Walking in his direction.
No doubt looking for him.
11
Douglas Knox was pacing his expansive suite at FBI headquarters, one of several offices in the high security area known as Mahogany Row, so named because of its wood paneling.
Up six steps, back six steps. Before turning, Knox would glance out his window at downtown D.C., then spin and resume his pacing. Each time, the same number of steps. A path had been worn into his carpet twice in the past two years, and it was scheduled to be replaced again by building maintenance once the current crises were resolved.
As he made another pass in front of the window, his phone buzzed. He pressed the intercom.
“Agents Waller and Haviland to see you, sir.”
“Send them in.” He put his hands on his hips and barely waited until they had passed through the door. “Well?”
Haviland cocked his head a bit, shot a glance at Waller, and shrugged. “HP LaserJet, standard Hammermill copy paper, probably purchased—”
“On the fucking East Coast in a Staples office supply store. Yeah, I know that shit. Anything I don’t know?”
“Aside from your prints, it was totally clean, sir,” Waller said. “No saliva on the stamp or envelope. Must’ve used a sponge.”
“Must’ve used a sponge. That’s all you can give me? The best fucking crime lab in the world and you tell me the perp used a fucking sponge?” Knox punched the intercom button on his phone. “Liz, I want to see the Lab Section chief in my office in ten minutes. And the deputy assistant director.” He slammed the handset down and turned back to Waller. “What kind of sponge, what trace elements were in the damn water they used to wet the sponge? You understand what I’m saying? I can’t believe none of this was done.”
“It might have been, sir. I’ve only got a preliminary report. The tests are all run sequentially—”
“Don’t try to cover for the section chief,” Knox ordered. “Just give me your report.”
“Alternate Light Source has been completed,” Haviland added, “without result. Questioned Documents is scouring every sixteenth of an inch of the paper for indented writing and anything else that’ll tell us who sent it.”
“If there’s a speck of dirt embedded in the fibers, I want to know the origin of the mineral composition of the goddamned dirt.” Knox paused for a moment, then started to pace again. “What about the postmark? I want the postal inspectors flown in from California. Am I making myself clear?”
Waller nodded. “Postal inspector is en route, sir.”
“Anything back from Division Six?”
“BAU just completed their threat analysis,” Haviland said, referring to the Behavioral Analysis, or profiling, Unit. He handed Knox the hastily prepared report. Knox took it and tossed it on his desk.
“And, what’s their risk assessment?”
Haviland cleared his throat. “They concluded that it’s extremely valid. Based on all known information, they gave it a rating of Good credibility and a High level of risk. The fact that they had your home address, gained access to your yard, and had accurate and detailed knowledge of Mrs. Knox’s personal habits all indicated a high degree of preparation and sophistication.” Haviland paused, but Knox’s pacing continued without a break in stride.
“On Division Six’s recommendation,” Waller said, “we’ve initiated a full-scale investigation. As we speak, I’m having the phone records and list of visitors to Anthony Scarponi pulled, which should—”
“Scarponi?” Knox stopped pacing and faced the agents.
“The Viper,” Haviland said, “the international hit man—”
“I know who he is, Agent Haviland.”
“Sir,” Waller said, “with all due respect, we believe there’s a strong indication Scarponi is behind this. Word on the street is that Scarponi put a contract out on Harper Payne six years ago. Payne’s the only one who can hurt him. He gets rid of Payne, his problem’s solved.” Waller stopped, no doubt allowing his comments to fester a moment on the director’s brain.
Knox turned and looked out the window at the city. “I agree with your assessment. But keep your eyes open. Scarponi may be the most obvious, but I don’t want to ignore other possibilities. Am I clear?”
“Yes, sir,” Waller said.
“Scarponi’s gotta be under surveillance,” Haviland said. “I can check with the marshal, find out who’s in charge of his case, see who he’s called. That might help us rule him in or out as a suspect.”
“I’ll handle it,” Knox said.
“Sir, you don’t need to be burdened with that. I can—”
“I said I’ll handle it, Agent Haviland,” Knox said.
“Yes, sir.”
“I won’t let them have the upper hand. Regardless who it is, I’m not giving them Payne.” Even though Knox knew that was the proper response, his voice wavered slightly, as if he might actually consider trading the life of Harper Payne — a man he had never met face-to-face — for the life of a member of his family. He wondered for a second if the two agents had picked up on the slight unevenness of his voice. “Not that I have Payne to give them, even if I wanted to.”
“No, sir,” Haviland said.
Knox turned to face them. “Status.”
“After our initial contact two days ago,” Waller said, “we’ve not been able to locate him. There’s a report of someone possibly matching his description at Virginia Presbyterian, and SAC Lindsey has sent a contingent of agents over. That’s our only lead.”
“Have Lindsey get four agents from my security detail over to my house, separate cars, round the clock. My wife leaves, I want two of them with her. Get another two on my daughter. She’s a sophomore at GW. And get every available agent on this investigation. I want answers and I want them fast. Lindsey has a problem, have him call me — no, have ADIC Maguire call me.”
Waller was nodding. “Yes, sir. Do you want Metro PD alerted—”
“No, I want this handled internally.” Knox was aware that it wasn’t every day that two special agents were called into the director’s office. They didn’t have any new information of substance to offer him, and they certainly didn’t have the answers he wanted. Knox knew they were shitting in their pants. But he didn’t care. He wanted information, answers, results.
Control.
He turned back to the window, sighed deeply, and bowed his head. “I’m making you two personally responsible for finding Payne.”
“Yes, sir,” they answered simultaneously.
Waller cleared his throat. “Sir, about Scarponi—”
“If he’s involved, I will personally see to it—” Knox stopped, focused his eyes on the cars crawling along Pennsylvania Avenue, seven stories below. “If he’s responsible for this letter, he’s declaring war, gentlemen. Witness Protection or not, Harper Payne is still one of ours.”
Five minutes after Waller and Haviland had left his office, Knox turned away from the window. He reached across his desk and hit the intercom button. “Elizabeth, a moment please.”
Seconds later, Knox’s assistant, Liz Evanston, entered with pen and pad in hand. She was a thick woman of sixty, silver hair coifed and trimmed to perfection, just like her work. Liz had been the FBI director’s personal assistant since 1968. Having started her employment under J. Edgar Hoover, she knew the ins and outs of how to find information within the Bureau, and because of that she was an invaluable resource. As each director came and went, she was one constant that maintained continuity and helped keep the director’s office running smoothly.
“Find out what you can on Agents Jonathan Waller and Scott Haviland. They’re out of WFO,” he said, referring to the Bureau’s Washington Field Office. “SAC Lindsey should be able to tell you everything you need to know about them.”