He glanced over, his gaze sweeping her body from the tip of her shoes to her head. “Those earrings look familiar.”
“They were my mother’s,” she responded, her tone defensive.
“And you wear them nearly every day, don’t you?”
The teleconference room was not overly warm, Kranemeyer realized as he took his seat to one side of the table. President Hancock may not have yet responded to the economic situation by wearing a sweater in the grand tradition of Jimmy Carter, but it seemed that other governmental employees were expected to.
“Director Haskel,” Michael Shapiro began, initiating the conference, “I’m here with the Director of the Clandestine Service, Bernard Kranemeyer, along with his head analyst, Ron Carter. Go ahead.”
“Thanks, Mike,” Eric Haskel responded over the video uplink, “I’m sure you gentlemen are very busy, so I’ll keep this brief. In short, we have identified the driver of the sedan that crashed into Director Lay’s SUV this morning, and our findings seem to rule out the Russian Mafia connection which was initially suggested by your people.”
A file photo came flashing up on screen as the FBI director continued to narrate. “Michael Fedorenko, a naturalized US citizen, formerly Mikhail Fedorenko of the USSR. Forty-five years of age, he came to this country following the fall of the Soviet Union. A former demolitions specialist in the Red Army, Fedorenko made considerable money in construction through the late ‘90s, most of it coming from private development in northern Virginia.”
More files came across the screen, mostly financial reports. “Then the economic crisis struck in 2008 and his construction company went down the tubes. Out of work and running low on funds, Fedorenko seems to have become increasingly disenchanted with his lot in this country. In the spring of 2009 he became affiliated with a TEA Party group in the Alexandria area, and launched an unsuccessful bid for county supervisor.”
Shapiro nodded. “And how did this man go from TEA Party candidate to bomber?”
“We’re investigating the connection,” Haskel replied, his voice tight. “We’re also investigating any possible connection between Fedorenko and your rogue agent. This is what is clear.”
More images on the screen, this time showing a SWAT team executing an assault. “Thirty minutes ago, I authorized a SWAT team to search Fedorenko’s farm outside Manassas. The farm was deserted, but in the barn they found blasting caps, dynamite and three hundred pounds of ammonium nitrate.”
Shapiro blinked, adjusting his glasses as he refocused on the screen. “Any electronic records?”
At that moment, Ron Carter’s phone went off with the annoying jangle of an incoming text.
Kranemeyer shot him a dark look of disapproval.
“That’s a negative,” Haskel replied, not seeming to notice the disruption. “Following his connection with the TEA Party, Fedorenko seemed to have become obsessed with the notion of going ‘off-grid’. It appears that he didn’t own so much as a cellphone.”
“Except for the one that was used to detonate the bomb,” Kranemeyer interjected.
“That’s correct, probably one purchased for the purpose. It seems to have been a small operation — I am optimistic that, providing he is still alive, we’ll find both Lay and his daughter very shortly.”
Carter looked up from his phone. “I don’t know if I share your optimism, director. I was just notified by a source that Virginia state troopers responded in the last ten minutes to a double homicide on Route 211 near Warrenton. Both victims appear to be Russian. Perhaps we should reexamine that mafiya connection.”
Harry had always liked farms. Rural, out of the way places. Minimum people, maximum line of sight. Fewer people to ask questions, less collateral damage if things went south.
The only downside was, what people there were all knew each other.
Which was why the safehouse was located well off the road, a long driveway shielded by eighty-year-old pines.
Harry pushed open his door and stepped out of the idling Tahoe, his eyes scanning the surrounding territory as he moved to the newspaper tube that stood there by the entrance to the drive.
There was nothing in the tube. That was to be expected — they had never subscribed to a paper. He allowed his hand to drag across the side of the tube and then climbed back into the SUV.
“What’s with the chalk?” he heard Carol ask. He allowed himself a grim smile, glancing back at the thin line of yellow chalk across the side of the newspaper tube. She may never have been in the field, but she didn’t miss much.
“It’s for the caretaker,” he explained, putting the Tahoe in drive. “So he knows not to come home.”
The pearl earrings lay on the dashboard, smashed into a thousand pieces by the butt of Harry’s Colt. The GPS tracker that had been embedded in the left earring was still headed south, in the saddlebags of a Harley Davidson where Harry had dumped it when they had stopped at a gas station.
The biker had looked capable of taking care of himself.
“I’m sorry they had to be destroyed,” Harry said gently as the SUV continued down the drive.
She didn’t look at him. “Don’t be,” she responded, her voice infused with an artificial calm. “There wasn’t any other way. Sometimes even memories have to die…”
Free Fall. The DCS closed the door to his office, reflecting once more upon Nichols’ final words.
There was a message there, of that he was certain. Despite his statement to Carter and Lasker, Free Fall was more than just a distress code. That code had been used.
Phantom pain shot through Kranemeyer’s nonexistent right leg as he limped to his desk.
There was a photo on the desk, of him in the Chesapeake 5K. Running for charity just nine months ago. Oh, well…that was nine months ago. Before his own world had been turned upside down by the defection of an agent.
The DCS gritted his teeth against pain as he lowered himself into the desk chair. On this day, he couldn’t have run a 5K to save his own life.
Quite possibly the worse thing about a traitor like Hamid Zakiri was that their defection caused you to start seeing traitors in every shadow. Paranoia was an important skillset for any spook — the trick was to keep it from pulling you over the edge. Devilishly hard.
Kranemeyer buried his head in his hands, striving to remember. There was something there, an elusive memory from the past. But Nichols wasn’t a traitor.
He pulled his cellphone from his pocket and gazed at it a moment in contemplation before dialing in a number.
“Marcia,” he began when the line was picked up, “I need you to retrieve a dossier from Archives. I want everything we have on a CIA black-op run in the West Bank in 2000. Operation RUMBLEWAY, to be exact. Yes, Marcia, I know it’s eyes-only access. That’s why I’m asking…”
“You’ll have to forgive the interior decorator.” Standing in the entrance hall of the safehouse, Harry motioned toward the faded wallpaper and chipped paint. “We don’t do a lot of entertaining.”
Carol shook her head. The safehouse was a small rancher, built in a style dating back to the ‘50s. Which was probably the last time it had been decorated.
“Who owns this place?” she asked, looking around. “Langley?”
Harry cleared his throat. “Not exactly. We do, actually.”