An agent popped his head in the door, pointed to Berelli, then to the phone. As if on cue, it rang. Berelii pressed the speakerphone button. “Agent Berelli.”
“Yes, ma’am, this is Deputy Sheriff Lewen.”
“I hear you, Deputy. I’ve got you on speakerphone with two other agents.”
“Uh-huh. Okay then. I drove out to Bob’s and showed them the picture. Bob’s wife Eunice recognized him right away. He’d been in as soon as they opened this morning at seven. She said he had a funny accent; thought he might be Russian, but wasn’t sure.”
“Did he rent something … buy something?”
“Both. Bought some grocery items and such, and rented a pontoon boat for a week.”
“Credit card?”
“Yep. I’ve got the original slip. Our secretary’s puttin’ it on the fax now.”
“Thanks, Deputy Lewen. You might have just broken our case.”
“Yeah? Well, that’s great Listen, is this guy dangerous? What’s his deal?”
Berelli looked at Oliver, who hesitated, then said, “Deputy Lewen, this is Special Agent Collin Oliver. If this pans out, we’ll probably be meeting in person before the day’s out. I’m not going to lie to you, the man we’re looking for is a suspect in a multiple murder and kidnapping. We don’t think he’s a threat to the general public, but if he’s sighted, don’t try to apprehend him. He may be holding a hostage.”
“Holy cow.”
“We’d like to get to him without ripping him off.”
“Well, yeah, I can see that, but I gotta tell somebody about this.”
“I understand. We’re on the line with the Pennsylvania State Police right now.” Oliver looked at Berelli and formed a phone with his thumb and pinky finger; she nodded and hurried from the room. “We’ll have them contact you directly.”
“I guess that’ll work.”
“Until then, we need to make sure we don’t spook this guy. Don’t go looking for him.”
“Gotchya.”
Oliver disconnected. As he did so, the technician from Questioned Documents walked in. He was holding the fax of the credit card slip. “Same guy,” he said. “I’ll need the original to be sure, but it’s a ninety percent match. Same loops and baseline drops as the other slips. It’s him.”
Oliver sat still for a long five seconds, then chuckled. He looked up at McBride. “I’ll be damned. That’s it, mat’s what we needed. Now we just have to find out how the hell we get to Erb’s Mill.”
“That’s the easy part,” McBride replied. “What I wanna know is why the hell he needs a boat, and where he’s going with it.”
13
Dutcher had his choice of people to wake up at the CIA, but as Tanner’s report involved not only a missing agent, but one who’d been juggling undercover roles for both them and the DEA, he decided to go straight to the top.
The new DCI, the first woman in the history of the agency to hold that post, answered her home phone on the first ring. “Hello,” said Sylvia Albrecht.
“Sylvia, Leland Dutcher, sorry if I woke you.”
“Evening, Dutch. You didn’t; I was on the phone with the FBI.”
“The Root business?”
“Yes. It’s got everyone uptight.”
“I believe it. Did you ever meet Jon Root?”
“Once, in a ceremony. As I recall, he said a few words to me but all I can remember is nodding like an idiot. Back then, he was one of the gods — still is, for that matter. I hope to hell they find her.”
“Me, too. I worked with him before he retired; he was a tough SOB, but Amelia was his rock. Without her … Well, I hope it doesn’t come to that.”
“Amen.”
Dutcher had liked Sylvia from their first meeting a decade earlier. She was razor-sharp, decisive, and open-minded. She’d climbed to the top of a profession that had been dominated by men since its inception over fifty years earlier. As far as Dutcher was concerned, Sylvia’s tenacity alone qualified her for the job.
As the deputy director/Intelligence under the now retired Dick Mason, Sylvia had had a heavy burden to bear with word of Mason’s retirement and her possible ascendancy becoming public. Not only was the CIA itself still under the microscope since its alleged failures involving 9/11, but every eye in Washington was on her personally. Feminists and chauvinists, Republicans and Democrats, Defense contractors and Pentagon hawks — whether they wanted her to succeed or fail, all were scrutinizing her every move.
If anyone could shoulder the load, Dutcher believed, it was Albrecht, As a divorced mother of three, she’d returned to Yale at the age of thirty-eight, finished her master’s degree in international relations, then joined the CIA as an entry-level analyst in 1982 during the final years of the Cold War.
“Heard anything from Dick?” Dutcher asked.
“Last I heard he and Marjorie were in Alaska. He was hooking Coho and she was birdwatching. So, tell me: Did you just call to shoot the breeze or is there something on your mind?”
“The latter. I’ve got somebody in Paris on a personal matter. He came across something that might belong to you.”
“Oh? Whose side of the house?”
“George’s.” George Coates was her deputy director/Operations.
“It’s almost eleven now. How about my office in forty minutes?”
“I’m on my way.”
When Ditcher’s escort from the Office of Security dropped him at the door to the French Room — the nickname-of-old for the DCI’s private conference room — Sylvia, George Coates, and Len Barber, who’d taken Sylvia’s role as DD/I, were already there.
Albrecht said, “Dutch, I don’t think you’ve met Len.”
They shook hands. Barber said, “Good to meet you. Heard a lot of good things about you.”
“How’s life under the new boss?”
Barber shrugged. “No scars yet.”
Sylvia gestured to the coffee carafe. “Help yourself, Dutch.”
Dutcher poured a cup then took a seat at the oval table. “Sorry to roust everybody so late, but as I told Sylvia, one of my people have come across something that might interest you. It’s not good news, I’m afraid.”
“First of all, who are we talking about?” Sylvia asked.
“Tanner and Cahil.”
“Why do those names sound familiar?” Barber said.
Albrecht replied, “The Chinese thing two months ago—”
“Night Wall?” Barber replied. “That was them?”
“And the year before, Symmetry/Dorsal.”
“That doesn’t ring a bell.”
Coates said, “I’ll get you the file; it’s interesting reading. Trust me, they’re reliable. Dutch, what’re they doing over there?”
In answer, Dutcher asked Sylvia, “You remember Gillman Vetsch?”
“I think so … Intelligence Support Activity. Something in Bucharest?”
“He was shot by a sniper and paralyzed. Tanner is godfather to Vetsch’s daughter. She disappeared in France. Gill asked Briggs to find her. George, her name might ring a bell with you.”
“Sorry, no.”
Dutcher wasn’t surprised. The “need to know” rule extended all the way to the top at Langley; the number of people who knew Susanna’s name probably numbered less than half a dozen. “How about Tabernacle?” Dutcher asked. “The double agent you’ve got inside the DEA?”
Coates arched an eyebrow. “Go on.”
“Tanner came across her controller in St. Malo. He identified himself as Jim.”
“Jim Gunston. Okay, back up. Start from the beginning.”
Dutcher recounted Tanner and Cahil’s movements from their arrival in Paris to the melee outside the Black Boar and their meeting of Gunston. “George, he’s dead.”