He put on a pot of coffee, made a peanut butter and honey sandwich, and sat in the window seat of his living room. He drank the coffee, ate the sandwich, and studied the rain that had started to pour outside. It was surely fouling a rush hour into the city that was miserable in the sunshine, much less with slicked roads and buckets of water falling on windshields.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out the tiny white object. It had disintegrated more in his pocket, but it was still there. He needed to find out exactly what it was. He had found it at both kill sites.
Once could be a coincidence. Twice was a pattern.
And if Reel had left this, there had to be a reason.
He poured a second cup of coffee, sat at his desk, and clicked the keys on his laptop. Doug Jacobs’s life spread across his screen like blood on a test strip.
It would have been an interesting life to the layman, but a rather ordinary one by Robie’s standards. Jacobs had been an analyst and then a handler. He had never fired a weapon on behalf of his country. Until his violent death he had never been wounded in his line of work.
He had killed many—from a distance and using people like Robie to pull the actual trigger. There was nothing wrong with that. Men like Robie needed people like Jacobs to accomplish their missions as well.
Jacobs had worked with Reel on five different occasions over three years. No problems, not even the slightest execution hiccup. All targets had been eliminated and Reel had come home safe to be deployed again.
He wasn’t sure the pair had ever met face-to-face. There wasn’t anything in the record to show they had. That was not unusual. Robie had never met any of his handlers. The agency subscribed to the Chinese wall policy on operatives. The less people knew about each other, the less they could tell if they were captured and tortured.
Robie discounted any issues in Jacobs’s personal life. With Reel’s being involved, this had to emanate from his professional life.
So many successful missions. No problems. Then Reel had shot Jacobs in the back while she was supposedly on a mission in the Middle East to end the life of someone America could not tolerate being in power.
Finding nothing in Jacobs’s file, Robie opened the far larger digital history of James Gelder.
Gelder had been a lifelong public servant starting in the military, all in the intelligence sector. He had risen quickly and was seen as a likely successor to Evan Tucker—unless the president decided to make a political statement and appoint some Capitol Hill banger whose only connection to intelligence was that he had none.
Evan Tucker was the public face of the agency, to the extent it had one. He was more hands-on than some of his predecessors, but at the operations level it was Gelder’s ball to carry across the goal line.
Robie wondered who would replace him. Would anyone want the job, seeing how it had ended for Gelder?
Robie started way back at the beginning, before Gelder had even joined the agency and was still in the Navy. Then he methodically worked his way forward. The man had had an exemplary career and the respect that Robie had for him only increased.
He came to the end of the file and sat back.
So why would Jessica Reel kill him? If this was personal, what would the reason be? Robie could find no connection between Reel and Gelder. As Evan Tucker had said, Gelder had had no direct hand in the Ahmadi mission other than to give it his official blessing. And Robie could find no other evidence that Gelder had worked with Reel either directly or indirectly.
He hit some computer keys to exit out of the file, but a crack of thunder distracted him and he hit a couple of other keys by accident. The page he was looking at was instantly reformatted. Headers and footers and other electronic gibberish sprang forth.
Shit.
He couldn’t change the page; it was a read-only document, of course.
He hit some keys to try and get out of this new, if accidental, format, but nothing seemed to work. He was about to try again when he looked down at the bottom of the page. In a very faint font, so faint he needed to turn on his desk lamp to see it better, was one word in brackets.
[Deleted]
Robie stared at the faded word like it was a ghost appearing on his screen.
Shit again.
He immediately paged back through Gelder’s file and found twenty-one instances of [Deleted].
He went back through Jacobs’s file, hit the same key combo, and found nineteen such deletions.
He sat back.
He had expected some censorship, but they had basically electronically redacted the whole damn thing. Who “they” were could include either only certain unknown persons, or the entire agency from Tucker on down.
He opened Reel’s official file, and after performing the same keystrokes on this document, he found it littered with the [Deleted] mark.
They want me to investigate this, but they’ve tied my arms and my legs together. They’ve lied to me by not telling me the whole story.
He grabbed his phone to call Blue Man, but stopped, his finger hovering over the keypad.
Blue Man had sounded very unusual during their last call. He had wanted Robie to come in, ostensibly so his burns could be attended to. But he had given Robie another location, and this made him wonder if the burns were uppermost on Blue Man’s agenda.
There was clearly something going on here to which Robie was not attuned.
He rose and went to the window and stared out at the rain, as though the messy weather would somehow clear his thinking.
It did and it didn’t.
It did in that Robie decided he would go in to see Blue Man. But he would not mention what he had just discovered. He would see how it played out. He would see if Blue Man brought it up or whether he was playing for a side other than Robie’s. Yesterday this would have been unthinkable. But yesterday what Robie had just seen on the screen would have been unthinkable too.
His thinking was far less clear when it came to Jessica Reel. He was beginning to have doubts there. Severe ones.
Nothing personal, she had said.
Yet Robie was beginning to think that somehow this couldn’t get any more personal for the woman. And if that were the case he had to find out why.
CHAPTER
18
AS HE WAS PULLING OUT of his garage Robie heard his phone ring. He looked at the screen and groaned. She had called many times and he had never called back. He was hoping she would just stop phoning. But it didn’t seem she was getting the message.
On impulse he hit the answer button. “Yeah?”
“What the hell game are you playing, Robie?”
Julie Getty sounded just like she had the last time they had spoken. Slightly ticked off. Slightly mistrustful. Well, she actually sounded really pissed off and vastly mistrustful.
And he couldn’t really blame her.
“Not sure what you mean?”
“I mean, when someone leaves you twenty-six voice mails, it ‘might’ be a sign they want to talk to you.”
“So how’s life treating you?”
“Shitty.”
“Seriously?” Robie said cautiously.
“No, not seriously. Jerome’s been everything as advertised. In fact, maybe too good. I feel like I’m Huck Finn back living with the Widow Douglas.”
“I wouldn’t hold that against him. A normal, boring life is severely underrated.”