“Yes. I suppose it is,” said Mandy, doubt in her tone.
“They’re using the Orpheus to hold them. Man, a hospital ship. In international waters. Completely secure. No tiresome visits from Amnesty International or the Human Rights Watch. Medical facilities on board. Lots of room for holding cells. Psych wards. They could take these guys apart cell by cell—”
“At sea no one can hear you scream?”
“Yeah… Man, forget Gitmo. It’s brilliant! Perfect! A textbook black op. Mandy, this is—”
“Micah, listen to me. This is why Porter was killed.”
18
Stallworth’s estate took up half a mile of frontage along the Potomac, a rambling Frank Lloyd Wright home composed of red cedar and tinted glass and square beams, hidden from the gate by a stand of old-growth oaks. The setting sun was casting long shadows across the well-groomed lawn, and a fountain jetting up from a formal garden sparkled with golden lights. Dalton walked around the house and found Jack Stallworth in his greenhouse down by the Potomac — a long, glassed-in Japanese-style building with a pressurized double door that hissed when he pushed it open. The interior was easily ninety degrees, the walls ran with mist, and a pale fog hung over the rows and rows of exotic plants that filled the interior. Stallworth called from somewhere deep in a jungle of ferns and vines in a far corner.
“That you, Micah?”
“Yes.”
“Back here. Mind the stones. They’re a little slick.”
Dalton walked down between two low brick tables and pushed aside a stand of sago palm. Stallworth, in jeans and a plaid shirt, was kneeling in front of a large Japanese urn, pushing peat into the rim.
“Nice to see you. Thought you were in London.”
Dalton laid the blue envelope on the lip of the urn. Stallworth peered at it over the rim of his glasses, and then looked up at Dalton.
“What’s this? You resigning?”
“No. Better read it.”
Stallworth wiped his muddy hands on a rag and opened the envelope. He stared down at the satellite shot and then slowly scanned the single page of type. He finished, folded it in three, put it back inside the envelope along with the satellite shot, and handed the envelope back to Dalton. “You best forget you ever saw that, Micah.”
“We’re running a dark operation, aren’t we?”
“Yes. Leave it—”
“The Agency bought the Orpheus and we’re moving it around the globe. A floating prison. Coordinating with rendition operations. Only we don’t have to worry about borrowing Gulfstreams from sports team owners or friends in Wall Street. Because we have our ship right there.”
“Damn right.”
“Yes. I have no problem with this.”
“Then what…”
“It’s lovely. No FISA court. No ACLU crap about wiretaps or extraordinary rendition or pissing off a prosecutor in Milan.”
“Yes. We agree. So what are you so angry about?”
“You gave Porter up to that Comanche, didn’t you?”
Stallworth shrugged, straightened up, put a hip on the edge of the urn, and folded his arms across his chest.
“What’s this? Revenge?”
“Just curious.”
“Porter was curious too.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Dalton saw a flicker of navy blue. He glanced to his left and saw Naumann’s ghost standing by the glass wall, in his blue pinstripe, arms folded, staring at Stallworth, his face set. He inclined his head to Dalton and looked back at Stallworth, who had been watching Dalton’s face.
“What are you looking at?”
“Nothing,” said Dalton. “You said Porter was curious?”
Stallworth looked away, breathed in, sighed it out. “The Orpheus project is critical to our survival.”
“I can accept that. I even agree. What I don’t get is exactly how Porter was a threat to it.”
Naumann’s body had become rigid, his face tight. He never took his eyes off Stallworth. Dalton half-expected Stallworth to feel Naumann’s glare.
But of course, Naumann wasn’t really there at all, was he?
“Porter was a threat.”
“How?”
“He was questioning the funding.”
“Questioning the funding? What do you mean?”
“He thought far too much money was going out. He disapproved of some of the expenditures. He thought they were ambiguous and might be construed as fraud — in a way, as skimming the funds for personal uses. He wanted to formalize the accountings. He thought that one day there’d be a Senate inquiry — he said that these things will always come out eventually — and he didn’t want the cash flow to look… irregular. He wanted us to bring in the GAO and take the Orpheus project onto the black books of the budget. The rest of us disagreed.”
“Who’s the rest of us?”
“Reliable men.”
“Cather?”
“Of course. The whole thing was his idea.”
“Porter would never have compromised the Orpheus project.”
“No. But he was ready to compromise us.”
Dalton studied Stallworth’s face for a time, a look that Stallworth returned with quiet malice and no trace of unease at all. A kind of half smile played around his hard mouth and his small eyes were cold. Across the little greenhouse space Naumann’s figure was still, his expression closed, his eyes dark. Through his body a beam of pale sunlight lay on the broad leaves of a towering fern. Naumann seemed to be wrapped in this warm light, as if it were coming from inside him.
Dalton looked back at Stallworth.
“Who gave Porter’s name to Pinto?”
“I really don’t know. Someone on Cather’s team.”
“How did you know that Pinto wanted it?”
“Jesus. The man actually called Personnel pretending to be Gibson. Personnel bounced the call to Bob Cole and Cole pushed it on to me. It wasn’t hard to figure out what he was looking for.”
“Why not just kill Porter yourself?”
“You.”
“Me.”
“Yeah. You would never have let it go. We needed somebody for you to hunt. And you did a fine job, Micah. We’re all extremely—”
“What about his family? Joanne? And the girls?”
“We had no idea Pinto would… that was unfortunate.”
“Send him to me,” said Naumann, speaking softly.
Dalton turned to look at Naumann. “Send him to you?”
Naumann nodded.
Stallworth blinked at Dalton. “Who are you talking to?”
“Porter.”
Stallworth’s faced went pale, and he raised his hands.
“Porter? Micah, listen…”
“Send him, Micah,” said Naumann. “Send him now.”
Dalton pulled out the Ruger and shot Stallworth three times, two in the forehead, one in the heart.
Then he put the weapon back inside his suit pocket, smiled at Naumann’s ghost, took a long ragged breath, and walked away.
19
Captain Bo Cutler was leaning back in his office chair, boots on the desk, staring out at the smoke rising from the slag heap over the crest of Copper Butte when Coy Brutton knocked on the doorjamb.
“What you got there, Coy?”
“Federal Express. For you.”
Coy lifted up a package about the size and shape of a beer cooler.