When he had the map in his head, he glanced over the names. A couple of them were doctors, by the look of it — or Ph.D.s, at least. He only recognized one of the names. “Hayes. Franklin Hayes — he’s a federal judge. He’s been in the news recently.”
“The president chose him to be the next justice on the Supreme Court,” Hollingshead said. “He’s just waiting for the Senate to confirm his appointment.”
Chapel wondered if that made his job harder or easier. Harder because if someone was gunning for a high-ranking judge it would be tough to keep it out of the papers. Easier because a man like that would already have some security.
“He’ll be the first one you make contact with, of course,” Banks said. “He’s the highest-value target.”
Chapel shook his head. “With all due respect, sir, he won’t.” He tapped the list with his artificial index finger. “Judge Hayes is on — what? The Tenth Circuit Court? The address for him here is in Denver. If the detainees are limited to traveling by train or by bus—” He glanced up for confirmation.
“So far that’s what we’ve seen, yes,” Hollingshead confirmed. “They don’t have driver’s licenses or passports. They won’t be able to board an airplane. And they don’t know how to drive a car. That’s a small bit of luck, eh?”
“—then it will still take two days for one of them to arrive in Colorado.”
“That sounds right,” Hollingshead confirmed.
Chapel nodded. “Meanwhile we’ve got two names here in New York City. An hour and a half from the Catskills by train. A detainee could already be there. Two people are already at risk. It has to be my first stop.”
“Whatever!” Banks said, throwing his hands in the air. “Just do it. Hollingshead, I want constant reporting on this. Total accountability from your office.”
“Of course,” Hollingshead said. He was staring Chapel right in the eye while he spoke. “I’ll make sure to keep you in the loop.”
“As for you,” Banks said, jabbing a finger in Chapel’s direction, “you do what you’re told, you keep your mouth shut, and you end this problem as fast you goddamned well can. You need something from CIA, we’ll provide it, as long as you keep our name out of things. You have a sidearm? You’re going to need one. And I want you in civvies while you’re working on this. I don’t want the public to see an army asshole running around in full dress uniform, shooting at our targets.”
“I would need to go home and change.”
“There’s a rack of civilian clothing in the room back there,” Hollingshead said, gesturing at a door at the back of the bar. “You can take your pick. As for a sidearm, I’ve already thought of that.” He reached behind the bar and produced a black pistol with the squared-off lines of a SIG Sauer P228—a weapon Chapel had handled more than once, since it was common issue among the armed forces. The army, which had to have its own name for everything, called it the M11.
“Nice weapon,” Chapel said. At least here he could impress his superiors with his knowledge. “9x19 mm ammunition — the favorite cartridge of police and military units everywhere. Good stopping power, but without the kick of heavier ammo so you don’t have to refocus after each shot. A short slide and barrel so it’s easily concealed. Normally it takes a thirteen-round magazine but you’ve put the fifteen-round magazine from a P226 in there — you can tell by the way the magazine sticks a little way out of the grip. Not the fanciest gun in the world but one of the most dependable.”
Hollingshead glanced at Banks, looking impressed. Banks just shrugged.
Hollingshead set the pistol down on the bar and came over to shake Chapel’s hand. When Chapel held out his right hand, Hollingshead grasped it — then grabbed Chapel’s artificial left hand as well. He didn’t flinch at all when he touched the silicone. “All right, son. Go get changed while I finish up here with our civilian friend.”
“Sir,” Chapel said. He headed through the indicated door and found a little room beyond, a cloakroom by the look of it. Two Z-racks of men’s suits stood there, each suit wrapped in plastic like they’d just come back from the dry cleaner’s. Along one wall was a dresser full of crisp white shirts still wrapped in cellophane.
He took off his cap and started to unbutton his jacket when he heard voices from the bar room beyond. He closed the door to the cloakroom but not all the way. He wanted to hear what they had to say.
“—goddamned cripple, at least tell me that robot arm of his isn’t his shooting arm,” Banks grumbled.
“I assure you, I didn’t just pick Chapel’s name out of a hat,” Hollingshead replied. “He’s the man we want — the man we need for this. Given some of your preconditions and your damnable sensitivity issues.”
“You’d better be right. For all of our sakes.” Banks grumbled something else Chapel couldn’t make out. Then he raised his voice and spoke more clearly. “You’ve got just as much to lose here as I do, Rupert.”
“A point I am firmly aware of. Now why don’t you and your crop-headed monster get out of my office, so I can get back to controlling this situation?”
Chapel had to grin at that. Crop-headed monster. He could think of worse names for Laughing Boy — plenty of them — but that one fit just fine.
When he’d finished dressing, he stepped back out of the cloakroom to find Banks and Laughing Boy gone. They hadn’t even bothered to wish him good luck. Not that he minded much.
“Look at you!” Hollingshead said. “I wouldn’t recognize you. Which I suppose is the point.”
Chapel ran a hand down the front of his new suit. “I haven’t worn one of these in a while. I’ve got my dress uniforms for formal occasions, and when I’m off duty, I’m more of a polo shirt and jeans man.”
“How’s the fit? In the, ah, shoulders?”
Chapel had ended up taking the slacks from one suit and the jacket from a bigger one. He needed extra room in the shoulders for two reasons. One was to give the clamps that held his arm on more room. The other was to give him space to conceal his sidearm.
They taught you all kinds of fun stuff in spy school, including how to dress yourself. “It’s good.”
He pulled down on the cuffs of the suit jacket and stared at the dark fabric. It was the wrong color. It wasn’t green or blue. It wasn’t a uniform. “Sir,” he said, in a small voice — because if the army had taught him one thing above all others, it was how to show respect to a superior officer. “Sir. Please. I hate to even say this out loud. But… I am a cripple. I am too old for this job, and too long out of active duty. If this mission is as important as you say—”
“Son, I’m going to mark this little moment of doubt down to pressure. The stress of a new and daunting assignment.” Hollingshead stood up straight and Chapel couldn’t resist coming to attention. “We’re going to pretend you never said that. And if you ever call yourself that horrible name again — cripple — I’m going to start believing it, and I can’t afford that. You are the right man for this job. The only man for this job. Now. I’d ask if you’re ready, if you need more time,” Hollingshead said, “but we don’t have that luxury. I’ll take you to the helipad now, and you can get started.”
THE PENTAGON: APRIL 12, T+6:21