"Meaning there will be leaks," Reynolds said, wondering if Fisher suspected that those leaks might have already occurred.
"Meaning that when you go after important people, you better be damn sure of your case before any leaks do occur. You can't target people like that unless you're loaded for bear. Right now, your gun's empty and I'm not sure where you go to reload. It pretty much says in the Bureau manual, you can't hunt down public officials based on rumor and innuendo."
She looked at him coolly when he finished saying this. "Okay, Paul, would you like to tell me exactly what it is you want me to do?"
"The Violent Crime Unit will keep you informed on its investigation. You have to find Lockhart. Since the two cases are inextricably connected, I suggest cooperation."
"I can't tell them anything about our investigation."
"I'm not asking you to. Just work with them to help clear Newman's murder. And find Lockhart."
"And beyond that? If we can't find her? What happens to my investigation?"
"I don't know, Brooke. The tea leaves are very hard to read right now."
Reynolds stood and looked out the window. Thick, dark clouds had turned day almost into night. She could see both her reflection and Fisher's in the window. He never took his eyes off her, and she doubted if he was all that interested at the moment in how her backside and long legs looked in the black knee-length skirt and matching stockings she was wearing.
As she stood there her ears picked up on a sound they usually didn't: the "white noise." At sensitive government facilities windows were potential outlets for valuable information, namely speech. To plug this leak, speakers were mounted at the windows in these facilities to filter out the sound of voices such that anyone lurking outside with the fanciest in surveillance equipment would end up with zip. The speakers accomplished this by emitting a sound akin to a small waterfall, hence the term "white noise." Reynolds, like most employees in such buildings, had tuned out the background noise; it was such a daily part of her life. Now she noticed it with stunning clarity. Was that a signal to her to notice other things as well? Things, people she saw every day and then thought no more of, accepting them for what they proclaimed to be? She turned to face Fisher.
"Thanks for the vote of confidence, Paul."
"Your career has been nothing short of spectacular. But the public sector is often like the private in one regard: It's the 'what have you done for me lately?' syndrome. I'm not going to sugarcoat this, Brooke. I've already started to hear the rumblings."
She folded her arms across her chest. "I appreciate your complete bluntness," she said coldly. "If you'll excuse me, I'll see what I can do for you lately, Agent Fisher."
As Fisher rose to leave, he moved next to her, touching her lightly on the shoulder. Reynolds recoiled slightly from this, the bite of his words still smarting.
"I've always supported you, and I will continue to support you, Brooke. Don't read this as though I'm throwing you to the wolves. I'm not. I respect the hell out of you. I just didn't want you to be blindsided on this. You don't deserve that. This messenger is friendly."
"That's good to know, Paul," she said unenthusiastically.
When he reached the door, he turned back. "We're handling the media relations from WFO. We've already had inquiries from the press. For now, an agent was killed during an undercover operation. No other details were provided, including his identity. That won't last long. And when the dam breaks, I'm not sure who can keep dry."
As soon as the door closed behind him, a cold shudder hit Reynolds. She felt as though she were being suspended over a vat of boiling something. Was it her old paranoia kicking in? Or was it simply her reasoned judgment? She kicked her shoes off and paced her office, stepping over the paper land mines as she did so. She rocked on the balls of her feet, trying to guide the massive tension she was feeling throughout her body toward the floor. It didn't come close to working.
CHAPTER 19
The recently renamed Ronald Reagan Washington National Airport, which everyone in the area still simply called "National," was very busy this morning. It was loved for its convenience to the city and its numerous daily flights, and hated for its congestion, short runways and stomach-jolting tight turns to avoid restricted airspace. However, the airport's new sparkling terminal with its row of Jeffersonian-inspired domes and hulking, multitiered parking garages with sky-walks to the terminal were very welcome to the hassled air traveler.
Lee and Faith entered the new terminal, where Lee eyed a police officer patrolling the corridor. They had left the car in one of the parking lots.
Faith watched the policeman's movements too. She was wearing "eyeglasses" that Lee had given her. The lenses were ordinary glass, but they helped to further change her look. She touched Lee's arm. "Nervous?"
"Always. It kind of gives me an edge. Makes up for a serious lack of formal schooling." He put their bags over his shoulder. "Let's grab a cup of coffee and let the line at the ticket counter die down a little, scope the place out." As they looked for a coffee shop, he asked, "Any idea of when we can get a flight out of here?"
"We fly through Norfolk and then take a commuter to Pine Island, off the Outer Banks of North Carolina. Flights to Norfolk are pretty frequent. The commuter to Pine Island you have to call ahead and schedule. Once we get the Norfolk flight scheduled, I'll call down and arrange that. They only fly during daylight."
"Why's that?"
"Because we won't be landing on a regular runway; it's more like a little road. No lights or tower or anything. Just a wind sock."
"That's comforting."
"Let me call down and check on the house."
They went over to the phone bank and Lee listened while Faith confirmed their arrival. She hung up. "All set. We can get a rental car once we get down there."
"So far, so good."
"It's a nice place to relax. You don't need to see or talk to anybody else if you don't want to."
"I don't want to," said Lee firmly.
"I'd like to ask you a question," Faith said as they walked toward a cafe.
"Shoot."
"How long had you been following me?"
"Six days," he promptly answered, "during which you made three trips to the cottage, including last night."
Last night, Faith thought. Was that all it had been? "And you haven't reported back to your employer yet?"
"No."
"Why not?"
"I like to do weekly reports, unless something really extraordinary happens. Believe me, if I'd had time, last night would have qualified for the mother of all reports."
"How were you to make these reports if you don't know who hired you?"
"I was given a phone number."
"And you never checked up on it?"
He looked at her with annoyance. "Nah, why should I care? Take the money and run."
She looked chastened. "I didn't mean it like that."
"Uh-huh, sure." He shifted the bags slightly and continued, "There's a special crisscross directory that'll give you the corresponding address if you have the phone number."
"And?"
"And in these days of satellite phones and nationwide cell networks and crap like that, nothing came up. I called the number. It must have been set up just to receive calls from me because it told Mr. Adams to leave any information on the tape. It also gave a P.O. box in D.C. Being the ever curious type I checked that out too, but it was listed in the name of a corporation I'd never heard of, with an address that turned out to be phony. Dead end." He looked down at her. "I take my work seriously, Faith. I don't like walking into traps. Famous last words, right?"