“As are you, correct?”
“No, sir.”
“Excuse me?”
“It is not correct that I work for the Central Intelligence Agency.”
Wise looked at him for a moment and then rephrased. “You work for a black program funded by the Central Intelligence Agency, which allows them to disavow you if you are caught or captured.”
“That is correct.”
“Samuel, do you recognize the position you are now in?”
“I have been restrained by you, Dr. Wise—a former CIA employee, as well as Ms. Ryan and Mr. McGee—current CIA employees.”
“Correct. And do you recognize that what happens to you going forward will be entirely based upon the degree to which you cooperate with us?”
“I have been cooperative,” Samuel said.
Wise got back to his original question. “Please tell me how it is that you were able to identify Ms. Ryan and Mr. McGee to me.”
“They were both targets I was tasked with terminating.”
“And who gave you that tasking?”
The man was silent and didn’t respond.
“Samuel?” Wise prodded. “That is a direct question and I expect an answer, please.”
The man remained quiet.
“Samuel, this is very serious, and it goes far beyond you targeting fellow agents, or even coming after me.”
Nothing.
Wise removed his phone. “I’m sorry to have to do this.”
The bald-headed man was suddenly agitated. “Who are you calling, Dr. Wise?”
“You know who I’m calling, Samuel.”
“Dr. Wise, I strongly recommend you stop. Now.”
“I’m sorry, Samuel. This is beyond my control.”
“Stop!” he shouted, but as quickly as he had lost his temper, he brought it back under control. “Please hang up the phone, Dr. Wise.”
Wise looked at him as he put down the phone. “Your sister still doesn’t know, does she?”
Samuel’s face reddened, though whether from anger or shame, it was not immediately clear.
Wise looked at Ryan and McGee. “Samuel was raised by his older sister, who nurtured and protected him. She saw to his spiritual and moral upbringing as well. She explained away and helped hide some of his more antisocial behavior until it couldn’t be hidden anymore.
“Samuel and I met shortly after I arrived at the Agency. Isn’t that true, Samuel?”
“Yes, doctor.”
“But eventually, they asked you to leave my program and be part of another. Isn’t that correct?”
“Yes.”
“It had an interesting, almost benign-sounding name. Do you recall what it was?”
Samuel went mute.
Wise pretended to rack his brain. Finally, he said, “I remember now. Swim Club. That’s what they called it. That’s the group you were asked to join. The group your sister knows nothing about.”
Silence.
“She sacrificed so much to raise you, to protect you. She gave up any hope of a life of her own. But she believes you turned out to be a successful man. You take care of her now that she’s had her stroke. You, the—what was it she believed you did for a living? It was something that sounded boring but allowed you to travel.”
“I facilitate mining contracts.”
Wise snapped his fingers. “That was it. She’s very proud of you, isn’t she? You are the only family each of you has. If she knew what you really did for a living, she would be devastated, wouldn’t she? She would be incredibly disappointed not only in you, but in herself for allowing you to become what you have become. Do you think she would see you as a monster, Samuel?”
The man’s face reddened again. He was angry. “Dr. Wise, please stop speaking about my sister. She has nothing to do with this.”
“I think you’re wrong, Samuel. She has everything to do with this. She raised you. She lied and covered up for you. She knows what you are capable of. She knows she didn’t get you the treatment you should have had a long, long time ago. Why do you think that is? Did she think you would get better? Or had she covered up so many unspeakable things that she was tainted as well, an accomplice? Did you poison her chances at happiness, Samuel, her chances for a normal life? Is that what caused her stroke, holding all of those unspeakable things inside until something finally snapped in her as well?”
The man leaned forward, every ropy fiber in his wide, muscular torso straining as the steel handcuffs dug into his wrists. “If you do not stop, Dr. Wise . . .” he threatened, his voice trailing off.
“If I don’t stop, what, Samuel? You’ll retire me?”
Samuel’s eyes snapped up to meet his and there was a flash of evil. He was completely changed, consumed with rage. A battle had been kicked off inside him and he was quickly losing control. Wise could read it in his face and over every square inch of his taut, coiled body, waiting to spring.
“It would hurt your sister to know what you do. It would cause her great pain, wouldn’t it?”
The man’s eyes shifted to the floor.
“Like it or not, Samuel, she is a factor in this equation. But how she factors depends on you. Everything depends on you.”
When his body went almost limp and tears began to form at the corners of his eyes, Wise put his hand back on the man’s shoulder to comfort him. “It’s going to be okay,” he said, and at that moment he knew he was going to get everything he needed out of the killer known to so many as the Lamb, but whom he knew as a deeply disturbed, very sick man named Samuel who was fighting to keep a spark of decency alive within the hurricane of his severely tortured soul.
CHAPTER 51
BOSTON
MASSACHUSETTS
It was going to be a long day and Harvath had no intention of fueling it with police coffee, so Cordero took him to Caffé Vittoria on Hanover Street. Billed as the first Italian café in Boston, they were not yet open at this early hour, but there were signs of life and Cordero told him not to worry. She tapped on the glass with her car key and caught the attention of an older man setting up inside.
He smiled when he saw her and came over, unlocked the door, and let them in. “The lovely Lara. So nice to see you,” he said as he welcomed them in.
“The lovely Lara?” Harvath repeated quietly.
“I’ve been here once or twice before.”
“Okay,” the man said as he stepped behind the counter, “what can I do for you, officers?”
“He’s not an off—” Cordero began, but then decided to let it go. “What do you have that’s hot and ready to go?”
With its tin ceiling, vintage espresso machines, antique grinders, and old black-and-white photographs, it was one of the most charming cafés Harvath had ever visited. If the character and ambiance were any indication, he was in for some pretty good coffee.
“Okay if I order for us?” Cordero asked.
Harvath nodded, and she placed the order. While the man behind the counter worked he asked about what had happened a couple of blocks away over on Garden Court. To her credit, she played it vague while still making the man feel like he had an inside connection with an important Boston homicide detective.
When the coffee was ready and paid for, the man told her to wait a minute and he slipped several pastries into a paper bag and handed them to her.
“You don’t have to do that,” she said.
“For your partner.”
Harvath began to put his hands up to say no thank you, but the man behind the counter said, “Your other partner. The Italiano.”
“You mean Sal,” Cordero said with a smile.
“He only eats small children,” Harvath interjected.
The female detective shook her head and removed a ten-dollar bill. “I’m sure he’ll appreciate these. How much do I owe you?”
“Nothing. Free. Free,” the man said.
“You were sweet to let us in early. Thank you, but I don’t need a discount, or anything for free. That’s not how we do things.”