Edwards said nothing. He didn’t have to. The look in his eyes said it all.
I continued. “So you have a fake agent who’s working on the flip side. Keeping tabs on Wardell for you, but also enabling him when he needs help, like with the phony tip on the red van, or putting Hatcher in his sights. I’d hazard a guess he set up the mugging attempt on me in the motel parking lot in Cairo, when you realized I was getting a little too close a little too soon.
“This guy is not on staff at the FBI, and yet he has inside knowledge of the investigation. He could move freely among the task force; he has a look and a bearing and identification that are all good enough to fool any real agent. How is that possible? Because he’s not fake at all. He’s the real deal. Like I said: the only way it could have happened.
“I had a long time to think about it in the hospital, and I kept coming back to that conclusion. So how come he didn’t show up in the system? I asked Banner to get me ID photos for every male agent in the Bureau who died in the last ten years. Some of those were killed in the line of duty, but I didn’t spend too long looking at them. I was interested in people who’d died unrelated to the job. Over the entire United States, that fit less than two dozen men in the period. Few enough that I could really focus on those faces. It didn’t take too long to find the one I wanted. He had a little more hair and contact lenses, but there was no mistaking it: Martin Bryce, who was supposed to have been killed in an automobile accident in San Diego three years ago, somehow shows up as John Edgar two weeks ago. The dental records were different, but if you can fake an FBI ID, dental records are a piece of cake. We did a little more digging, and guess what? Bryce was assigned to your team back when you worked Organized Crime, which would have brought you both into contact with Vitali Korakovski. Quite a coincidence. How many more John Edgars do you have, Edwards? How many ghost agents working behind the scenes?”
Edwards had managed to compose himself. When he spoke, his tone was as dark and pregnant as the clouds outside the windows. “Martin Bryce was worth ten of you, you goddamned mercenary. Look at you, sitting in judgment of men like us. Who are you? Martin Bryce was a patriot. A man who sacrificed everything for the greater good.”
“Why is it that people who talk about the greater good have usually just killed a bunch of people?”
“We did what needed to be done. This country—”
“This country has enough maniacs. You unleashed one of the worst just to scare people, to build hysteria to fit your agenda. A dozen innocent—”
“Lives will be saved—”
“A dozen innocent people,” I repeated, “men, women, and children, are dead because you thought it would be a good way to cap your fucking PR campaign.”
We were practically butting heads over the desk. Edwards opened his mouth to respond and then just shook his head and lowered himself back down into his chair. Slowly, he brought the grin back. Something twisted in my stomach that felt worse than Wardell’s blade had done.
“So what?” he said. “You’ve got nothing. There’s nothing at all to tie Martin Bryce to any of this. He died three years back. It was a tragic accident. You already know the dental records in his file aren’t going to match up with the body they pulled out of Hatcher’s house. All you have is a crazy conspiracy theory. Nobody’s going to listen to you. You’d be laughed out of court.”
I stayed on my feet. I looked at Edwards until the grin began to fade.
“That would be true,” I said. “Except for one thing.” I reached into my coat and took out a folded piece of paper. I tossed it on the desk in front of Edwards. He looked down at it, then back at me. Warily, he reached out and took the paper, unfolding it.
“What the hell is this?”
“It’s an address.” I let him read it, saw the recognition in his eyes. “Bryce’s address, right here in Chicago. The second-floor walk-up on West Twenty-First. Not the nicest neighborhood, but fine as a base of operations.”
Edwards’s eyes narrowed. “Bullshit. You’re bluffing.”
“You know I’m not.” I smiled and shook my head, as though in regret. “It’s what I do for a living, Edwards: I find people. Even people who are dead twice over.”
Edwards kept his eyes on me. He crumpled the paper in his right hand and dropped it on the desk, as though the act of doing so would make the problem go away.
“Bryce was a methodical thinker,” I continued. “I guess he had to be. He kept plans, notes, receipts. Even a journal.”
Edwards was searching my eyes for a tell, hoping against hope I was bluffing. Beads of sweat blossomed on his forehead. “You’re lying,” he said. “No phone calls, nothing in writing, that was the rule. Bryce knew the rule.”
“Maybe Bryce thought it was safe. Nobody knew he existed, so nobody would go looking for his apartment.” I shrugged and pretended not to notice the way his hand had started inching toward the top drawer of his desk. “I don’t think that was it, though. Notes are one thing, but keeping a detailed journal?” I paused for effect and then shook my head slowly. “An insurance policy. Against you throwing him to the wolves if things got messy.”
Edwards swallowed. “If this were true, if you had anything, you wouldn’t be talking to me.”
“This is a favor. Not for you, for Banner. She still believes in the Bureau. She can’t stand what a scandal like this is going to do to it. Banner is the only reason I’m here: to give you a choice.”
Edwards digested that and then flinched visibly. “A choice? You mean…”
“They say it’s painless.”
He nodded slowly, as though coming to a decision. Then his right hand jerked the top drawer of the desk open. I was across the desk before he could bring his gun to bear on me. It wasn’t the standard Bureau-issue Glock 23, but the smaller, more compact Glock 27: his backup piece. I grabbed the gun with both hands and started to pull down. Edwards struggled and tried to push me off with his left hand, but I held firm. Then he tried pulling the trigger anyway, but I was putting too much pressure on his hand for him to keep his finger on it. After Caleb Wardell, overpowering this guy seemed about as challenging as wrestling a vanilla pudding.
He forgot about the gun and looked up at me, eyes bulging as he realized I wasn’t going to stop until I snapped his wrist. The fight evaporated from him, and I took the Glock, stepping back. I picked up the balled-up piece of paper with Bryce’s address on it, then walked to the door. When I turned back, Edwards was watching me, cradling his hand. There was a pleading look in his eyes.
Without taking my eyes from his, I used my shirtsleeve to wipe the grip and the barrel; then I bent one knee and placed the Glock on the carpet. I opened the door and stepped back into the corridor. I closed it behind me, being careful to wipe the handle down.
By my watch, it took me four minutes and eighteen seconds to reach the sidewalk taking the route Paxon had recommended, avoiding both of the security cameras on the tenth floor. Paxon herself would not remember my visit. The call to alert Edwards of my visit had not, in fact, come from reception. According to his schedule, Edwards was entirely alone.
I turned around when I reached the neat waist-high steel fence and looked up at the tenth floor of the building on West Roosevelt Road. I counted along until I located Edwards’s window. I waited for him to appear there, for a shiny, ashen face to look down to see me, but it never came. And then it was impossible to see anything, because the glass turned red. There was just a small, insignificant pop, barely audible over the traffic.
I thought about Rapid City. I thought about the little girl in the blue raincoat. Then I turned and walked away.