“These men are fine,” Hunt said.
The policemen exchanged looks. Kealey’s ID was returned. The cop who had spoken to Kealey, Officer Ratner, still seemed unconvinced.
Hunt faced him impatiently. “Don’t you have traffic to clear so we can get a meat wagon to pick up this individual?”
“Don’t get belligerent, sir,” the young officer replied.
“Christ Jesus, we’ve got a sniper running around with accomplices, and you don’t think I should be yelling at you?”
“What I think,” the cop said stubbornly, “is that you just shot a woman in the back, and I’m supposed to take your word about who, what, and why.”
“Did you see the gun?”
The cop didn’t answer.
“Was it pointed at this individual?”
Officer Ratner remained silent.
“Let’s go,” one of the other officers said. “We’ll check in with the FBI field office, see if he’s kosher.”
“Tell them it’s Assistant Director Hunt you’re asking about,” he snapped. “Do you need me to spell any of that for you?”
“No, we’ve got it,” the other officer replied.
The others started to go. Ratner remained where he was; one of the others reached back and drew him away by the arm.
The scene was incongruous to Bishop. Two men alpha dogging over a dead woman and a growing puddle of blood. He glanced at Kealey, who handed him a handkerchief, indicated the blood on his chin. Bishop wiped it away.
Hunt calmed slowly. He was perspiring, possibly from having run over in the heat, possibly from something else.
Kealey was watching the AD carefully. “How about putting the gun away?”
The remark drew a sharp reaction from Hunt. “Are you challenging me, too?”
“Not at all. I’m trying to get you back to center,” Kealey replied. “You just killed someone.”
“In the execution of my duties-”
“Yes, and now the shooting is over-”
“I saved your partner!”
“Thank you,” Bishop said evenly, hoping he didn’t sound overly solicitous. He was with Kealey on this: he didn’t like the way Hunt was looking at them. “Mr. Hunt, you know as well as I do, the rule book says if you discharge your weapon, you have to surrender it. We’re not going there. All Mr. Kealey asked is that you holster the firearm. Otherwise, I do have the authority to confiscate it.”
Hunt considered this, then shoved the weapon in its holster. He looked at the IA officer. “Sorry, but you walked into a situation that has been ongoing.”
“What do you mean?” Bishop asked.
“We’ve been watching this agent for several months. We believe she is-was-a sympathizer with radical Muslim causes.”
“Was she?” Bishop asked, staring at him. “I watched her rough up a Muslim assassin in Quebec. She didn’t seem very sympathetic.”
“Veil was bait,” Hunt said. “We believe Muloni engineered Veil’s escape.”
“Speaking of Veil,” Kealey said, “do you mind if we forgo the trip to the lab right now? Maybe nose around and see what we can find out?”
Hunt relaxed noticeably. “Not at all. In fact, I’d appreciate the assist.”
“Great. Tell us what to do,” Kealey said.
“They’ve found the body of a UPS driver about a half mile up South Street,” he said. “Why don’t you head over there, see if you can figure out where she went or what surveillance cameras might have seen her?”
“Sure thing,” Kealey said.
Leaving the corpse behind-she would have to wait her turn to be picked up-the men separated, Hunt going east while Kealey and Bishop headed north. The two men made their way up Centre Street, past the bridge, then cut over to the east.
“There’s a guy on the edge,” Kealey said.
“He’s also full of it,” Bishop said when they set out.
“Which part?” Kealey asked.
“About Muloni being a sympathizer.”
“Was she going to shoot you? She looked like it from where I was standing.”
“Very possibly,” Bishop said. “That’s the thing. She was tailing us. She was convinced that we’re in league with Veil. And I don’t think she was kidding.”
“Well, that’s a dead end now. The bigger problem is I don’t think Veil is done. These feel like sideshows.”
“Killing dozens of people, shutting down a major city-that’s a sideshow?”
“It’s a short-term hit,” Kealey said. “People will be back in a few days. A couple of businesses will decentralize, like they did after September eleven. That doesn’t generate fundamental change. It isn’t reason enough for someone to have gone through the trouble of springing this particular assassin.”
“Why not? She’s evading capture while-”
Even as he was saying it, Bishop realized that Kealey was right.
“While she’s dragging the NYPD and the FBI all across Manhattan,” Kealey said, finishing the thought for him. “Midtown west, now Lower Manhattan.”
“Right,” Bishop said. “A distraction. But why don’t you think she’s finished?”
“There’s one more meaty target,” Kealey said. “People are evacuating fast, en masse, so she’ll probably hit Grand Central Terminal or the Port Authority Bus Terminal before she or her sponsors move on to the next step.”
“Yeah, the more I think about this, the more I don’t think she’s acting solo,” Bishop said. “I was there when Muloni mentioned her daughter. That registered big-time. If Veil engineered an escape, she would have gone to Pakistan to get her into hiding. It is more likely someone wanted her here. Maybe someone else who had access to the kid.”
“There’s something else,” Kealey said. “Did you happen to see the phone Hunt took from Muloni?”
“Yes.”
“It’s a Minotaur,” Kealey said. “The latest high-security uplink. Someone at her pay grade wouldn’t need one.”
“She was sent here,” Bishop said. “And not to watch for Veil. Jesus, Ryan. Who the hell is setting us up?”
“I don’t know,” Kealey admitted. “The Minotaur is not standard issue to anyone in government service. It costs about a half million per unit. The CIA wouldn’t be giving one out to an undercover agent. It’s conceivable, though, that the manufacturer would.”
“Who’s that?”
Kealey answered, “Trask Industries.”
Bishop considered this. “We need a double-dog op.”
“Hunt?”
“Got no one else,” Bishop said. “He took the phone. He’s the closest to ‘suspicious’ we’ve got.”
“All right,” Kealey said. “I’ll take point on this. You stay with him. I’ll go to Grand Central. After that, I’ll hit One West.”
“Gotcha,” Bishop said.
“Get something to eat, too,” Kealey told him. “Fast. These vendors look like they’re selling out down here.”
Bishop offered a halfhearted grin. “Capitalism. Gotta love it.”
CHAPTER 25
NEW BOSTON, TEXAS
John Scroggins was dozing in his seat after his dawn-to-ten shift at the wheel. Absalom Bell had made the White Sands run before, but Scroggins was primarily a Florida-to-Maine man for Trask Industries. The flatness of the land, the will-sapping heat just outside the door, the whitewash bluntness of the sun-none of these were for him.
“You might as well be driving through hell,” he had told Bell when he turned over the wheel a few minutes before.
The sameness of the world around him included the sounds-the whoosh of air moving past at 80 mph, the tuning-fork sound of the hybrid engine, the hollow whisper of the tires on the road. Save for a vintage hot rod that passed them, there was nothing new.
Until there wasn’t.
Scroggins felt the dull drumming before he heard it.
“Is the engine okay?” he asked without opening his eyes.
“That ain’t us,” Bell said. “It’s them.”
“Eh?” Scroggins cracked an eye. It took a moment before he could see through the white glare of the windshield. The pale blue of the sky formed beyond it, and in that sky he saw three silver-white bugs. They were low on the horizon, just above the dashboard, and getting larger-and finally louder-by the moment. He felt as if he were sitting in a vibrating chair in a furniture showroom.