“With all due respect, sir, I disagree.” It was the exact language and tone she had used with each of the prior directors, and it always seemed to work.
“Who do you think you should speak with?”
“Their squad supervisor, Sam Gardner.”
“Gardner. Yeah, you’re right. He’d have a better feel for these two than Lindsey would.”
“And he’ll tell me a lot more than SAC Lindsey.”
“You’re too good, Liz, you know that?”
“Yes, sir, I do. I’ll have that information for you shortly.” She turned and walked out, a smile hovering at the corners of her mouth.
An hour later, after having met with the Lab Section chief and deputy assistant director, Knox was still pacing by the window, running his fingers through his hair. First the left hand, then the right. When he finished one stroke, he would start again with the other hand. He had a trump card to play, and he was thinking hard about using it. Two men, Hector DeSantos and Brian Archer, members of the elite Operations Support Intelligence Group — known as OPSIG — were at his disposal should he need them. But timing was everything. And in this case the big question was when to bring them on board.
Just then, his intercom buzzed. “I have that information for you, sir.”
“Bring it in, Liz.”
She walked in and headed for the window, positioning herself in Knox’s path, as she always did, to prevent him from pacing. “According to Mr. Gardner,” Liz reported, “Agent Waller has an impeccable record. He heads up the division’s Fugitive Squad. He’s dedicated, bright, committed, and very driven.”
“And off the record?”
She glanced down at her notepad. “He can sometimes be a little volatile, get swept into the emotions of a case and take it personally. If it’s a case he feels strongly about or gets frustrated with, he has a tendency to disregard procedure.”
“To the point of jeopardizing the success of the mission?”
“He’s never crossed the line, at least according to Gardner. No reprimands have made it into the file, so Gardner is either telling the truth or he’s handled it internally.”
Knox turned and again looked out his window at the cars moving along Pennsylvania Avenue. “What about Haviland?”
She consulted her notes again. “More cerebral and by the book than Waller. He takes his work seriously and doesn’t take chances. Gardner likes to partner them up whenever possible because Haviland has a calming influence on Waller. My take is that Haviland keeps Waller in line when he’s dangerously near the edge of crossing over it.”
“So why did Lindsey send these two over?”
“Mainly because Agent Waller heads up the Fugitive Squad. His specialty is tracking down difficult-to-find people. Also, according to Gardner, they knew Agent Payne fairly well. They worked with him for a while before he went undercover.”
Knox nodded, turned, and began to pace in the opposite direction. He had heard enough, and it was his way of telling Liz that he did not require her presence anymore.
“Fugitive Squad or not, Agent Waller may not be the right person for this assignment,” she said.
Knox stopped and looked out over the District again. He remained there for a moment, stoic and silent. Liz took the hint and placed her notes on the director’s desk.
“Nice work,” Knox said to the glass.
“Yes, sir. Let me know if you need anything else.” Liz closed the director’s office door on her way out.
After hearing the lock click, Knox walked over to his desk and picked up Liz’s notes. He made one more run through the information, then shoved the pages through the shredder.
12
“Shit.”
Michael Chambers broke out into a cold sweat. If the men in suits were indeed coming for him, he didn’t have much time. He turned his attention to the keyboard and began tapping out a message.
Rose—
I need your help. I was in a car accident and I can’t remember who I am, where I’m supposed to be, or even who you are. For some reason your name kept popping into my head, and then I remembered what I think is your email address. Can you tell me who I am? There’s not much I can tell you about me, other than what I look like. I’m about six feet tall, medium build, dark brown hair, and hazel eyes I think. My waist is a 33.
He paused, glanced back to check on the approaching men. His eyes found them, no more than thirty yards away now. But they didn’t have the appearance of store security personnel, and they obviously were not the cops who had been searching for him in the hospital.
Maybe they weren’t looking for him after all.
I’m in Virginia, in a mall near Virginia Presbyterian Hospital. If you know who I am, please write me back ASAP.
— Lost in Virginia
Chambers entered a few other variations on the “rose” theme of the e-mail address in case his jumbled memory was incorrect. He quickly scrolled down, hit SEND, and received the MESSAGE SENT confirmation.
He logged off and peered around the edge of the kiosk. The men — whoever they were — were now a few strides away. He pulled the bill of the hat lower on his face and slid out of the seat, strolling casually down the other side of the mall, in the opposite direction of the men.
He had walked no more than twenty paces when he realized he had left Ellen Haskins’s MasterCard at the GlobalNet kiosk. He stopped and turned to look in the direction from which he had just come and noticed the two suits huddling over the Internet terminal.
Okay, store security. All they want is the credit card. Slap on the wrist probably. I’ll explain the amnesia and that’ll be that.
Chambers turned and headed off in the direction of Dillard’s, where he would leave the mall and grab the taxi that was waiting for him. He had gone another five yards when two other men in navy blue suits suddenly stepped out in front of him. As one of them held up a two-way radio to his mouth, Chambers spun and ran off, back in the direction from which he had just come.
Within seconds, his path was blocked by the original two men, the tall one holding Ellen Haskins’s credit card in his hand. The shorter man locked eyes with Chambers and pressed the button on his two-way.
“We’ve got him.”
13
Chambers could feel his heart pounding in his ears. This was not mall security. This was trouble. Big trouble. Those instincts he had had in the hospital emergency room kicked in again, and he instantly felt he had to find a way out.
To his immediate right was the flower stand he had passed earlier. It was now his only means of exit. With a store to his left and the men in front of and behind him, there was no other choice. He bolted right, jumping and grabbing on to the post of the ornate display wagon. Under all his weight and momentum, the cart started to tip over. With a huge crash, the potted plants and floral arrangements spilled across the floor behind him, blocking the entire walkway.
Chambers darted down that side of the mall, the two men who were not blocked by the downed cart in close pursuit. They were frantically shouting orders into their radios, no doubt attempting to line up coverage in and around the area in anticipation of their suspect’s next move.
Chambers turned and headed into Dillard’s, suddenly becoming aware of the pulling pain in his thigh. Limping slightly, he moved in an irregular, weaving manner through men’s sportswear, suits, and casual wear. Angles and distance, he told himself, were the most effective ways of eluding a pursuer. But how did he know that?
He fought off a swell of dizziness, then dumped the baseball hat, grabbed a windbreaker off a hanger, and ripped off the tags. After slipping the jacket on in one motion, he moved left toward the exit — and slammed into a man in a suit. They both fell backward, Chambers landing against a display table of jeans, on his left, sutured thigh. He let out a low grunt, then realized he was in trouble as the man parted his suit coat.