Damage Control (11 page)

Today, as Dom rode the Metro’s Blue Line from Franconia-Springfield to the Smithsonian Station on the National Mall, he catalogued the various adventures that Jonathan Grave had gotten him into over the years. Looking back, he wouldn’t change a thing.

His mission this afternoon was to meet with Wolverine—Jonathan’s code name for FBI Director Irene Rivers—to get a handle on the Bureau’s version of this situation in Mexico. Historically, Irene had been as staunch an ally to Jonathan and Security Solutions as anyone could hope for. The fact that the FBI was one of the agencies calling for his arrest was beyond concerning. It was downright scary.

Irene had run interference for Jonathan’s adventures for years, helping to manufacture plausible deniability, and in at least one case intervening personally with the law enforcement process to keep the heat off Jonathan’s extra-legal activities. While her intentions weren’t always pure—often as not, she and her Bureau got credit for Jonathan’s successes—she’d always been a straight shooter. That she’d ordered his arrest without so much as an inquiring phone call had left them all baffled.

Dom traveled empty-handed as he always did for meetings like this. With nothing committed to paper, there were no records to steal or subpoena. As far as the world would be concerned—and in this case, the world consisted of curious passersby and nosy investigators—this would be a meeting between a woman and her priest. That the woman was the chief law enforcer in the United States wouldn’t matter. Official Washington might reject the utterance of God’s name, but they still respected individuals’ rights to commune with Him through his human emissaries.

He felt himself sweating through his black shirt as he climbed the subway station’s broken escalator into sunlight, and finally out into the stifling city air. Back in the day, Washington had been considered a hardship post for foreign diplomats, and it didn’t take more than three minutes in the August sunshine to understand why. Ninety-eight humidity-soaked degrees hung on his skin like a wet wool coat.

Like any summer afternoon in the District, the Mall teemed with tourists, moving in swarms toward the various museums that defined that part of the city.

He hadn’t walked twenty steps when he saw Irene on the far side of Jefferson Drive, SW, rising from a bench outside the Ripley Center, which sat adjacent to the Smithsonian Castle. Dom thought it an appropriate meeting place, given the nature of their conversation. The Ripley Center was itself a structure out of a spy novel, with an entrance that looked like a large information kiosk. The average tourist would have no idea that the kiosk led to cavernous gallery and teaching spaces underground.

Irene wore a Hillary Clinton pantsuit and sported a wide hat that sheltered her from the sun. Truthfully, it was an unusual look for her. In fact, she looked different in other ways, too, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on it. On either side, but separated by fifteen or twenty feet, two members of her security detail stood watch. If Irene was doing her best to remain unnoticed, the guards, with their business suits, high-and-tight haircuts, and curlicue earpieces, weren’t helping.

As Irene stood, the security guys moved in closer, and a third one materialized out of the crowd to form a kind of phalanx to escort her away from Dom and toward the black Suburban that doubled for executive limousines in these days of heightened security in Washington.

Dom stopped as he saw her leaving, and checked his watch. He was right on time. Two minutes early, in fact. She’d never stood him up before.

He raised his arm to call after her.

He stopped, though, when he was blindsided by a tourist who pushed him to the ground. Dom caught himself with his hands, but there was a good chance that he’d put a hole in the knee of his trousers.

“Oh, God, Father, I’m so sorry. Are you okay?”

Dom looked up to see what could only be a vacationing computer programmer. Maybe forty years old, he guy wore black-rimmed glasses, a Denver Broncos T-shirt, and cargo shorts.

“I’m so sorry. I just wasn’t watching where I was going. Here, let me help you up.” He extended a hand.

Dom waved him off as he rolled to a sitting position on the ground. “No, I’m fine. No harm done.” Good news: his trousers were still intact.

“Let me help you up, Father D’Angelo,” the man said in a barely audible voice.

Dom’s head snapped up at the sound of his name. Something changed behind the tourist’s eyes. It wasn’t frightening, exactly, but there was a look of urgency.

“Okay.” Dom grasped the man’s hand in a power grip that involved their thumbs, and as he did, he felt something pressed into his palm.

“I’m so sorry, Father,” the tourist said aloud. As Dom found his balance, the tourist dusted him off. When he was very close, he said, “Don’t look at the note till I’m gone. Wait fifteen minutes and follow the directions exactly.”

Dom just stared.

“You’re sure you’re okay, right, Father?” the tourist asked, loudly enough to be heard by others. “I really am sorry. Hope it doesn’t keep me out of Heaven.” With that, the man turned away and headed toward the Freer Gallery.

He never looked back.

C
HAPTER
N
INE

J
onathan climbed out of the Toyota and waited for Tristan to join him. “Stick with me like a shadow,” Jonathan said. “Remember ... do exactly what I say exactly when I say to do it.”

Jonathan and Boxers spread out as they exited the vehicle, allowing a distance of fifty feet between them. The separation increased the effectiveness of their surveillance while at the same time making it harder for any hidden bad guys to take them out. At this distance, a bad guy would have to be a great shot twice, and even if he hit the first target, he’d likely die while preparing to shoot the second. This game was as much about intimidation as it was about marksmanship, and the more the bad guys second-guessed themselves, the better it was for the good guys.

The residents of the village were slow to catch on to them. It started with the kids in the game. The goalie on the far end pointed and said something Jonathan couldn’t hear, and a kid from the other team booted the ball past him while he was distracted, bisecting the wheelbarrow and the tricycle that served as goal posts. The scoring team started to celebrate, but then they followed his eyes, and they, too, started to point.

The stoppage of the game drew the attention of the adults, who stood and watched.

Jonathan keyed his mike. “Watch their hands,” he said. “If they don’t go for weapons, we keep our weapons down.”

Boxers tapped his transmitter.

The villagers seemed more curious than frightened, though Jonathan noted that two of the adults held their hands out to their sides and splayed their fingers to show that they posed no danger. For their part, the children just stayed put.

“
Oye
,” one of the older kids yelled to his friends. “
Jugamos!
”
Hey, let’s play.

Like the flip of a switch, the children returned to their game.

“Keep an eye on the adults,” Jonathan said into his radio. “I’ll watch the church.”

Boxers tapped again. Ultimately, the adults would be behind them, which meant that Boxers would have to walk backwards, but there really was no other way.

In thirty seconds, Jonathan was at the church door. He turned to Tristan. “Stay out here with the Big Guy,” he said. “Stick close to him.”

Jonathan considered knocking, but decided that that was unnecessary. The door swung open to a rush of cool, musty air. The sun shining through the glass on the far wall nearly blinded him. Instinctively, he looked to the left and to the right, just in case there might be a lurker in the shadows.

More a chapel than a church, with neatly aligned folding chairs taking the place of pews, the sanctuary had the look of a work in progress. Framed pictures along the outer walls depicted the suffering and crucifixion of Jesus, together defining the Stations of the Cross. Up ahead at the altar, the cross upon which a wrought-iron sculpture of the suffering Christ had been precariously mounted appeared to be hand-hewn of six-by-six lumber. It sat in what appeared to be a temporary support that had been nailed to the floor.

“How dare you bring guns into the house of God?” a voice boomed in Spanish from somewhere behind the blinding sunlight.

Also in Spanish, Jonathan answered, “I mean no harm. Please step out where I can see you.”

“You know the agreement,” the voice said. “No guns inside the sanctuary.”

There’s an agreement?
Jonathan thought. He wondered who it might be with. “Are you Father Perón?”

A few seconds passed before Jonathan heard footsteps approaching. “I do not recognize you,” the voice said.

“That’s because I’ve never been here before.” Finally, the voice became a silhouette as its owner emerged from the backlight. He carried something long in his hands, and for an instant, Jonathan’s hand flinched toward his weapon. He stopped when he saw that the object was a candle lighter/snuffer that was nearly identical to the ones he’d used as an altar boy.

The silhouette’s features emerged as a young man of perhaps thirty. His narrow face looked narrower still under the thick mane of black hair that hung nearly to his shoulders. He wore a red T-shirt and blue shorts with flip-flops.

“No guns in my church,” he repeated.

Jonathan extended his hand. “My name is Leon Harris,” he said. A lie in church.

The young man looked at Jonathan’s hand, and then cast a glance over Jonathan’s shoulder, out to the door. “And who is that?”

Jonathan knew without looking that Boxers had taken up a position in the jamb, scanning the yard for any trouble that might arise. “He’s a friend of mine. His name is Richard Lerner. Is Father Perón here?” Jonathan opened the door wider to cast more light on the man.

“You are American,” the man said. “I can tell by your accent.”

Jonathan felt disappointed. He’d thought his Spanish was flawless. “
Sí
,” he said.

“
Federales Americanos
?”

“No,” Jonathan assured. “I’m not military, and I’m not with the government. I’m just a private citizen in need of help.”

The man took a second look at Boxers. “An American private citizen with many guns and a bodyguard.”

“If I could speak with Father Perón, I—”

“I am Father Perón,” the man said.

Jonathan cocked his head. “Really?” as soon as the word left his throat, he knew that he’d insulted the man, but good Lord, he looked like a college student.

“Loyola University,” Perón said in English. “I assure you that I look younger than I feel.”

Jonathan felt himself blush. “I meant no offense.”

“None was taken. Yet you still have guns in my church. I don’t allow that.”

This was a tough spot for Jonathan. There’s a cliché that covers moments like this that involves the phrase,
when you pry it from my cold dead fingers
. He didn’t want it to come to that. “Can we sit for a minute?” he asked. “I think when I tell you what is happening, you’ll understand why I’m hesitant to give up my weapons.”

Perón put his hands on his hips and considered the request. He nodded with his chin. “We’ll talk outside.”

The note was written in a woman’s hand on a plain piece of white paper:

Dom,

Follow these directions precisely. Walk to the L’Enfant Plaza Metro. Take the Green Line to Fort Totten. Transfer to the Red Line and take it to Union Station. Go to the front of the building and find the chauffeur waiting for Fr. Carlino. He works for me and will take care of you. I’ll explain when we meet.

Best,

I

Including the fifteen-minute delay in the beginning, and the long interval between trains at this time of day, it took nearly an hour to make his rendezvous with the chauffeur, who was standard-issue FBI, from the glossy shoes to the gray suit that was cut a bit too large in order to accommodate his gun. The only difference was that this guy was a little older than most. He held an eight-and-a-half-by-eleven-inch piece of white paper with
Fr. Carlino
laser printed in large bold type.

Dom approached cautiously, unsure of the protocol. Should he call himself Father Carlino? How far was he supposed to carry the charade? He decided to walk with confidence and let his collar speak for him.

As it turned out, the guy knew exactly who he was waiting for. When Dom closed to within a few feet, the chauffeur lowered the sign and closed the distance with an outstretched hand. “Hi, Father,” he said. “I’m Paul Boersky. I’ve worked with the director for a long time. Follow me.”

Boersky led the way out the front of the station and across two lanes of traffic picking up and delivering passengers. As they closed in on a Lincoln Town Car, the vehicle beeped as it unlocked, and Boersky opened the right rear passenger door for Dom.

The priest stopped short. “We’ve never met, and this feels suspiciously like a slow-motion kidnapping. Do you have ID?”

Boersky smiled. “Was wondering when you’d get to that.” He produced a creds case from his suit coat pocket and flashed his gold badge. “Really, I’m a good guy.”

As he slid into the offered seat, Dom tried not to think about how many times Jonathan had used false credentials to get his way.

During the drive through progressively more frightening city streets, Dom fought the urge to ask questions. Given the cloak-and-dagger prelude, he harbored no hope for straight answers anyway.

The trip ended after ten minutes at a place that Dom knew well. “You’re kidding,” he said. “Here?”

Boersky threw the transmission into park. “No one can ever say that Director Rivers doesn’t have style,” he said. He looked at Dom through the rearview mirror. “I’ll be waiting here to drive you back to the Metro.”