“You really expect me to take your word for it that Yancey’s in the pocket of some vast criminal conspiracy?” Reyes had asked.
“No,” Hendricks had replied. “That’s why I need you to get in contact with Special Agent Charlotte Thompson of the FBI.”
Hendricks provided him with no contact information, instead insisting Reyes do the legwork, so he would know she wasn’t fake. In the time it took for him to track down her phone number, Hendricks filled her in on his exchange with Reyes and gave her a rough outline of his plan. Once Reyes was onboard, it was simply a matter of moving the pieces into place and everyone playing his or her respective part.
In a way, she thought, Segreti’s apparent demise was fitting. He’d been resurrected on camera and killed again the same way. This time, the FBI wasn’t leaving anything to chance-aside from Charlie and her handpicked detail, the only people in the Bureau who knew Segreti was still alive were O’Brien and the director himself.
“How’d your appointment with the doc go?” Thompson asked. Segreti looked like he’d lost weight since she’d last seen him-which seemed impossible, since it was only days ago-and he’d developed a sickly pallor.
“Good,” Segreti said. “He says the cancer’s responding to treatment. I might have another year in me after all. And he gave me something for the nausea, so food’s been staying down a little better.”
“Glad to hear it.”
The dog, Ella, stirred and looked at Thompson. Then she yawned and went back to sleep.
“How’s she been doing?” Thompson asked.
“A little better every day, but the agents tell me she still whines something fierce whenever I leave.” He smiled again. “Whatcha got there?”
Thompson opened the manila folder. Handed him the top page. When Segreti saw it, he laughed. It was a death certificate with his name on it.
“Thought you might get a kick out of that. In the eyes of the U.S. government, you’re officially a dead man.”
“Twice over now. You got anything else in there for me?”
She handed him the second document. “That’s a copy of your immunity agreement. Everything’s exactly as we discussed, and as you can see, the attorney general has signed off on it.”
Segreti read it carefully, nodding when he reached the section that ensured that Cameron and Hendricks could not be prosecuted for what went down in San Francisco. Then he set the document aside.
“So,” Thompson said, “what now?”
Segreti smiled. “Now you pull up a chair and I tell you everything I know about the Council.”
44.
HEADLIGHTS SPLASHED ACROSS Sal Lombino’s living-room window and cast a diamond pattern that slid leftward up the wall. As Sal’s ex backed her Mercedes out of the driveway, his daughter, Izzie, waved from the backseat. Sal, watching through the window, waved back, a smile pasted on his face for Izzie’s benefit. As soon as the car slid out of sight, he frowned and said, “That fucking whore.”
It was Sal’s weekend with Izzie. He was supposed to have her until tomorrow night, but an hour ago, Vanessa called to say she’d just won tickets to tonight’s performance of Disney on Ice. If he’d picked up the call, he would’ve put the kibosh on his ex’s bullshit, but like an idiot, he’d let Izzie answer, and once she heard about the tickets, she could barely contain her excitement. Sal couldn’t bring himself to break her heart, so he agreed to let her go.
It was just one weekend, he told himself-and Vanessa had better relish it. One of these days she’d push him too far, and he’d be forced to have her taken care of. Then every weekend would be his weekend with Izzie.
At least the empty house gave him a chance to make a phone call. He’d been planning on doing it first thing Monday, but with Izzie gone, there was no point in putting it off.
He headed to the guest bedroom, activated the audio jammer, and dialed the number for the chairman’s latest burner.
“Hello, Sal.”
“Mr. Chairman,” Sal replied.
“Please. I’m at home. The room’s been swept, and active countermeasures are in place. You can speak freely.”
“Thank God. That makes this conversation a whole lot easier. I have good news.”
“Let’s hear it, then.”
“Those photos of the junior senator from Texas worked like a charm. He agrees that his constituents are unlikely to reelect someone of his…proclivities…and assures me that, come Wednesday, we can count on his vote-provided he can count on our discretion.”
“He was the final holdout, wasn’t he?”
“Yeah, which means the legislation’s gonna pass. Bellum stands to make billions in domestic contracts. Their stock is already through the roof-it’s gonna hit the stratosphere once the news breaks. The Council should see a thousand-fold return on its investment, at least.”
The majority of Bellum stock was owned by Council front companies, and had been since Bellum’s initial public offering five years ago.
“That is good news! Any updates on the investigation?”
“It’s winding down, and based on everything my sources tell me, we’re in the clear. As far as the Feds are concerned, Yancey died a hero. Bellum thinks he was a reckless idiot whose poor judgment made them inadvertently complicit in a terrorist attack on U.S. soil, so they’ve worked hard to bury any evidence of their dealings with the True Islamic Caliphate. Even the Council has no idea you and I maneuvered Yancey into place and ensured that the boat and bomb schematics found their way into the proper hands. They made it clear when we started down this path they didn’t want to know how the sausage was made.”
“That’s a relief. I won’t lie, this high-wire act has done a number on my stomach. If Bellum had been connected to the attack in any way-”
“-we would have scapegoated the living fuck outta Yancey to limit the exposure and shorted all our Bellum stock before the news broke, like we discussed. Relax, Wentworth. The plan worked like a charm. We made the FBI and Homeland Security look like chumps. Sent Bellum in on a white horse to save the day. Turned playing cops and robbers into a multibillion-dollar industry. Now that we control both sides of the equation, there’s no limit to the money we can make. And as an added bonus, we managed to smoke Segreti out and kill him too.”
“That was a happy accident.”
“Maybe,” Sal replied, “or maybe it was, you know, poetical. If it weren’t for him, I mighta never picked the Golden Gate to hit.”
“How’s that?”
“Frank was always going on about how he’d retire out there one day. Got the idea from some boring-ass old movie. After he tried to drop a dime on us, I figured what better fuck-you? Turns out, the guy was serious. Guess he shoulda moved to Boca instead.”
“Anyone ever tell you that you’re a vindictive motherfucker?”
“Yeah, my bitch ex-wife, every day for five years.”
By the time Sal hung up, he was feeling good. Wentworth, it seemed, had forgiven him-and why shouldn’t he? Together, they’d delivered on a promise to the Council seven years in the making.
He felt so good, in fact, that when he saw the stranger standing in the bedroom doorway with a gun, he shook his head and laughed.
“Something funny?” the man asked.
“Yeah,” Sal replied. “You’re one unlucky son of a bitch, that’s what. If I were you, pal, I’d turn and walk away right now, because, believe me, you picked the wrong house to break into.”
“No,” he said. “I didn’t. But I caught the tail end of your phone call, Sal, and I’ve gotta say, you should really show the mother of your child a little more respect.”
“Wait-did Vanessa put you up to this? It’d explain the bullshit with the tickets. So, what, she thought she’d get Izzie out of the house and send some dumbfuck goon to rough me up?”