“And just how did this Alby character know what was going on?” Sarah demanded. Her voice was low.
“I’ve no idea. I’m not sure if he actually did know anything. He was going on about apparitions and god talking to him. He’s always been a bit crazy. I think he might have just flipped and come down shooting up the place on some fantasy crusade. It all happened so fast. I’m just happy we got out of there with what we did. If it weren’t for Alby, it would have been a textbook operation.”
“Well, it wasn’t textbook, was it? How long before you get to the new operation center?”
“Tomorrow night. We’re going straight through as much as possible. We’ll need to take a few breaks. When will you be there?”
“I’ll be waiting for you. Are you telling us everything? I need to know the truth here. Does anyone else know about this? Did anything else happen up there that you’re keeping from me?”
“No that’s it. I’ve told you everything. Is Camilla on the phone?”
“She’s listening right next to me.”
“Trust me, both of you; it could have been much worse. It could very easily have been all of us that got it back there. Then where would you be? Things are going to work out. I’ve got all of the data, and Mark has all of the stuff from the lab and lodge in the van. He’ll be there in three days.”
Sarah was furious and wanted to lash out at him but she needed him – especially now that Curtis and Wendel were both dead. Three men dead in four days – an ominous sign. At this rate they wouldn’t make it through the week.
“I’ll see you tomorrow night,” Sarah said as she hung up the phone.
Camilla walked back to her seat. She sat silently, tapping her fork against her empty plate for a minute before slamming her hands on the table, rattling the settings. Sarah said, “This doesn’t change anything. You heard him. They got what they were supposed to and are on their way. We’re just two men short now.”
“Two? And David makes three.” Camilla said. “This is a major problem.”
“Not really. Now that we’re out of Maine we don’t need as many people.”
“That may be, but what am I going to tell Phillip? It’s bad news at the worst possible time.”
Sarah nodded her head. There was no disputing that fact. He would not take the news well.
“Do we even have to tell him?” Sarah asked. “What good would it do?”
Camilla leaned back in her chair and stared at the deep blue sky. Her full lips moved gently as she muttered something to herself.
“Things have got to start going better,” Camilla said as she rose and walked toward the house, leaving Sarah standing there alone cursing Seth under her breath. How could he have screwed up like this?
4:00 pm FBI Northeast Regional Office, Boston, Massachusetts
Pell had been right on when he said they’d be in Boston by four. Their plane touched down at Logan just before three-thirty and they were standing in the impressive marble lobby of a building on State Street in downtown Boston at four o’clock on the nose.
They waited for an elevator to the twenty-eighth floor in silence. Pell vibrated with nervous energy as he pressed the already illuminated Up button again.
They were alone in the elevator as they rode up; most people were going down at this time of day, and Chris said, “Why are you so nervous?”
“I just don’t get on with Carl Moscovitz,” he replied through clenched teeth.
“Don’t worry about it. If we solve this case, you’ll be the hero.”
Pell smiled. “Always the optimist, huh?”
Chris chuckled, optimism was underrated. He could find a bright side to anything.
The elevator eased to a stop and the doors slid open. The two men stepped out into another ornate, marble-infested corridor that had a too-clean-for-a-high-traffic-area oriental rug running the length of it. They walked slowly toward the glass doors with the FBI logo.
“Sure beats your office, doesn’t it?” Chris said.
Pell stared at the door wide-eyed, as if he expected something bizarre to happen. The call to Carl Moscovitz to arrange this meeting hadn’t gone well.
Pell took a deep breath and swung open the door. The open, cubicled area behind the receptionist was a bustle of activity. Well-dressed professionals were hard at work as he said to the receptionist, “Agent Paul Pelletier. I have a meeting with Carl Moscovitz.” He glanced at his watch. “Right now.”
“He’s expecting you, Agent Pelletier,” the primped lady said as she looked at Chris. “And you are?”
“Chris Foster.”
“He’s with me,” Pell said as he flipped open his ID wallet.
“Are you an American citizen?”
“Last time I checked,” Chris replied.
“Sign your name here, please. You’ll have to initial his signature, Mr. Pelletier. Do you have ID on you please Mr. Foster?”
Chris handed over his driving license and after tapping into her computer for a minute, she handed Chris a small plastic badge and told him to wear it at all times while in the office. Then she got on the phone to inform Carl Moscovitz of their arrival. “You’ll be meeting in the west conference room. Have you been here before?”
“Sure, I used to work here. I know where I’m going,” Pell assured her.
As they walked to the meeting room, Chris noticed that some people were giving them queer looks.
“I think people are surprised to see you, Pell.”
They probably all had an opinion about what Pell had done. That sort of thing never died. People just couldn’t, or wouldn’t, forget – especially in an organization such as the Bureau.
In the conference room they found three men seated on the window side of the table, waiting. None rose as they entered the room.
“Gentlemen,” Pell said as he pulled out a chair and sat down. Chris sat next to him. “This is Chris Foster.”
Chris smiled at the men who didn’t acknowledge him, as if he were invisible.
Clad in a finely-tailored Italian suit, Carl sat between two agents. His hands were folded across his lean stomach as he tilted back in one of the expensive but incredibly comfortable Herman Miller chairs. Behind him, buildings partially blocked the view of Boston harbor but they were high enough to see the coming and going of jets at Logan. Carl introduced the two agents and said, “I must say that I was surprised to hear from you this morning, Pell. It’s been a long time.”
“Eighteen years.”
“That sounds about right,” Carl said. His pale blue eyes sparkled as he smirked, exposing fleshy gums that encased unnaturally small, pointy teeth, giving him a weasel-like appearance. “How’s Bangor, Maine?”
“It’s a great little city,” Pell said. “Look, let’s cut the bullshit. You know what happened. Whether you believe me or not doesn’t matter now. It was too long ago.”
“Al Jenkins’ kid just graduated from Yale,” Carl said.
“No one wishes that Allen Jenkins was alive today more than me.”
Carl rolled his eyes. “I’m sure.”
“Oh, come on, Carl. Your issue has always been with me, not what I did. For whatever reason, you didn’t like me the minute I walked through the door and you know it.”
“That’s bullshit. I didn’t like how you conducted yourself in the field. You were reckless and I just knew you were going to get someone killed. That was it and it turns out I was one-hundred percent right.”
“You would have done the same thing.”
“I would have never let the situation arise in the first place.”
“Give me a break. That’s a crock of shit and you know it. There was nothing I could do.”
“I would say that’s the real crock of shit.”