Christ, he didn’t know who he could trust. He couldn’t trust the FBI and he sure as hell couldn’t trust the NSA. And he didn’t know what was really going on because he was sure the NSA man wasn’t telling him everything he knew. But there was one thing he knew for sure: He was the mouse in the elephant cage. These elephants-the FBI, the NSA, the chairman of the Joint Chiefs-they were all stomping around the cage, dancing with each other, and if DeMarco’s little mouse ass tried something, one of the elephants was going to squash him.
He figured he still had the option of going to the press. Get in his car tomorrow, make a beeline for The Washington Post, and run inside like a guy seeking sanctuary in a cathedral. The problem with that bright idea was, since he knew he was being watched-hell, they had cameras on him today, for Christ’s sake-he suspected he’d never get inside the building. And after Alice had dropped him off back at his car, he went home, looked up the NSA on the Internet, and learned that some three-star admiral ran the organization. Just what he needed: another guy with stars on his shoulders involved in this thing.
Yeah, he could just see it: him getting out of his car and running for the front door of the Post and some navy SEAL sniper putting a bullet through his head from a mile away.
Which also made him think: how did he know that the NSA hadn’t killed Paul and Hansen? How did he know it wasn’t really their op he’d heard on that recording?
Yes, he was the mouse in the elephant cage. He’d read somewhere that elephants were actually afraid of mice-and maybe they were-but he was pretty sure these particular elephants weren’t afraid of him.
Hey, Hopper, this is DeMarco.
DeMarco had been told to call Hopper at ten fifteen the day after meeting with Dillon at the safe house. Claire was sitting in the operations room with Gilbert, listening to his conversation with Hopper. She nodded her head when she heard DeMarco speak. The way he spoke was just the way she had predicted, the way the damn impersonator had never been able to get quite right.
What is it, DeMarco? I haven’t got time to talk right now, and I don’t have anything new to tell you about your cousin’s murder.
Well, you better make time to talk to me, or the next call I’m making is to the press.
Why would you talk to the press?
Because the FBI-or maybe it’s just you-is involved in a cover-up.
That’s an asinine thing to say. What are we covering up?
For starters, your autopsy report says that Paul was shot at close range with a 9mm. But I talked to the Arlington detective who saw Paul’s body, and he said there was no exit wound. He said if Paul had been shot with a nine at close range there would have been an exit wound the size of my fist.
That’s not necessarily true, DeMarco. I’m sure our ballistic experts know more about gunshot wounds than some county cop. But how do you know what the autopsy report said?
I work for Congress, Hopper. I told you that. Getting information out of bureaucrats is what I do for a living.
Good. DeMarco was following the script, Claire thought.
Who told you about-
And I’ve talked to Paul’s friends, and there’s no way he was dealing drugs. You lied about finding that bottle of pills in his apartment. I also found out that Paul’s last patient was General Martin Breed. I think that puts a whole new spin on things, Paul maybe being the last guy to see a Pentagon big shot like Breed alive. Maybe that’s why you’re not being straight with me about the investigation.
Hopper didn’t say anything for a long time, which made Claire think that Hopper had no idea that Russo was connected to Breed.
What do you want, DeMarco?
I want a meeting. And when we meet, you’re going to tell me what’s really going on.
Forty seconds later, Claire heard: Why did you page me?
“Yes!” Claire said. The man speaking was the man with the Fort Myer cell phone. Hopper had apparently paged him and then the guy had turned on his cell phone and called Hopper back. She looked over at Gilbert, making sure he was paying attention. She wanted the damn guy’s location.
We need to meet. It’s about… about the case I took over from the Arlington PD. That lawyer I told you about. You know, the cousin. Well, he just told me some things I think you need to know.
What did he say?
Not over an open line.
Claire laughed and said, “It’s a little late for that, Bozo.”
I’ll meet you where we met last time, at three thirty.
Hopper’s boss hung up.
“Well, where’s the guy Hopper was talking to?” Claire asked Gilbert. “He’s on Route One, just outside Alexandria, heading north. And he just powered down his phone.”
“Shit,” Claire said. Was this guy always on the move?
Claire had told Alice that she wanted Hopper smothered-and Alice was smothering him. She was leading an eight-man team in four separate vehicles, two agents per vehicle. One of the vehicles was a pickup truck, and in the bed of the truck was a dirt bike with big knobby tires. She could follow Hopper anywhere. Her team also had parabolic mikes so if Hopper met his contact outside or sitting near a window, they would be able to record whatever was said. But Claire had made it clear that recording the conversation was a secondary objective. Her primary objective was to identify the man Hopper was meeting.
Hopper was scheduled to meet his contact at three thirty. By three o’clock, when Hopper’s car had still not exited the Hoover Building garage, Alice assumed the meeting was going to be someplace close by, unless the meeting had been canceled. Then, at three twenty, one of Alice’s team radioed her. “He’s leaving the building. The Pennsylvania Avenue exit.”
Alice was parked in her vehicle with another agent on the corner of 9th Avenue and Pennsylvania, and she looked down Pennsylvania and saw Hopper walking directly toward her. What was he doing? She’d expected him to drive somewhere, but it appeared as if was walking to meet his contact. This was good. Maybe the meeting would take place outdoors and she could easily record what was said. The National Mall was just one long block away from the Hoover Building, and that was a likely place for a meeting. Or maybe Hopper would meet his contact in one of the public buildings on the Mall, like the Museum of Natural History, which was close, and where she could easily follow him.
Alice watched from her SUV as Hopper stopped on the corner of 9th and Pennsylvania and waited for the light to change. She was positive by now that he wasn’t looking for a cab and was planning to walk to the rendezvous site, and she ordered three members of her team to leave their vehicles and proceed in the direction of Pennsylvania Ave to follow Hopper on foot. If a car stopped and picked Hopper up, all she had to do was radio the agents who were still in their vehicles and they would take up the pursuit.
When the light changed and Hopper started to cross the street, Alice put on sunglasses and a baseball cap, exited her SUV, and fell into step behind him. At some point, she would walk past him and one of her team members would assume the tailing position, and by then her other agents would be in positions where they would effectively have Hopper boxed in between them. From that point forward, they would be constantly switching positions to keep Hopper in sight so he wouldn’t become used to seeing the same person behind him. They would also frequently change their appearance, donning and removing hats and jackets and glasses.
Hopper crossed Pennsylvania but didn’t proceed down 9th Ave toward the National Mall as Alice had expected. Instead he turned to his right, walked half a block west, and entered the Department of Justice-and Alice knew she was screwed.