In stark contrast, Fordham’s FBI headquarters — The J. Edgar Hoover Building, located several blocks away on Pennsylvania Avenue — had been described by Reuters not only as a “dreary 1970s behemoth,” but also as one of the world’s ugliest buildings.
Fordham exited the third floor elevator and started down a well-lit corridor that was full of ambitious, clean-cut feds in conservative suits. Down at the end of the hallway, at the building’s corner, he found Speers’ office. The previous resident — a GS-14 from OMB — was carting his last box out of the place.
The FBI director closed the door behind him and glared at Speers, who was working behind a 19th century oak partner’s desk that looked like it weighed more than his car.
“I’ll say this for you, Julian. You’ve got cajones.”
With Eva’s blessing, Speers had just reclaimed the same office he’d had during the Hatch Administration. It was an insanely good space. A corner office complete with a view of historic 17th Street NW, a fireplace and a dumb waiter.
“It was the only sensible solution,” Speers said. “I need to be in close proximity to you and the president during this crisis. McLean’s just too far.”
Fordham sat down in the chair before him. “When you hear what I’ve got to say, you’re going to wish you were a lot farther away than McLean.”
“Try me.”
“The preliminary report on the Preston fire points to arson.”
Speers nodded. “I assume the target was first responders. What did they use as a detonator?”
“You’re thinking way too sophisticated. I’m talking pedestrian, no frills, old school arson. You might remember a stack of paint cans in the basement?”
Speers’ face lost some of its color. “You’re telling me someone just lit a match and set fire to the house?”
Fordham folded his hands in his lap. “And left the gas stove on, which caused the ensuing explosion.”
Speers leaned forward. “When we left, the only two people in the house were Mary Borst and your guy, what’s his name?”
“Hank Bowers. According to him, he stepped into the front yard to take a confidential phone call a few minutes after we left, leaving Mary in the home alone.”
“I know Bowers is a trusted member of your team, but did you check out his story?”
Fordham nodded. “Phone records match up. But the other thing is…” Fordham leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “They only pulled one body from the ashes.”
“Which one?”
“Preston’s. And that can only mean one thing. Mary Borst is alive.”
SIS Building
Seven went back to the enormous monitor and touched one of the folder icons. A set of grisly crime scene photos appeared onscreen. Finally, Carver thought. This was what they had flown all the way across the Atlantic to see.
“Severe trauma around the wrists?” Carver asked.
Seven touched one of the thumbnail autopsy photos and dragged it to the middle of the screen, then zoomed in until Gish’s wrists were visible. Deep flesh wounds, an inch wide, ground down to the bone. Much like Preston’s.
“And were Sir Gish’s shoulders dislocated?” Carver said.
“Two for two,” Seven replied with some amazement.
Carver turned to Ellis. “Ropes again.”
Prichard popped out of his seat. “Pardon?”
“The D.C. crime scene burned down before we could do a proper forensic examination, but I was reasonably sure the senator was subjected to rope torture.”
Carlisle grimaced at the thought of Nils Gish strung up by a rope. “I suppose that is consistent with the predilections of this Black Order group you told us about?”
Carver nodded. “The strappado. They would tie the victim’s hands together behind his or her back, loop the rope over a high point in the room, and hoist them up. At a certain point, the body would be suddenly dropped. The shoulders and wrists were the first things to break, but it also put pressure on the lungs, making it increasingly difficult to breathe.”
“Bloody hell.”
“But the strappado has made a comeback of sorts in recent years. It would be impossible to tie it to any particular group.”
Seven touched the screen and opened another photograph. It was far more grisly, a photograph of Gish’s legs, which were severely lacerated. “Poor man was cut to ribbons. They started with the balls of his feet and made their way up his ankles and legs. The first few dozen were shallow enough so that he might not have bled to death, but eventually, they punctured a main artery in the left leg.”
Carver stood. “I don’t think these were ritual killings at all. The rope is far from the quickest or cleanest assassination method, and if they really wanted to be sadistic, they would’ve cut genitals, ears or faces.”
“Agreed,” Carlisle concluded. “The killers were after information.”
Government Flat
London
By the time they left MI6 headquarters for their flat, it had been approximately 14 hours since the killings of Nils Gish and Rand Preston. No group had yet claimed responsibility.
Or had they? It occurred to Carver that the entire point of placing the octagon-shaped fabric inside the mouths of the victims was to claim credit. Only the message wasn’t for them. It was for someone who already knew who the killers were.
The St. James-area flat Speers had retained for traveling intelligence operatives was on the sixth floor of a building that had the old-world charm that Carver had missed at the ultra-modern MI6 headquarters. Carver and Ellis opened the door with the security code Speers had given them, and wordlessly set about sweeping the two-bedroom apartment for bugs. Ellis was done with her part in six minutes. It took Carver a few minutes longer to feel secure. After both electronic and manual inspections, he finally sat on the couch and switched on his computer.
“It’s actually charming,” Ellis remarked as she took in the hardwood floors in the living room, and the windows that, if she stood at just the right angle, had a view of Green Park. “Why would the ODNI spring for a place like this?”
“London hotel rates, obviously,” Carver shrugged. “At 300 pounds a night, a place this close to Parliament probably paid for itself within the first eight or nine years.”
Ellis scratched her underarm and caught a whiff of her own odor. “Mind if I shower?”
“Ladies first.” The gesture was pure chivalry, as he himself had not had so much as a sink shower in the past 24 hours.
As he heard Ellis turn the shower on, Carver powered up his tablet, linked to the secure DNI satellite feed, and logged into the mission cloud. He was eager to see what, if anything, had been accomplished since they had stepped off the plane.
Arunus Roth had been tasked with mashing up all public information about Preston and Gish and looking for common links. He cringed when he read the kid’s summary statement: No obvious connections.
Roth had prepared a grid with key information in categories, summarizing everything from education to public perceptions about each man’s political positions. It was unlikely that either man would have been paired through an online matchmaking algorithm. Although both were politicians, Gish was socialist-leaning in his beliefs, and Preston was so far right that he was even considered a hardline conservative in his home state of Texas. Preston was so religious that he had led prayer circles on the campaign trail, whereas the only times Gish attended church were for weddings and funerals.
Neither man had any known relatives in the other man’s country. They did not appear to be connected through any social networks. Gish had studied in D.C. for one year of college, but he was older than Preston, who would have been in high school in Texas at the time.