“Weber, FBI. I’m gonna need your T-shirt and your cap. And your bike too.”
The kid gave Weber a doubtful, amused look. Agent Weber was twice his size.
He read his mind and said, “It’s gonna fit, son, don’t worry. It has to.”
He put on the kid’s shirt with difficulty. It would be a miracle if the T did not end up ripped along the seams; it had to be at least three sizes too small.
“Hey,” the boy called. “You’ll need this too.” He handed him the receipt pad and a pencil.
“Thanks.”
Weber took the kid’s bike and rode it to McLeod’s door, then rang the bell.
McLeod opened the door and checked Weber out, frowning a little.
“You’re… a little mature for this job, if you don’t mind me saying,” he commented.
“Yeah… Well, just making an extra buck at night, man, what can I do? Car’s broken, can’t do pizza delivery no more.” He scratched his forehead, then played indifferently with his phone a little, going through his music, giving McLeod the time to make up his mind.
McLeod sighed and handed him a gift-wrapped package.
“It’s for my son’s birthday. He lives in Smithfield with his mom. Do you think you can take this there tonight?”
“You bet.”
McLeod handed him forty dollars and asked him to keep the change. Weber almost forgot to write the shipping receipt.
He turned the corner and stopped, then took the T-shirt off, as soon as he was out of McLeod’s line of sight, and handed it back to its rightful owner. Then he opened the package. Wrapped neatly inside a Disney DVD case, several documents marked TOP SECRET were folded in half, all of them unregistered, unauthorized copies of original classified documents. The first page was titled, “Capabilities Assessment for Zumwalt-Class Destroyers.” The package was addressed to Smolin’s residence.
“Let’s bust the fucking bastard,” Weber spoke into his radio.
…71
Alex checked her temporary desk, drawer by drawer, making sure she didn’t leave anything behind. Hmm… her own office inside an FBI building, who would have thought?
She was getting ready to leave. Her case was closed, and her client, Walcott Global Technologies, happy. Well… as happy as it could have been under the circumstances. She was joining Mason and Sam for dinner later, to celebrate. The next day, she’d board a flight back to her home in California.
“You ready?” Weber asked from the doorway.
“Yeah, ready.” She turned to grab her laptop bag, then added, “One more thing I gotta ask you.”
“Shoot.”
“When you interrogate Smolin, can you ask him… well, about the man, that Russian…”
“You mean the man from the case you said you had no idea what I was talking about?” Weber asked with a crooked smile.
“Yeah, the case we never worked on, that one,” she confirmed and winked. “Ask him about a Russian with the initial V, who calls all the shots and plans majestic endeavors of espionage and warfare,” she said, almost laughing at how cheesy her description sounded. But how true … she thought bitterly.
“You got it. And here’s something else that you might find interesting. It’s highly confidential; please handle it appropriately.” He handed her a manila envelope containing a dark blue brief bearing the insignia of the Central Intelligence Agency.
“What is it?”
“It’s a report prepared by a senior CIA analyst regarding Russia’s intentions to invigorate its nuclear arsenal and restart the Cold War. It might help you identify your Russian.”
She dropped the laptop bag to the floor and flipped through the pages.
“I have to meet with this analyst,” she said, then looked on the cover page for the name she was missing. “I need to speak with this Henrietta Marino ASAP. She’s missing critical information.”
“That’s a bad idea, Alex. Hell, no.” He ran his hand through his hair in a gesture of exasperation. “See? That’s why I shouldn’t break the fucking rules, ’cause they bite me in the ass every goddamned time,” he said angrily. “You’re not authorized to know this report even exists. Don’t get me in trouble, all right?”
“I won’t, I promise. But I do have to speak with her, and it’s urgent.”
He shrugged, defeated, then added, “Trying to stop you is like trying to stop the damn midnight express. Good luck with that…” Weber rubbed his neck as if to get rid of a migraine. “But be careful, all right? Not every agency out there is willing to look the other way on some of the stuff you… didn’t do.”
“I’ll take my chances,” Alex replied with a frown. “I have to.”
…72
The thirty-six hours Bob McLeod spent in federal detention had left marks on his face, his clothes, and his entire appearance. His hair and beard were grimy and unkempt. He had dark circles under his eyes, and his dirty hands ran through his hair and over his face almost obsessively. He had slept, the little he’d been allowed to, in his suit, and that looked crumpled and dirty, the fine, designer, wool fabric reduced to a rag.
By contrast, the FBI agent seated across from him at the small, metallic table looked fresh and almost content, sipping steaming coffee from his tall cup and showing slight irritation in his eyes when reviewing McLeod’s file.
McLeod decided to break the silence.
“You’re still not going to allow me my right to an attorney?” he spoke almost defiantly.
“Traitors have no rights,” Agent Weber replied indifferently, almost casually.
“How long are you gonna keep me here?” McLeod protested, slamming his hands on the tabletop as much as his chained cuffs allowed him. “You can’t keep me like this forever.”
“That is correct,” Weber confirmed, not even looking at McLeod and continuing to read the excerpt from prior interrogation sessions. “But you seem to be forgetting you were caught in an act of espionage and treason, and that voids all your rights under the Patriot Act.”
McLeod fell silent for a while, them whispered, “Gitmo?”
“No. We’ve recently closed that facility, but we have others, just as capable of handling our country’s traitors, maybe even better, because no one really knows they exist. Everyone knew about damn Gitmo… It was becoming such a drag to deal with all that public outrage. That’s over, done with. We have new locations.” Weber sipped some more coffee, then continued, “For example, we have a new facility specialized for people who won’t talk at all, for traitors who just fail to understand their situation. They make things hard for us? Then we make things hard for them… And, of course, we have to keep such operations offshore, in places so deep and dark no one ever hears the screams, and no one ever counts the bodies.”
McLeod shuddered and swallowed hard. His defiance was all gone; he sat crouched, with his shoulders forward and head bowed. Then he spoke quietly.
“What do you want to know?”
“For starters, I want to know details on every piece of information you stole, and who you gave it to.”
McLeod hesitated. He must have known that an admission of treason was not going to help his case much. For a logical, cold-blooded thinker as he obviously was, he must have known by now he was finished anyway. He might as well cut his pain and get this phase over, done as quickly and as painlessly as possible. Treason carried an unavoidable death sentence. If McLeod didn’t know that by now, Weber was determined to reiterate that point and help him make up his mind to talk.