“I was transferred from Southwest Station last week,” Deputy Belmont told him. “I thought it would be a good idea to familiarize myself with the area in case I’m ever called up here.”
“Good thinking,” Richmond said. “Tell me, Deputy, is this the start or end of your shift?”
“The end,” the deputy said. “I get the morning baby-sitting chores so my wife can go to work. Then her mother relieves me so I can go to sleep.”
“Really? It must be difficult, working different hours like that.”
The deputy smiled. “I don’t know. It sort of makes us appreciate the time you do have together.”
“I guess that would be true,” Richmond said. He looked down at the young man’s exposed lap. All he had to do was empty the windbreaker sleeve and grab the radio from the deputy’s left shoulder. It was within easy reach, by the window. Deputy Belmont would die where he sat.
The deputy put his thermos in the cup holder between the seats. He turned his headlights back on. “Have a good day, sir, and don’t forget about the knife.”
Richmond had bent forward to talk to the deputy. He straightened so that his waist was even with the window. “Thanks. I won’t.”
He stood back. The deputy waved as he started down the path. Richmond nodded after him. And with his fingers tightening around the snake’s neck, he twisted it in a complete circle. The snake, which had begun wriggling again, trembled for a moment and then was still. Richmond shook the sleeve lightly. The snake did not move. He dumped it from the sleeve and jumped back.
The snake hit the ground and lay there. It was dead. Richmond left it for the crows, then turned and started back toward the ledge.
The day had begun better than Richmond could have imagined. Two snakes were dead, and he had spared a deputy. Three lives had been his. More, if he counted the wife and child.
To risk or not, to kill or not. Choice was the heart of control, control was the engine of power, and power was the key to a rewarding life. Wayne Richmond did not know how rewarding the rest of his life would be. But this day, at least, had begun very well indeed.
TWENTY-THREE
Darrell McCaskey was not what his FBI coworkers would have described as “badge heavy.” He did not bully suspects, subordinates, or anyone else. But when he wanted results, he usually got them. He was earnest. And if the earnestness failed to register, there were always his squared shoulders, unyielding eyes, and commanding manner.
McCaskey was dressed in a leather jacket instead of his usual tweedy blazer. He felt the battered old bomber jacket looked street-smart, a little more intimidating. He arrived at the Russell Senate Office Building and showed his Op-Center ID to the security guard. McCaskey instructed the young woman not to call ahead. He wanted to send a signal to the admiral. This was an investigation, not a fishing expedition. McCaskey would be courteous and respectful during the interview, but he would not be servile. The Bureau referred to this as the LAT approach — legal authority tactics. Suspects had rights under the law. So did police and Bureau interrogators.
McCaskey walked quickly to the senator’s office. The receptionist directed McCaskey to the conference room. Political parties are not permitted to have unelected representatives working on federal property. There were no regulations governing unaffiliated advisers.
Admiral Link had just returned from the press conference and was checking E-mails on his laptop. He appeared slightly unsettled.
“You don’t waste time,” Link said without looking up from the computer.
“Not when I’m on the taxpayers’ clock,” McCaskey said.
“Civic responsibility. A sad exception, not the rule,” Link said. “Would you like coffee or tea, Mr. — ?”
“McCaskey, and no thanks,” McCaskey interrupted. He took a notebook from the inside pocket of his jacket. “I just wanted to ask you questions about some of your activities at the Company.”
Link smiled. “I have two things to say, Mr. McCaskey. First, you’re aware that I am not permitted to discuss any of the work I did, even with a member of an intelligence service.”
“Technically, that isn’t true.”
Link finally glanced up. “What do you mean?”
“The standard CIA employment agreement says that a former employee may not reveal information that might compromise ongoing operations,” McCaskey said. “You signed such an agreement without riders. I checked. My questions involve personnel you may have worked with who are either no longer with the Company or may be assigned to the D.C. area.”
“You abrogate the spirit of confidentiality, Mr. McCaskey.”
“People have said worse things about me, sometimes in English,” McCaskey replied. “What is the second thing you wanted to say?”
“Sidestepping the question of whether you or anyone else has reasonable cause to insist on this interview, I’m curious,” Link said. “By what chartered authority is Op-Center here to question me?”
“By the International Intelligence Cooperation Act of 2002,” McCaskey replied as he sat at the table across from Link. “A British national has died, Scotland Yard has requested an investigation, and we were the agent they selected. By law, I am permitted to ask questions of potential witnesses to the crime or events leading up to it. The senator agreed to an interview with Director Hood, which establishes his understanding of the validity of the IICA. Do you object to my questioning you?”
“Yes, and I also question your interpretation of the law,” Link said. “But I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt — for the moment.”
“Thank you. Admiral Link, have you personally hired anyone for the United States First Party?”
“No,” Link replied.
“Have you recommended anyone for a staff position, paid or interned, for the United States First Party?”
“Eric Stone, the young man who is managing the convention,” Link said. “That’s Eric with a c.”
“How do you know Mr. Stone?” McCaskey asked as he wrote the name in his notebook.
“He was my assistant at the Company. Eric is a very good organizer.”
“Does he have field experience?”
“As a certified public accountant,” Link replied. “Chicago office.”
“Have you hired or recommended anyone else?” McCaskey asked.
“Not yet.”
“What about the senator’s staff?” McCaskey asked.
“I brought in Kendra Peterson,” Link said.
“How do you know her?”
“She was a field agent based in Japan but working in North Korea and Taiwan,” Link said.
“One of yours?”
“Yes. Strictly ROO.”
ROO was recon only operative. However, McCaskey knew that even passive field agents were sometimes used in offensive operations. There was a case in Russia in 1979 when CIA operative Genson Blimline had been exposed by a Soviet mole. Rather than pull him out, the Company sent an observer in to watch the men who were sent to watch him. When they moved against Blimline, the ROO moved against them. Both the ROO and Blimline were able to get to a safe house in Moscow.
“Ms. Peterson’s name came up as a possible contact when Striker went over there,” said a voice from behind McCaskey. “I can get you that file.”
McCaskey turned. Mike Rodgers was standing in the conference room doorway.
“May I come in?” Rodgers asked Link.
“Absolutely,” Link replied.
Rodgers entered. His eyes were fixed on McCaskey. “What’s the latest on the witch-hunt?”
“I wouldn’t call it that,” McCaskey replied.