“They are owned by prominent Moroccans — one a politician, the other a staff-level officer in the national Gendarmerie. I have resources, my friend, but I’m not stupid. These are men I will not cross. Let me ask you this: How far do you plan to travel?”
Stephan stared hard at him for a moment, then said, “The Adriatic.”
“I assume you would prefer to make as few fuel stops as possible?”
“Yes.”
“Cargo? Passengers?”
“No cargo you need to worry about. Eight to ten passengers.”
Nafed consulted his notebook again, scribbled a few notes, then nodded. “I think I have the boat for you.” He reached under his robes and withdrew a pair of compact binoculars. He handed them to Stephan and pointed into the harbor. “Find the gare du port on the peninsula road; she sits in the second anchorage from shore.
Stephan tracked the binoculars over the water until he saw the one Nafed had indicated. “I see it.”
“She’s called the Barak. Forty-two feet, flying bridge, accommodations for twelve. She can cruise at nineteen knots with a range of thirteen hundred miles. As luck would have it, my sources tell me her owner — has financial troubles. For the right price, I’m sure he would be happy to report her stolen — and even happier to collect the insurance.”
Stephan scanned the yacht for a few more moments, then nodded. “She’ll do. I’ll need her no later than six days from today. A few days before, I’ll send one of my people to make the final arrangements.”
Nafed smiled. “Massena beef. Now, let us dispose of the unpleasant business of my fee…”
4
McBride had never liked FBI headquarters.
It wasn’t the Hoover itself that bothered him, but rather the connotation he’d come to associate with it: rules, regulations, stolid tradition. In some irrational part of his brain he worried that such conditions might be contagious. As far as he was concerned when it came to hostage negotiation, formulaic thinking tended to get people killed. Whether it starts out that way or not, a kidnapping eventually becomes an emotionally charged event for both kidnappee and kidnapper. Trying to fit that kind of situation into a box rarely worked.
Given the seeds from which he was sprung, Joe wasn’t surprised by his independent, slightly rebellious attitude. In fact, his family history was rife with it. According to legend, in the 1850s his great-grandfather was one of the original members of the Robert Emmit Literary Association, the precursor to the Irish Republican Army. During World War Two, a distant cousin working with the French Resistance to smuggle Jews out of the country was captured by the Nazis and summarily executed. On the maternal side of his family, he claimed a long line of relatives in France’s Savoie region, where fierce independence — if not downright orneriness — was the regional pastime.
Besides, McBride reminded himself as he walked into the lobby and headed toward the receptionist desk, whenever he walked the Hoover’s halls, he could almost feel the implacable gaze of J. Edgar on his back. He absently wondered if they had a file on him stashed in a warehouse somewhere: In sixties, subject McBride known to have chased bra-less hippy girls and listened to Jimi Hendrix albums. Categorize as marginal deviant and continue observation.
“Good morning, sir, can I help you?” the receptionist asked him.
“Joe McBride. I have an appointment.”
The receptionist typed on her keyboard, then nodded. “Yes, sir. I’ll need two pieces of identification.” McBride handed over his driver’s license and social security card, which were both examined, then photocopied, then handed back. “And sign here, sir.”
McBride signed the clipboard. The receptionist compared his signature with the photocopies, then handed him a visitor’s badge. She signaled to one of the blue-suited escorts standing nearby, who walked over. “This way, sir.”
The escort glanced at McBride’s badge, then lifted a portable radio to his mouth: “Guest McBride, ninth floor, coming up.”
“Roger, waiting,” came the reply.
That’s new, McBride thought. The last time he’d been here there’d been no lobby escorts, let alone two. Then again, much had changed since 9/11. In hindsight, it seemed ridiculous that such measures hadn’t always been pro forma.
When the doors parted on the ninth floor, a second, similarly dressed escort was waiting. He gave McBride a curt nod, said, “This way, sir,” then turned and started down the hall. Halfway down he stopped at the door. “You can go in, sir.”
Through the looking glass again, Joe. He took a breath and pushed through the door.
There were eight people milling about the conference room, most of whom McBride recognized: the bureau’s director, the attorney general, Collin Oliver, and Charlie Latham, who was sitting at the oval table nursing a cup of coffee. Latham gave him a shrugged smile that seemed to say, Sorry, buddy, then got up and walked over.
“Morning, Joe. How’re you doing?”
“Thinking I should make a run for it. Why’re you here? Is there a terrorist angle I don’t—”
“Nope, but these days you never know. Harry Owens asked me to sit in. Plus, Jonathan Root isn’t exactly what you call an everyday citizen. You know everyone here?”
“Most.”
Latham nodded toward each attendee, whispering names as he went. “You probably recognize Len Barber.” He pointed to a bald, middle-aged man with a marathoner’s physique. “Unless he gets derailed in confirmation, he’ll land Sylvia Albrecht’s old spot at the CIA. Across from him is Carolyn Fitzpatrick.”
McBride knew the name. Fitzpatrick was the president’s chief of staff, which, according to most Washington pundits, made her the third most powerful person in the capital. “Big fish,” McBride said.
“Unavoidable. Root’s name still carries a lot of weight. Love him or hate him, everybody respected the man. You met him?”
McBride nodded. “At the house.”
“How was he?”
“Just like anybody else, Charlie. Scared, numb, frantic … a husband who’s worried his wife is dead. That kind of thing tends to be a great leveler.”
“That it does.”
The FBI director walked up. “You’re Joe McBride.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Heard a lot of good things about you. I appreciate you coming. I’m sure you’re going to be of great help.”
Coming from any other bureaucrat, McBride might have discounted the pep talk, but something in the director’s gaze told him the words were genuine. “Let’s hope so.”
“I talked to Mr. Root this morning. He likes you — trusts you. That’s not something he passes out on a whim.” The director checked his watch, said, “Time to start,” then walked to the head of the conference table.
The rest of the attendees took their seats. McBride found a spot next to Oliver, who leaned over and whispered, “Stick around after we wrap up.”
McBride nodded.
“Okay, folks,” the director began, “we’ve got a lot of ground to cover, so let’s get started. Though I doubt it needs to be said, I’m going to say it anyway: The loop on this investigation is closed. Only those in this room and those you’ll find on the distribution list are cleared for what we’re going to discuss.
“Special Agent Collin Oliver of the Baltimore field office is heading the investigation for us. He’s going to walk us through the details. Agent Oliver?”
Oliver got up and walked to the podium, where he used a remote to dim the lights. A recessed projector beamed an image on the wall. It showed an aerial view of the peninsula on which the Root estate sat. The house, tennis court, and pool were surrounded by the flagstone wall and a windbreak of trees. On the seaward side were the creek and estuary that led into the Chesapeake proper.