“Why the CFS, Greg?”
The DDI gestured futility at trying to decipher any of his boss’s decisions.
“Hmm,” Healy grunted. His enthusiasm level with the men supposed to fill the void once Castro was gone had barely reached the low threshold maintained by his Intelligence counterpart. “I can’t figure him out, Greg. Those guys he’s championing are bad news, and the company they keep doesn’t do anything for their social standing. Anthony can’t dispute that their benefactor is hooked up with the druggies, can he?”
“He sure can, plus he refuses to believe that the CFS is mixed up in it.” Drummond gave a “Go figure” shrug. “The tooth fairy is putting bags of hundreds under their pillows.”
“Still no luck on figuring out who’s signing the checks?”
“Zip. S and T is still trying with DIOMEDES,” the DDI answered, referring to the Science and Technology Directorate’s section that was linked to Federal Reserve computers and those of foreign banks with holdings in the United States. It was all very quiet, and borderline illegal. “He hates it, but as long as Coseros is in the equation, I can look wherever I want to find my leak. If something turns up on the CFS in looking, too bad. Anthony can’t stop me on that, despite what he believes.”
“His head’s in a hole,” Healy commented with disdain.
“Evidence, Mike. He wants evidence. Short of an indictment, I don’t know what will convince him. He doesn’t trust the Bureau, he doesn’t trust you or me. I don’t know who he trusts.”
“Himself.” Healy’s chest heaved with a suppressed chuckle. “The worst possible person.”
“I know.” The DDI’s secure line buzzed before he could depress himself anymore. “Drummond.”
“Greg, it’s Seth.” Seth Feirstein was roughly the DDI’s equal in the National Security Agency, the super-secret government monolith based at Fort Meade that did wonderful things with communications and cryptographics. “Listen, remember the watch we put up for you on the satellite lines out of Panama?”
“Yeah,” Drummond confirmed, his mind silently praying for good news. “Please tell me you’ve got something.”
“We’ve got something.”
The DDI gave a thumbs-up to Healy and mouthed the name “Coseros.” He got a beaming smile in return. “Go on.”
“Three groups of lines were finally pegged as his primary nonsecure international links. Once we nailed those down, we ran back on the U.S. long-distance calls to them.”
“I don’t want to know how,” the DDI said. He already did know how. The National Security Agency had the best electronic witch doctors on their staff, men and women who knew how to skirt the bounds of legality with the deftness of a ballerina and how to cross it with the stealth of an apparition.
“I’ve got two numbers for you. Both have called at least five times in the past month, and one over twenty.”
“Where’s the higher one located?”
“Area code three-zero-five.”
“Miami,” Drummond said. “Give them both to me.”
The DDI noted both but circled the Miami one. Immediately after hanging up with Feirstein, he hit the speed-dial button for the Federal Bureau of Investigation.
“Think you may have something?” Healy asked before the DDI’s call was picked up.
“I damn sure hope so.” The DDI tapped his pencil nervously. “Gordy?”
“Yeah. Greg, is that you? You sound kind of pumped up,” the FBI director commented.
“I am. Hey, you feel like helping me with some plumbing?”
“Is this about that little drip you think you had?”
“Exactly, except I have a possible stateside contact now. Just a phone number. Think you can manage?”
“I’ll need a wiretap warrant, but we can do that quietly.” The Justice Department, of which the Bureau was part, had a regularly assigned liaison judge from one of the federal courts whose responsibility, in addition to adjudicating cases, was to provide swift warrant processing in matters with potential national-security concerns. The present situation fit that profile to a T. “Two-way street on this. If anything incriminating toward or by Coseros is said…”
“It’s yours.” Drummond nodded with satisfaction. Coseros was a prize to be had, but the DDI had a greater desire. “I want the ass of whoever is wasting water.”
“I hear you. Oh, and isn’t Cuba interesting this time of year?”
The DDI smiled. It was a secure line, and Gordon Jones was not known to be a dummy. “Weather’s looking up a bit here, too.”
Frankie slowed the Chevy along the street, checking house numbers. “There.”
Art undid his belt as Frankie swung into the driveway. “Bingo.”
The car was twenty feet ahead, nosed toward the closed garage door.
“That’s the partial I got,” Frankie said. “Guess he’s home.”
“Let’s go have a talk.”
The two agents walked quietly toward the front of the house, their eyes instinctively searching for that which was out of the ordinary.
“Nice morning,” Frankie observed. “Would you have all your shades drawn?”
“Hmm.” Art stepped up onto the porch, his partner staying in the driveway with her eyes alternating between the front and side of the house.
Art stood listening for a moment, hearing nothing, looking to Frankie for ideas. She shrugged. If Sullivan wasn’t home, then why was his car still there? And where was he? They were questions that would not be answered by them just standing there.
Art tapped on the screen-door frame four times, his body reflexively standing to one side of the opening. “Mr. Sullivan. This is the FBI. We need to speak to you.”
“FBI, my ass!”
Frankie dropped low first, bringing her gun out during the motion. Art did the same, stepping farther aside from the doorway and clear of the windows.
“I’ve got a gun, and I’ll use it!”
The words were strong but slurred. Art and Frankie noticed another thing in them: real fear.
“Listen, George, this is the FBI,” Art said loudly without shouting. He didn’t want to appear to be giving commands. This wasn’t a suspect, after all, just an apparently juiced guy who was afraid for some reason. Seeing someone get wasted could do that, the agents knew.
Art looked to his partner. In barricade situations it was standard to not reveal the locations of all agents on the scene for purposes of security and response potential. In this case, though, doing just the opposite might be the way to go.
“Sullivan, this is Special Agent Aguirre of the FBI. My partner and I just want to talk to you. We know what happened yesterday. We were there. Think…you drove right by us in the alley. You almost creamed my partner.”
The doorknob clicked soon after Frankie’s plea ended. Art cringed, remembering the event that had sent his former partner to the hospital, and nearly to the grave. But this was different, he told himself, repeatedly, as the man behind the door came into view. His hands were empty.
“Frankie,” Art said calmly, his Smith now pointed at the floor and held one-handed.
“The gun’s on the floor,” George Sullivan said, his eyes red and moist. He looked up at Art. “Sorry about yesterday.”
Frankie walked past Art and Sullivan, checking the interior to ensure that all was clear. She was back on the porch a minute later. “Quite a mess in there.”