The marshal muttered a few sentences, to which Musseridge protested, apparently to no avaiclass="underline" Head lowered, he stepped aside, admitting the four men. The weight-room builds on each were evident despite their billowy navy blue DOJ windbreakers — Department of Justice. They whisked Thornton into the corridor, then back the way he’d come, lifting him off the floor to negate the delay posed by his ankle chain.
“What’s this about?” he asked.
If any of them heard, they gave no sign, possibly due to reluctance to have their responses recorded by the U.S. Marshals Service mics.
Thornton had an inkling that things had taken a positive turn. After being Mirandized at the U.S. embassy in Barbados, he’d telephoned Gordon Langlind’s spokesperson, who was a onetime RealStory source. He asked her to forward a message to the senator, who, according to Mallery, had gone to law school. The message was, Serve as my legal representation in Washington; otherwise I use Mr. Robertson. Mr. Robertson had been the code name Langlind used on the phone call he placed at 9:02 P.M. on October 23, the transcription of which Thornton and Mallery read at SofTec.
Langlind had apparently taken the bait, and, accordingly, was now extricating Thornton from Musseridge’s custody by remanding him to the Department of Justice. A claim of a national security matter superseding the Bureau’s case would do the trick. Such transfers took place frequently. The DOJ agents might now facilitate a private conversation with Langlind in which Thornton could obtain the truth about the Littlebird operation, not to mention testimony that would exonerate him. Thornton also considered several much less rosy scenarios.
48
The unmarked Durango navigated sluggish Beltway traffic out to Alexandria. Thornton sat in back, bookended by Department of Justice men. He took in the Virginia suburbs through side windows whose nonreflective tinting couldn’t possibly meet the legal requirement of allowing in at least 35 percent of outside light. Despite it, on this brilliant autumn morning, the prim colonial brick homes and their tidy yards and sparkling picket fences looked pretty enough for use in an advertisement for America.
Gradually the houses grew farther apart and the woods thickened. The Durango turned up a long, steep driveway, passing through a tunnel of tall trees, hedges, and overhanging boughs. The driver parked by a detached garage across from a house that predated horseless carriages, a majestic two-story colonial.
Pushing open his door, the DOJ man to Thornton’s right jumped down to the gravel. The man on Thornton’s other side nudged him to follow before getting out himself and circling the Durango’s hood. The two then removed Thornton’s restraints.
“You’re free,” the first said to him, “for now.”
“There’s a knocker on the front door.” The second man cocked his head toward the flagstone path leading to the front of the house. “Tap it six times in a row, slowly. You’ll be asked, ‘Is that you, darling?’ You reply, ‘I’m here to read the water meter.’ Got it?”
“All except one thing,” Thornton said. “Where’s Mallery?”
The men swapped blank looks before responding to the driver’s exhortation to hustle, climbing back into the Durango. The driver executed a lightning three-point turn and blasted back down the hill. Thornton was left in total silence, save the rustle of branches and the calls of the few birds yet to head south. There was no hint of civilization other than the house. This was either a fantastic refuge, he thought, or a great place to whack someone.
He proceeded to the front door, passing window after window with the kind of shutters that could actually shut. Four steps brought him onto a slate stoop as big as most patios. Gingerly he pulled back the large knocker ring from the claws of the pewter eagle on the door. Before he could follow the DOJ agent’s instructions, the door swung inward, revealing none other than Senator Gordon Langlind, in shirtsleeves, gabardine suit pants, and a rep tie. He held a tumbler of scotch in his free hand, perhaps explaining why he seemed happy to see Thornton.
“How’re you doing, Russell?”
“That depends on what’s happened to Beryl.”
Langlind turned out of the foyer and headed toward the living room. “She was released on the recognizance of her own attorney. It’s my hope to bring this business to a mutually agreeable conclusion, and, toward that end, I think we’ll get further without her.”
Thornton followed Langlind into a vast living room, decorated like Mount Vernon but with the odd contemporary splash, including recessed lights, heat and air-conditioning registers discreetly cut into the tall baseboards, and a bevy of abstract paintings and sculptures.
“I got this place for Selena,” Langlind said.
“It’s nice.” Thornton reflected that he should have figured that this was the mistress’s place. Langlind could pull in and out of the driveway here in his limo — or in a Sherman tank — without fear of anyone hearing or seeing.
“Drink?” asked Langlind.
“I’m okay, thanks,” Thornton said.
The senator waved him to the closest of two facing wing chairs in front of an immense stone hearth. Taking the other seat, Langlind said, “So we’re off the record, yes?”
Whatever it took, Thornton thought. “Every syllable.”
“No tape recorder?”
Thornton plucked at the sides of his jumpsuit, where pockets would be. “I don’t even have a pen.”
Langlind slid forward in his seat, his expression serious. “Littlebird is one of the national security stories you need to keep to yourself.”
“That’s a lot of them.”
“You’ve earned a reputation for discretion.”
Langlind was being too nice. He’d been drinking, yes, Thornton thought, but still, the geniality was a notch too high, even by the standards of elected officials. What if Langlind’s game, like Thornton’s own, was to obtain information pertaining to the Littlebird operation? Once Langlind ascertained that his role had yet to be discovered by the authorities, what would stop him from giving a signal summoning men from the woodwork, their weapons drawn, game over?
“Why is discretion in order with this case?” Thornton asked.
“Two reasons. The first is, quid pro quo, our good friend Beryl Mallery’s criminal charges will be dropped. And yours too, of course. Reason number two is national security. Littlebird supplies more than a trillion dollars’ worth of intelligence per annum to American corporations, bolstering our interests more than any ten weapons systems. Yes, in order to keep the secret, they may have gotten a little carried away. Everyone knows the spooks get carried away sometimes.”
“What’s the TFI going to do about it?” Thornton tried.
“The Office of Terrorism and Financial Intelligence? Littlebird isn’t a Treasury operation. Why would you think that?”
Thornton took another stab. “So it’s Homeland?”
With a smile, Langlind cut him off. “You know all that you need to.”
“I do know that this isn’t just a national security matter. If that’s all it was, the path of least resistance would have been for the Littlebird operators, whoever they are, to appeal to my discretion from the get-go. As you know, I hardly ever refuse to hold a story that would jeopardize national security. But instead of coming to me, they went on a killing spree, which would have included me, too, if not for a couple of lucky breaks.”
“No one’s excusing their actions. Rest assured, there will be repercussions.”
“I’ll rest assured when I know which spooks exactly got carried away and what the repercussions are. Until then I’m an accessory in the murders of innocent Americans like Catherine Peretti.”