“Understood,” Irv Shiels says. “But we don’t have much time. We would assume that Mrs. Pagone will be questioned very, very soon. And things will start moving against her very quickly.”
“You made sure of that,” McCoy says to Allison.
“We’ll get back to you tomorrow, when we see it in writing,” Allison says. “But as long as you accept my terms, I’m in.”
Irv Shiels is fuming. The others have left, leaving McCoy and Harrick to bear the brunt of his frustration.
“This woman,” Shiels says. “She’s well known?”
“Yes, sir,” McCoy says. “I read one of her novels. I think it was a bestseller.”
“That’s wonderful. Jesus H. So this will be a big story.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Sir.” Harrick clears his throat. “Sir,” he says, “we should bury this thing. Talk to the county attorney. Tell them to hold a press conference, say the murder of Sam Dillon is unsolved, and make Larry Evans feel safe. That makes more sense than going through with this whole charade.”
Shiels looks at McCoy, not Harrick, holds a stare on her. McCoy figures it’s one of two things. One, the boss is wondering what the hell Harrick is still doing in the room. Shiels is the SAC, and McCoy is running this operation. This isn’t a roundtable discussion. But Harrick is McCoy’s partner, and she’s made him her right hand on this operation, too. Jane has been on the other side of this before and never appreciated being left out.
Or two, Shiels is insulted.Don’t you think that occurred to us, Agent Harrick?
“That doesn’t work.” Shiels flicks a hand like he’s swatting a fly. “One, we’d have to share a whole helluva lot with Elliot Raycroft to make him do that. This is an election year. A huge homicide in his jurisdiction, and he has a primary challenger, if you hadn’t noticed. And he’s a Republican, too, Agent Harrick, if you hadn’t noticed that, either, so it’s not exactly a waltz to reelection. He’ll be crucified if this comes back ‘unsolved.’ ”
Harrick nods, too enthusiastically.
“And at any rate, this thing would boil for a while no matter what. The county attorney has to investigate this somewhat-a lot-before he just walks up to a microphone and says, ‘We have no idea what happened. We’re folding up shop.’ And this whole time, Larry Evans is watching Allison Pagone, and he’s wondering, and if the CA is too eager in pronouncing this ‘unsolved,’ he’ll wonder even more.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And you think”-Shiels’s face is hot now-“you think our friends in Virginia are going to let us confide in a local prosecutor about this?”
“Understood, sir.”
“To say nothing of Allison Pagone,” Shiels adds. “She’s in danger now, I think you’d agree, Agent?”
“Yes, sir.”
“How do you think we are most effective keeping her safe, Agent? Do we whisk her away to federal protective custody right now?”
Harrick, licking his wounds from the scolding, struggles for the answer that will be least offensive.
“No, we can’t do that,” Shiels says, answering his own question, “because the operation dies if Allison Pagone dies-or if they think she dies. Doctor Lomas folds up shop, and there’s no formula, and there’s no chance to catch Muhsin al-Bakhari or whoever. So that’s not acceptable. You see that, Agent?”
“Yes, sir.”
“So her being charged with murder is the best way to do that. She’s a big news item. Anything happens to her now, it would receive tremendous scrutiny. Larry Evans is smart enough to recognize that. And if he’s not, Ram Haroon will remind him. A spotlight shining on Allison Pagone is the best way to keep her alive and help us do what we need to do.”
Harrick, at this point, looks like one of those bobble-head dolls, he’s nodding so rapidly.
“So you see, Agent Harrick, where just telling Raycroft that we’re fighting an international terrorist operation, and could he please take a pass on this high-profile murder, maybe isn’t such a hot idea.”
“You made your point, sir,” McCoy says, hoping to interrupt the tantrum. “Several times over. It’s been a long day for everyone.”
She waits a beat. On the scale of career moves, this one didn’t rate a perfect ten. No, this one would fall slightly above kicking the boss in the balls.
“Okay.” Shiels runs a hand over his face. “Right.”
“We have to talk to Haroon, sir,” McCoy says. “He has to be clear on this.”
“I know. We need clearance.” Shiels sighs. “I have to call the director.”
“I’ll meet with him, sir, if you’d like,” she says. “I’ll talk to Haroon.”
“No,” says Shiels. “He’s my guy. I’m the reason we have this operation.”
Normally, this operation would probably be handled by CIA or the NSA, or some combination. But Shiels knows Haroon, from way back-he’s the reason Haroon pushed for this city as a locale-so Shiels is the logical choice to communicate with Haroon.
“God.” Shiels shakes his head. “I haven’t seen him for years.”
“He doesn’t know, does he?” McCoy asks. “He doesn’t know everything?”
Shiels closes his eyes, makes a face. “He doesn’t know, but he probably suspects.”
That makes sense to McCoy. Haroon is basically the bagman. He gets the formula from Larry Evans, he pays Evans, and he delivers the formula for the poison to the Liberation Front. Surely, Haroon must suspect that if he delivers the formula directly to a high-ranking member of the Libbies, the U.S. Special Forces will be ready to pounce. And he must know that he could be caught in the crossfire. He must have known this the moment he was sent to this city by the Libbies, and he contacted the U.S. government to let them know he was coming.
“All Ram Haroon knows,” says Shiels, “is that Doctor Lomas and Larry Evans will finish their formula, then give him a sample to verify the poison works. Haroon will pretend to sample it and will tell Evans that it’s acceptable. Then he’ll transfer the twenty-five million to an account that Evans specifies. Once the money transfer is made, Evans will deliver the formula for the poison to Haroon. Then Haroon will take the formula and modify it-change it, so that no matter what else happens, it’s not really a formula for poison-and he’ll deliver it to the Liberation Front. Haroon will be trusted enough to deliver it directly to one of theshura majlis. Directly to Muhsin al-Bakhari. We’ll nail Evans and put him away for life, we’ll catch Doctor Lomas, and we’ll catch the brains and spirit behind the Liberation Front.”
Shiels works the kinks out of his neck. “So yeah, Haroon is probably smart enough to know that this could end in an ambush. He knows he could be giving up his life for this. He already has instructions, if he’s caught by U.S. Special Forces, to identify himself as ‘Zulfikar,’ his given name, so they know he’s a friend. But in the midst of a gunfight to catch al-Bakhari, all bets are off. I’m sure he’s figured that out.”
“Haroon’s good,” McCoy says, more a request for confirmation than a statement.
“He’s good.”
“He’ll fool Larry Evans, no question?”
“No question,” says Shiels. “He’s been fooling the Liberation Front for over a decade.”
ONE DAY EARLIER
SUNDAY, FEBRUARY 8
Jane McCoy, sitting in her car, looks at her watch. It is close to one in the morning, Sunday, only forty-five minutes into a new day, and she prays that it is not as eventful as the Saturday that just passed. Normally, she would be asleep now. Instead, she is parked one street over from the home where Sam Dillon lives-lived-and where he was murdered only several hours ago.
She closes her eyes as she listens to her instructions through her cell phone. She still can’t believe that Dillon is dead. This is her fault. Her responsibility. She knew Dillon was at risk. She didn’t expectthis, though.