“Yes, I told you that, Tom,” she was saying, her voice carrying over the din. “I did call HQ, but they wouldn’t put me through to Judd, and he has to approve it. As it stands, we just don’t have enough bodies….”
Harper leaned in to explain. “They were supposed to go in with the D.C. SWAT team and an ATF contingent. It sounds like she’s trying to beef up the numbers.”
“Who’s Judd?”
“Harry Judd, the deputy executive director. He’s the only one who can authorize the use of the HRT.”
Kealey nodded. He knew that the Bureau’s Hostage Rescue Team — frequently without any hostages to save — often served as an elite SWAT unit and was renowned for its low subject fatality rate. For this reason alone, he hoped the team would get the nod, but judging by the agent’s obvious frustration, it didn’t look good.
The woman finally tossed aside the file she was holding to more efficiently slam down the receiver. She clearly wasn’t in the mood for conversation, but Harper pressed forward. “Agent Crane, this is Ryan Kealey. Ryan, Special Agent Samantha Crane.”
Crane was nearly as tall as he was. She sized him up with a sweeping glance and offered a small, disapproving frown. Kealey couldn’t really blame her; he knew how he looked. Finally, she stuck out her hand and said, “Nice to meet you.”
Her grip was surprisingly strong, her voice hinting at a regional accent he couldn’t quite place.
He was still trying to figure it out when she turned her attention back to Jonathan Harper. “No offense, Mr. Harper, but I have no idea how you were even cleared to this site. This is a domestic operation, a Bureau operation, and I’ve been working this case for three months. So unless you have something to contribute, I’m—”
“Agent Crane, I understand how you feel, and I’m sorry for the intrusion,” Harper said, moving fast to appease her. “Trust me when I say that we’re not here to interfere. That said, we would like to talk to Mason once you have him in custody.”
She frowned again. “That might be arranged, but not through me. He’ll have to be arraigned first, and—”
“What are you charging him with?”
Crane turned back to Kealey, clearly annoyed by the interruption. “The U.S. attorney files charges, Mr. Kealey, not the FBI.”
“So how did you get the warrant?” Kealey shot back.
She sighed impatiently. “Anthony Mason was served up to us by a cooperating witness three months ago. Based on his testimony and supporting documents, we can link Mason to the distribution of more than two hundred thousand dollars in various Class III weapons over the past two years. We know he’s responsible for much more, but that’s what we can prove.
Everything’s in the affidavits we filed with the D.C. Superior Court.” She pointed to the folder on the desk and said, “That’s Mason’s file, by the way. You can check it out for yourself.”
“Where’s your witness now?” Harper asked.
“Federal custody.”
“Why don’t you use him?” Kealey asked. “You could send him in with undercover agents to make a buy. That would save the need for all of” — he waved his arms around the crowded room
— “this.”
“Because Mason knows we’re holding him,” she replied. “They picked him up on a high-profile bust, a joint DEA-ATF operation. As usual, they held a press conference and started celebrating before they knew what they had, so Mason was tipped off before his buddy had the chance to give him up. Obviously, the trail went cold until this week.” She paused as though thinking it through. “Besides, the witness was kind of shaky to begin with.”
“So let me get this straight,” Kealey said. “Mason’s been at the top of your list for months, during which time you had shit. Now, by some miracle, you’ve suddenly managed to stumble onto him. Is that right?”
A cold look settled over her face at the tone of the question.
“How did it happen?” he asked.
“We received some unexpected information, an anonymous tip. I’m not going to tell you anything more than that.”
Kealey gave her a hard stare. Anonymous tip? That was clearly bullshit. “Can’t you at least wait to get him outside the building? If he sees you coming, he’ll barricade himself inside. Besides, who knows how many—”
“Mr. Kealey, I don’t have to explain myself to you.” She set her feet and folded her arms. “But I will say this: It really isn’t up to me. I have my orders as well, and at the Bureau, we always follow orders.”
She didn’t expand on this last statement, but Kealey caught her meaning instantly: things didn’t work the same at the CIA. It wasn’t a compliment.
“Now is that it?” she asked sarcastically. “Or do you have any more questions?”
“Just one. If your witness is that shaky, how can you trust what he’s been telling you?”
“Because everything he told us before checked out.” It was a new voice. Kealey turned toward the person who had approached unannounced, and Crane reluctantly made the introductions.
Matt Foster looked to be about a year out the Academy and was dressed the part in a well-cut gray flannel suit, which struck Kealey as somewhat strange; for some reason, he’d always associated gray flannel with men in their forties or fifties. With his broad shoulders and dark, neatly combed hair, Foster could have been handpicked by Hoover himself; the young agent’s attire, impeccable posture, and poorly restrained confidence could have come straight out of a manual, and probably had. Kealey disliked him on sight.
Foster was still talking. “We missed Mason back in September, but we were able to get hold of some of his documents, which he left at a warehouse in Chicago. Careless, but understandable….
He had to leave in a hurry. Incidentally, that place was also located on the waterfront. Anyway, we were able to track payments in excess of $1.2 million to an account at Citibank. Before that, the money was wired out of the Gulf Union Bank in the Caymans. They weren’t as forthcoming, but we only got that far because of the witness, so we know he’s being straight with us.”
“Maybe so, but since he’s in custody, there’s no way he can tell you what’s in that building,”
Kealey said, pointing across the room to the wall of monitors. He wasn’t sure of the power differential here, but he assumed Crane was in charge, so he aimed his next words in her direction. “The truth is that you have no idea what Mason’s stockpiling, right? Isn’t that why you wanted the HRT?”
She looked uncertain, and he knew that he’d gotten it right. “Listen, you have to call this off. If you send men in without knowing what they’re up against, you’re—”
“I already told you there’s nothing I can do,” Crane snapped defensively. “Besides, what makes you such an expert? How do you know so much about my case?”
“Because I found the link between Mason and Arshad Kassem,” Kealey shot back in a low voice.
Recognition sparked in her eyes; Harper had clearly briefed her earlier. “Agent Crane, Mason didn’t receive that kind of money for small arms. The insurgency has all the assault rifles it can carry, and it would have been costly and dangerous to set up an international link. The only reason to take the risk would be to get something better than what they had, and what they had was pretty damned good. I’m talking about RPGs, prepackaged explosives, and heavy machine guns.” He paused to let that sink in. “I’m telling you, this raid is a bad idea.”