“Bad dog!” Iris scolded as loudly as she dared. “Bad dog!” She tried to grab whatever it was that Twinkle had found, intending to yank it away, but he evaded her swipe. It was the size of a miniature toy football, but it was so covered by dirt and dog slobber that she could not tell what it was.
“Drop that, do you hear me?” Twinkle growled as Iris reached for it again, and this time she managed to grab one end. She knew he wouldn’t bite her — it was just a question of pulling the thing out of his jaws. But the dog’s prize was disgustingly slippery, and he was holding on to it with tenacity. The two struggled, Iris dragging the dog toward her, Twinkle resisting, digging his paws in the grass. She glanced over her shoulder apprehensively, but the group at the other grave site had not noticed.
The nasty tug-of-war lasted nearly thirty seconds, but in the end the thing was just too big for the dog’s small jaws to maintain a firm grip, and with one determined tug Iris managed to yank it away. As she straightened up, checking that both her handbag and leash were secure on her wrists, she registered that the thing was a piece of meat. A gluey, reddish ooze had seeped out of it during the struggle, staining her hand and dirtying Twinkle’s muzzle. At the same time, she realized how unusual a piece of meat it was — tough and leathery. Her first instinct was to let go in disgust, but Twinkle would only have seized it again.
With Twinkle yapping and leaping, trying to reclaim his find, Iris reached into her handbag, pulled out the handkerchief, and began wiping the thing off. What on earth was it doing lying on a grave?
She cleaned one side, and a short, thick crimson tube — like the end of a radiator hose — sprang into view. Suddenly she stopped, frozen in horror. She had been a butcher’s wife long enough to know now exactly what was in her hand. It had to be a dream, a nightmare; it could not possibly be real.
The sense of unreality lasted only a split second. With a shriek of revulsion she dropped the thing as if it had burned her. Instantly, the dog grabbed it in his gore-drenched jaws and once again slipped free, running off in triumph, leash flapping. But Iris did not notice. There was a strange roaring in her ears, and she suddenly felt a wave of heat come over her. Black spots danced around the edges of her vision. The roaring grew louder, then louder still, and the last thing she saw before crumpling to the ground in a dead faint was the group around the other grave running in her direction.
2
Assistant Director in Charge Walter Pickett, clad only in a damp towel wrapped around his waist, relaxed in the cedar-walled sauna. It was large, with two racks of benches, and it was empty save for one other man — young and tall, with a swimmer’s build — sitting at the far end near the door. Pickett himself had taken a position beside the dipper of water that helped control the sauna’s heat and humidity. Pickett preferred to be in control of any situation in which he found himself.
A single sheet of paper, protected in a sheath of clear plastic, sat on the bench beside him.
He glanced over at the thermometer set into the wall, beads of moisture partly obscuring its face: a pleasant 165 degrees.
The sauna adjoined the men’s dressing room and shower complex deep inside the Federal Auxiliary Support building, on Worth Street. “Auxiliary Support” contained not only a variety of satellite offices, but also a shooting range and such amenities as squash courts, a pool, and of course this sauna — and it was just around the corner from his office in 26 Federal Plaza. It was a far cry from the spartan Denver FBI office where he’d been special agent in charge until three months ago.
Since graduating from the Academy, Pickett had moved up quickly through the ranks, making a name for himself in the counterespionage and criminal enterprise divisions, as well as the Office of Professional Responsibility. All along he’d had his eye on this job: head of New York City operations. It was one of the truly top positions in the Bureau and the logical stepping-stone to Washington. Everything depended now on running a tight ship and scoring big on high-profile cases... and Pickett had no doubt of his ability to do both.
He settled back against the wall, pressing his bare shoulders to the hot wood. He could feel his pores opening in the moist heat. It was a pleasant sensation. He let his eyes half close as he ruminated. Pickett was supremely confident in his abilities, and he assiduously avoided what he had seen derail many other talented agents — he was not a blowhard, an obvious careerist, or a martinet. One of his most valuable posts had been in High-Value Detainee Interrogation, where he’d spent several formative years after the Academy. That, along with his stint in OPR, had given him a degree of psychological insight rare in an FBI supervisor. Ever since, he had put to good use what he’d learned about human behavior and the nature of persuasion.
When he’d taken over the New York Field Office, he’d found it in a state of disarray. Morale was low and case clearance rates were below average. The office felt top-heavy with desk jockeys. He had solved the latter problem via a series of transfers and early retirements. He wasn’t a micromanager by nature, but he’d taken the time to look at each division, find the most promising individuals, and entrust them with positions of greater responsibility — even if it meant elevating them above their longer-serving peers. Turning the office into a true meritocracy had solved the morale issue. Despite his tenure in OPR — like all law enforcement, FBI agents distrusted people who’d worked in internal affairs — he’d earned the respect and loyalty of his subordinates. And now the New York office had become a humming, well-oiled machine. Even the case clearance rate was starting to take care of itself. He’d managed to turn things around, and do it in a single season. It was a job well done, but he was careful to conceal any trace of self-congratulation.
Despite all this, there was one issue left to deal with. It was a thorny personnel matter inherited from his predecessor. He had left this particular issue for last.
Over the years, Pickett had dealt with his share of troublesome agents. In his experience, such people were either antisocial loners or chip-on-the-shoulder types who’d come into the Bureau with a lot of personal baggage. If they were deadweights, he did not hesitate to transfer them the hell out — after all, Nebraska needed its share of field agents, too. If they showed promise, or boasted impressive records, then it came down to reconditioning. He would thrust them out of their comfort zone; dump them into an unexpected environment; give them a wholly unfamiliar task. Make sure they knew a bright light was shining on them. The technique had been effective in interrogations and internal misconduct investigations — and it was just as effective in bringing rogue agents back into the FBI family.
If this agent’s file was anything to go on, the man was about as rogue as they came. But Pickett had parsed his personnel jacket — at least, its unclassified sections — and outlined a course of action designed to address the problem.
He looked up at the clock: 1:00 PM exactly. As if on cue, the sauna door opened and a man stepped in. Pickett glanced over with practiced casualness and had to restrain himself from doing a double take. The man was tall and thin, and so blond that his carefully trimmed hair was almost white. His eyes were a glacial hue and as cold and unreadable as the ice they resembled. But instead of being stripped and wearing a towel around his waist, the man wore a black suit, impeccably tailored and buttoned, along with a starched white shirt sporting a perfectly dimpled knot at the collar. His shoes were polished to a brilliant shine and were of the expensive, handmade sort. Of all the thoughts that could have wandered into Pickett’s temporarily stunned mind, the foremost was: Did he actually walk through the locker room, showers, and pool dressed like that? He could only imagine the fuss it must have caused as the agent broke all the rules on his way to the sauna.