DeSantos pulled up a chair and set it next to her bedside. “Trish… about Brian.” He looked down, but the tears started to trail down his cheek until he tasted the salt on his lips. He picked his head up, unable to hide it anymore, and saw that she knew.
She shook her head. “God, no, please. No.” A tear ran down her cheek and dripped onto Presley’s knit cap. Trish’s pale face turned beet red and she began to sob, and the baby began to cry, and he leaned over to hug both of them.
66
The pressroom at Colonial General was crowded with tripod and shoulder-mounted television cameras, reporters, and support personnel from the Washington media corps. A continuous white noise of chatter had poured from the journalists ever since they were herded into the room twenty minutes ago.
With the babbling growing louder and the news people becoming restless, the side door swung open suddenly and two men entered, followed by a contingent of suited security-detail agents. The embroidered name above the vest pocket on the knee-length, white lab coat of the first man read VANCE TAYLOR, M.D. The doctor introduced himself and alluded to the presence of FBI director Knox, then addressed the press corps.
The doctor’s face was long and his shoulders were rolled, as if he had just been through a harrowing experience. He paused, placed both hands on the lectern, which was emblazoned with the hospital logo, and sighed.
“As you know, Special Agent Harper Payne was involved in an accidental shooting in Fredericksburg a little over two hours ago. Unfortunately, despite our best efforts, he suffered a subdural hematoma, which resulted in uncontrolled bleeding in his brain. We attempted to relieve the pressure but were unsuccessful. Agent Payne died on the operating table thirty minutes ago, at nineteen hundred hours.”
A noticeable murmur rose from the reporters.
“Director Knox has a statement and then I’ll answer questions.” Taylor turned to Knox, whose tie was loosened at the collar.
Knox kept his gaze on the lectern as he spoke. “As all of you know, Agent Payne was pivotal to the case we had against the well-publicized assassin Anthony Scarponi. I can only assure you that the FBI will do everything in its power to bring justice to the people of this country, in spite of tonight’s events.” Knox looked up at the stunned faces standing before him. He cocked his head and with a choked voice said, “As for Agent Payne, may his soul rest in peace. I can only say that his courage, fortitude, and service to this country have not and will not go unappreciated. Thank you.”
Hands sprang up from nearly every reporter in the room. Knox turned away, giving them the clear sign that he had no intention of answering their questions. He stepped back and allowed Vance Taylor to take the lectern, then hurried off through the exit.
67
Nick Bradley sat in his darkened motel room holding his nine-millimeter in one hand and his cell phone in the other. For ten minutes he struggled to find the right words. It would be a fast call, he figured, just long enough to hook Scarponi and keep his attention. He would drop the bomb, then back away.
The television, turned down to a barely perceptible level, droned on about the death of Harper Payne. Another investigative special, more legal analysis, and higher ratings for the networks. All the interest of a high profile trial or political scandal, but in a condensed version. It would draw viewers for a week at most, and then fade from the public’s mind — but for those seven days, the story would dominate the airwaves. Because viewers brought money to the networks’ bottom line, and the bottom line drove the news.
The female reporter was holding an umbrella in front of the FBI’s Washington Field Office and caressing the camera with her large brown eyes. “Services for the deceased agent will be private, at an undisclosed location, the Bureau announced this afternoon. Agent Payne’s former wife and daughter, both of whom he had not seen since going underground in the Witness Protection Program six years ago, are expected to attend. Attempts to locate his current wife have thus far been unsuccessful. As you can imagine, the mood was somber at the FBI field office where Agent Payne was stationed, but it was business as usual…”
Bradley turned off the television and stared at the phone. With his plan now completely laid out in his mind, he realized it was time. He placed the call and left a cryptic voicemail message, designed to motivate Scarponi to call him back without delay.
For ten minutes he sat by the phone. Although he was confident Scarponi would return the call, the waiting was difficult. Finally, the phone rang. Perhaps appearing too eager, he pounced on the handset.
“You didn’t wire the funds,” Bradley said, starting the conversation with an aggressive stance.
“You’ve never called me before.”
“You’ve never stiffed me before.”
“Fair enough,” Scarponi said. “Fair enough. Well, it’s this way, my friend. I don’t need your services anymore.”
Bradley could tell from the tone of the man’s voice that he had already heard the news of Payne’s death. “You’ll want to hear what I have to say,” Bradley said, hoping that Scarponi would not disconnect him.
But several seconds passed without a response.
Bradley realized it was now or never. Scarponi, guarding against any possibility this was a setup, would not remain on the phone long enough for it to be traced. “Harper Payne is not dead.”
Scarponi laughed. “This is a joke, right?”
“No joke. Payne is alive.”
“What are you talking about? The news—”
“Designed just for you. Disinformation released by the Bureau to keep you from gunning for Payne while the feds forge ahead with their plans for the trial. They’re confident they’ll eventually find you. Every allied country is on high alert. Borders are tight. Interpol is coordinating the effort. And the CIA has made it their goal to bring you back to trial. You’ve made them look like fools.”
“You’re just trying to prove your worth, prevent the cash cow from taking his milk elsewhere.”
“Have you ever had reason to doubt my sources? After everything I’ve given you over the years, has my intelligence ever failed you?”
“Maybe you’re due. Maybe you’re now working with the feds against me. Maybe they’re onto you and they’re using you to pass on bad information.”
“If you think Payne’s dead, you stop gunning for him. Don’t you get it?”
Scarponi was silent again. Bradley knew the Viper understood what the feds had done. It was a good move on their part, and Scarponi no doubt respected them for it.
“Do some digging and find out for yourself,” Bradley said. “Verify what I’m telling you. Then call me back. I’ve got some more information you might be interested in.” With that, Bradley pressed END and severed the connection.
He sat there in the dark tapping his foot. Scarponi was, by design, extremely unpredictable, and not knowing how he was going to react bothered Bradley a great deal. At the least, the assassin would attempt to confirm what Bradley had told him. But there would be no way to do that, not unless other well-placed moles were on his payroll.
Bradley closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and blew it out slowly. Stressing out about it wasn’t going to help him any. The best thing he could do would be to keep his mind busy with other matters.
But there were no other matters. None that had any significance. This was it.
The SIG remained in his hand, warm and at the ready, just in case it was needed. If someone burst through his door, they wouldn’t get one step before having a meal made of lead.