She hesitated. “Both.”
“Okay, which side did he love more?”
“Ours,” she said. “We’re almost positive of that.”
In Jonathan’s experience with government-speak, the difference between almost positive and we don’t have a freaking clue was barely discernible.
“At this stage, we know very little that is concrete, but what we do know is disturbing. Bernard Mitchell is dead, and we received a panic code from their house, presumably when the attack was happening. Judging from the amount of damage done to the home, and the number of bullet holes and bloodstains, it was a hell of a fight, and more than just good guys were killed.”
“Did Bernard live alone?” Jonathan asked. He felt himself being drawn in.
“No, and that’s even more disturbing. We know nothing of the whereabouts of his wife, Sarah, their son, Graham, or an au pair named Jolaine. They have disappeared, and so has one of the Mitchells’ cars. A BMW.”
“Doesn’t the smart money say they got away?”
“Under normal circumstances, yes,” Maryanne said. “But there are protocols in place for events such as this, notifications to be made by survivors of a hit.”
Jonathan considered where the conversation was going. “Let me guess. None of them were implemented.”
“Exactly. They were to call a central number, and the person on the other end of the call would have given them specific instructions on what to do next.”
“So you’re saying that they disappeared.”
“Essentially, yes,” Maryanne said.
“Why are you telling me this instead of briefing a roomful of fire-breathing Fibbies?” As far as Jonathan could tell, there were only a couple of reasons for Uncle Sam to reach out to contractors, and more times than not, it had something to do with breaking the law.
“Because Wolverine asked me to?”
“Not enough this time,” Jonathan said. “First of all, I don’t see Wolverine. And second, I’ve got bullshit bells ringing in my head like it’s Armistice Day. Let’s start with the fact that these missing people — what are their names?”
“The Mitchells.”
“Let’s start with the fact that the Mitchells were first and foremost the responsibility of the federal government. It’s not as if you folks are understaffed.”
Maryanne seemed unmoved. “I revert to my original comment,” she said. “Director Rivers asked me to ask you. She seemed to think that that would be enough incentive.”
She had a point, and she seemed to know it. Jonathan shifted topics. “How were the Mitchells’ covers blown?”
“We don’t know.”
“Aren’t you a little worried?”
“We’re a lot worried. We literally have no idea. All we know is what I’ve told you — Bernard is dead and the others are missing.”
Jonathan considered the details. “The au pair,” he said. “What do you know about her?”
“She’s local talent, but recruited by us.”
Jonathan laughed. “The feds are recruiting au pairs now? How about house cleaners? Do you recruit them, too?”
Maryanne smiled. Or maybe she had a gas pain. “Okay, she’s more than your average au pair.”
“More like a bodyguard, then?”
“Exactly.”
“You’re sure you can trust her?”
“You know my business, Mr. Grave. I don’t trust anyone.” Beyond Maryanne’s left shoulder, a steady stream of taillights flowed across the Teddy Roosevelt bridge toward Virginia, while virtually no cars headed into the District.
“Yet you trust me,” Jonathan said.
“Heavens no,” she said. “I’ll pretend to trust you because my boss trusts you.” The smile turned menacing. “But if you cross me, I’ll kill you.”
The laugh escaped before Jonathan could stop it. He had Christmas tree ornaments bigger than she, but he admired her zeal.
“How old is the kid?”
“Fourteen. His name is Graham.”
“Does he know about Mom and Dad’s other life?”
“I don’t know. If they followed the rules, no. But rule-following gets really murky when it comes to families.”
“So what do you want from me?” Jonathan asked. This Maryanne chick had eyes that could melt the ice caps. Blue, wet, and beautiful.
Her face darkened. “I was hoping that would be obvious.”
Jonathan smirked. “I’ve learned to live by hard requests. That old saw about assumptions making an ass of you and me applies in spades.”
“We want you to rescue the mother and her son.”
Jonathan crossed his arms and dug in for a second swing at the details he wanted to know. “There’s that first person plural again. Who’s we?”
“Uncle Sam.”
Jonathan cocked his head. This was the problem with young people. They said the lines without fully understanding the meaning. “How much of Uncle Sam?” he asked, not bothering to camouflage his smile. “All of him, or just certain parts?”
“I speak on behalf of Director Rivers,” Maryanne said. “I can’t speak for anyone beyond her.”
Jonathan found himself liking this kid. She didn’t show any of the know-it-all hyperbole that was so common to her generation. She stuck with the mission. Jonathan could count a dozen or more warriors he knew who had died at the hands of commanders who had violated that one sacred tenet of command — stick to the goddamn mission.
If Irene Rivers wanted him to march into harm’s way, that was almost enough unto itself.
“Maryanne, I like your spunk and your approach. But I have a lot more experience at not trusting people than even you. If we’re going to take another step together — Wolverine or no Wolverine — I want a straight answer to this. Why isn’t my dear Uncle Sam making use of his enormous resources to take care of this rescue himself?”
She did something with her eyes, a casual glance away, a break in eye contact. It was a tell. “There are only so many routes for that kind of information to get out,” she said.
There it was. “You’re telling me that the Bureau continues to leak.”
“Like a cheap diaper.” She looked away, casting her glance upriver toward the Georgetown Harbor complex.
Leaks had been a burgeoning problem within the Bureau ever since Congress had gotten on its high horse and demanded that agents play by all the rules all the time, irrespective of criticality. Between the career advancement that was guaranteed for whistle-blowers, and the subterranean celebrity that was afforded to those who leaked information to the press, it had become harder and harder to keep a secret in this town.
“Tell me your worst fears regarding this case,” Jonathan said.
“That the family will die.”
“Bullshit. First of all, you answered too quickly, and second, saving families has never been a priority of the Bureau. Protecting careers first, catching bad guys second, and saving lives somewhere below that. This isn’t my first trip to the races.”
Jonathan let his words penetrate. He suspected that Maryanne was still young enough not to comprehend that difficult truth. All government agencies — not exclusively the FBI, but they were the worst offenders, in his experience — valued process over all. Careers were far more deeply jeopardized when a clerical error let a bad guy go than they were by the death of a citizen. More than anything else, that philosophy defined the chasm that separated the worldviews of elite law enforcement groups from those of elite military teams.
“We can’t afford for them to be squeezed for information,” Maryanne said.
“What do they know?”
“I can’t tell you that.”
“Okay,” Jonathan said. “We’re done, then. Have a good night.” He turned and headed back inside.