They rode in silence for a while. “I still have the Time magazine cover,” McDaniels said, and Martin wanted to crawl away. “I framed it. It was the first time I had ever been in a national magazine. I don’t remember if you were in it, though.”
“They couldn’t print pictures of me or give my name because I was a minor at the time.” Martin was starting to think that maybe they weren’t driving fast enough.
“That’s right, I remember now. They wouldn’t even let you testify. Whatever happened to the other ones, the ones who were old enough to be held responsible for their actions?”
“Why don’t we talk about Jaime Avanti instead?” Martin was having one of the worst days of his life. First, Amanda had resurfaced and dredged up all his shortcomings as a physician; the virus that he had hoped had disappeared turned up in the brain of a dead man; and now McDaniels appeared to remind him of how thoroughly irresponsible and reckless he had been when he was younger. All that was missing was for an old girlfriend to appear on the nightly news describing in detail every one of his physical inadequacies.
“Life certainly takes some strange twists, doesn’t it, Nathan? Can I call you Nathan? For nearly forty years, I have wanted to confront you, and now here you are, a captive audience, and suddenly I no longer have the desire to tell you what I think of you or your well-bred, well-educated friends. I want to thank you for that.”
McDaniels paused, but Martin didn’t have a response. The silence between them grew, and then the moment passed.
McDaniels continued, “Jaime Avanti walked into the Pentagon thirty-seven days ago. Before that, he was the subject of a worldwide search. He is, or as he would have us believe, was a member of Al-Qaeda. We know that at one time, he was a close confident of bin Laden, but now he insists that he is no longer in contact with anyone within the Al-Qaeda network. Our intelligence believes him to be a founding member of a group that calls itself Jeser. It’s Arabic for “bridge.” It is our belief that Avanti and a few other non-Arabs parted ways with bin Laden before 9/11 and that they have been exploring other means to inflict harm upon the U.S. and its interests; beyond the use of airliners.
“I have had two conversations with Avanti, and I will tell you this — he scares the hell out of me. He is cold, calculating, and very, very smart. He is not the type of man to simply turn himself in, or to sacrifice himself for the cause. I am certain that he is executing a well-thought-out plan, one that does not end with his death or incarceration. He gives me the impression that he is holding four aces, and I need you to tell me if he’s bluffing.”
“I really don’t know him well enough to tell if he is bluffing you or not. What I can tell you now is that if he is responsible for the virus in Colorado, he may very well be holding five aces.”
“If that’s the case, then why is he here?” McDaniels asked rhetorically.
“Obviously, he wants something, and he thinks I can either give it to him or get it for him.” Martin couldn’t think of a single thing Avanti could want from him. Even illegal viral pathogens were seemingly available to him.
The two Suburbans took an exit into an enclave of large, gated homes and continued their breakneck pace down the two-lane roads. Puzzled, Martin looked around at the surroundings. “You’ve got him out here?”
“It’s safer, more secure, and private,” McDaniels said. “Besides, he insisted.”
* * *
Patton stormed through the detectives’ bullpen enveloped in a cloud of confusion and frustration that discouraged any of the half dozen detectives from asking questions. He closed the door to his office and lowered the blinds. He needed time to think.
He took a pen and legal pad and drew a line down the middle of the page. On the left side, he wrote in block letters Van Der, and on the right, Yaeger. For the next few minutes, he wrote short notes about each case. Both columns started with Tall, Dark Man, but the Yaeger column had Klaus Reisch written next to it. Witnesses came next: Phil Rucker on the left and James Michener on the right. Then, murder? under Van Der, and attempted murder? under Yaeger. No wounds for the Van Der column, and no contact for the Yaeger column. Finally, Taurus — Rental on the left, and BMW — Stolen, on the right. He wrote two more entries under the Yaeger column: Amanda and injured. He drew a box around the last two entries, and then after a moment added another question mark.
He surveyed his work and waited for inspiration to make some sense out of it, but all he felt was hunger. He turned his chair towards the window and purposely cleared his mind. More snow was starting to fall across his adopted city. The wind was picking up as well, and clouds of snow swirled around the downtown buildings. Patton could barely make out the interstate, even though it was less than a half-mile away. Nothing on it moved. He could see a few abandoned cars on the elevated section; otherwise, it was deserted. He sat and stared, trying not to think of anything. A patrol car approached the Third Avenue overpass, and he wondered if it would have more success with the slippery hill than had the drivers of the abandoned vehicles. Patton watched, but at the last minute, the state trooper slowed and came to a stop, his vehicle blocking the traffic lanes and officially closing the overpass. Patton was disappointed and was suddenly filled with annoyance at the state police’s inability to find Reisch.
The spell broken, he admonished himself for thinking of the tall, dark man, or maybe he should just start thinking of him as the German. Either way, the rules of the game dictated that he turn away from the pieces of the puzzle and think about something else. It was a trick some shrink had tried to teach him years ago, but it only worked if he could completely clear his mind of the problem. Then his subconscious mind could work on all the pieces and magically reassemble them into a coherent picture. The problem was that he could never completely clear his mind.
“Magic,” he said to his frosty window. That was the missing piece. He smiled. “That’s it, I’ve solved the case.” He spun his chair back and faced his desk. “Klaus Reisch, you are a magician, and now you’ve vanished into thin air.” He returned to the legal pad and had to restrain himself from writing fourletter words all over it. After tossing the legal pad in the garbage can, he turned to his computer. He keyed in the name Klaus Reisch, but every databank he tried came up empty— nothing local, statewide, or even federal. This was the kind of luck he was used to, not the Johnny-on-the-spot witness, or the tracks in the snow leading right to the perp’s parked car. He did have a couple off-the-book sources he could tap, one in Homeland Security, and another in the CIA, of all places.
He stared at the phone, wondering if he should call one of them. It was late in Washington, after business hours, which narrowed the choices down to his brotherin-law at the agency. A stab of pain and longing struck him when he remembered his beloved Connie talking about her brother, the spy. He really wasn’t a spy, but he was a senior analyst. Patton hated treading on family ties, but his gut told him to make the call. If he ended up looking like a fool, it wouldn’t be the first time. He opened his cell phone, hit the number four, and held it long enough for the phone to beep and make the connection.