"You going in wired?" Julia had special training in surveillance technology. These days, everything was recorded.
'"Course," he answered. "And bring the SATD. Molland wants this guy tagged, in case he bolts and there's something to his claims "
Edward Molland was the director of Domestic Operations, their boss.
"Give me forty-five minutes."
"How's your mom?" His voice took on a gentle tone. "Good days, lately. She watches too much TV." "And you don't?"
"Only Lost these days, Goody. You saw me at my worst." Before her mother had gotten sick and come to live with her, Julia had spent a few months in the Donnelley's guest bedroom. She'd just broken up with a guy and hadn't felt like socializing, so she'd spent her evenings soaking up sitcoms and docudramas. She'd gained five pounds too. Long gone now
Worst. Best. What are friends for? See you in thirty."
"Forty-five," she said, but he'd already hung up. On the way out she had listened outside her mother's bedroom, then knocked softly and cracked the door. Mae Matheson was sitting on the edge of the bed, reading the label of a pill bottle
"You all right?"
She looked up, startled. "Oh, I didn't hear you. What are you doing up so early?"
"Case came up. I'm heading out. You going to be all right?" Mae smiled, and Julia felt a familiar dull ache in her chest. Her mother was too young to be like this. Fifty-three. Multiple sclerosis made her more like eighty-three.
She'd been diagnosed six years ago. Julia's father had decided he didn't want to spend the rest of his life taking care of an invalid, and he'd taken off. Two years ago, her mother had moved in with her. Some days she couldn't get out of bed, couldn't eat. If Julia could not stay home—more often than not—she called in a nurse or an assisted-living worker. It looked as though today she could get by on her own, already sitting up, doing things.
"Couldn't sleep," Mae replied. "What else is new? I'll be fine. Have a good day, sweetie."
Julia had held the door open a moment longer. One of these days, she'd have to stay home with her on a good day, just to do it, just for fun. She'd thought the same thing every day for two years. She smiled a good-bye and shut the door.
At their offices on the CDC compound, she had rigged her equipment and strategized with Goody and Molland. By five minutes to nine, she was sitting in her car across from the marble-and-gold Excelsior Hotel, listening.
"No sign of him yet," Goody said from inside the hotel's restaurant. He had reconnoitered the lobby, offices, and kitchen before taking a seat.
Julia heard a waitress ask him what he wanted, heard him order a large OJ.
"Oh no!" he said, panicky. Her body tensed. "What?"
"These prices are ridiculous. Becky in accounting's going to have a stroke."
"Funny." She eyed the laptop computer in the passenger seat. Its monitor displayed a map of the area surrounding the hotel. A glowing red dot marked Goody's location inside the building
A cable ran from the computer to a box the size of a hardback book on the floor. Another cable connected the box to a device that looked like a mobile phone antenna with a flanged tip, which was suction-cupped to the outside of the passenger window. The box and antenna, along with custom software on the laptop's hard drive made up a unit called the Satellite-Assisted Tracking Device, or SATD Developed by a defense contractor under the joint supervision of the FBI and the CIA, it allowed agents to locate a transmitter the size of a fingernail to within several feet from halfway around the world.
"Here we go," Goody said under his breath. Another voice, breathy and raw: "Sweeney? Are you Sweeney?" Goody: "Are you all right? You don't look so good." The other voice: "Don't worry about it."
"Hold on. I am worried about it. Waitress, some water, please! Let me take you to the hospital. We can talk there."
"Look, I want to go to your office. Why did we have to meet—?" The transmitter conveyed the piercing sound of smashing glass Down! Down!" It was Goody. A volley of booming explosions followed—shotgun blasts, judging by their deep resonance. Six pistol shots rang out in quick succession: Goody's return fire
Julia simultaneously unbuckled her seat belt and opened the door She was about to leap out when she heard Goody address her: "Julia! Pull up—." More gunfire. "Pull up out front. I got Vero. We're coming out."
She started the car, cranked the wheel, and jammed her foot on the accelerator. Her half-opened door swung out, smashed into the corner of the car parked in front of her, and slammed shut. A car screeched to a halt inches from he, Her car vaulted across three lanes of downtown traffic toward the hotel's canopied entrance
"Get down! Get down! Everybody down!" Goody shouted through the wireless microphone.
Two shotgun blasts, close together—too close to have come from a single weapon.
Just as Julia's car bounded onto the sidewalk directly in front of the hotel doors, valets and pedestrians leaping aside, she heard Goody.
"Can't get there, Julia! Get out of here! We're heading for my car in the parking garage. You go! Go!"
She cranked the wheel left to shoot back into the street. She drove two blocks, turned two corners, and pulled to the curb. She was facing the hotel again on the street that ran past the rear entrance—and the parking garage exit. The wireless conveyed mostly static now. Then: "—Julia? .. . hear me? I'm on . . . McGill . . . west. . . right on my tail!"
McGill! She was on the same street. He was driving away from her. She made a squealing U-turn.
"Listen to me," Goody said. The reception was clearer now. "I recognized one of the shooters. James something. Satratori—something like that. Almost busted him a few years back. Serpico for DEA at the time, as far as I could figure. They got him out of my custody faster than—sit down!"
He berated Vero for getting in his way.
Julia bit her lip. Serpico meant he was a deep-undercover agent.
"Don't call in backup," Goody continued. "Not till we figure out why a fed's on the hit team. Got it?"
There was silence and the rustling of Goody's shirt over the microphone. He was probably maneuvering through traffic. She could hear Vero rambling in the background.
"As soon as I lose these guys, we'll meet and decide on a plan," Goody said. "But for now, it's just us, okay?" More silence, then: "Gettin' on the highway. Hear me? I-75 north."
That was only minutes ago, twenty at most. Now, as she barreled down I-75 somewhere behind Goody, only static filled her ear. Goody's frantic movements must have dislodged the transmitter's wires, or he had finally traveled out of range. She plucked out the ear-phone and glanced at the laptop. The glowing red dot indicated that her partner was about two miles ahead. Her foot muscles flexed harder against the accelerator.
Julia realized with sudden terror that the knot of cars in front of her was stopped. She slammed on the brakes. As the smell of burnt rubber washed over her, she saw the glass and bits of plastic that littered the roadway. Paint the color of Goody's car clung in long streaks to the crushed guardrail. On the SATD display, the red dot was moving away fast. She laid on the horn. From the car in front of her, a hand with an upraised finger shot out of the driver's window.
"Suit yourself," she said and stepped on the gas.
four
The man in the pilot's seat of the Cessna CJ2 was obsessed with serving his clients well. He believed in quick responses and promptness, so much so that he hadn't given a second thought to purchasing the jet, or the one before it or the one before that. He believed in confidentiality, so he piloted the plane himself, and he had no staff, just a series of electronic telephone relays that ultimately dumped inquiries into a voice mailbox in Amsterdam. He didn't buy the currently voguish axiom "Underpromise/overdeliver." He listened to his clients' needs; they agreed to an action plan and when that plan would be completed; and he carried it out on time. Enough said.