"We both know that's not happening. Your phone is dead, and if you don't follow my explicit directions, you'll be dead too. I'll need the password to the laptop in your briefcase," she said. Edwards didn't respond.
"Password, please. Don't make me ask again," she said.
He whispered something that she heard, but needed to hear again for her own amusement.
"I'm sorry, I didn't catch that," she said.
"Ladykiller69," he grunted.
"No shit. Are you wearing a backup piece?" she barked.
"No."
She used her right foot to feel around his ankles for a holster. In a swift motion, she withdrew the knife, leaving his undercarriage intact, and released him, following with a solid kick in the lower back. Edwards hit the bed and crumpled over the corner, still in shock. He laid there, his chest pressed against the down comforter and his legs dangling uselessly over the side onto the floor. Jessica picked up his service pistol and pointed it at him.
"No time for a nap, Justin dear. We have some partying to do. Stand up and strip," she said, emphasizing the point by aiming the pistol at his groin.
"What?" He slowly stood.
She delivered a sharp kick to his kidneys, which caused his back to arch, and straightened him up quickly.
"I don't have all night. You wanted to get naked with me, right? Now's your chance. We have some partying to do," she said.
She could see tears welling up in his eyes as he unbuttoned his shirt. "You didn't have enough to drink?"
"I don't drink on the job unless I have to. I do love martinis though," she said, watching him remove his blue dress shirt, along with his undershirt.
Edwards took good care of himself. He had a slightly chiseled body, with little body fat, clearly the product of endless high repetition, low weight circuit training, combined with a daily thirty minute fat burning stint on a treadmill. He avoided her piercing stare, occasionally meeting her glance with a combination of humiliation and anger.
"I told the bartender that a late dinner was your idea of a job interview for a promotion. He substituted water for vodka, and refused to take a nice tip for helping a poor lady out. Now that was a true gentleman. I'd say you could take a few lessons from him, but I think your hatred of women runs too deep. Time for the pants," she said.
"Why do you want me naked?" he asked.
"Because we're going to party, Justin. I don't like to waste good wine, and I must admit, a 2003 St. Francis Chardonnay is a nice choice," she said, and pointed at the bottle with the gun.
He glanced at her, barely meeting her eyes as he dropped his pants and boxer shorts.
"Now what?" he said.
"Drink both of those glasses, and chug the rest of the bottle," she said, emphasizing her request with the pistol aimed at his head.
"What?"
"Drink up. The clock is ticking," she said, and watched with satisfaction as he downed one of the drug laced glasses of wine.
Justin Edwards is going to have a rough morning, she thought, and cracked a thin smile.
Chapter Forty-Three
Special Agent Sharpe listened to the phone, and finally spoke with a dejected voice.
"Thank you, D'Angelo. Let's keep each other posted," he said, and closed his phone.
He turned to O'Reilly's workstation. She shook her head.
"Nothing from his cell phone, and his GPS signal is dead," she said.
"D'Angelo said all of the FBI hotel rooms were empty, and her office is clear. She's coordinating a search of hotels near the satellite office. He has to be in the Old Port section of Portland," he said.
"Why would he have a hotel room in the downtown area?" she asked.
"Who knows?" he said.
He didn't plan to bring her up to speed on the nature of his phone conversations with Edwards. It had been a bad idea to share information with him in the first place, but Sharpe was desperate, and it sounded like Edwards might be able to extract some useful information out of her. Now Edwards was missing, and he had a bad feeling that the agent was dead. Sharpe had never cared for Edwards personally, but he had been a reasonably competent investigative agent, and knew how to play the game within the Beltway.
Deep down inside, a part of him hoped Edwards was dead. Sharpe would have enough explaining to do tomorrow morning, without the added complication of why he unofficially sanctioned Edwards to press Jessica Petrovich, or whoever she was, with information that skirted the border of his CIS agreement. In the hands of a skillful prosecutor, he could wind up behind bars.
"This has turned into a complete disaster, and I'm starting to get the sinking feeling that we've been played. Played since last night. Nothing is what it seems to be, or should be," he said. His phone rang again.
"Mendoza. Any word from our agents? How are they doing?" said Sharpe.
"They're fine, sir. It was definitely the colonel. Calhoun and Harris said he walked in like everything was normal, and just stabbed McKie in the neck. Then all hell broke loose. Forced Sergeant D'Onofrie at gunpoint to drag everyone into the back room, then hit him with the same neurotoxin. Farrington worked closely with D'Onofrie and Staff Sergeant Brodin for over two years. Turned on them like a viper."
"Was anything else taken?" asked Sharpe.
"The archives section wasn't breached, so it looks like all he took was the file. We found the last page of the fax in a pool of McKie's blood. Care to guess what it says?"
"That Munoz's specialty has something to do with infiltrating jails and police custody?"
"That pretty much sums it up," said Mendoza.
"Played."
"What was that, sir?"
"Played. We've been played all along, Mendoza. The murders, Munoz's capture, the Sanctum. Everything. And now Edwards is missing. I can't go into details on the phone, but he was with Jessica Petrovich."
"Jesus Christ," whispered Mendoza.
"Exactly. What's the CIA's angle on what happened?" said Sharpe.
"I wouldn't know. Keller bolted as soon as he regained consciousness."
"What! This is a federal investigation. How the fuck did he get out of the Pentagon?" he said, and several heads throughout the silent room looked in his direction.
"Someone high up at Langley convinced Pentagon security that Keller needed to make an immediate report, in person," said Mendoza.
"And you didn't stop him?"
"I have no authority to stop him. As a matter of fact, I have no authority in this building at all. This place is under lockdown, and I have been relieved of my weapon. Someone pulled serious strings to get Keller out of here," said Mendoza.
"And that reeks of bullshit. When did he leave?"
"Fifteen minutes ago," said Mendoza.
"Alright. I need to take care of something. Keep me posted, Frank," said Sharpe.
"Will do, sir."
Sharpe set his phone down on a nearby desk and ran his hands through his matted brown hair, pausing to think for a moment. He briefly laughed at himself, and turned to a young agent sitting at a desk in the communications section.
"Agent Fayad?" he said.
"Sir?" the dark-skinned agent said, swiveling his chair to face Sharpe.
"I need a cell phone GPS trace immediately," he said.
"Send me the number, and we'll activate the system. Should have it in a few minutes," he said.
"We already have the number on file. Randy Keller."
"Our CIA liaison?" Fayad said, with a skeptical look.
"That's it. We don't have time to notify Langley. Wake up Weber if you need help."
"I can take care of it, sir."
"Thanks, Fayad. Let me know as soon as you have a signal." He turned away. "O'Reilly, scramble a team of agents. Four from the task force, including yourself. Two cars. I have a surveillance job for you," he said, and O'Reilly's face perked up for the first time in several hours, despite the fact that she was rapidly approaching twenty-four hours on her feet.