Текст книги "Agent X "

Автор книги: Noah Boyd

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12

Vail and Bursaw sat in the front seat of the WFO agent’s car. Between them were take-out orders of hamburgers and fries. They were in southeast D.C. watching a street corner that was busy with prostitutes flagging down cars. “Is this what passes for dinner theater in Washington?” Vail asked.

“I thought it would be nostalgic for you. You probably haven’t talked to a hooker since you were run out of Detroit.”

“For the record, I wasn’t run out—I walked. Let me see her picture again.”

Bursaw handed him the mug shot of Denise Washington. Her hair was matted, and her skin was washed out and blemished by continual drug abuse. Vail handed it back. “I could be wrong, but didn’t you bring her to the Christmas party one year in Detroit?”

“That’s right. It was the year you brought that ‘exotic dancer’ with the Adam’s apple.”

“Fool me once . . .”

Bursaw laughed. “I wish she’d show up. It’s getting to be the drive-by-shooting hour, and I’m already spending way too much time in court.”

They continued eating for the next few minutes. “Maybe we should deputize one of these girls. Put her on the payroll, and she could give you a call when the fair Denise shows up.”

“What are the chances of a hooker calling me?”

“A good-looking African-American like yourself, plus twenty dollars? Don’t sell yourself short.” Vail straightened up. “That’s her there, isn’t it?”

Bursaw took a closer look at the young woman getting out of a pickup truck. “Now, see, Vail, that’s why I wanted you here. Not because you’re any kind of agent, but because you are the world’s luckiest white man.” Pulling away from the curb, Bursaw drove for a half block before making a U-turn. He coasted back to where the young woman stood and stopped in front of her. He rolled down the window and leaned across Vail. “Denise!”

She looked at the two men who were obviously law enforcement and shook her head disgustedly. “I ain’t doing nothing,” she protested.

“We’re not here for that. Get in the backseat.”

“I didn’t do nothing.” He flipped open his credentials, and she said, “FBI? I sure as hell didn’t do nothing that bad.”

“I’m here about the man who attacked you.”

The other girls were starting to move away from the corner. Denise smiled. “Well, what kept you boys?” She strutted comically for the other girls, as if she were getting into a limousine. Once the door was closed, she said, “I hope you’re here to tell me that you caught that freak.”

Bursaw turned around in his seat and said, “I just found out about it today. But I’m making it a priority. Did you know him?”

“Never saw him before.”

“Ever date him?”

“Not me, but some of the other girls told me they did.”

Bursaw handed her the photographs of the three prostitutes that had been murdered. “Any of these girls?”

She shuffled past the first two, but the third girl caused a reaction. “You think he’s the one who killed Darlene?”

“That’s what we’d like to ask him. Tell me about what happened with you.”

“You sure we’re cool?”

“This is what it is, Denise. Nothing else.”

“Okay, but if it ain’t, this is entrapment.”

“I’ll consider myself warned,” Bursaw said.

“I guess it was two or three months ago. He pulls up, and I ask him what he wants. He agrees to the money, and I get in. He had this old van, the kind with no windows. He drives for a couple of blocks. I could tell he knew where he was going. Some dead-end street, just factories and stuff. I tell him I need the money up front. He gives me a twenty, and we start to get busy. All of a sudden, he’s got this screwdriver pressed to my neck and tells me to get in the back. I hesitate, and he jabs it into my skin.” She lifted her head. “I still got a scar.” Both agents inspected the rectangular mark that the tip of a screwdriver would leave. “So I get in the back. Once I’m there, I see he’s got ropes tied to the inside braces on the walls, four of them. I’ve been doing this long enough to know I was in trouble. He sets down the screwdriver so he can use both his hands to tie me. I waited until he was just about to tighten the first knot, and then I picked up the screwdriver and stabbed him with it. I must have hit him pretty good, because he fell back yelling in pain. Then I jumped out and ran as fast as I could.”

“Have you seen him since?”

“I haven’t.”

“Did you talk to the other girls about him?”

“Sure. We’re always warning each other. But if it’s slow out here, you know, you’re not as careful.”

“According to the report you filed, it happened after Darlene was killed.”

“That sounds about right. You think it was this freak?”

“She was tortured, and both ankles and wrists had rope burns on them.”

“Jesus Almighty. It’s got to be him, then.”

“Tell me about the van—what color, make, model, whatever you can.”

“All I remember is it was old, maybe white, with some big rust spots on it. I couldn’t tell you what kind. There was fast-food wrappers and a bunch of other garbage in the back, like he never cleaned it.”

“Describe him.”

“Black, maybe in his thirties. Medium build. Had his head shaved. Never saw him standing up, so I don’t know how tall he was, but probably average.”

“Where did you stab him?” Vail asked.

“You know, I just lashed out. I think it was in the chest.”

“Think you got any depth?”

“It felt like it. And the way he fell back, I’m pretty sure I did.”

Bursaw took out a dozen business cards and handed them to her. “Give these to the other girls. Anybody sees him, call me twenty-four hours a day. Let them know there’s a decent chance that one of them could be next. The best thing we can get is a license plate. It’s worth some money.”

“If this’s the fool who did Darlene that way, it’d be an insult to her to take money.”

She got out of the car and leaned back in the window. “You really FBI?” she asked Bursaw. Then she got a mischievous grin on her face. “Ain’t this the part where you’re supposed to give me the lecture about getting out of the life?”

“Since you didn’t pay any attention to the guy with the screwdriver, why would I bother?”

She laughed a single syllable and backed away from the car. “I’m going to call you, Mr. FBI. One way or the other.”

As Bursaw pulled away from the curb, Vail said, “Looks like somebody’s got a date for this year’s Christmas party.”

At a few minutes before nine the next morning, Vail walked into the assistant director’s office. He had received a call from John Kalix that a meeting had been scheduled to plan Yanko Petriv’s arrest. Kate was sitting at a small conference table, along with Kalix and the three unit and section chiefs Vail had been introduced to at the off-site on New Year’s Day. He sat down next to her. “Where’s the boss man?” he asked.

Kalix, said, “He’s at the Department of Justice, getting authorization for Petriv’s arrest.”

“Have you found out where he works?”

Kalix said, “NSA. He was born in Bulgaria, and currently he’s a Bulgarian and Czech interpreter for them. Those lists of handwritten phone numbers you found in the safe-deposit box are some of the phones they’re up on. Bill talked to his counterpart over there last night and let them know what we’ve found. They called back this morning and said they haven’t gotten anything off those wires in over two months. Previously they’d been fairly productive.”

The door opened, and Bill Langston walked in with another man, someone Vail hadn’t seen before, but he had an idea who it was. “Everyone, this is Lance Wimert from OPR.”

Vail leaned over to Kate. “I wonder who he could be here to see.”

Langston continued, “We’re green-lighted to detain Mr. Petriv.”

“By ‘detain’ you mean arrest, right?” Kate asked.

“I mean detain, as in hold with extremely slow due process. Justice has consented to this approach because of the possibility of others on the list fleeing. Once we grab him, our ten-day clock will start ticking. I’ve talked to NSA and explained the evidence to them. They’re setting up Petriv at work for us. He’ll be called away from his desk, and we will casually escort him out. I should be getting a call any minute to let us know that everything is set.”

Vail said to Kate, “Did you tell him about Dellasanti?”

“Yes, she called me last night,” the assistant director said. “So I called the director. Mark, you’re handling that.”

The unit chief, Mark Brogdon, straightened up. “I have an entire surveillance squad ready to go. They’ll be in the park late tonight and look for some good spots to get an eyeball on the bridge. They don’t know any of the specifics, except that they’ll be covering a potential dead drop.”

Kate looked at Vail and, as if anticipating what he was going to ask, said, “If Dellasanti does pick up the package, Bill wants us to take custody of it and see if we can find the next link.”

Langston said, “I have to give it to you, Steve, the two of you figuring out that fingerprint code. Very slick. Apparently Calculus left clues each time so we could figure out the next name. Am I correct?”

Kate had been right about Langston’s being nobody’s fool. He had figured out the connection between the moles without the advantage of the Ariadne inscription. “He has so far.”

“Knowing your disdain for management, it’s not that hard to figure out why you didn’t tell anyone about it.” He looked at Kate. “At least not any of my people.”

“If you check my old performance ratings,” Vail said, “you’ll see that ‘doesn’t work well with others’ was one of my more consistent character flaws.”

Langston chuckled. “I could see where you’d be a nightmare to manage, but you do get results. It’s unfortunate you won’t be able to go with us today to detain Mr. Petriv.”

Vail looked at the agent from OPR and then at Kate. “Me and Lance going to spend a little time together?”

“There are some legitimate concerns about Pollock’s death that need to be answered immediately,” Langston said.

“Like what?”

“The syringe that was recovered from the crime scene had one set of prints on it—yours. Do you know what was in it? Temazepam. Do you know what that is?”

“A depressant.”

“Yes, it is, but do you know what intelligence agencies have been rumored to use it for? Truth serum. Pollock looked like he’d been tortured and then given a truth drug. By us. The Russians don’t use it. They have their own proprietary blend, something called SP-17, according to a defector. So that leaves us holding the temazepam bag. Do you see a pattern here? There can be no explanation that doesn’t sound like we’re covering something up. Especially with you being—no pun intended—a contract employee.”

“There was a deputy assistant director with me. Do you think she was involved in torture?”

“I don’t think either one of you was,” Langston said. “This is a potentially catastrophic public-relations problem that has to be defused immediately. OPR spends a lot more time clearing our employees than having them prosecuted. And Kate will be interviewed, too, once your statement has been taken and analyzed. OPR has decided to interview you first because of your constant threat to just quit and jump on a plane to Chicago.”

Vail laughed and then looked at Kate. She looked away. So she knew that this was coming, he thought. The only reason he’d accepted the director’s offer was the hope of reinstating Kate’s reputation, which had been momentarily tarnished by the ridiculous assumption that she’d attempted suicide. He got up and walked to the door. He turned and looked at Kate and the men around her. Evidently she had been returned to a full-share member of the team. For whatever that was worth. Would her career always come between them? He turned back to Langston. “Nicely done, Bill.”

“I had nothing to do with this. You’re the one who went sneaking off on your own and wound up in the middle of this mess.”

“That fingerprint exam on the syringe and the blood chemistry that found the temazepam—you didn’t have that expedited?”

Langston’s usual stoic expression twisted into a knot of anger fueled by the embarrassment of being caught in a lie. Just then his phone rang. He took his time going to his desk to compose himself. “Bill Langston.” As he listened, he sat down and pulled a pen out of a desk holder. “I see. . . . Yes, I do, but give it to me anyhow.” He wrote something down and hung up. “Petriv didn’t show up for work today, and he didn’t call in,” he announced to everyone, and then looked at Vail.

Vail glanced back at him and then at Kate. Still she didn’t meet his eyes. Apparently he’d been in denial about her truly wanting to end their relationship. But was he reading this correctly, or was he just feeling contempt for everything because he was being so artfully removed from the case? Something this confusing usually just made him mad, but instead he was feeling defiant, defiance being his oldest and most reliable ally. “Good luck.”

Kate knew what that meant. Everybody in the world was on his own. Especially Steve Vail. She had seen something deep in his eyes, something only she recognized—revenge. It was perhaps his only selfish indulgence. He would find some way to involve himself in the case and succeed when everyone else failed. And then he would walk away, his final measure of contempt for the FBI and those who thought they ran it.

After Vail and the OPR agent left, Langston tore the page off the notepad. “I’ve got his home address. Let’s go.”

13

It was in the middle of the afternoon when Vail finished with OPR. The two agents who interviewed him had never been involved in a murder investigation before and peppered him with clumsy questions and half-thought-out accusations in an attempt to force inconsistencies in his story. He suspected that this was also part of Langston’s delaying process. When they started asking the same questions for the third time, Vail said, “You do realize that you have no jurisdiction in a murder case? The only authority you have over me is as an employee, which in a couple of days you’ll have to be a Chicago building inspector to maintain. But you can now tell Langston that you did your job and kept me from being involved in what he’s doing. Congratulations, I’m sure it won’t be long before you’ll be promoted to assistant bosses in the field, where you’ll be able to obstruct more than one agent at a time.” He got up and walked out.

Vail checked his watch and, reluctantly, turned on his cell phone. He was hoping Kate had called, but she hadn’t. He took a moment to scold himself for not being able to let go of her apparent siding with Langston. There was one message, though. It was from the manager at the Old Dominion Bank where they had broken into Yanko Petriv’s safe-deposit box.

Vail called him back. “Yes, Agent Vail, Mr. Petriv called this morning and spoke with one of the assistant managers. I had flagged his file, so when she saw it, she came to me.”

“I appreciate it.”

“He told her that he wanted his accounts transferred to a bank in New York and was in the process of doing the paperwork with them. In the meantime he wanted his ATM limit upped. She told him he was already at the max, four hundred dollars, and bank policy wouldn’t allow it to be increased. She said he was not happy.”

“Did she tell him about his safe-deposit box being opened?”

“I’m the only one here who knows about that, so she couldn’t have.”

“Can you take a look at his account right now?” Vail asked.

“Give me two seconds.” Vail’s thoughts again drifted to Kate while he waited. “Yes, I’ve got it up now.”

“Did he make any ATM withdrawals yesterday or today?”

“Ah, let’s see. Yes, this morning. Looks like just before he called us. Four hundred dollars.”

“Where at?”

“At one of our branches in Arlington. In fact, I don’t live far from there. It’s right next to the old Adams Hotel.”

“Thanks for your help,” Vail said, and hung up.

He drove back to the off-site and ran upstairs to the workroom. He leafed through some of his notes until he found what he was looking for. Back in the car, he headed to the Adams Hotel.

The two men sat parked in the SUV, which was positioned anonymously among the rows of cars at the strip mall, watching the entrance to the Adams Hotel. Vail pulled up and turned his car over to the valet. The SUV’s driver dialed his cell phone, calling the man who had set the fire at the historic building, trying to kill Vail and Kate. “He just arrived.”

“He’s alone?”

“Get things ready there,” the driver said.

“I thought the woman was our target.”

Instead of answering, the driver hung up.

The big passenger with the Russian accent said, “We’ll wait until he leaves to make sure he’s heading in the right direction.”

The Adams Hotel was one of those grand old wooden structures that looked as though Civil War generals had stayed there. It almost seemed out of place with the modern Old Dominion Bank on one side and the tall, gleaming gold-glass office building on the other. The desk clerk was an older man with a thin, waxy mustache who looked like someone out of a 1940s black-and-white movie. “May I help you?”

Vail flashed his credentials and leaned closer in confidence. “I’m looking for a fugitive. His name is Yanko Petriv. I’d like to know if he’s staying here. P-E-T-R-I-V.”

The clerk studied Vail’s face briefly and then, apparently satisfied, tapped a couple of keys on his desktop computer. “I’m sorry, no.”

Vail took a slip of paper out of his jacket pocket. “How about Lev Tesar?” Vail spelled the last name. When the bank manager told him during the call about the hotel’s being next door, Vail thought it was a possibility that Petriv might be staying there. Since Petriv had false passports, Vail reasoned that the Russians would have provided him with other corroborating identification that, since it wasn’t in the safe-deposit box, might have been kept in a more immediately accessible place.

“No, sir, he’s not one of our guests either.”

“Last one, how about Oszkar Kalman? With a K.”

The clerk tapped in the name. “Yes. He was.”

“Was?”

“Yes, he checked out around noon today.”

“Did he make any phone calls?”

“Ahhhh, yes, one.” The clerk read the number, and Vail recognized it as the call to the Old Dominion Bank that morning.

“What address did he give you?”

The clerk looked around and then said, “I don’t know if I’m allowed to provide that information without a subpoena or some other legal order.” He then half turned the monitor toward Vail and gave him a tacit glance. “I have to go do something. I’ll return in a couple of minutes.”

“Thanks for your help,” Vail called after him as he disappeared through a doorway behind the desk. He swung the monitor enough so he could read it and copied down the address Oszkar Kalman had used. It was in Oakton, Virginia.

The drive took longer than Vail had predicted, and it was almost five o’clock by the time he got to Oakton. The traffic was heavy, and two separate accidents hadn’t helped. The address turned out to be an old, weathered, two-story home with a large attached garage that looked like it could have been a separate barn at one time. In an attempt to update the structure, a breezeway had been built connecting the house and garage. The nearest neighbors were a half mile in either direction. Due to some intermittent stands of pine trees, Vail was able to find a place to park seventy-five yards away that was ideal for watching the house. The thick wooden sliding doors to the garage were open a few inches, and he tried to see if he could spot any vehicles inside. He took the binoculars from under the seat and peered through them, but dusk had started to take over and the winter light was fading.

Vail thought he saw some movement in a second-floor window, but by the time he swung the binoculars toward it, there was nothing he could see. He lowered the glasses but continued to watch the second floor. A few seconds later, in the same window, he saw definite movement. As dark as it was getting, that there were no lights on meant that someone was trying not to be detected.

Vail put the car in gear and started toward the house. As it got closer, he let it glide to a stop fifty yards in front of the garage.

Suddenly a three-round volley was fired from the second floor, at least two of the slugs slamming into the front of his car. He dove out of it and took cover behind the vehicle. After a minute or so, he peeked over the trunk, looking for any further movement inside the house.

“I thought the bumper sticker said that Virginia was for lovers,” he muttered to himself.

Two more rounds were fired at him, this time from the first floor. “Evidently it’s gun lovers.”

He stood up and fired a burst into the first-floor window. Almost immediately he was fired at again, this time from the breezeway. He suspected that whoever was shooting at him was working his way to the garage, probably trying to get to his car. Vail shifted his angle behind the car to the garage and put his point of aim at the six-inch opening between the two heavy doors, then waited.

Almost too predictably, a three-round fusillade came from the narrow black opening between the garage doors. Vail opened fire, letting his Glock come back down level before pulling the trigger each time, as though he sensed that his rounds were finding their mark. Maybe it was the tiny after-echo that couldn’t have been anything but lead slamming into tissue. He rolled back into a safe position on the car’s trunk, dropped an empty magazine, and shoved in a fresh one.

Raising his head for a few seconds, he tried to draw more fire. When none came, he assumed a two-handed grip on his gun and started cautiously toward the garage. Every few feet he took a step to the right or the left so he wouldn’t be a constant target. When he got to within ten feet of the garage, another eruption of gunfire came from the opening.

Vail went into a deep defensive crouch and fired at least ten rounds in the direction of the garage while he maneuvered quickly to his left and ran to the door on that side, flattening himself against it. Now the gunman would have to actually stick his weapon outside the opening to get a shot at him. He was about to take hold of the left edge of the door and slide it completely open, all the time ready to shoot anyone who stepped out, when the sound of an engine roared inside the garage. He leaped to the opening and pulled the door open.

Tied to the front of a car, spread-eagled and gagged, was Yanko Petriv, the NSA translator. At least a half dozen of Vail’s rounds having found his chest and stomach.

Out of the rear of the garage, which had identical sliding doors, a blue sedan screamed away and down a back road.

Vail ran around to the other side of the garage, trying to get a shot at the car, but with its lights off it disappeared behind a stand of evergreens and into the winter night.

Vail holstered his weapon and returned to the body. Placing an index finger on Petriv’s carotid artery out of habit, he withdrew it almost immediately.

He realized now that they’d had Petriv use this address so Vail would be led here. And then started the running gun battle so he’d fire blindly into the garage. Of course it wasn’t his fault, and yet he couldn’t help but wonder if they’d staked Petriv out like that because they knew the way Vail went after things.