“So if a mole set the hit in motion, it doesn’t look like the shooter could be somebody in active U.S. service.”
“Which would seem to lead us back to a Russian hitter, tipped off by the mole. Except for one other thing: It doesn’t seem as if there is a mole.” He stared into the swirling waters at his feet. “Annie, I’ve checked more ways than I could begin to tell you. The list of possible candidates isn’t long, and it was easy to rule out most of them. For the few left on the list, I set some tempting traps, ones that any mole working for the Russkies wouldn’t be able to resist stepping into. Info that he would’ve transmitted right away to Moscow, and that they would’ve reacted to, pronto, in ways I could track. I started laying those snares at the start of our investigation, half a year ago.”
“And nothing?”
“Nothing.” He rose and stepped over to a white granite block near the base of the sculpture. “We can eliminate anybody in the FBI, too, because they didn’t know about the safe house until after the hit. Not even your weenie pal, Groat. So, I’m virtually sure there’s no mole.” He tapped the rock with the sole of his shoe. “And if there’s no mole to tip off Moscow, then we can rule out a Russian hit. Just as we can rule out an American in active service, acting on his own.”
“So, by process of elimination, what does that leave us? We’re left looking for a skilled sniper; somebody who’s not Russian; somebody who’s also not on active duty in the U.S. military or in the Agency-”
“-but who still somehow could find out about a top-secret CIA safe house.”
“Grant, the number of people like that would have to be vanishingly small.”
“I know,” he said. He tapped at the boulder harder, with his heel, while staring up at the monument to cryptology. “Damn it, I should be able to figure this out. I somehow feel the answer’s staring me right in the face. But I’m missing something.” He glanced at his watch. “Oh hell. I’ve got a meeting in the Corner Office. Look, we both have other responsibilities, but let’s stay on this. At least it’s a relief to know we probably don’t have another mole.”
“But it’s no relief to know we still have an assassin.”
Claibourne Correctional Facility Claibourne, Virginia
Thursday, September 11, 2:59 p.m.
Adrian Wulfe didn’t like Ed Cronin’s face.
They sized each other up across a small round plastic table in an interview room. Both the table and the molded plastic chairs in which they sat were bolted to the floor, and Wulfe’s left hand was cuffed to the arm of the chair. He knew the guards who brought him here were posted right outside the door.
Usually, these sorts of things didn’t matter. He could almost always rattle somebody just by staring at them. He learned the trick when he was a kid on the streets: Don’t blink. You look at somebody, but you don’t blink, and after a minute or so it scares the crap out of them. He did it now.
But Cronin continued to look serene and unflappable. The guy’s light-blue eyes remained locked on his own, cool and steady. And he didn’t do any of those nervous things with his hands or feet or lips.
Not likely to shake a guy like this, put the fear into those eyes. Not a good idea, anyway. Not if you want to get out. Time to play nice.
“I’ll be happy to help you if I can, Detective Cronin,” he said in reply to the cop’s previous question. “Of course, given my present circumstances”-he smiled and swept his free hand to indicate his surroundings-“I doubt that I could know much that might be useful to you.”
The cop didn’t respond to the smile. Just stared at him a minute before speaking.
“Oh, I don’t know about that. I checked the phone records here a few minutes ago and learned you’ve had several recent calls from the late Mr. Valenti. So I’m figuring that maybe before he got himself whacked, he might have told you if somebody threatened him. Or Bracey.” He paused. “Or you.”
Wulfe made show of looking off into space, frowning, trying to think back. “No…not really. Jay-Jay didn’t mention anything of the sort. No threats, no problems. He seemed happy, for once. He was looking for work, you know. He told me that he was trying to stay out of trouble and steer clear of anyone who might draw him back into it. So frankly, I was surprised to hear that he had been killed.”
“Surprised? Even after Bracey’s murder?”
Careful.
“Surprised and shocked. I felt right away that their deaths couldn’t be a coincidence.”
“That’s why I wonder if anybody has threatened you lately, Wulfe.”
He shook his head. “No one from outside, and no one in here.”
He thought the cop would buy the lie. In fact, from the minute he’d heard about Valenti, he remembered that Hunter guy and what he said. But Hunter was just a paper-pusher, not street muscle. Even if he had the balls to try something, Valenti would’ve had the guy for breakfast.
Still, for a few seconds, he toyed with the idea of telling the cop about the threat, anyway. Get the prick investigated, maybe kicked off the newspaper. Payback for dissing him in print, and then to his face.
But no. Much better to take care of it personally. And much more fun. Once he was out, he’d look up the guy. Show him what happens to anyone who crosses Adrian Wulfe.
He made a mental note to add him to the list. Right along with those two bitches.
“Funny, though. You look like you’re thinking of someone.”
It startled him. He liked to think of himself as inscrutable. “Oh. No…not at all. I was just remembering Jay-Jay. It’s depressing. Sure, like me, he had his share of problems. But he was sincerely trying to change.”
Cronin threw his head back and laughed at him. “Yeah, sure. Just like you.”
His wrist jerked taut against the handcuff. He was suddenly glad of the restraint. It had prevented him from hurling himself across the table and snapping the bastard’s neck.
Instead, he forced himself to smile. “I know it’s hard for you to believe me, Sergeant Cronin, but I-”
“No, Wulfe,” Cronin interrupted, rising to leave. “It’s impossible for me to believe you.”
SIXTEEN
Falls Church, Virginia
Friday, September 12, 7:35 p.m.
He parked the Forester in the driveway of the elegant two-story brick Tudor. Ivy crept up the wall, over leaded casement windows and soaring eaves. Tasteful placements of ferns, oaks, and rhododendrons graced the front yard. The style spoke of history, culture, and permanence. He smiled; it was the type of home he’d loved since childhood.
A moment after he rang the bell, she opened the door.
He knew he would be delighted. He was not prepared to be dazzled.
The crystal chandelier in the foyer outlined her in soft golden backlighting, while the lantern over the entrance cast a warm glow over her face. The light caught strands of her dark brown hair, bringing out the reddish hints. She wore a V-neck, halter-top cocktail dress, short and russet-colored, with matching heels.
“Hello?” she prompted, eyes sparkling.
He realized he’d stood staring at her for at least five seconds.
“Sorry. You’ve rendered me speechless.”
An impish smile. “And here I was hoping for scintillating conversation.”
“I’ll do better. Promise. But you do look stunning.”
Her smile broadened as she looked him up and down. “You dress up pretty nicely yourself, mister.”
She turned to fetch a gray cashmere coat from a wall hook. As she reached up, her hemline rode even higher, making his heart skip. Though she was not especially tall, her lean legs looked impossibly long, like a model’s.