Текст книги "The Kill Room"

Автор книги: Jeffery Deaver

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CHAPTER 6

As he drove the borrowed car to a cay on the southwest shore of New Providence Island, near the huge Clifton Heritage Park, Jacob Swann heard his phone buzz with a text. The message was an update about the police investigation in New York into Robert Moreno’s death, the conspiracy charges. Swann would be receiving details in the next few hours, including the names of the parties involved.

Moving quickly. Much more quickly than he’d expected.

He heard a thump from the trunk of the car, where Annette Bodel, the unfortunate hooker, was crumpled in a ball. But it was a soft thump and there was no one else around to hear, no clusters of roadside scavengers or hangers out like you often saw in the Bahamas, sipping Sands or Kalik, joking and gossiping and complaining about women and bosses.

No vehicles either, or boaters in the turquoise water.

The Caribbean was such a contradiction, Swann reflected as he gazed about: a glitzy playground for the tourists, a threadbare platform for the locals’ lives. The focus was on the fulcrum where dollars and euros met service and entertainment, and much of the rest of the nation just felt exhausted. Like this hot, weedy, trash strewn patch of sandy earth, near the beach.

He climbed out and blew into his gloves to cool his sweaty hands. Damn, it was hot . He’d been to this spot before, last week. After a particularly challenging but accurate rifle shot had torn apart the heart of the traitorous Mr. Robert Moreno, Swann had driven here and buried some clothes and other evidence. He’d intended to let them stay forever interred. But having received the odd and troubling word that prosecutors in New York were looking into Moreno’s death, he’d decided it best to retrieve them and dispose of them more efficiently.

But first, another chore…another task.

Swann walked to the trunk, opened it and glanced down at Annette, teary, sweaty, in pain.

Trying to breathe.

He then stepped to the rear seat, opened his suitcase and removed one of his treasures, his favorite chef’s knife, a Kai Shun Premier slicing model. It was about nine inches long and had the company’s distinctive hammered tsuchime finish, pounded by metalsmiths in the Japanese town of Seki. The blade had a VG 10 steel core with thirty two layers of Damascus steel. The handle was walnut. This knife cost $250. He had models by the same manufacturer in various shapes and sizes, for different kitchen techniques, but this was his favorite. He loved it like a child. He used it to fillet fish, to slice beef translucent for carpaccio and to motivate human beings.

Swann traveled with this and other knives in a well worn Messermeister knife roll, along with two battered cookbooks – one by James Beard and one by the French chef Michel Guérard, the cuisine minceur  guru. Customs officials thought very little about a set of professional knives, however deadly, packed in checked luggage beside a cookbook. Besides, on a job away from home, the knives were useful; Jacob Swann would often cook, rather than hang out in bars or go to movies alone.

Removing the goat meat from the bones last week, for instance, and cubing it for the stew.

My little butcher man, my dear little butcher…

He heard another noise, a thud. Annette was starting to kick.

Swann returned to the trunk and dragged the woman from the car by her hair.

“Uhn, uhn, uhn…”

This was probably her version of “no, no, no.”

He found an indentation in the sand, surrounded by reedy plants and decorated with crushed Kalik cans and Red Stripe bottles, used condoms and decaying cigarette butts. He rolled her over onto her back and sat on her chest.

A look around. No one. The screams would be much softer, thanks to the blow to the throat, but they wouldn’t be silent.

“Now. I’m going to ask you some questions and you’re going to have to form the words. I need answers and I need them quickly. Can you form words?”

“Uhn.”

“Say, ‘yes.’”

“Ye…ye…yessssss.”

“Good.” He fished a Kleenex from his pocket, then pinched her nose with his other hand and when she opened her mouth he grabbed her tongue with the tissue, tugged the tip an inch beyond her lips. Her head shook violently until she realized that was more painful than his pinch.

She forced herself to calm.

Jacob Swann eased the Kai Shun forward – admiring the blade and handle. Cooking implements are often among the most stylishly designed of any object. The sunlight reflected off the upper half of the blade, pounded into indentations, as if flickering on waves. He carefully stroked the tip of her tongue with the point, drawing a streak in deeper pink but no blood.

Some sound. “Please” maybe.

Little butcher man…

He recalled scoring a duck breast just a few weeks ago, with this same knife, slicing three shallow slits to help render the fat under the broiler. He leaned forward. “Now, listen carefully,” he whispered. Swann’s mouth was close to her ear and he felt her hot skin against his cheek.

Just like last week.

Well, somewhat  like last week.

CHAPTER 7

Captain Bill Myers had taken his grating verbiage and left, now that he’d handed off the baton of the case to Rhyme and crew.

While the Moreno conspiracy investigation was in some ways monumental, it was ultimately just another of the thousands of felony cases active in New York, and other matters surely beckoned the captain and his mysterious Special Services Division.

Rhyme supposed too that he’d want to distance himself. Myers had backed up the DA – a captain had to do that, of course; police and prosecutors were Siamese twins – but now was the moment for Myers to head to an undisclosed location. Rhyme was thinking of the political ambition he’d smelled earlier, and if that was true the brass would step back and see how the case unfolded. He’d then return to the podium in glory, in time for the perp walk. Or vanish completely if the case exploded into a public relations nightmare.

A very likely possibility.

Rhyme didn’t mind. In fact, he was pleased Myers was gone. He didn’t do well with any  other cooks in the kitchen.

Lon Sellitto, of course, remained. Technically the lead investigator, he was now sitting in a creaky rattan chair, debating a muffin on the breakfast tray, even though he’d pecked half the Danish away. But he then squeezed his gut twice, as if hoping the message would be that he’d lost enough weight on his latest fad diet to deserve the pastry. Apparently not.

“What do you know about this guy running NIOS?” Sellitto asked Laurel. “Metzger?”

She again recited without the benefit of notes: “Forty three. Divorced. Ex wife’s a lawyer in private practice, Wall Street. He’s Harvard, ROTC. After, went into the army, Iraq. In as a lieutenant, out as a captain. There was talk of him going further but that got derailed. Had some issues I’ll tell you about later. Discharged, then Yale, master’s in public policy along with a law degree. Went to the State Department, then joined NIOS five years ago as operations director. When the existing NIOS head retired last year, Metzger got his job, even though he was one of the youngest on the management panel. The word is nothing was going to stop him from taking the helm.”

“Children?” Sachs asked.

“What?” Laurel replied.

“Does Metzger have children?”

“Oh, you’re thinking someone was pressuring him, using the children to force him to take on improper missions?”

“No,” Sachs said. “I just wondered if he had children.”

A blink from Laurel. Now she consulted notes. “Son and daughter. Middle school. He was disallowed any custody for a year. Now he’s got some visitation rights but mostly they’re with the mother.

“Now, Metzger’s beyond hawkish. He’s on record as saying he would’ve nuked Afghanistan on September twelve, two thousand one. He’s very outspoken about our right to preemptively eliminate enemies. His nemesis is American citizens who’ve gone overseas and are engaged in what he considers un American activities, like joining insurgencies or vocally supporting terrorist groups. But those’re his politics and’re irrelevant to me.” A pause. “His more significant quality is that he’s mentally unstable.”

“How so?” Sellitto asked.

Rhyme was beginning to lose patience. He wanted to consider the forensics of the case.

But since both Sachs and Sellitto approached cases “globally,” as Captain Myers might have said, he let Laurel continue and he tried to appear attentive.

She said, “He’s had emotional issues. Anger primarily. That’s largely what’s driving him, I think. He left the army with an honorable discharge but he had a half dozen episodes that hurt his career there. Fits of rage, tantrums, whatever you want to call them. Totally lost control. He was actually hospitalized at one point. I’ve managed to datamine some records and he still sees a psychiatrist and buys meds. He’s been detained by the police a few times for violent episodes. Never charged. Frankly, I think he’s borderline with a paranoid personality. Not psychotic but has definite issues of delusion and addiction – addicted to anger itself. Well, to be precise, the response  to anger. From what I’ve studied up on the subject, the relief you feel in acting out during an episode of anger is addicting. Like a drug. I think ordering a sniper to kill somebody he’s come to detest gives him a high.”

Studied up indeed. She sounded like a psychiatrist lecturing students.

“How’d he get the job, then?” Sachs asked.

A question that had presented itself to Rhyme.

“Because he’s very, very good at killing people. At least, that’s what his service record indicates.” Laurel continued, “It’ll be hard to get his personality workup to a jury but I’m going to do it somehow. And I can only pray he takes the stand. I’d have a field day. I’d love for a jury to see a tantrum.” She glanced from Rhyme to Sachs. “As you pursue the investigation I want you to look for anything that suggests Metzger’s instability, anger and violent tendencies.”

Now a pause preceded Sachs’s response. “That’s a little fishy, don’t you think?”

The battle of the silences. “I’m not sure what you mean.”

“I don’t know what kind of forensic evidence we could find showing that this guy has temper tantrums.”

“I wasn’t thinking forensics. I was thinking general investigation.” The ADA was looking up at Sachs – the detective was eight or nine inches taller. “You have good write ups in your file for psych profiling and witness interrogation. I’m sure you’ll be able to find something if you look for it.”

Sachs cocked her head slightly, eyes narrowed. Rhyme too was surprised that the ADA had profiled her – and presumably the criminalist himself too.

Studied up…

“So.” The word was delivered by Laurel abruptly. The matter was settled; they’d look for instability. Got it.

Rhyme’s caregiver rounded the corner. He was carrying a pot of fresh coffee. The criminalist introduced the man. He noted that Nance Laurel’s made up façade stirred briefly as she looked at Thom. An unmistakable focus was in her eyes, though as good looking and charming as he was, Thom Reston was not a romantic option for the woman – who wore no heart finger rings. But a moment later Rhyme concluded her reaction arose not from attraction to the aide himself but because he resembled somebody she knew or had known closely.

Finally looking away from the young man, Laurel declined coffee, as if it were some ethics breach to indulge on the job. She was digging in her litigation bag, whose contents were perfectly organized. Folder tabs were color coded and he noted two computers, whose eyes pulsed orange in their state of hibernation. She extracted a document.

“Now,” she said, looking up, “do you want to see the kill order?”

Who could say no to that?

CHAPTER 8

Of course they don’t call it that, a kill order,” Nance Laurel assured. “That’s shorthand. The term is ‘STO,’ a Special Task Order.”

“Almost sounds worse,” Lon Sellitto said. “Kind of sanitized, you know. Creepy.”

Rhyme agreed.

Laurel handed Sachs three sheets of paper. “If you could tape them up, so we could all see them?”

Sachs hesitated and then did as the prosecutor requested.

Laurel tapped the first. “Here’s the email that came to our office last Thursday, the eleventh.”

Check the news about Robert Moreno. This is the order behind it. Level Two is the present head of NIOS. His idea to pursue. Moreno was a U.S. citizen. The CD means Collateral Damage. Don Bruns is a code name for the officer who killed him.

– A person with a conscience.

“We’ll see about tracing the email,” Rhyme said. “Rodney.” A glance toward Sachs, who nodded.

She explained to Laurel that they worked with the cybercrimes unit in the NYPD frequently. “I’ll send them a request. Do you have the email in digital form?”

Laurel dug a Baggie containing a flash drive from her briefcase. Rhyme was impressed to see that a chain of custody evidence card was attached. She handed it to Sachs, saying, “If you could–”

Just as the detective jotted her name on the card.

Sachs plugged the drive into the side of her computer and began to type.

“You’re going to let them know that security’s a priority.”

Without looking up, Sachs said, “It’s in my first paragraph.” A moment later she sent the request to the CCU.

“Code name sounds familiar,” Sellitto pointed out. “Bruns, Bruns…”

“Maybe the sniper likes country western music,” Sachs pointed out. “There’s a Don Bruns who’s a songwriter and performer, folk, country western. Pretty good.”

Laurel cocked her head as if she had never listened to any music, much less something as lively as CW.

“Check with Information Services,” Rhyme said. “Datamine ‘Bruns.’ If it’s a NOC, he’ll still have a presence in the real world.”

Agents operating under non official covers nonetheless have credit cards and passports that can – possibly – allow their movements to be traced and yield clues to their true identity. Information Services was a new division at the NYPD, a massive datamining operation, one of the best in the country.

As Sachs put the request in, Laurel turned back to the board and tapped a second sheet she’d taped up there. “And here’s the order itself.”

RET – TOP SECRET – TOP SECRET – TOP SE

Special Task Orders

Queue 8/27

Task: Robert A. Moreno (NIOS ID: ram278e4w5)

Born: 4/75, New Jersey

Complete by: 5/8–5/9

Approvals:

Level Two: Yes

Level One: Yes

Supporting Documentation:

See “A”

Confirmation required: Yes

PIN required: Yes

CD: Approved, but minimize

Details:

Specialist assigned: Don Bruns, Kill Room. South Cove Inn, Bahamas, Suite 1200

Status: Closed 9/27

Task: Al Barani Rashid (NIOS ID: abr942pd5t)

Born: 2/73, Michigan

Complete by: 5/19

Approvals:

Level Two: Yes

Level One: Yes

Supporting Documentation:

N/R

Confirmation required: No

PIN required: Yes

CD: Approved, but minimize

Details: To come

Status: Pending

The other document on the board was headed “A.” This gave the information that Nance Laurel had mentioned earlier, supporting data about the shipments of fertilizer and diesel fuel and chemicals to the Bahamas. The shipments were from Corinto, Nicaragua and Caracas.

Laurel nodded toward the flash drive, still inserted into the computer nearby. “The whistleblower also sent a.wav file, a sound file of a phone call or radio transmission to the sniper, apparently from his commander. This was just before the shooting.” She looked expectantly at Sachs, who paused then sat down at the computer again. She typed. A moment later, a brief exchange came from the tinny speakers:

“There seem to be two, no three people in the room.”

“Can you positively identify Moreno?”

“It’s…there’s some glare. Okay, that’s better. Yes. I can identify the task. I can see him.”

Then the transmission ended. Rhyme was about to ask Sachs to run a voiceprint but she’d already done so. He said, “It doesn’t prove he actually pulled the trigger but it gets him on the scene. Now all we need is a body to go with the voice.”

“‘Specialists,’” Laurel pointed out. “That’s the official job title of assassins, apparently.”

“What’s with the NIOS ID code?” Sellitto asked.

“Presumably to make sure they get the right R. A. Moreno. Embarrassing to make that  mistake.” Rhyme read. “Interesting that the whistleblower didn’t give us the name of the shooter.”

“Maybe he doesn’t know,” Sellitto said.

Sachs: “Looks like he knows everything else. His conscience extends up to a certain point. He’ll dime out the head of the organization but he’s sympathetic toward the guy who got the assignment to shoot.”

Laurel said, “I agree. The whistleblower has to know. I want him too. Not to prosecute, just for information. He’s our best lead to the sniper – and without the sniper there’s no conspiracy and no case.”

Sachs said, “Even if we find him he’s not going to tell us willingly. Otherwise he already would have.”

Laurel said absently, “You get me the whistleblower…and he’ll talk. He’ll talk.”

Sachs asked, “Any consideration about going after Metzger for the other deaths, the guard and that reporter, de la Rua?”

“No, since only Moreno was named in the kill order and they were collateral damage we didn’t want to muddy the waters.”

Sachs’s sour expression seemed to say: even though they were just as dead as the target. Can’t confuse the precious jury, can we?

Rhyme said, “Give me the details of the killing itself.”

“We have very little. The Bahamian police gave us a preliminary report, then everything shut down from them. They’re not returning calls. What we know is that Moreno was in his suite when he was shot.” She indicated the STO. “Suite twelve hundred. The Kill Room, they’re calling it. The sniper was shooting from an outcrop of land about two thousand yards from the hotel.”

“Well, that’s one hell of a shot,” Sachs said, eyebrows rising. She was quite a marksman, competed in shooting matches often and held records in the NYPD and in private competitions, though she favored handguns over rifles. “We call that a million dollar bullet. The record for a sniper’s about twenty five hundred yards. Whoever it was, that shooter’s got some skill.”

“Well, that’s good news for us,” Laurel continued. “Narrows down the field of suspects.”

True, Rhyme reflected. “What else do we have?”

“Nothing.”

That’s all ? Some emails, a leaked government document, the name of one conspirator.

And notably absent was the one thing Rhyme needed the most: evidence.

Which was sitting somewhere hundreds of miles away, in a different jurisdiction – hell, in a different country .

Here he was, a crime scene expert without a crime scene.

CHAPTER 9

Shreve Metzger sat at his desk in lower Manhattan, motionless, as a band of morning light, reflected off a high rise nearby, fell across his arm and chest.

Staring at the Hudson River, he was recalling the horror yesterday as he’d read the encrypted text from NIOS’s surveillance department. The outfit was no more skillful than the CIA’s or NSA’s, but wasn’t quite so visible, which meant it wasn’t quite so hobbled by the inconvenience of FISA warrants and the like. And that in turn meant the quality of its information was golden.

Yesterday, early Sunday evening, Metzger had been at his daughter’s soccer game, an important one – against the Wolverines, a formidable opponent. He wouldn’t have left his seat in the stands, dead center on the field, for anything.

He trod lightly when it came to the children, he’d learned all too well.

But as he pulled on his light framed glasses – after cleaning the lenses – and read the perplexing then troubling then shattering words, the Smoke formed, fast and unyielding, more a gel than vapor, and it closed around him. Suffocating. He found himself quivering, jaw clenched, hands clenched, heart clenched.

Metzger had recited: I can handle this. This is part of the job. I knew there was a risk of getting found out. He’d reminded himself: The Smoke doesn’t define you; it’s not part of you. You can make it float away if you want. But you have to want . Just let it go.

He’d calmed a bit, unclenched fingers tapping his bony leg in dress slacks (other soccer dads were in jeans but he hadn’t been able to change between office and field). Metzger was five ten and three quarters and clocked in about 150 pounds. Formerly fat, as a boy, he’d melted the weight away and never let it return. His thinning brown hair was a bit long for government service but that’s the way he liked it and he wasn’t going to change.

Yesterday, as he put the phone away, the twelve year old midfielder had turned toward his section in the stands and smiled. Metzger had grinned back. It was fake and maybe Katie knew it. Wished they sold scotch but this was middle school in Bronxville, New York, so caffeine was the strongest offering on the menu, though the Woodrow Wilson PTO’s kick ass cookies and blondies gave you a high of sorts.

Anyway, liquor was not the way to defeat the Smoke.

Dr. Fischer, I believe you. I think.

He’d returned to the office last night and tried to make sense of the news: Some crusading assistant district attorney in Manhattan was coming after him for Moreno’s death. A lawyer himself, Metzger added up the possible counts and knew the biggest, bluntest truncheon would be conspiracy.

And he’d been even more shocked that the DA’s Office had learned of Moreno’s death because the Special Task Order had been leaked.

A fucking whistleblower!

A traitor. To me, to NIOS, and – worst of all – to the nation. Oh, that had brought the Smoke back. He’d had an image of himself beating the prosecutor, whoever he or she was, to death with a shovel – he never knew the themes his rage would take. And this fantasy, particularly bloody and with a gruesome soundtrack, both mystified and viscerally satisfied with its vivacity and persistence.

When he’d calmed, Metzger had set to work, making calls and sending texts wrapped in the chrysalis of sublime encryption, to do what he could to make the problem go away.

Now, Monday morning, he turned from the river and stretched. He was more or less functioning, after a grand total of four hours’ sleep (very bad; fatigue gives the Smoke strength) and a shower in the NIOS gym. In his twenty by twenty office, bare except for safes, cabinets, computers, a few pictures, books and maps, Metzger sipped his latte. He’d bought his personal assistant the same – Ruth’s had been assembled with soy milk. He wondered if he should try that. She claimed the substance was a relaxer.

He regarded the framed picture of himself and his children on a vacation in Boone, North Carolina. He recalled the horseback ride at the tourist stable. Afterward an employee had taken this souvenir snap of the three of them. Metzger had noted that the camera the cowboy clad employee had used was a Nikon, the same company that made the scopes his snipers used in Iraq. Thinking specifically of one of his men firing a Lapua.338 round 1,860 yards into the shoulder of an Iraqi about to detonate an IED. It’s not like the movies; a round like that will kill you pretty much anywhere it strikes. Shoulder, leg, anywhere. That insurgent had simply come apart and fallen to the sand, as Shreve Metzger exhaled with warm peace and joy.

Smile, Mr. Metzger. You have wonderful children. Do you want three eight by tens and a dozen wallet pictures?

There was no Smoke inside him when he was planning and executing the death of a traitor. None at all. He’d told that to Dr. Fischer. The psychiatrist had seemed uneasy and they didn’t explore that theme further.

Metzger glanced at his computer and at his magic phone.

His pale eyes – a hazel color he didn’t care for, yellowish green, sickly – looked out his window again at the slice of Hudson River, the view courtesy of a handful of psychotic fools, who, one clear September day, had removed the buildings that interfered with that vista. And who had inadvertently, to their surviving compatriots’ loss, driven Metzger into his new profession.

With these thoughts, the Smoke coalesced, as it often did when 9/11 came to mind. The memories of that day used to be debilitating. Now they simply stabbed with searing pain.

Let it go…

His phone rang. He regarded caller ID, which reported, in translation, You’re fucked.

“Metzger here.”

“Shreve!” the caller blurted cheerfully. “How are you? Been a month of Sundays since we chatted.”

Metzger had disliked the Wizard of Oz. That is, the wizard himself, as a character (he rather enjoyed the movie). He was furtive and manipulative and arbitrary and had ascended to the throne by false pretense…and yet he commanded all the power in the land.

Much like the caller he was now speaking to.

His own personal Wizard was chiding, “You didn’t call me, Shreve.”

“I’m still getting facts,” he told the man, who happened to be 250 miles away, south, in Washington, DC. “There’s a lot we don’t know.”

Which meant nothing. But he didn’t know how much the Wizard knew. Accordingly he would steer the course of ambiguity.

“Imagine it was bum intelligence about Moreno, right, Shreve?”

“Appears to be.”

The Wizard: “That happens. That surely happens. What a crazy business we’re in. So. All your intel was buttoned up, double  and triple checked.”

Your…

Choice of stark pronoun noted.

“Of course.”

The Wizard didn’t specifically remind him that Metzger had assured him Moreno’s death was necessary to save lives because the expat had been about to blow up American Petroleum’s headquarters in Miami. When in fact the worst that had happened was a woman protestor threw a tomato at a policeman and missed.

But with the Wizard, conversations involved mostly subtext and his words – or lack thereof – seemed all the more pointed for it.

Metzger had worked with the man for several years. They didn’t meet in person often but on those occasions that they did, the stocky, smiling man always wore blue serge, whatever that exactly was, and impressively patterned socks, along with an American flag pin in his lapel. He never had a problem like Metzger’s, the Smoke problem, and when he spoke he did so always with the calmest of voices.

“We had to act fast,” Metzger said, resenting that he was on the defensive. “But we know Moreno’s a threat. He funds terrorists, he supports arms sales, his businesses launder money, a lot of things.”

Metzger corrected himself: Moreno had been  a threat. He’d been shot to death. He wasn’t is  anything.

The Wizard of Washington continued in that honey voice of his, “Sometimes you just have to move fast, Shreve, that’s true. Crazy business.”

Metzger took out a fingernail clipper and went to work. He chopped slowly. It kept the Smoke from materializing, a little. Snipping was weird but it was better than gorging on fries and cookies. And screaming at your wife or children.

The Wizard muffled his phone and had another muted conversation.

Who the hell else was in the room with him? Metzger wondered. The attorney general?

Someone from Pennsylvania Avenue?

When the Wizard came back on the line he asked, “And we hear there’s some investigation?”

So. Fuck. He did know. How had word gotten out? Leaks are as big a threat to what I’m doing as the terrorists themselves.

Smoke, big time.

“Seems to be.”

A pause that clearly asked: And when were you going to mention it to us, Shreve?

The Wizard’s stated question, though, was: “Police?”

“NYPD, yes. Not feds. But there’s a solid case for immunity.” Metzger’s law degree had been gathering dust for years but he’d looked up In re Neagle  and related cases very carefully before taking on the job here. He could recite the conclusion of that case in his sleep: That federal officials could not be prosecuted for state crimes, provided they were acting within the scope of their authority.

“Ah, right, immunity,” the Wizard said. “We’ve looked into that, of course.”

Already? But Metzger wasn’t really surprised.

A viscous pause. “You’re happy that everything was  within the scope of authority, Shreve?”

“Yes.”

Please, Lord, let me keep the Smoke inside now.

“Excellent. Now, it was Bruns who was the specialist, right?”

Either no names or code names over the phone, however well encrypted.

“Yes.”

“The police talked to him?”

“No. He’s deep cover. There’s no way anyone could find him.”

“Of course I don’t need to say – he knows to be careful.”

“He’s taking precautions. Everybody is.”

A pause. “Well, enough said about that matter. I’ll let you take care of it.”

“I will.”

“Good. Because it turns out some Intelligence Committee budget discussions have come up. Suddenly. Can’t understand why. Nothing scheduled but you know those committees. Looking over where the money’s going. And I just wanted to tell you that for some reason – it really frosts me, I’ll say – NIOS is in their sights.”

No Smoke but Metzger was stunned. He couldn’t say anything.

The Wizard steamed forward. “Nonsense, isn’t it? You know  we fought hard to get your outfit up and running. Some people were pretty concerned about it.” A laugh that seemed utterly devoid of humor. “Our liberal friends didn’t like the idea of what you were up to at all. Some of our friends on the other side of the aisle didn’t like the fact you were taking business away from Langley and the Pentagon. Rock and a hard place.

“Anyway. Probably nothing’ll come of it. Ah, money. Why does it always come down to money? So. How’re Katie and Seth?”

“They’re fine. Thanks for asking.”

“Glad to hear it. Have to go, Shreve.”

They disconnected.

Oh, Jesus.

This was bad.

What the cheerful Wizard with his serge wizard suit and brash socks and his dark razor sharp eyes had actually been saying was: You took out a U.S. citizen on the basis of bad intel and if the case goes to trial in state court it’s going to bleed all the way to Oz. A lot of people down in the capital would be keeping a very close eye on New York and the results of the Moreno matter. They were fully prepared to send a shooter of their own after NIOS itself – figurative, of course, in the form of gutted budget. The Service would be out of business in six months.

And the whole affair would have been quiet as a snake’s sleep, if not for the whistleblower.

The traitor.

Blinded by the Smoke, Metzger intercommed his assistant and picked up his coffee again.