In negotiations like this, Filipov knew, SOP was for the authorities to push for more time and ask for small things, gradually piling up requirements and requests, dragging things on and establishing dominance over the hostage takers. He wasn’t going to fall into that trap. One week. If they hadn’t heard from Arsenault via Skype, standing in front of the Simón Bolívar statue in Plaza Bolívar in Caracas, Venezuela — a venue that could never be faked — then they would take this fed son of a bitch out to sea, dump him, and leave the country. Of course, if they did hear from Arsenault they’d dump him anyway.
Filipov knew that bluffing the FBI did not work. He had to make up his own mind: to be determined, up front, without question, to follow through and do what he said he would, no matter what. The FBI negotiators were experts and would see through a bluff. If he showed the slightest weakness, the tiniest hesitation, the slightest accommodation to one of their demands, it would all be over.
Again, Smith had been carefully briefed on all this. He had strict orders. Filipov had confidence in him. It was perhaps an advantage that Smith could not communicate with them while in touch with the FBI: he had no choice but to stick to his guns. Meanwhile, it was important to keep Pendergast alive and healthy for the next seven days, in case the FBI demanded proof of life before releasing Arsenault.
As Filipov stood there, in morning light, with the sound of the wind sighing through the spruce branches over the boat, mingling with the regular cadence of the sea brushing the rocks, he decided there was no reason to tell the man below anything about what they were doing, what was going on. He would be dead in a week either way.
Filipov had one final annoyance. Two of the crew, DeJesus and Miller, had a special hatred of the FBI due to bad history. Neither one had truly gotten with the program. In the meeting, both had argued for tossing the FBI agent into the sea right away. They had voted against the plan of exchange and had gone off angry. That night, Filipov had caught both of them down in the hold, shitfaced, pissing on Pendergast to much raucous laughter, after having roughed him up pretty bad. Filipov had been annoyed, but there wasn’t much he could do to punish them, beyond locking up the liquor. Fact was, he had to admit part of him was glad to see the arrogant bastard get taken down a notch. And quite a notch it was: they had left him unconscious. The captain needed to keep the peace, keep everyone together, for seven more days.
Filipov had been disturbed at the breakdown in discipline. But something else had troubled him even more: the look in the FBI agent’s eyes as those two drunken idiots, cursing and laughing, had been draining their hosepipes all over him, just before DeJesus clocked him with a mooring hook. What Filipov had seen in those eyes was damned frightening.
20
Special Agent in Charge Rudy Spann ran a hand through his whiffle cut and stared at the evidence bag on his desk, inside of which gleamed a worn gold ring and a bizarre, partly melted medallion, along with a letter and envelope. He had mixed feelings about this case that had suddenly, and with such big noise, arrived on the doorstep of the New York Field Office of the FBI. An agent had been kidnapped. It wasn’t just any agent, either, but A. X. L. Pendergast. Spann, who had only recently become SAC of the New York FO, did not know Pendergast well. But he had certainly heard the rumors. This Pendergast had a kind of special dispensation; he was a sort of agent-at-large, who picked and chose his own cases. Apparently he was enormously wealthy, accepting only a one-dollar annual stipend — a far cry from the salary normally earned by a GS-15, Step 10. Rumor had it that Pendergast was a maverick, even something of a rogue agent, who pushed the rules and was protected from above. Frankly, he was not well liked among the younger agents; they resented his freedom, his wealth, his elitist mannerisms. The old-timers in the office, on the other hand, held him in a kind of awe: a wary sort of respect. But nobody loved him; he was not a warm personality, he wasn’t the kind to go out after work for a beer or hang out at the shooting range on weekends. For those reasons Spann had little to do with him directly, beyond providing the basic support of the field office. The agent rarely showed up at Federal Plaza.
But he was a federal agent. And if there was one thing that was absolute in the FBI, it was the loyalty and camaraderie that bound them together. If an agent was killed or under threat, the Bureau would move heaven and earth to get the perps.
For this reason, the kidnapping of Pendergast had caused an immediate furor; and it was Spann’s case to win — or lose.
He glanced at his cell phone, lying on the table. The initial contact with the kidnappers would be in a few minutes, and he was determined to handle it with vigor. This was the kind of case that could make his career. Spann was apprehensive, but also stoked: he knew he was a damn good agent, he’d graduated at the top of his class at Quantico, and his career since had been stellar. At forty, he was one of the youngest SACs in the FBI, in the most important field office in the country. This was the sort of opportunity that came knocking only once. If he cleared this one — and he believed he could — the sky would be the limit.
Since the package had arrived that morning, he had exploded into action, dropping everything; he’d put together a small but powerful strike force, who would be arriving in minutes. He’d kept it small, elite, and nimble. An “agent down” was priority one. Whatever was needed — warrants, lab work, forensics, analysis, IT — would be done instantly, taking priority over every other case. He had already put out the word to all their labs, to ensure everyone was ready at a moment’s notice.
His secretary announced the arrival of the strike force. He rose and went into the outer office, carrying the evidence bag. They all appeared at once: three men and one woman, all top-class agents, filing in the door, silent, grim. They took their places in the small seating area. Spann nodded to everyone and signaled his secretary for coffee; he strode to the end of the room and placed the evidence bag on the display table, below a whiteboard.
Just as he was about to begin speaking, the door opened again. Everyone stared in silent surprise. Spann did not know the new arrival personally, but the man was a legend in the FBI: Howard Longstreet, who bore the rather mysterious title of executive associate director for intelligence. The Directorate of Intelligence, which Longstreet oversaw, was rather far from Spann’s own; although senior to Spann, he had no official supervisory role. Which was all well and good.
Longstreet cut a figure almost as eccentric as Agent Pendergast’s, but in a different way: his hair was long and gray, his suits rumpled, his profile aquiline. His black eyes gleamed from underneath a deep, craggy brow. His voice was like a growl, and he was freakishly talclass="underline" six feet, seven inches. Perhaps as if to make up for it, or from a lifetime of ducking through doorways, he was bent ten degrees from the vertical, a posture very different from the ramrod military bearing common to the Bureau. Longstreet had a mellow, self-deprecating way of working that made him very popular with his subordinates. And, of course, there were the whispered rumors about his time in the legendary — some said mythical — Ghost Company. That, Spann suddenly realized, must be why he was there: the ring in the evidence bag indicated that Pendergast had been a member of the same unit.
Spann hesitated. “Director Longstreet, this is a surprise.”
Longstreet turned his cliff-like face to him. He nodded toward an empty seat. “Do you mind if I join you?”