Cam - 03 - The Moonpool (17 page)

I didn’t move, and I didn’t think she’d seen me. She then walked over to a plain vanilla Ford and got in. The phone conversation went on for a few minutes, and then she signed off. She pulled the rearview mirror over, checked her makeup, then lit the car off, backed out of her parking space, and drove directly over to where I was parked and pulled in, nose to tail. She smiled at me as she rolled down her window.

“It was the purse, wasn’t it,” she said.

I nodded. I’d seen too many just like it under the arm of just about every female FBI agent I’d ever met. Compact, hard leather, big, easily accessible snap, and perfect for a concealed weapon. Some of them even had springloaded pouches, so all she had to do was unsnap the purse, hit the butt of the weapon with her open hand, and go to town.

“You think Trask knows?” she asked.

“I don’t think so,” I said. “He’s too busy trying to pretend he doesn’t notice that glorious bod of yours. It’s a military thing, I think—if the troops are all salivating and acting like teenagers, the colonel should remain aloof.”

She rolled her eyes, but at least had the grace not to protest about sexist comments and such. She was a genuine beauty, and it was tough not to just look at her. Which is why, when Frick suddenly barked, I realized I’d been well and truly had. Three large men in dark clothes and sporting what looked like H&K MP5s were standing on the other side of my Suburban. One of them presented his FBI credentials through the
passenger side window. As I took the situation onboard, a black Suburban rolled up behind us and stopped. I looked back over at Samantha.

She gave me a wistful smile. “Sorry about this,” she said. “Nothing personal.” Then she rolled up her window, backed out, and drove away.

They were actually polite. No cuffs, no perp walk, no reading of rights in the headlights or anything like that. They let me take the dogs back to the house and put them inside. They told me to leave my cell phone and any weapons I might be carrying, which I did. Then I was escorted to the black Suburban and settled into the backseat with one of the agents. Two more got in the front seat, and a fourth took my car keys and followed us in
my
Suburban. We were a regular parade.

They were acting like this was just a normal office call among professionals, but still, I didn’t even think about resisting or giving them any lip. I sat there in the backseat with my seat belt fastened and both hands clearly visible in my lap as we drove north toward the lights of Wilmington, up over the Cape Fear Memorial Bridge, down into town, and then east toward the container port, which is where I thought we were going.

Wrong. We turned north onto Shipyard Drive, away from the port, and went several blocks north before turning right into a cluster of two-story brick buildings. We drove around to the back of one of them, which was right next to a fitness center, and parked. They took me through a cipher-locked back door and into what I assumed was the FBI’s resident agent’s office in Wilmington. I was escorted down a hallway to a conference room. There was a cardboard box on the conference table. The agent who seemed to be in charge told me that it would be just a few minutes.

“What will be just a few minutes?” I asked.

“Your ride.”

An hour later my “ride” drove through the gates of what looked like a state hospital for the mentally challenged.
There were grim, twenty-foot-high brick walls along the front, an ornate if presently unguarded wrought-iron gateway, and a central paved road pointing toward a large, five-story brick building in the distance. Alongside the road were low, boarded-up white structures that looked like vintage World War II Tempo buildings.

I was now wearing a set of bright orange nylon overalls, courtesy of the cardboard box in the conference room. My ankles were connected by eighteen inches of thin stainless steel wire, and my wrists were similarly constrained. When we pulled up in front of the Victorian-looking main building, one of my escorts in the front seat asked me to lean forward so he could drop the hood over my head. Throughout the entire process, I hadn’t said a word, and I didn’t say anything when the cotton hood was draped over my head and neck. There were no eyeholes, so I was now totally dependent on the two escorts to shuffle me out of the car and into the building, with quiet instructions about steps, the door, turn right, turn left, turn around, okay, sit down. I was physically larger than either of them, but the restraints and now the hood reduced me to something very small indeed. I could see light and blurred shapes through the hood, but nothing else. Every time I inhaled, the hood flattened against my face. It smelled of industrial-strength laundry soap.

I sat on what felt like a park bench in what I assumed was a hallway. I could hear voices coming from another room nearby, but there was no alarm or excitement, just the casual conversation I remembered when doing a routine booking. Some low laughter, a phone ringing and being answered, someone stirring a coffee mug, football talk, and the shuffle of papers. The hallway smelled of institutional disinfectant and stale coffee in equal proportions.

There’d been no drama at the RA’s office, either. A walk down the hall to the bathroom, where I was asked to strip down to my underwear, given a cursory examination for weapons, and then handed my new costume. Then back to the conference room to wait. Being an ex-cop, I knew that my best move at this point was to keep my mouth shut, which I did. I didn’t
know what charges, if any, were being filed, or if I was really even under formal arrest, although the orange jumpsuit had not been an encouraging development. No one came in to ask questions, and the people who were handling me had obviously not been interested in idle chitchat.

Hands appeared at my elbows, and I stood up. Turn left, the sounds of an electronically controlled door, walk straight ahead, turn right, stop. Elevator sounds. Step in, turn around, stop. Doors closing. Elevator movement, with four dings indicating that we were going to the fifth floor. Doors opening. Step out, turn right, walk straight ahead. A firm hand on each elbow, but no antagonistic pressure holds. I’d seen pictures of the Al Qaeda detainees at Guantanamo, and wondered why their heads always hung down. Now I knew: The only things I could see were the tops of my feet.

Finally, stop here. The sounds of another electronic door. Turn right, step through the door, that’s good, now three more steps, turn around, sit down. Elbows free. Good. The hood came off. And there was Creeps, stretching out his long, awkward frame in a too-small metal chair across the room. My two hallway helpers stood by the door, within reach. They were dressed in Marine combat fatigues and had distinctive military haircuts. One of them crumpled up my hood in his large hands.

The room was about twelve by fifteen feet square. I’d been expecting a cell, but it wasn’t like that. There were two windows, dark now, of course, a normal single bed with a night table and a reading lamp, a small desk and chair, and two other armchairs. There was a door that I hoped led to a bathroom. The walls were painted a muted green, and the floors were polished linoleum. The only thing that indicated I was in a cell was the fact that there was no doorknob on the inside, just a card reader.

Creeps watched me take it all in before speaking. “Mr. Richter,” he said.

“Special Agent,” I replied. If they’d expected me to protest or otherwise spout off, I meant to disappoint them. For the moment.

“I apologize for the hood,” he said, “but it’s become standard procedure for military detention facilities these days. Tends to take the piss and vinegar out of prospective rebels, you understand. That said, there is a plus side: Nobody sees who’s being admitted to the facility, either.”

He waited for a response; I remained silent. I knew full well that every interaction between a prisoner and his guards of whatever stripe was part and parcel of an interrogation record. I hadn’t been Mirandized, but then again, he had just mentioned the term “
military
detention facility.” When he realized there wasn’t going to be a reaction, he leaned forward.

“Right,” he said. “Let me explain why you’re here. Were you and your associates present at the scene of a radioactive material spill at the container port yesterday?”

I nodded. I’d looked for a video camera, but hadn’t seen one.

“Were you present when the trailer in question disgorged several illegal aliens into the container stack area?”

I said yes.

“Were you warned by me, personally, not to get involved in the matter of a previous radioactive material incident involving one of your associates?”

“Sort of,” I said.

He looked down that long bony nose. “Sort of?”

“I’m an investigator for hire, Special Agent. Until I spoke in detail with Dr. Quartermain, I could not know that what he wanted me to do involved either incident.”

“Do you remember what I said as I was leaving your rented house?”

“Interfere and disappear.”

“Yes, indeed. Guess what?”

“I give up.”

“You will be detained at this facility until further notice. You will be allowed no contact with the outside world until further notice. If you cooperate with the established regimen of detention, you will be given certain privileges, such as an operating television, this room instead of a rubber room in
the psychotic isolation cells down in the basement, access to library materials, unfettered exercise outdoors within the confines of the grounds and the rules, and even some choices of meals. The converse to all that is also true.”

“What about my dogs?”

“Your shepherds. Right. We have contacted your associates and asked them to come retrieve your dogs. One—” He fished out a notebook and read his notes. “One Anthony Martinelli is coming down tonight to retrieve them and return them to your home in Triboro.”

All of that left the obvious question unspoken.

“We told him that we had received a call from you asking for one of them to come retrieve the dogs. That you did not sound as if you were under duress but that you would be out of pocket for some time on your new assignment and, for reasons known only to you, could not take the dogs.”

I wanted to ask him if he thought Tony really believed that bullshit, but thought better of it. The two guys in military fatigues were standing at parade rest, looking bored. The one guy had reduced the hood to a compact orange wad.

“Do you understand what I was telling you about privileges, Mr. Richter?”

“What I don’t understand is how you think you can abduct me, transport me to some American version of the Lubyanka, and hold me incommunicado ‘until further notice,’ without a hint of a criminal charge or even a Miranda. Since when has the Bureau been doing this kind of shit to American citizens?”

“Since the passage of the Patriot Act, Mr. Richter.”

“That’s for baby-burning Islamic terrorists.”

He stood up. “I’ll get you a copy of the act, Mr. Richter. You might be surprised when you read the whole thing, and even more surprised if you read some of the action memoranda flowing from said act. Few people have actually read it, I’m told, including an embarrassing number of congresspersons.” He looked around my new home. “In the meantime, please behave. This is as good as it gets. The alternative accommodations are reportedly unpleasant.”

“Reportedly? This isn’t
your
fun house?”

“Oh, no, Mr. Richter. You’re now in the hands of the Department of Homeland Security. Your Bureau does not indulge in detention facilities. Gentlemen, would one of you please swipe your magic card?”

There was a pamphlet on the bed, along with a green mag-stripe card. The pamphlet spelled out the rules in straightforward, military language. The bathroom was shared with the room next door. Swipe the card—if the bathroom was available, the door would unlock. Take the card with you, because if you didn’t, you’d be in there until the cleaning crews showed up. Detainees would be served three meals a day. Breakfast would be at 0730. Lunch would be brought in at 1130. Dinner at 1730. Exercise periods would be scheduled by the guard force.

The second page had more rules. My official status was detainee. In case I was wondering. Each detainee was restricted to his or her room for twenty-two hours a day. There would be a two-hour exercise period within the grounds. There were rules for the time one spent outdoors: Detainees had to stay thirty feet away from any perimeter fence. There was a white chalk line on the grass indicating the thirty feet. Detainees could not speak to any other detainees while out on the grounds. Detainees would wear a hood the entire time they were outside of their rooms, including during exercise periods. The fence around the grounds was under continuous surveillance. There were guard dogs involved in that surveillance. Detainees would obey the instructions of any and all guards, but would not speak to guards unless the guard spoke first. Deadly force was authorized throughout the facility. Enjoy your stay with us.

I tried the card on the bathroom door and got lucky. Then I came back to my new room and tried the bed. It was a bed. There were no clocks on the wall, and the television, mounted high on one wall, was silent. I got up and turned out the overhead lights. The windows revealed that the building was near a river, but I didn’t know which river. The trip from downtown
Wilmington had taken at least an hour. There were lights on the building shining down onto the grounds. I could actually make out those chalk lines against the perimeter fence, but there was a jumper barrier ledge under my window, so I couldn’t see directly down into the exercise yard.