The first was continuing to hit the streets, pursuing every lead, and just hoping they got lucky. Though that remained an essential component of the manhunt, it was partly a reactive role, and if there was one thing Marsha hated about her job it was when it required her to sit on her butt and pray for a lucky result.
To enact the second option, she needed help from the three spies seconded to her team.
But the third option could be green-lighted right now.
“Listen up.” She waited for her task force to end phone calls and stop what they were doing. When she had their undivided attention she shouted, “We need all the help we can get, and that includes help from the people of D.C. How are we going to get that?”
One of the younger members of the team put his hand up, as if he were a schoolchild about to answer his teacher’s question. “We rely on their law-abiding natures.”
“That doesn’t mean they’ll help.”
Pete Duggan called out from the back of the room. “In my experience, fear, and wanting life to get back to normal with no SWAT snipers on rooftops, is usually a big incentive to help cops get fugitives off their streets.”
Marsha nodded. “I’m thinking the HRT commander’s assessment is a more realistic one.” Her gaze darted between each member of her team. “And I’m going to throw in another incentive. It took a bit of browbeating from me to get Director Haupman to agree to this, but I got my way in the end. We’re going to put a price on Cochrane’s head, and I want you all to spread the word — post it on our Most Wanted list, speak to your contacts in the media, and tell our agents and every other law enforcement team who’s on the streets so that they can tell citizens when they’re doing door-to-door.”
Duggan asked, “The price?”
Marsha smiled. “Two million dollars.”
Ellie Hallowes felt like a fraud as she followed her antisurveillance route to reach the Lafayette Park café. Not that there was anything wrong with her drills. She’d chosen a starting point at the Park Hyatt Washington hotel, approximately one mile northwest of the café; had predetermined five locations along the on-foot route where she could stop without it looking suspicious for her to do so and subtly look for a second or third sighting of someone she’d seen earlier. She ended her walk with absolute certainty that there was no surveillance team on her. As important, had there been a team following her, she would have been able to abort her meeting with Cochrane without the team knowing that she knew they were there.
She’d done similar routes countless times.
But always as a fully paid-up member of the Western intelligence community.
Now, she was an outcast, and that made her feel that she had no right to act like a spy.
She wrapped her arms tightly around her chest, entered the café, and immediately realized why Will had chosen the venue. It was small and quiet, with only two other customers sitting at one of the tables. It would be a devil of a job for surveillance specialists to sit in here without being noticed.
She sat at a table at the far end of the café, her back to the wall so she could see anyone entering or exiting.
She wondered if Will was watching her now.
Marsha pointed at Alistair and Patrick as they entered the FBI ops room and gestured for them to follow her into the adjacent office. After she shut the door behind them, she asked, “Where have you been?”
Alistair smiled. “I told you on the telephone — partaking of some much-needed refreshments.”
“I didn’t give you permission to go off site.”
“No, you didn’t.”
Marsha felt exasperated. “If I have to put electronic tags on you and enforce a curfew, then I’ll do just that.”
Alistair’s eyes twinkled. “We’ll take them off and break curfew, just to keep you on your toes.”
Patrick said, “You know Cochrane’s in D.C. and you’ve got every man, woman, and dog looking for him. You don’t need us around right now.”
Marsha folded her arms. “Right now, you’re wrong. I need to persuade Sheridan to do something he’ll plain and simple refuse to do, and you can help me because you know how he thinks.”
She told them about the second strategy she wanted to set in place to capture Cochrane.
Alistair and Patrick glanced at each other, both suppressing the desire to smile because what Marsha was suggesting could get Sheridan off Ellie Hallowes’s back.
Patrick said, “You got our help. But if I may make a suggestion, let’s tweak your idea a bit.”
Ellie checked her watch. Four twenty-five P.M. — only five minutes left until she’d have to follow Will’s instructions, leave the café, and await a call from him tomorrow. The fact that he hadn’t come also meant that there was a strong probability the café was under CIA surveillance and that she’d be grabbed the moment she stepped outside.
If that happened, all would be lost.
She muttered, “Shit,” bent down to grab her purse to pay for her tea, sat upright, and let out an involuntary gasp.
Will Cochrane.
Standing right before her.
He was thinner than when she’d last seen him, though he still looked very strong.
“You got here” was all she could blurt, because she was overwhelmed with relief and emotion, but she was also overwhelmed with the knowledge that this was the moment armed men would choose to burst in and gun them down.
“I got here.” He sat next to her, his back to the wall, his gaze locked on the entrance. His hand was in his jacket pocket, gripping his pistol.
Ellie too was watching the entrance.
Both operatives were tense.
“You look different. That’s a good thing.”
“I feel different.” Will’s expression was focused. “Mostly, I feel like shit.”
“You and me both.”
Will whispered, “Did you access the Ferryman files?”
She hesitated, then responded, “I did.”
There was something in Ellie’s tone that made Will ask, “At what cost?”
Ellie briefly glanced at him. “Sheridan knows what I did. He’s looking for me.”
As Charles Sheridan entered Marsha’s office next to the ops room, Patrick wanted to stride up to him and punch him in the throat. Despite his age, Patrick knew that he still had the strength and skill to make the devastating blow, and he also knew that a few minutes later Sheridan would stop writhing on the floor and would be dead. Trouble was, Patrick had killed two men in precisely the same way, so none of his peers in the CIA would believe him if he claimed he’d been trying to punch Sheridan in the face but missed.
Sheridan leaned against a wall opposite Patrick, Alistair, and Marsha, who were sitting facing him. “What do you want?”
Marsha made no attempt to hide her anger. “The names of everyone who’s Project Ferryman cleared.”
“Go fuck yourself.”
“Shut up.” Marsha’s eyes were unblinking and hostile. “The names?”
Sheridan’s eyes narrowed. “While you’re at it, why don’t you ask me who really killed JFK, whether the moon landing was a fraud, the identity of the Zodiac killer, and the location of Jimmy Hoffa’s corpse? You’re as likely to get answers to those.”
Alistair said, “I thought we were on the same side.”
“Did you?” Sheridan folded his arms and said in an over-the-top posh English accent, “Guess all you British old boys can’t get your head around the fact that the world doesn’t revolve around good manners, cups of tea, and fair play.”
Alistair’s blue eyes were glittering and cold, though he held back a response.
Marsha Gage said, “We need the names of the Ferryman-cleared readership for a reason.”
Sheridan looked like he was going to slap her. “And I told you never to use that word again!”