BAD DEEDS: A Dylan Hunter Thriller (Dylan Hunter Thrillers) (39 page)

“Come on in,” Hunter said, opening the door wide and stepping back.

Cronin entered, followed by a portly middle-aged man with graying brown hair.

“This is my partner, Detective Sergeant Paul Erskine,” Cronin said.

Hunter offered a handshake; Erskine ignored it.

“And I was hoping this was a social call,” Hunter said. “Oh well. Let’s go have a seat.”

Their eyes roamed the apartment as he led them over to the sofa. He took the armchair across the coffee table from them. They glanced at the manila file folder he had placed on it.

Cronin dived right in. “The bombs, Hunter.”

“What bombs are we talking about, Detective Cronin? The one up in the Allegheny Forest? The one over at the
Inquirer
office?”

“The ones last night and today. Dulles. Annapolis. The senator’s house. CarboNot. Those bombs.”

“I just heard. From Annie, when she called half an hour ago. You told her you thought I had something to do with all that. You know, you really upset her, Detective Cronin.”

“A bit testy, are we?”

“Well, gosh darn, Detective Cronin. How would you feel if somebody tried to turn your girlfriend against you?”

Cronin’s blue eyes were cold. “I do what I have to do.”

Hunter stared right back. “So do I.”

The cops traded a look, poker-faced.

“Which is the point,” Erskine said. “What exactly is it that you do, Mr. Hunter?”

“You haven’t heard? I write newspaper articles, Detective Erskine. But let me tell you what I don’t do. I don’t do anything to risk innocent lives. And I never would.”

“So you say.”

“So it is.”

“You didn’t send bombs to CarboNot, or Senator Conn, or—”

“Absolutely not.”

“What about sinking that boat in Annapolis?” Cronin interjected. “And that private jet at Dulles—the one that belongs—”

“Hey, I’m forgetting my manners. Would you guys like some coffee? How about some doughnuts? Detective Erskine, you look like you enjoy doughnuts.”

Erskine glared at him. Cronin went on.

“You have anything to say about those other things?”

“Detective Cronin, why don’t you tell me more about those ‘other things.’”

Cronin leaned forward.

“Okay, let’s plod. Gavin Lockwood. Heads that green group you’ve been writing about. Lives near Annapolis, on the water. In the wee hours this morning, somebody set off a charge inside his yacht and sank it.”

“Ah. So this is a water pollution investigation, then.”

“And the asshole who did it stuck one of those Jolly Roger flags up on the mast. And also left a sign on the pier: ‘Piracy No More.’”

“Well, then you have clues, Detective. Have you issued a BOLO for a guy with an eye patch and a peg-leg? … Oh—I’m sorry. Please continue.”

“Then a couple hours later, this other guy, the billionaire … what’s his name?”

“Trammel,” Erskine prompted.

“Right. Trammel. You mentioned him in your latest article, too. So, a couple hours later, some kind of drone comes flying in over restricted space out at Dulles, drops a sign in front of his private jet, then crashes into it and blows it up.”

“Wow. I see why you’re concerned. Now the bastards have escalated from water pollution to littering.”

“Hunter, do I have to tell you what the sign says?”

He spread his hands. “Do tell.”

“‘Reduce Your Carbon Footprint.’”

Hunter lowered his head and shook it slowly. “A yacht. A jet. What a waste.” He glanced up at them. “You know—it sounds to me as if this could be the work of an ecoterrorist.” He snapped his fingers. “Hey! I have an idea about just who it might be.” He reached forward, slid the file folder toward them. “By sheer, wild coincidence, I’ve been doing a bit of research on
this
guy.”

Cronin kept his eyes on Hunter’s face as he picked it up and opened it. He scanned the contents as Erskine leaned in to have a look. Erskine picked up a magazine clipping. He and Cronin swapped yet another look; this one lasted several seconds.

“Dr. Zachariah Boggs,” Cronin said. “You mentioned him in your last piece.”

“‘Latest’ piece, not ‘last’—at least I hope not. And from your reaction, you guys appear to be familiar with the name.”

Erskine said to Cronin, “Maybe that girl wasn’t so crazy after all.”

“Maybe not.”

“What girl?” Hunter asked.

The cops continued to look at each other for a few seconds. Then Cronin shrugged and turned back to him.

“A few nights ago, the park police found this young woman wandering in Rock Creek Park. She was a mess, like she was strung out. She had this crazy story about overhearing her boyfriend with some Washington big shot arguing out there in the middle of the woods. Said they were talking about bombing people. Then the other guy supposedly started shooting at her boyfriend, and they all scattered. I think they still have her at St. Elizabeth’s. The story made the rounds with the local departments. It gave us all a good laugh.”

“I don’t see you laughing now. So what’s her name? And her boyfriend’s?”

He tapped the folder with his forefinger. “She said he was this Boggs guy. But I don’t remember her name. Something weird.”

“‘Dawn’ something,” Erskine said.

Hunter kept his own poker face. “Did she say who the ‘big shot’ was?”

“The way I heard it, she was so hysterical she wasn’t saying anything that made sense,” Cronin said.

Hunter nodded toward the folder. “You can keep that. I have copies. You’ll see why I think Boggs is your bomber. He was the FBI’s first suspect in the ‘Technobomber’ cases years back. I still think he’s good for those, and that they convicted the wrong guy. The M.O. was similar to the bomb that killed the scientist in Pennsylvania this month. The Technobomber also addressed his mail bombs using green ink—just like the one sent to the
Inquirer.
I wouldn’t be surprised if you find the same thing on the bombs today.”

Erskine crossed his arms. “You know, Ed told me you’re a great bullshitter. Okay, so if you’re not involved, you won’t mind if we take a quick look around this place, right?”

“Not at all. I managed to flush my marijuana plants down the toilet just before you arrived.”

Erskine rolled his eyes.

“You can even look through my computer files,” Hunter added. “Take whatever time you’d like.”

Erskine jerked, then looked down.

Luna was rubbing his trouser cuff with the side of her face.

“What’s this?”

“That? Oh, that’s called a ‘cat,’ Detective Erskine. C-A-T. Luna, say hello to the nice detectives.”

“Guy’s a real riot, Ed.”

“I know. Thinks he’s Robin Williams.”

They all rose and he led them toward the bedroom. He stopped at the bathroom and entered. They paused behind him in the doorway. He bent for something, then straightened and turned back to them.

He held out the scoop for Luna’s litter box.

“Here you go, Detective Erskine. I know you’ll want to dig around in the sand. Who knows what a devious guy like me might have hidden in there?”

“Come on in.” Grant’s voice, behind his closed office door.

She walked in carrying a small stack of memos and found him standing at his window. He was in white shirt sleeves and gray slacks, his back to her. A haze of smoke hung around his head, and the little boxy air-filter gadget on his desk was humming.

“So, what’s the day’s bad news?” he asked, not turning.

“Your air filter isn’t working. I’m about to choke in here.”

He turned. “I didn’t notice.”

“How could you? Your nose and lungs are used to it.”

“I’ll have to get my buddy in S&T to fix it. Just put those over there.”

She felt his eyes on her as she walked to the desk and dropped the reports on it. She turned to leave.

“What’s wrong?”

She stopped at the door. “Nothing.”

She heard him exhale. “Come on, Annie.”

No point in trying to hide anything from him. She faced him.

“All right. You’ll know soon enough, anyway. The wedding’s off.”

He crushed out his cigarette butt in a bronze ashtray on the desk.

“I noticed earlier today that you weren’t wearing the ring. I was afraid that might happen.” He gestured to the chairs near his coffee table. “Let’s talk.”

“No. I don’t—”

“I insist. Boss’s prerogative.”

“All right … But can we go somewhere with a breathable atmosphere?”

He smiled—almost. “Let me grab my jacket and we’ll take a walk.”

They went down in the elevator, then moved through the hallways in silence, acknowledging deferential hellos from people along the way. He led her to a familiar corridor; above its entranceway, in raised letters, were the words:

Pale-green display panels and tall glass-enclosed cases filled with exhibits, photos, and trophies ran down both walls of the corridor and off into the distance. They entered, strolling past a spotlight-illuminated panel on the left labeled “On the Front Lines: CIA IN AFGHANISTAN.” It displayed a flag and photographs, including one of a helicopter filled with Agency officers during the post-9/11 invasion. The opposite wall bore a large map of Iran and Afghanistan, also bedecked with photos of various missions.

Grant strolled on without speaking. It was mid-afternoon and no one else happened to be around at the moment. They moved past panels of blown-up photos depicting various Agency operations with explanatory signs. Inside the glass cases lay a host of exotic spy devices, disguises, and weapons.

He paused about halfway down the corridor, before a case containing memorabilia from a clandestine mission inside Iran. He nodded toward a photo showing a group of eight men posing in some rural field, heavily armed and wearing rough clothes. Their faces were deliberately blurred out in the image.

“See that?”

“What about it?”

“The dark-haired guy, upper left. I know you can’t make out the face. But does he seem somehow … familiar?”

“Grant! That’s not—”

“Hush. I haven’t said a thing, now, have I? I merely thought you might like to see a typical NOC during a typical op.”

She shot him a look. “Typical?”

“Okay. Maybe not so typical. That’s what I wanted to chat with you about.”

“What do you mean?”

“The wedding being called off—I’m guessing that was your idea, not his. Right?”

She looked back at the photo. At the dark hair, the lean body, the big hands cradling the AK. She thought of those hands. She swallowed and nodded.

“I thought so. I gather that your early counseling sessions haven’t been helping with the nightmares yet.”

“If anything, they’ve gotten worse … Grant—I have enough trouble with the memories. About what I went through. About what I saw
him
go through, back then. But he won’t give it up. The violence. A few days ago I came to realize … I realized that somehow, he
can’t.”

“Because he’s a sheepdog.”

“You used that word before. What do you mean?”

“I went to a conference last year and got to chatting with a remarkable guy. A retired Airborne Ranger with a Ph.D. in psychology, who used to teach at West Point. He had been lecturing about how various people respond to violence. He said that an old Vietnam-era colonel once told him there are three kinds of people: sheep, wolves, and sheepdogs.

“Most people are sheep, Annie. They are peaceful, productive, and benevolent—the bedrock of any civilized society. Normally, they recoil against violence; it’s just not in them. But that very squeamishness renders them helpless before the wolves. The wolves are society’s predators. They exist to feed on the sheep. They enjoy it, and they’re merciless about it.”

She looked at the photo again. “I see where you are going with this.”

“That’s right. The third type is the sheepdog. You know, the sheep don’t much like the sheepdog. To them, he looks and acts scary, a lot like the wolves. He has sharp teeth, and when aroused to violence, he will attack relentlessly and without mercy. But he’s really no threat to the sheep. His only enemies are the wolves. In fact, he exists to protect the sheep from the wolves. That’s his mission. He’s the only thing that stands between the sheep and the wolves.”

“Dylan.”

“Yes, Dylan is a sheepdog. A warrior at heart. It’s in his wiring. In his DNA. That’s why we were able to recruit him in the first place, right after the first World Trade Center bombing. That was 1993, and he was still a kid, but he was ready to go.”

Studying the photo, his eyes acquired a somewhat distant look, as if he were looking past it, recalling other things.

“You’re a sheepdog, too, Grant.”

“Me? Oh, sure. But Dylan is different from me in some respects. Which is why he had so much trouble fitting in here, over the years.”

“How so?”

“I’m more of a pragmatist, Annie. I take the long view about our missions here, so I’m willing to make moral compromises in the short term. Such as dealing with unsavory people out in the field—cutting deals with scumbags and low-level terrorists and dictators, for the greater good. I don’t like it, but I don’t hesitate to do it if I have to.”

He coughed for a few seconds before continuing.

“But Dylan often balked at that sort of thing. He’s more of a pure idealist. He took the term ‘mission’ almost literally. To him, ops were like crusades. So he sometimes had problems working alongside bad guys. Or following orders when they clashed with his principles. Oh sure, he could and did lie, cheat, steal, and kill. That’s what we do here, and he knew that going in. And it’s not as if we don’t have our own moral boundary lines.”

“It’s just that Dylan draws his moral lines in different places,” she said.

“Which is why he went off the reservation so often. And why I had to intervene to save his ass so often. He also had problems working for fools, and keeping his opinions to himself when he despised some boss or co-worker. I’ve never met anyone so opinionated—or so willing to say bluntly exactly what he thought, consequences be damned. He never gave an inch. That made him plenty of enemies—not just here, but also in foreign stations and embassies.”