As he got even closer to Jonathan, the cop — Jonathan could see now that his name tag read Amen — said, “I’m Deputy Chief Eric Amen. My boss says I’m supposed to treat you like a prisoner, but like a VIP one. I’m not sure what that means, but I know it includes handcuffs, at least until we can figure out all of the details.”
“I’m fine with that,” Jonathan said, moving his hands behind his back, “but if my friend objects, try to reason with him, okay?”
As it turned out, Boxers readily got with the program. As Nicholas Mishin was ushered down to surgery, Scorpion and Big Guy were escorted to a parking garage. True to the stated spirit of things, Amen removed the handcuffs before he ushered his prisoners into the backseat of a cruiser. Boxers had to sit mostly sideways to accommodate his legs.
Once they were settled in, and the cruiser was moving, Amen asked, “So who do you have to be to get the director of the FBI to put in a courtesy call for you?”
The Chittenden Regional Correctional Facility in South Burlington covered a footprint that Jonathan estimated to be about thirty thousand square feet. Deputy Chief Amen escorted Boxers and him into the reception area of the jail, and then sat with them while they chatted about nothing. They accepted coffee when it was offered, and no one got overly stressed when first Boxers and then Jonathan asked to use the restroom, which itself was built like a prison cell, with concrete walls, a heavy door, and no windows.
All things considered, Jonathan was getting tired of concrete walls. When this was over, he thought he owed himself a trip to an island. He was equally tired of being cold.
Overall, the atmosphere of the meeting — if that’s what you could call it — was cordial yet weird. Amen had clearly been instructed not to ask questions about what he’d just witnessed at the hospital, but it was equally clear that he ached to disobey his orders. For Jonathan’s part, he’d have been happy to have been left alone for a nap.
After nearly two hours, a couple of high-and-tight guys in suits arrived and identified themselves as FBI agents. “Thanks for taking care of things, Chief,” one of the agents said. “We’ll pick it up from here.”
They all said some cursory good-byes, and then the Fibbies escorted Scorpion and Big Guy out to a waiting Suburban in the parking lot. As they approached the vehicle, the agent who did the talking inside said, “Mr. Scorpion, and Mr. Big Guy, I am Agent Able and this is Agent Baker. I have been instructed by Wolverine to ask you to come with us. You are not under arrest and you may refuse if you wish.”
Able made no effort to camouflage that as anything but the memorized speech that it was. The code names lent convincing credibility to the words. “What do you say, Big Guy?” Jonathan asked.
“It’s been so much fun so far,” Boxers said. “I wouldn’t miss another minute.”
The Suburban drove them to the airport, where an unmarked Gulfstream jet awaited them, all gassed up and ready to go. Able drove them right up to the aircraft’s ramp, and as he approached, he said something into his radio that Jonathan couldn’t decipher.
A few second later, Jonathan’s cell phone buzzed. Caller ID read J. Edgar.
“Scorpion here,” he said.
“Nice job tonight,” Irene said. “The Bureau is supplying you with a nice ride home. I believe you’ll find some surprises in the plane.”
“How is PC One?” Jonathan asked.
“Still in surgery, but the last report I got was that he’ll pull through. Might lose the kidney, might not, but my people tell me that it’s not a huge deal.”
“And Sidesaddle?”
“Not my problem anymore. The Secret Service took jurisdiction over her safety as soon as we crossed the threshold into the hospital.”
“But what about—” Jonathan stopped himself, aware of the additional ears.
“Some things we might never know,” Irene said. “I’m fairly sure that there’s much that ultimately won’t be shared with you at all. Nothing personal, you understand. Just need to know.”
Jonathan’s ears turned hot. He deserved better than this. “You’re a tease, Wolfie.”
“You won the big one tonight, Scorpion. There are a lot of powerful people indebted to you. Put a check in the win column and go to bed.”
“And what about Alexei?” Jonathan pressed. They hadn’t given the Russian a code name, so he had to default to the real one.
“Good night, Scorpion.” She clicked off.
Sometimes Jonathan forgot that Irene Rivers was the ultimate professional. He in fact did not have a need to know the details. All that was important from where she sat was that Jonathan did his job and that the mission was accomplished. As in the past, his was not to reason why.
Still, it sucked.
Climbing into the plane, he had to laugh when he saw the surprise Irene had spoken of. All of their gear had been delivered to the plane and stacked neatly along the last row of seats. In the forward part of the passenger cabin, someone had placed a bottle of Lagavulin scotch for Jonathan and a six-pack of Sam Adams beer for Boxers.
As they squared themselves away, a female voice said over the intercom, “Welcome aboard. Please make yourselves comfortable, sit back, and enjoy the flight.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Jonathan understood that there could be no White House reception or formal declaration of a job well done, but after two weeks, would a thank-you note have been out of the question? Even the Army had issued him citations for jobs exceptionally well done, though most of them were highly classified and could never be spoken of.
Reading the paper every day — he’d taken a special interest in the stories reported by the Washington Enquirer — it pleased him to read that the Canadian government had thwarted a terrorist plot against the United States. It seems that units of their military had received a tip from a confidential informant that the renovation of Saint Stephen’s Reformatory in Ottawa had in fact been a cover for a Russian dissident group that had been plotting for years to create havoc in America. Unfortunately, during the raid, the explosives were detonated and all of the terrorists were killed.
That last part intrigued Jonathan most, because he knew for a fact that a number of bad guys were still alive when Striker flew away. He wondered if the others were actually killed, or if they were just spirited away for some quality time with CIA interrogators.
Most important from Jonathan’s perspective, there were no reports of a helicopter being forced down that night, nor of VIPs being admitted to any hospitals in Vermont. Apparently when the administration actually cared about controlling leaks, secrets could be kept.
Jonathan was hunkered down in his office with a fire roaring against the blistering chill of the air outside, wading through the accumulated administrative crap that made business ownership such a pain in the ass. JoeDog was as close to the fire as she could be without actually igniting, and all but the most ambitious workers had gone home for the night. Jonathan had to kick Venice out of the place, telling her that she was not allowed to return until tomorrow at 10:00 A.M. Yes, she had a lot of responsibility, and yes, she had a lot of work to do, but sooner or later, she’d burn out if she didn’t step away for a while.
Besides, with her gone, the Cave was exceptionally silent, which meant that he could concentrate without interruption.
A gust of wind rattled the building at the same instant that his cell phone buzzed. J. Edgar.
Shit. He considered ignoring it, but Wolverine wasn’t the type to bother him for chitchat. He answered after the second ring. “Evening, ma’am,” he said.