Edgar Roy had no problem helping to keep his country safe. But nothing was ever that simple. He knew there were sixteen American intelligence agencies. They employed well over one million people, of which a third were independent contractors. There were nearly two thousand companies that worked in the intelligence field. And officially over a hundred billion dollars was spent on intelligence matters, though the exact number was classified and was actually far larger. It was a huge universe, and Edgar Roy found himself at the very center of it. He was, literally, the man who made sense out of what otherwise would be a colossal mass of ever-growing, incomprehensible data. It was like ocean waves, relentless, pounding, but bristling with importance for those who could divine its depths. It sounded poetic, but what he did was actually immensely practical.
It was a lot riding on his slender shoulders. And if he stopped and thought too much about it, he would have been paralyzed. The conclusions that he drew, the pronouncements that he made, the analyses that he helped produce were used to make polices that had global impact. People lived and people died. Countries were invaded or not. Bombs dropped or not. Deals were struck or allies jettisoned. The world shook according to Edgar Roy.
To the average citizen it would have seemed totally far-fetched: one person basically telling American intelligence what to do. But the dirty secret of intelligence was that there was simply too much damn intelligence for anyone to make sense of. And it was so interconnected that unless one had all the pieces it was impossible to make informed comprehensive judgments. It was a gigantic global puzzle. But if you had only part of the puzzle you would be doomed to failure.
He had initially been fascinated by the Wall. It was a living, breathing organism to him, one that spoke a foreign language that he had to learn. After several months, though, that fascination and interest had somewhat faded. While the subject matter was complex and challenging even to him, once he had seen the results of his input, the reality of what he was doing had come crashing down on him like a bunker-busting bomb.
I’m not cut out to play God.
CHAPTER 33
THE NEXT MORNING Sean and Michelle and Megan had breakfast, not at Martha’s Inn but at a restaurant a quarter of a mile away. After they’d filled up on eggs and toast and coffee, Sean said, “We think Carla Dukes is a plant.”
“What makes you say that?” asked Megan.
“Her office was bare. No personal items. She doesn’t intend on staying long. Like Mark Twain and Halley’s Comet, I think she came in with Edgar Roy and she’ll go out with him.”
Megan said, “It really seems like people have it in for Edgar Roy.”
“The question is why?” said Sean. “You said Bergin spoke with you about him.”
“Just about some spot research, nothing substantive. You said you met the client, Roy’s sister, Kelly Paul. What was her story?”
“She wants to help her brother. She has a POA for him and retained Bergin to rep him. Bergin was her godfather.”
Megan finished her coffee. “So we have a client who won’t talk. The FBI won’t tell us anything. Mr. Bergin and Hilary are dead with no leads.”
“We need to find out what Roy was really doing,” said Sean.
“What do you mean?”
“An IRS geek turned alleged serial killer does not generate this much federal excitement,” explained Michelle. “We talked with his boss at the IRS. He wouldn’t tell us anything, which actually told us a lot.”
Sean added, “And he had a friend who worked there. She said Roy stopped working there months before he was arrested. He called her once and said he was working on something sensitive, but he couldn’t say any more.”
“So you think Roy was involved in something else? Maybe something criminal?”
“No, maybe something having to do with intelligence work.”
“I thought you might get there,” said the voice.
She was standing near their table. When Sean looked up he wondered how the woman was able to move so silently.
Kelly Paul took off her large sunglasses and said, “May I join you?”
She had on black jeans, a woolen vest, and a thick corduroy jacket over that. Heavy boots with fur toppings were on her feet. She looked ready for a long winter’s stay in coastal Maine.
Sean scooted over and Paul slid in next to him. “Megan Riley, this is Kelly Paul. Our client,” he added awkwardly.
The women shook hands.
“Understand the FBI was giving you the third degree,” said Paul. “Hope they didn’t leave any permanent wounds.”
Before Megan could answer, Sean said, “What are you doing up here?”
“Perfectly logical question,” replied Paul.
“Could I have an answer?” said Sean, when it seemed apparent she was not going to provide one.
“Figured taking in the lay of the land myself was a good proposition.”
“But it’ll come with the cost of your anonymity,” pointed out Michelle.
Paul got the attention of their waitress and ordered a cup of tea. She remained silent until it arrived and she took a sip. She set the cup down and took a moment to pat her lips dry. “My anonymity died the moment you two visited me, I’m afraid.”
“No one followed us to your place,” said Michelle.
“No one you could see,” said Paul, and she took another sip of tea.
“Meaning what exactly?” said Sean.
Paul looked around. “Not here. Let’s take this discussion somewhere else.”
They paid the bill and climbed into Michelle’s truck. Paul looked around the interior. “Have you swept this for bugs?”
Michelle, Sean, and Megan stared at her.
“Bugs?” said Michelle. “No, we haven’t.”
Paul slipped a device out of her bag and turned it on. She passed it around the interior of the vehicle and then studied the readout on the small electronic screen.
“Okay, we’re good to go.” She put the device away and sat back to find the others still staring at her.
“Care to start explaining?” said Sean.
Paul shrugged. “Self-evident, don’t you think?”
“What is?”
“What we’re up against here.”
“And what exactly is that?” asked Michelle.
“Everybody,” replied Paul.
“Can we start from page one?” said Sean. “I think we all need that right now.”
“My brother is not simply an IRS agent with six bodies in his barn.”
“Yeah, we’d gotten that far by ourselves,” said Michelle.
“So what exactly is your brother?” asked Sean.
“I’m not convinced you all are ready for the answer.”
“I think we’re ready for the answers,” said Sean. “In fact, we’re so ready that I don’t think I’m going to let you out of this vehicle until you tell us.”
Before any of them could react, Paul had placed a knife against Megan’s right carotid. “That would be an unfortunate action on your part, Mr. King, it really would be.”
“Put that away,” said Sean. “You don’t have to go there.”
Paul put the knife away and patted Megan on the arm. “Sorry I had to do that.”
The young woman looked like she might throw up her breakfast.
“Just take deep breaths and the shock nausea will pass right on by,” Paul added kindly.
“Why did you do that?” asked Sean.
“Ground rules have to be set. My loyalties do not lie with any of you, at least not completely.”
“Where do they lie?” asked Michelle.
“Mainly with my poor brother, who’s rotting at Cutter’s Rock.”