To say my options were narrow would be a gross understatement, but while I was still out and alive, I figured I had an advantage. I already knew more about Corrigan than made him comfortable and there was a good chance that thanks to Kurt or Kirby or my elusive deep throat, I might have some information I was as yet unaware of-information he didn’t want me to have. I thought of Kurt and how all his paranoid fieldcraft suddenly seemed not quite so crazy. In fact, along with my unwillingness to share any details with Tess, it had probably saved his-and Gigi’s-life.
On the other hand, I wondered if it had all cost Nick his life. The thought hit me like a black hole of sadness, consuming me from the inside. I raised my mug slightly and gave my dead buddy a silent toast.
“I’m sorry,” I said under my breath.
As I set the mug down and stared into its murkiness, one thing was clear. There was no way I was going to prove that I was innocent. Not without signed confessions from the perpetrators. My only course of action was to find the man pulling the strings and secure evidence that I’d been framed.
I nodded to myself, slowly. Nothing had changed when it came to the big picture. It was still brutally simple.
I had to find Corrigan.
Sandman ground over the curious text message as he stared at himself in the mirror while he shaved.
He’d spent the night at a hotel, thinking he would take the time to recharge. He’d been on the go ever since the whole affair had gone into overdrive: flying up to Boston to take care of the doc, then back to the city to pick up Reilly’s trail at Times Square, following him down to DC and on to Kirby’s, then the altercation at the CIA analyst’s house after which he’d lost Reilly. He’d spent a sleepless night staking out the agent’s home, only to then discover the agent had turned up in FBI custody. Shortly after, however, he’d had to take care of the agent’s partner but failed to retrieve the laptop. He’d welcomed the night’s break to have a shower, a decent meal, and a hard think about what his next move would be, knowing Reilly was locked away in federal custody and beyond his reach.
And then the encrypted message had come in, informing him Reilly had escaped.
Kudos, he thought. Impressive move, all the more since Sandman still didn’t know how Reilly had managed to pull it off. The information he’d received was still sketchy-Reilly had somehow faked being sick convincingly enough to be taken to a hospital.
Sandman wondered if Reilly had had inside help. He’d need to look into it, find out who had been escorting him at the time of his escape. Perhaps that thread might lead back to Reilly now that he was in the wind-if the thread that had popped up on his screen in the form of a cryptic text message didn’t pan out, a text message that had been sent to Tess Chaykin’s iPhone and snagged by the Stingray van that was now parked near Reilly and Chaykin’s house.
The FBI had been using Stingray technology for years. The system, which mimics a cell phone tower, was fitted inside an unmarked van and was able to pinpoint the exact location of all mobile devices within its range and intercept all conversations and data coming in and out of any targeted phone. The Bureau didn’t need a wire tapping warrant to deploy Stingray; instead, they used it under the authority of “pen register” orders-otherwise known as “tap and trace” orders-which were very easily granted by the courts since they only required “probable cause” under the Fourth Amendment. These orders were only supposed to allow investigators to collect metadata such as a list of the numbers communicating with a suspect’s phone. The fact that Stingray could also eavesdrop on conversations and read message traffic was an innocent, but fortunate, bonus.
The SMS had come in from a throwaway and the SIM was no longer in use. It didn’t have a history to mine, either. It had come to life for less than a minute, just enough time to type in Chaykin’s phone number, add in the short message, and hit send. The SIM would be under heavy watch, but it was pretty evident to Sandman that it would never be used again.
The meaning of the message, on the other hand, was far from evident.
I’M OUT AND OK. NEED U TO BRING SURV PACK. TONIGHT @ MONASTERY
Sandman was intrigued.
Surely Reilly had to know Chaykin’s phone would be under watch, her SMS messages monitored? And asking her to bring him his “survival pack” would risk getting her picked up and charged-assuming they could prove that she knew the message came from him and that she actually met up with him.
The question was: what did Reilly mean? Where was he telling Tess Chaykin to come meet him?
The FBI team watching the house was still working on figuring it out, but so far they didn’t have a conclusive answer. It was too vague and could refer to too many places. It wasn’t a priority for them anyway. All they’d need to do was follow Chaykin when she left the house. She’d lead them straight to Reilly.
Sandman intended to be there when the meet took place. Reilly needed to be silenced before he could be taken into custody. If necessary, he knew he could get assistance from the FBI agent his employers had on their payroll, but he preferred to do it alone. Reliability was never an issue when he was operating solo.
He stared at the words on his screen, trying to divine their hidden message. He went over everything he knew about Reilly and Tess. Then he went wider. He looked at the file he had been given about those close to him, starting with Aparo-and an unexpected association flew off the screen at him. Something that, to him, seemed like the obvious solution.
Sandman nodded with satisfaction. It would be dark soon. He needed to make a move if he was going to get there before Reilly.
28
Mamaroneck, New York
Skulking by the window of her bedroom, Tess peeked out at the sleepy, tree-lined street as the early darkness of winter settled in. She could see the unmarked sedan parked outside the house, across and slightly down the street, and knew Annie Deutsch and her partner were in it. She could also just about make out the Comcast van one house further away and knew it was the Stingray monitoring vehicle they often used in these situations-which was why she was intrigued by the text message that she’d received.
Much earlier that day, as she was leaving Federal Plaza, she had already been wondering about where and when she would meet Reilly. She knew that, if all went well, he would make contact soon after he was out. He’d want her to know he was OK and that the capsules had done their job. She also figured he would need her help. His reckless text message had seemed out of character until Kim had come into her bedroom with a curious question and it all fell into place.
She turned away from the window and edged over to the bed, on which sat Kim’s denim backpack, the one she’d personalized with small pyramid-shaped studs. She had packed it with Reilly’s jeans and Timberland low boots, a pair of thick socks, underwear, a winter shirt, a small vanity case she’d been given on an overseas flight that included a shaving kit and toothbrush, and the stash of cash-two thousand dollars’ worth-they kept in the gun safe for an emergency. She’d also put in Reilly’s personal handgun, a Glock 19, and a box of rounds.
She glanced at her watch. It was time to get ready.
She could hear a blissfully oblivious Alex laughing to the antics of Despicable Me 2-still his default movie-with his grandmother downstairs in the living room, and guessed that Kim was probably sulking in her bedroom, gorging herself on an endless stream of Snapchat messages and Instagram likes while preparing herself for the aborted fun night out at the movies with her boyfriend Giorgio and, probably far more distressing, the imminent, if temporary, loss of her prized phone.