"Vanish" - читать интересную книгу автора (Gerritsen Tess)

FOURTEEN

Even by the lofty standards of Beacon Hill, the house was impressive, the largest on a street of distinguished residences which had housed generations of Boston Brahmins. It was Gabriel’s first visit to this home, and under different circumstances, he might have paused on the cobblestoned walkway to admire, in the fading daylight, the carved lintels and the decorative ironwork and the fanciful brass knocker on the front door. Today, though, his mind was not on architecture, and he did not linger on the sidewalk, but hurried up the steps and rang the doorbell.

It was answered by a young woman wearing tortoiseshell glasses and a look of cool assessment. The latest keeper of the gate, he thought. He hadn’t met this particular assistant before, but she fit the mold for a typical Conway hire: brainy, efficient-probably Harvard. Conway’s eggheads they were called on the Hill, the cadre of young men and women known for their brilliance as well as their absolute loyalty to the senator.

“I’m Gabriel Dean,” he said. “Senator Conway’s expecting me.”

“They’re waiting for you in his office, Agent Dean.”

They?

“Follow me.” She turned and led him briskly up the hallway, her low and unfashionably practical heels clicking across dark oak as they passed a series of portraits on the wall: a stern patriarch posed at his writing desk. A man garbed in the powdered wig and black robes of a judge. A third, standing before a draped curtain of green velvet. In this hallway, Conway ’s distinguished lineage was comfortably on display, a lineage that he purposefully avoided flaunting in his townhouse in Georgetown, where blue blood was a political liability.

The woman discreetly knocked at a door, then poked her head into the room. “Agent Dean is here.”

“Thank you, Jillian.”

Gabriel stepped into the room, and the door closed quietly behind him. At once the senator stepped out from behind a massive cherrywood desk to greet him. Though already in his sixties, the silver-haired Conway still moved with the power and agility of a marine, and when they shook hands, it was the robust greeting between men who have both known combat, and respect each other for it.

“How are you holding up?” Conway asked quietly.

It was the gentlest of queries, and it brought an unexpected flash of tears to Gabriel’s eyes. He cleared his throat. “The truth is,” he admitted, “I’m trying hard not to lose it.”

“I understand she went into the hospital this morning.”

“The baby was actually due last week. Her water broke this morning, and…” He paused, flushing. The conversation of old soldiers seldom strayed into the intimate details of their wives’ anatomy.

“So we’ve got to get her out of there. As soon as possible.”

“Yes, sir.” Not just soon. Alive. “I’m hoping you can tell me what’s really going on here. Because Boston PD has no idea.”

“You’ve done me enough favors over the years, Agent Dean. I’ll do whatever it takes, I promise.” He turned, gesturing toward the intimate grouping of furniture that faced a massive brick fireplace. “Maybe Mr. Silver here can help.”

For the first time, Gabriel focused on the man who’d sat so silently in the leather armchair that he might easily have been overlooked. The man stood, and Gabriel saw that he was uncommonly tall, with receding dark hair and mild eyes that peered through professorial spectacles.

“I don’t believe you two have met,” said Conway. “This is David Silver, Deputy Director of National Intelligence. He just flew up from Washington.”

This is a surprise, thought Gabriel as he shook David Silver’s hand. The Director of National Intelligence was a lofty Cabinet-level post with authority over every intelligence agency in the country, from the Federal Bureau of Investigation to Defense Intelligence to the Central Intelligence Agency. And David Silver was the DNI’s second in command.

“As soon as we got word of the situation,” said Silver, “Director Wynne asked me to fly up here. The White House doesn’t think this is your usual sort of hostage crisis.”

“Whatever usual means these days,” added Conway.

“We already have a direct line to the police commissioner’s office,” said Silver. “We’re keeping close tabs on Boston PD’s investigation. But Senator Conway tells me you have additional information that could affect how we approach this.”

Conway pointed toward the couch. “Let’s all sit down. We have a lot to talk about.”

“You said you don’t believe this is your standard hostage crisis,” said Gabriel as he settled onto the couch. “I don’t either. And not just because my wife is involved.”

“What strikes you as different?”

“Aside from the fact the first hostage taker was female? That she had an armed compatriot who walked in to join her? Aside from the fact she broadcast what seemed to be an activation code?”

“All the things that got Director Wynne concerned,” said Silver. “Plus, there’s an additional detail that worries us. I have to admit, I didn’t pick up on the significance myself when I first heard the recording.”

“Which recording?”

“The call she made to that radio station. We asked a Defense linguist to analyze her speech. Her grammar was perfect-almost too perfect. No contractions, no slang. The woman is clearly not American, but foreign born.”

“The Boston PD negotiator made the same conclusion.”

“Now this is the part that worries us. If you listen carefully to what she said-in particular, to that phrase she used, ‘the die is cast’-you can hear the accent. It’s definitely there. Russian maybe, or Ukrainian, or some other Eastern European language. It’s impossible to distinguish her precise origins, but the accent is Slavic.”

“That’s what’s got the White House worried,” said Conway.

Gabriel frowned. “They’re thinking terrorism?”

“Specifically, Chechen,” said Silver. “We don’t know who this woman is, or how she got into the country. We know that Chechens often use female compatriots in their attacks. In the Moscow theater siege, several women were wired with explosives. Then there were those two jetliners that went down in southern Russia a few years ago, after taking off from Moscow. We believe both were brought down by female passengers wearing bombs. The point is, these particular terrorists routinely use women in their attacks. That’s what our director of National Intelligence is most afraid of. That we’re dealing with people who have no real interest in negotiation. They may be fully prepared to die, and spectacularly.”

“ Chechnya ’s quarrel is with Moscow. Not us.”

“The war on terror is global. This is precisely why the DNI’s office was created-to make sure 9/11 never happens again. Our job is to make all our intelligence agencies work together, and not at cross purposes, the way they sometimes did. No more rivalries, no more spy versus spy. We’re all in this together. And we all agree that Boston Harbor ’s a tempting target for terrorists. They could go after fuel depots or a tanker. One motorboat loaded with explosives could cause a catastrophe.” He paused. “That female hostage taker was found in the water, wasn’t she?”

Conway said: “You look dubious, Agent Dean. What’s bothering you?”

“We’re talking about a woman who was forced into this situation by accident. You’re aware she was brought to the morgue as a drowning victim? Admitted to the hospital after she woke up?”

“Yes,” said Silver. “It’s a bizarre story.”

“She was a lone woman-”

“She’s no longer alone. She now has a partner.”

“This hardly sounds like a planned terrorist operation.”

“We’re not saying this hostage taking was planned. The timing was forced on them. Maybe it started as an accident. Maybe she fell overboard while being smuggled into the country. Woke up in the hospital, realized she was going to be questioned by authorities, and she panicked. She could be one arm of the octopus, part of a much larger operation. An operation that’s now been prematurely exposed.”

“Joseph Roke isn’t Russian, he’s American.”

“Yes, we know a bit about Mr. Roke from his service record,” said Silver.

“He’s hardly your typical Chechen sympathizer.”

“Did you know that Mr. Roke had explosives training in the army?”

“So have a lot of other soldiers who didn’t wind up as terrorists.”

“Mr. Roke also has a history of antisocial behavior. Disciplinary problems. Are you aware of that?”

“I know he was given a dishonorable discharge.”

“For striking an officer, Agent Dean. For repeatedly disobeying orders. There was even some question about a serious emotional disorder. One army psychiatrist considered a diagnosis of paranoid schizophrenia.”

“Was he treated for that?”

“Roke refused any and all medications. After he left the army, he essentially went into seclusion. We’re talking about a guy just like the Unabomber, who withdrew from society and nursed oddball grudges. With Roke, it was all about government conspiracies, delusions of persecution. This is a very bitter man who believes his government has misused him. He’s written so many letters to the FBI about his theories that they have a special file on him.” Silver reached for a folder on the coffee table and handed it to Gabriel. “A sample of his writing. It’s a letter he sent to them in June, 2004.”

Gabriel opened the folder and read the letter.

… I’ve provided you with case after case of documented heart attacks that were secretly induced by PRC-25 mixed with burning tobacco. The combination, as our Defense Department well knows, results in a deadly nerve gas. Scores of veterans have been murdered this way, so the Veterans Administration can save millions of dollars in health care costs. Is there no one at the FBI who cares?

“That’s just one of dozens of nutty letters he wrote to the Bureau, to his Congressmen, to newspapers and TV stations. The Washington Post got so much of his paranoid crap, they just toss out anything with his name on it. As you can see from that sample, the man is intelligent. He is verbal. And he’s utterly convinced that the government is evil.”

“Why isn’t he under psychiatric care?”

“He doesn’t believe he’s crazy. Even though everyone else can see he’s clearly around the bend.”

“Terrorists wouldn’t recruit a psychotic.”

“They might if he’s useful.”

“You can’t control them. You can’t predict what they’ll do.”

“But you can incite them to violence. You can reinforce their beliefs that their own government is against them. And you can use their skills. Roke may be paranoid, but he also knows his explosives. This is an embittered loner with military training. The perfect terrorist recruit, Agent Dean. Until we have evidence to the contrary, we have to assume that this situation has national security implications. We don’t think Boston PD is up to handling this on their own.”

“So that’s why John Barsanti is here.”

“Who?” Silver looked bewildered.

“Agent Barsanti from the FBI’s deputy director’s office. The Bureau doesn’t normally send someone straight from Washington when there’s a local field office to call on.”

“I wasn’t aware the FBI had stepped in,” said Silver. An admission that startled Gabriel. The DNI’s office wielded authority over the FBI; Silver should certainly have known about Barsanti’s involvement.

“The FBI won’t be handling the rescue,” said Silver. “We’ve authorized a special antiterrorist unit from the Strategic Support Branch to come in.”

Gabriel stared at him. “You’re bringing in a team from the Pentagon? A military operation on US soil?”

Senator Conway interjected: “I know it sounds illegal, Agent Dean. But there’s a recent directive called JCS Conplan 0300-97. It authorizes the Pentagon to employ antiterrorist military units within our borders when the situation calls for it. It’s so new, most of the public doesn’t even know about it.”

“And you think this is a good idea?”

“Frankly?” The senator sighed. “It scares the hell out of me. But the directive is on the books. The military can come in.”

“For good reason,” said Silver. “In case you haven’t noticed, our country is under attack. This is our chance to take out this nest before it can launch a strike. Before more people are endangered. In the larger scheme of things, this could prove to be a lucky accident.”

“Lucky?”

Too late, Silver registered his own insensitivity. He held up his hand in apology. “I’m sorry, that was a terrible thing for me to say. I’m so focused on my mission, I sometimes get a case of tunnel vision.”

“It may also be limiting your view of the situation.”

“What do you mean?”

“You look at this siege and automatically you think terrorism.”

“I have to consider it. They forced us to adopt this attitude. Remember that.”

“To the exclusion of all other possibilities?”

“Of course not. It’s perfectly possible we’re just dealing with a pair of crazies. Two people who are trying to avoid capture after shooting that police officer in New Haven. We’ve considered that explanation.”

“Yet you focus only on terrorism.”

“Mr. Wynne wouldn’t have it any other way. As director of National Intelligence, he takes his job seriously.”

Conway had been watching Gabriel, reading his reactions. “I can see you’re having problems with this terrorism angle.”

“I think it’s too simple,” said Gabriel.

“And what’s your explanation? What are these people after?” asked Silver. He had settled back in his chair, long legs crossed, hands relaxed on the armrests. Not a sign of tension in his lanky frame. He’s not really interested in my opinion, thought Gabriel; he’s already made up his mind.

“I don’t have an answer yet,” said Gabriel. “What I do have are a number of puzzling details that I can’t explain. That’s why I called Senator Conway.”

“What details?”

“I just attended the postmortem on that hospital guard. The man our Jane Doe shot to death. It turns out he wasn’t a hospital employee at all. We don’t know who he was.”

“They ran fingerprints on him?”

“He doesn’t turn up on AFIS.”

“So he has no criminal record.”

“No. His fingerprints don’t turn up on any databases we’ve checked.”

“Not everyone has fingerprints on file.”

“This man walked into that hospital carrying a weapon loaded with duplex rounds.”

“That’s a surprise,” said Conway.

“What’s a duplex round?” said Silver. “I’m just a lawyer so you’ll have to explain it to me. I’m afraid I’m illiterate when it comes to guns.”

“It’s ammunition in which more than one bullet is loaded into a single cartridge case,” said Conway. “Designed for greater lethality.”

“I just spoke to Boston PD’s ballistics lab,” said Gabriel. “They recovered a cartridge from the hospital room. It’s an M- 198.”

Conway stared at him. “ US Army military issue. That’s not what you’d expect a security guard to carry.”

“A fake hospital guard.” Gabriel reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper. He smoothed it flat on the coffee table. “And here’s the next detail that concerns me.”

“What’s this?” asked Silver.

“This is the sketch I made at the postmortem. It’s a tattoo on the dead man’s back.”

Silver rotated the paper to face him. “A scorpion?”

“Yes.”

“So are you going to explain to me why this is significant? Because I’m willing to bet there are more than a few men walking around with scorpion tattoos.”

Conway reached for the sketch. “You said this was on his back? And we don’t have any ID on this dead man?”

“Nothing came back on his fingerprints.”

“I’m surprised he doesn’t have prints on file.”

“Why?” asked Silver.

Gabriel looked at him. “Because there’s a good chance this man is military.”

“You can tell that just by looking at his tattoo?”

“It’s not just any tattoo.”

“What’s so special about this one?”

“It’s not on his arm, it’s on his back. In the marines, we call them ‘torso meat tags’ because they’re useful for identifying your corpse. In a blast, there’s a good chance you’d lose your extremities. So a lot of soldiers choose to get their tattoos on their chest or back.”

Silver grimaced. “A morbid reason.”

“But practical.”

“And the scorpion? Is that supposed to be significant?”

“It’s the number thirteen that catches my eye,” said Gabriel. “You see it here, circled by the stinger. I think it refers to the Fighting Thirteenth.”

“That’s a military unit?”

“Marine Expeditionary. Special ops capable.”

“You’re saying this dead man was an ex-marine?”

“You’re never an ex-marine,” Conway pointed out.

“Oh. Of course,” Silver corrected himself. “He’s a dead marine.”

“And that leads us to the detail that bothers me most,” said Gabriel. “The fact his fingerprints aren’t in any database. This man has no military record.”

“Then maybe you’re wrong about the significance of this tattoo. And the duplex ammo.”

“Or I’m right. And his fingerprints were specifically purged from the system to make him invisible to law enforcement.”

There was a long silence.

Silver’s eyes suddenly widened as he realized what Gabriel was implying. “Are you saying one of our intelligence agencies purged his prints?”

“To conceal any black ops missions within our borders.”

“Whom are you accusing? CIA? Military Intelligence? If he was one of ours, I sure wasn’t told about it.”

“Whoever this man was, whoever he was working for, it’s now obvious he and his associate showed up in that hospital room for only one reason.” Gabriel looked at Conway. “You’re on the Senate Intelligence Committee. You have sources.”

“But I’m totally out of the loop on this one,” said Conway, shaking his head. “If one of our agencies ordered a hit on that woman, that’s a serious scandal. An assassination on US soil?”

“But this hit went very wrong,” said Gabriel. “Before they could finish it, Dr. Isles walked in on them. Not only did the target survive the hit, she took hostages. Now this is a huge media event. A black ops screwup that’s going to end up on the front pages. The facts are going to come out anyway, so if you know, you might as well tell me. Who is this woman, and why does our country want her dead?”

“This is pure speculation,” said Silver. “You’re following a pretty thin thread, Agent Dean. Extrapolating from a tattoo and a bullet to a government-sponsored assassination.”

“These people have my wife,” Gabriel said quietly. “I’m willing to follow any thread, however thin. I need to know how to make this end without someone getting killed. That’s all I want. That no one gets killed.”

Silver nodded. “It’s what we all want.”