Jesus.
He rummaged through his files. He hadn’t even fleshed out who Harlee Shaw was. Not so far. He’d failed to track down any friends or family members. Here it was; the file on what he had, mostly through military records. Shaw was former U.S. Army, 75th Ranger Regiment, who saw action in Iraq. The military-records guy Gannon had talked to was chatty and hinted that after Shaw left the army, he may have been a contractor in Afghanistan. Gannon couldn’t confirm it.
Rytter was a contractor. What if Shaw was connected to Rytter? What if he knew about the heist and had been trying to tell Gannon about it? What if Katrina beat him on connecting the dots, confirmed everything and stole the story from him?
Stop this. You’re driving yourself nuts. Do something.
All right, he’d call Shelly Konradisky, the super, and ask if she’d heard from relatives about holding a funeral, or clearing the apartment.
Gannon reached for his newsroom landline when it rang.
Another blocked number. Katrina? Or, maybe one of his sources?
He took in a long, exhausted breath.
“Jack Gannon, WPA.”
A moment of silence, then Gannon said, “Hello, anybody there?”
“Sorry, are you the reporter who’s writing stories on what happened at the truck stop in Ramapo, the murders and the robbery?”
He didn’t recognize the caller’s voice: female, New Yorker, maybe his age. He had a digital recorder wired to his phone; he switched it on and the tiny red recording light glowed.
“Yes.”
“And you wrote this latest one, about the suspect they got in Nebraska, who is now dead?”
“Yes. Is that why you called?”
“No. I don’t make these sorts of calls.”
These sorts of calls?
The woman’s tone, her underlying nervousness, she had his attention.
“Why don’t you start by telling me your name and how I can help you?”
“I need to be anonymous.”
“Why?”
“I’m sorry, but I don’t want to give you my name. Not now. But I have to know that you protect sources.”
“I do.”
“Are you required to give anyone the name of your sources?”
“Usually a senior editor, but they’re bound to protecting a source for our news organization, just like me. So why are you calling?”
“I need…” She paused to clear her throat then came back, her voice stronger. “I need to know a few things.”
A red flag went up.
Careful, Gannon warned himself, he didn’t know who was on the line, but sometimes criminals got calls into reporters to see what they knew, or what their police sources had told them, about the investigation into a crime. On this call, he wasn’t sure.
“What do you need to know and why do you need to know it?”
“It’s about the suspect they got in Nebraska.”
“What about him?”
“Is he the killer?”
The killer? Gannon thought it was a strange question. Weren’t all four suspects killers?
“What do you mean?”
“Is he the one who shot the FBI agent?”
Gannon held his breath at the way she’d asked— no, hurled—the question, propelling it with such raw intensity, barely containing her emotions.
“Can you tell me if he’s the one who killed Agent Dutton?”
Gannon’s gut screamed that this woman was viscerally tied to the case. She was either the agent’s widow, or someone else linked to the agent’s death.
“I don’t know for sure.”
“But you have sources, good sources who know what’s happening. You seem to know as much about this as the FBI. What do you think?”
Gannon assessed everything, then he asked a question.
“Do you know FBI agent Frank Morrow?”
A long moment passed.
“Yes.”
There it is. This woman is involved somehow.
“Have you and I met?” he asked.
He heard the caller swallow hard before she answered.
“Indirectly.”
“Are you the woman who witnessed the FBI agent’s murder?”
Another agonized stretch of silence passed.
“Swear to me and to God that you protect sources,” she said.
“I do.”
She waited.
“I was next to him when it happened.”
His pulse accelerated. Don’t lose her.
“It must’ve been horrible for you.”
“It was.”
“Would you consider meeting with me, just meeting, so we could talk further, maybe help each other?”
Another long moment passed with Gannon watching time tick down on the newsroom clock.
“I’ll consider it.”
Gannon heard movement on the caller’s end of the line.
“Wait! Wait!”
The line went dead, leaving him to fear that he’d lost his chance with the witness. He tried working, but his mood darkened. It was not going well. None of his sources had responded and he wasn’t getting anywhere.
After two hours, exhaustion was weighing on Gannon and he began gathering his things for the commute to his empty apartment in Washington Heights. He was thinking of grabbing a club sandwich at the Wyoming Diner before heading over to Penn Station, when his line rang.
“I called you a little while ago about Nebraska and protecting sources?”
“Yes, I remember. Will you meet with me?”
“If you agree to a few conditions, I’ll meet you tomorrow afternoon.”
“I’m listening.”
“No interview, no recording, no cameras. We just talk.”
“Agreed.”
“You give me your word?”
“I give you my word.”
“I’ll call you tomorrow with the time and location.”
42
San Francisco, California
At 2:45 a.m., Ivan Felk woke in his hotel bed.
He did not know why he had awakened until his secure satellite cell phone rang again.
The caller’s number was blocked.
He answered, heard four seconds of static, then an automated message: “The N.G.N.R.M. has sent you an important communication.”
Felk sat up.
Wide awake, he went to his laptop, logged on to his encrypted email account to find a new video attachment. He connected his headphones and turned up the volume. As it loaded, he braced for the worst.
The new footage was confusing. It focused first on another laptop screen, blurring as it sharpened to the online edition of the New York Times. The camera shook while zooming in on the date, confirming the recording had been made within the last twenty-four hours.
It then scanned headlines before locking on one that Felk already knew: Ramapo Heist Suspect Dies In Nebraska
The camera held the headline for several moments then the laptop lowered to the head and shoulders of a hooded figure who spoke in clear, accented English.
“This new communiqué from the New Guardians of the National Revolutionary Movement amends the fate of the invading criminals who are guilty of crimes against humanity.”
The camera panned to Felk’s men all kneeling on a barren concrete floor. They were skeletal as a result of being underfed. Their full beards accentuated their hollow eyes. Several large men in hoods worked at positioning the hostages’ hands behind their backs with flex-cuffs.
The hooded spokesman resumed.
“The news report shows us your recent failure and deteriorating ability to gather the funds necessary to pay the fine to spare the infidels from their execution.”
The camera pulled in on a cinder block set between the legs of the first kneeling hostage. Two men set his hands on top of it.