would have killed you.” In the end, it was Wise who finally conceded. To his credit, though, he didn’t give them everything. A good operative always kept a little bit in reserve. Just in case.

“I’ve heard of Swim Club,” said McGee. “Past tense, though. I thought it had been shut down.”

“Seems like there’s been a lot of that going on at Langley,” Ryan stated.

That piqued Wise’s interest and he raised his eyebrows in response, but McGee had a couple more questions first.

“So Samuel passed from your program into Swim Club?”

“That’s my assumption. I think he’ll tell me if I ask.”

“Why?”

“Because I know him and he sees himself as a good man. Honor is important to him.”

McGee shook his head. “A psychopath with honor. That’s a first for me.”

“Samuel may possess a certain moral flexibility, but he is not a psychopathic personality. He’s actually quite gentle most of the time. In fact that’s why they took to calling him ‘the Lamb.’”

“That’s the Lamb? Samuel? He’s that Lamb?”

“You’ve heard of him?” asked Ryan.

“Yeah, I’ve heard of him. I’d never met him, but some of our people have used him. The guy’s a legend and not in a good way. In a Hannibal Lecter sort of way.”

“He eats people?”

“No, he’s just a stone-cold killer,” said McGee. “Somebody you send in to do very difficult or very disagreeable wet work. There was another guy we used whose nickname was the Axe Murderer and there were things even he wouldn’t do. The Lamb, though, came through every time. No matter what.”

“So imagine,” said Wise, “how interested I must be to find out why you followed Samuel here.”

The ball was now in their court and Ryan did the talking. While she was generous with her information, she wasn’t completely generous. Like Wise, she understood that it was smart to keep a little bit in reserve.

She walked him through everything, beginning with her surprise meeting with a foreign intelligence official all the way up to how they had found Samuel and decided to follow him when he engaged in a sudden shift change.

When she was done, Wise had almost the same question for her that she had asked upon her rescue by McGee. “What took you so long to step in? Why didn’t you intervene sooner?”

“We were trying to pick the right moment,” Ryan replied.

“She was trying to pick the right moment,” McGee offered. “I was trying to decide which of you I was going to shoot.”

“And I assume you wanted to hear some of my interrogation,” said Wise.

“That, too.”

“Speaking of which,” interjected Ryan. “I’d like to take a crack at Samuel. I have a lot of questions I want answered.”

“It sounds like we both do.”

McGee cleared his throat. “Make that three.”

Wise nodded. “You’ll find Samuel much different than what you are used to. He’s highly intelligent, and if he can play you, he will. He also appreciates being treated with courtesy. Respect is a significant issue with him. He only has one true loyalty and it trumps anything at the Agency, so we should attempt to leverage that to our advantage.”

“Why don’t I take second chair and let you run the show,” said Ryan.

“I think that would be best. If we handle this properly, it can be quick and smooth.”

“And if we don’t handle it properly?” asked McGee.

“Then you may wish you had your friend the Axe Murderer here instead.”

CHAPTER 50

“I’m sorry if wearing these was uncomfortable at all, Samuel,” Wise said as he removed the shooting muffs from the man’s head and sat across from him. He was relaxed and spoke calmly, almost soothingly.

“It wasn’t uncomfortable, Dr. Wise, but thank you for saying so.”

“Samuel, do you recognize this gentleman and this lady?” he asked, gesturing to Ryan and McGee.

“Yes, doctor. The lady is Ms. Lydia Ryan and the gentleman is Mr. Robert McGee. Both are employees of the Central Intelligence Agency.”

“As are you, correct?”

“No, sir.”

“Excuse me?”

“It is not correct that I work for the Central Intelligence Agency.”

Wise looked at him for a moment and then rephrased. “You work for a black program funded by the Central Intelligence Agency, which allows them to disavow you if you are caught or captured.”

“That is correct.”

“Samuel, do you recognize the position you are now in?”

“I have been restrained by you, Dr. Wise—a former CIA employee, as well as Ms. Ryan and Mr. McGee—current CIA employees.”

“Correct. And do you recognize that what happens to you going forward will be entirely based upon the degree to which you cooperate with us?”

“I have been cooperative,” Samuel said.

Wise got back to his original question. “Please tell me how it is that you were able to identify Ms. Ryan and Mr. McGee to me.”

“They were both targets I was tasked with terminating.”

“And who gave you that tasking?”

The man was silent and didn’t respond.

“Samuel?” Wise prodded. “That is a direct question and I expect an answer, please.”

The man remained quiet.

“Samuel, this is very serious, and it goes far beyond you targeting fellow agents, or even coming after me.”

Nothing.

Wise removed his phone. “I’m sorry to have to do this.”

The bald-headed man was suddenly agitated. “Who are you calling, Dr. Wise?”

“You know who I’m calling, Samuel.”

“Dr. Wise, I strongly recommend you stop. Now.”

“I’m sorry, Samuel. This is beyond my control.”

“Stop!” he shouted, but as quickly as he had lost his temper, he brought it back under control. “Please hang up the phone, Dr. Wise.”

Wise looked at him as he put down the phone. “Your sister still doesn’t know, does she?”

Samuel’s face reddened, though whether from anger or shame, it was not immediately clear.

Wise looked at Ryan and McGee. “Samuel was raised by his older sister, who nurtured and protected him. She saw to his spiritual and moral upbringing as well. She explained away and helped hide some of his more antisocial behavior until it couldn’t be hidden anymore.

“Samuel and I met shortly after I arrived at the Agency. Isn’t that true, Samuel?”

“Yes, doctor.”

“But eventually, they asked you to leave my program and be part of another. Isn’t that correct?”

“Yes.”

“It had an interesting, almost benign-sounding name. Do you recall what it was?”

Samuel went mute.

Wise pretended to rack his brain. Finally, he said, “I remember now. Swim Club. That’s what they called it. That’s the group you were asked to join. The group your sister knows nothing about.”

Silence.

“She sacrificed so much to raise you, to protect you. She gave up any hope of a life of her own. But she believes you turned out to be a successful man. You take care of her now that she’s had her stroke. You, the—what was it she believed you did for a living? It was something that sounded boring but allowed you to travel.”

“I facilitate mining contracts.”

Wise snapped his fingers. “That was it. She’s very proud of you, isn’t she? You are the only family each of you has. If she knew what you really did for a living, she would be devastated, wouldn’t she? She would be incredibly disappointed not only in you, but in herself for allowing you to become what you have become. Do you think she would see you as a monster, Samuel?”

The man’s face reddened again. He was angry. “Dr. Wise, please stop speaking about my sister. She has nothing to do with this.”

“I think you’re wrong, Samuel. She has everything to do with this. She raised you. She lied and covered up for you. She knows what you are capable of. She knows she didn’t get you the treatment you should have had a long, long time ago. Why do you think that is? Did she think you would get better? Or had she covered up so many unspeakable things that she was tainted as well, an accomplice? Did you poison her chances at happiness, Samuel, her chances for a normal life? Is that what caused her stroke, holding all of those unspeakable things inside until something finally snapped in her as well?”

The man leaned forward, every ropy fiber in his wide, muscular torso straining as the steel handcuffs dug into his wrists. “If you do not stop, Dr. Wise . . .” he threatened, his voice trailing off.

“If I don’t stop, what, Samuel? You’ll retire me?”

Samuel’s eyes snapped up to meet his and there was a flash of evil. He was completely changed, consumed with rage. A battle had been kicked off inside him and he was quickly losing control. Wise could read it in his face and over every square inch of his taut, coiled body, waiting to spring.

“It would hurt your sister to know what you do. It would cause her great pain, wouldn’t it?”

The man’s eyes shifted to the floor.

“Like it or not, Samuel, she is a factor in this equation. But how she factors depends on you. Everything depends on you.”

When his body went almost limp and tears began to form at the corners of his eyes, Wise put his hand back on the man’s shoulder to comfort him. “It’s going to be okay,” he said, and at that moment he knew he was going to get everything he needed out of the killer known to so many as the Lamb, but whom he knew as a deeply disturbed, very sick man named Samuel who was fighting to keep a spark of decency alive within the hurricane of his severely tortured soul.

CHAPTER 51

BOSTON

MASSACHUSETTS

It was going to be a long day and Harvath had no intention of fueling it with police coffee, so Cordero took him to Caffé Vittoria on Hanover Street. Billed as the first Italian café in Boston, they were not yet open at this early hour, but there were signs of life and Cordero told him not to worry. She tapped on the glass with her car key and caught the attention of an older man setting up inside.

He smiled when he saw her and came over, unlocked the door, and let them in. “The lovely Lara. So nice to see you,” he said as he welcomed them in.

“The lovely Lara?” Harvath repeated quietly.

“I’ve been here once or twice before.”

“Okay,” the man said as he stepped behind the counter, “what can I do for you, officers?”

“He’s not an off—” Cordero began, but then decided to let it go. “What do you have that’s hot and ready to go?”

With its tin ceiling, vintage espresso machines, antique grinders, and old black-and-white photographs, it was one of the most charming cafés Harvath had ever visited. If the character and ambiance were any indication, he was in for some pretty good coffee.

“Okay if I order for us?” Cordero asked.

Harvath nodded, and she placed the order. While the man behind the counter worked he asked about what had happened a couple of blocks away over on Garden Court. To her credit, she played it vague while still making the man feel like he had an inside connection with an important Boston homicide detective.

When the coffee was ready and paid for, the man told her to wait a minute and he slipped several pastries into a paper bag and handed them to her.

“You don’t have to do that,” she said.

“For your partner.”

Harvath began to put his hands up to say no thank you, but the man behind the counter said, “Your other partner. The Italiano.”

“You mean Sal,” Cordero said with a smile.

“He only eats small children,” Harvath interjected.

The female detective shook her head and removed a ten-dollar bill. “I’m sure he’ll appreciate these. How much do I owe you?”

“Nothing. Free. Free,” the man said.

“You were sweet to let us in early. Thank you, but I don’t need a discount, or anything for free. That’s not how we do things.”

The man didn’t know how to respond. Finally, he said, “Okay, eight dollars.”

Cordero handed him the ten and told him to keep the rest as a tip. He thanked her and showed them outside, then locked the door behind them and got back to setting up for the day.

“Thanks for the coffee,” Harvath said.

“You’re welcome.”

“I’m a little bit disappointed, though.”

“You haven’t even tried the coffee yet.”

He smiled at her. “Yesterday, you took me for breakfast where the Boston Strangler killed his last victim, and today it’s just a coffee bar.”

“Just a coffee bar,” she replied, shaking her head. “Shows what you know about Boston history, Mr. Expert. Trust me, you don’t want to know about this one.”

“I knew it,” said Harvath as he peeled the lid off his to-go cup and blew on his coffee. “You homicide cops can’t help yourselves. Like moths to a flame.”

“I’m telling you, we’re here for the coffee. Trust me.”

“That’s the second time you’ve asked me to trust you. Why?”

“Because there is a story attached to this building and it’s horrible.”

“I’m a big boy,” he said, turning around to study the building’s brick faïade. “What’s the story?”

“Just remember,” she said, relenting. “You asked.”

“I take full responsibility.”

“Okay. Do you know what a baby farm is?”

He’d heard of a baby factory before, but something told him this was different. “No,” he replied. “I don’t think I know what that is. What are we talking about?”

“Back in the 1800s, women who got pregnant out of wedlock and who wanted to avoid the social stigma that came along with it would often place their infants in what was pejoratively called a baby farm. These baby farms could provide wet nurses and would take the child off the mother’s hands for a limited time or ‘adopt’ the child altogether if the price was right. The understanding was that the child would be cared for.”

“I’m guessing that wasn’t the case in this instance.”

“There was a notorious baby farm right here in the late 1800s. The woman who ran it was named Mrs. Elwood and she abused many of the children quite severely and even murdered several of them.”

Harvath grimaced. The idea of babies being given up by their mothers was bad enough, but to think they were abused and even killed at the hands of people entrusted with their care turned his stomach. There was nothing lower in his book than someone who abused children or animals.

“The café’s owners,” she continued, “opened a cigar bar in the basement that everyone said was haunted. They brought in some paranormal researchers who found a disgusting syringe from the 1870s that one of the ghosts allegedly drew their attention to. Once the syringe was taken out of the building, the haunting stopped.”

“Do you believe in all that stuff?” Harvath asked, taking a sip of his coffee.

“Spirits? Ghosts? I don’t know. I’ve seen some absolutely horrific crime scenes in my time, the last two days included. I suppose I can understand why some souls are unable to cross over. I’d like to think that if I got murdered, I’d be pissed-off enough to stay around until the case got solved. But I’m stubborn like that. What about you?”

“If anyone tried to murder me, it wouldn’t be unsolved because I’d take them with me.”

“Tough guy, huh?” she said.

“No,” he replied. “Just stubborn like that. You know.”

Cordero smiled, and suggested that they get going. As they walked, she said, “It all makes me wonder.”

“Wonder what?”

“What people will say a hundred years from now when they pass the murder scenes we’re working.”

It was a good question. “Let’s hope they say it was a tough case, but you and I figured it out as quickly as we could and we stopped anyone else from being killed.”

“Agreed,” she said as they reached her car and she looked at her watch. “Let me tell you what I think we need to do.”