“So, Lieutenant Roth, my sources tell me you’re one of the best cops on the force, you were considered a genius when you were on the Fugitive Squad, you tracked down twelve fugitives in a year and half, you’re great at passports and credit cards, and you’ve got some sort of unbelievable gift at finding people, some kind of sixth sense. I hope my sources are right.”
Roth popped a Breath Saver. “They exaggerate,” he said. “I’ll do my best, all I can say.”
“That’s good enough for me.”
“Okay,” he said, as Sarah prepared to take notes. “There’s an organization that might help called APPLE, for the Area Police Private Security Liaison program. I guess the S is silent. The members are the security directors of nine hundred buildings and companies in the city. Mostly they’re involved with break-ins and domestic crime. They spend their time thinking about public toilets and loading docks and service entrances, but since the World Trade Center they’ve gotten pretty concerned about terrorism. The program coordinator is a buddy of mine. I’ll give him a call.”
“But if the Manhattan Bank is the target,” Sarah said, “why bother with nine hundred other companies?”
“On the assumption that the Manhattan Bank might be one of a series of targets. Probably I’m wrong, but I figure it’s safer to rule things out instead of being surprised down the line.”
“What are you going to ask them?”
“If they’ve received any threats or noticed any suspicious behavior. This is New York City. Threats and suspicious behavior are a way of life, so the answer will be yes, and we’ll have to screen. I mean, we got the resources, right, so why not squander them?”
“That’s one way to look at it,” Sarah said.
“Plus, I was thinking we should just go down the list of major landmark buildings and locations and keep them on our radar screens.”
“Like the Empire State Building and the Trade Center towers?”
“And Rockefeller Center, Lincoln Center, the United Nations, the Chrysler Building, the Empire State Building, the Statue of Liberty, the New York Stock Exchange.”
“The Statue of Liberty?”
“Hey, a bunch of Croatian nationalists planted a bomb there fifteen, twenty years ago. The thing went off. Fair amount of damage, luckily no injuries. The big lady’s managed by the National Park Service, and they use electronic scanning equipment on visitor’s packages.”
She nodded, leaned back in the mustard-yellow chair. It gave a squeak of protest. There was a deferential knock at the door, and Russell Ullman entered, bearing a large manila envelope. “It’s in,” he said.
“What’s in?” Sarah asked.
“The prints.”
“The prints of your Prince,” Roth said. “I told you someday your prints would come.”
“We’re on the home stretch,” Ullman said. He could barely contain his excitement. “We got him now.”
Lieutenant Roth rubbed a large, fleshy hand over his face. “Oh, is that right?” he asked, affecting the deepest boredom. “Kid, the race hasn’t even started.”
Sarah snatched the envelope from Ullman and tore it open. Roth was right. They hadn’t even started.
It was a complete set of fingerprints, carefully done.
“Where’s the photo?” she asked.
“They couldn’t turn one up,” Ullman said.
“What? What do you mean, they couldn’t ‘turn one up’? They couldn’t find a photograph of the guy?”
“The South Africans say they’re unable to turn up any photo of Baumann. In cases like his-deep-cover agents-the old secret service used to keep only one photograph, in its locked central personnel files. Reasons of security. But that one photograph appears to be missing-stolen, pilfered, something.”
“Try the prison, Russell,” Sarah snapped. “You didn’t think of that?”
“No, I did,” Ullman replied. “Pollsmoor photographs all incoming prisoners, like every other prison, and stores them in two different places, but both photos of Baumann have disappeared sometime in the last few weeks.”
“Bullshit!” Sarah exploded.
“No, really,” Ullman protested. “They did a thorough search, but the file photos have been stolen.”
“How can that be?”
“Look,” Ullman said, “for years the South African government did everything it could to keep this guy’s face a secret. The way CIA does with its deep-cover agents. Maybe there were three extant photographs of him in all the government files. So if our guy had enough pull, or some powerful friends in the right places, it was no big deal to make those photos disappear. The South Africans protected his anonymity so well and for so long that now-when they want a picture-they can’t get their hands on one.”
“Looks like your terrorist,” Roth interjected, “has some powerful friends.”
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
Perry Taylor arrived at the FBI headquarters at 8:20 A.M. and pulled into the main employee entrance in the middle of the Tenth Street side of the building. This meant he would be in his office by 8:30 A.M. He was a punctual man, which was good for Baumann, because it meant he was also a man of regular habits, a most useful vulnerability.
Unfortunately, Taylor’s car did not leave the FBI building the entire day. The red dot remained fixed and flashing: the Hound Dog hadn’t been discovered, it was still transmitting, and the car hadn’t been moved.
Baumann spent a few hours walking the streets around FBI headquarters. He bought a pair of cheap sunglasses and a Washington, D.C., T-shirt, and played the tourist. For lunch he got a hot dog from a stand at Tenth Street and Pennsylvania Avenue.
He noticed that the Pennsylvania Avenue entrance to the FBI garage was shut, the gates drawn, presumably for security reasons. The World Trade Center and Oklahoma City bombings had made the FBI understandably nervous. He saw that groups of tourists could gain access to the building by taking a guided tour. For no particular reason, except that he had time to kill, he took a tour at midmorning, which began in front of a display of America’s Ten Most Wanted criminals and ended with a film about handguns.
The rest of the day he kept watch on the various employee entrances and exits to see whether Taylor emerged. He did not. Many FBI employees went out for lunch to the food malls nearby, and there was said to be a large and adequate cafeteria within the complex, but Taylor probably ate his lunch at his desk, from the white bag he had taken out of the delicatessen.
By four o’clock in the afternoon, Baumann had returned to his parked car and prepared for Taylor to leave the building. The red dot did not begin to move until 6:45 P.M. Baumann waited until Taylor was a good distance away before he began to follow. Taylor appeared to be taking the same route home he’d taken to work.
Baumann drove with a sense of discouragement. This could go on for days, and he would learn nothing unless he got into Taylor’s office or home. Taylor was indeed going home, Baumann saw, but to be sure, he followed the Olds as far as he could prudently do so.
Getting into Taylor’s home would not be a problem, although there was no reason to believe he would find anything there. Careful FBI men like Taylor did not keep a set of files at their homes. Getting into Taylor’s office was possible, though perilous to the point of being foolhardy. Obviously he or someone who worked with or for him had been delving into Baumann’s past. That meant he might recognize Baumann in person.
But even assuming Baumann entered the office wearing a persuasive disguise, what could he expect to find there, really, without being left alone-a highly unlikely possibility?
Baumann suspected that the gray Samsonite briefcase would contain Taylor’s FBI building pass, a personnel list, or any of a hundred things. If Taylor were to stop somewhere on the way to or from work, Baumann would have an opportunity.