The Dark Hour (27 page)

“Go ahead,” Tex said, apparently distracted. “I’ll be taking off as soon as I get someone up here to watch these two.”

Carillo left. If he wanted to get the goods on this reporter—because he damned well knew that something was up with her—he was going to have to see her personally.

Chapter 42

December 11

Alexandria, Virginia

T
ex pulled in behind a minivan parked on the street, which gave him a view of the reporter’s house. Merideth Garrett lived in a middle-class neighborhood of Alexandria, where Christmas lights sparkled along a number of rooflines of the mostly two-story, brick-fronted homes. No Christmas lights were on at her place. No lights at all.

He checked his watch. His contact at the paper said she had left her office about fifteen minutes ago, which meant he had plenty of time to wait. Just about to settle in, he saw another car parked farther down and someone seated within it—something he might not have noticed had another vehicle not backed out of the driveway across the street, its white reverse lights shining just enough to allow Tex to make out the top of the guy’s head.

Tex exited his car, its cab light having already been disconnected, and he left the vehicle door slightly ajar to avoid any noise. He crouched below the eye level of the vehicles parked between him and the other car, nearly slipping in a patch of snow that hadn’t been cleared from the sidewalk. As he neared the last vehicle, he drew his gun, held it against his leg, then made his final approach.

He walked up to the car’s passenger window and saw the driver watching him, a gun pointed in his direction.

“Jesus effing Christ, Tex,” the driver said. “I almost shot your ass.”

“Carillo?
You said you were doing
background
work on her. Not
coming
here.”

“I like the personal touch. Get in the damned car so I can roll up the window. It’s cold out there.”

Tex got in.

“Was I that obvious?” Carillo asked.

“Only because someone backed out across from you,” Tex replied. “Driveway’s empty now, so I’m thinking you’re good.”

“Aren’t you a little out of your jurisdiction? Like the wrong country?”

“You’re thinking CIA. ATLAS sort of works in the gray area.”

“That area I know well. What the hell you doing here?”

“Got tired of twiddling my thumbs waiting for Sydney and Griff to come up for air.”

“Any word on them yet?”

“No. And frankly I’m worried,” Tex said. “With Marc and Lisette missing, and the timing of this article, I’ve got a really bad feeling it’s all connected. Figured I’d pay this reporter a call to see if she’ll consider revealing her source in the interest of national security.”

“You allowed to beat confessions out of reporters?”

“Technically not. But placing bugs in their houses when one goes in to politely ask questions tends to be overlooked.”

“Unless one ends up in court.”

“And that’s where plausible deniability comes in,” Tex replied. “If you don’t know I’m planting them, you can’t testify to it.”

“Glad you’re not telling me, and saves me the trouble of coming up with a better idea. Figured you guys would’ve had her phone tapped by now.”

“Already tried that on her landline. She uses her cell phone almost exclusively.”

Carillo leaned back and gave a sigh. “Remember the good old days before cell phones were all the rage?”

“Gathering intel was a helluva lot easier back then.”

Headlights from an approaching car lit up the dark street. The vehicle slowed, then turned into the driveway of the reporter’s house. “That her?” Carillo asked.

Tex watched as she got out of her car, then walked up the drive to a side door. “It’s her.”

“You think if we both show up, it’ll be a bit of overkill?”

“I think—” Tex stared at the upper story, the movement he saw in the darkened window. “There’s someone in that house.”

“The hell . . . you think it’s CIA?”

“No way. As pissed off as Thorndike was this morning, he probably peppered this place with bugs the moment she left for work. In and out. Which means this can’t be good.”

They flew from the car, raced across the street to the closest house, keeping tight against the snow-covered shrubs, crouching below the window line, their weapons drawn. Tex signaled to Carillo to take the corner of the house, giving him the vantage point down two sides. When Carillo was in position, Tex moved to the side door, checked the knob, found it unlocked. He waved, and Carillo ran up. They stood on either side of the door.

“Ready?” he whispered.

Carillo nodded.

Tex pushed the door open with his foot, aimed his weapon. The place was still dark.

Most people turned the lights on when they came home.

Tex glanced around, saw the light switch in the up position. He pointed. Carillo nodded in understanding. Seemed that either her light had burned out, or it had a little help. Tex was betting on the latter, and he and Carillo entered the kitchen. They began their search on the bottom floor, room by room, when they heard a sound coming from the front of the house. They moved toward the stairs. Tex took one step and almost tripped.

He looked down, saw a body on the floor.

“It’s the reporter, Merideth,” Tex whispered. He crouched beside her, put his fingertips to her neck. No pulse.

A floorboard creaked at the back of the house.

Her killer was still there.

Tex motioned for Carillo to follow him. As they neared the rear of the house, they heard a door slam. A dark figure raced past the window. Tex and Carillo ran back through the kitchen, out the side door. They heard a car engine starting, the rev of a motor, then the screech of tires. The car was gone by the time they got to the sidewalk.

“Son of a bitch,” Tex said, watching the taillights disappear around the corner.

He and Carillo returned to the darkened house. “She dead?” Carillo asked.

“Real dead.”

“Guess we don’t need to plant those bugs.”

“A bit of a waste at this point.” Tex rubbed the tension from his neck. “You touch anything in there?”

“Just the door on the way out.”

“Let’s get rid of our prints, then get the hell out of here before someone calls the police.”

They met up at Tex’s office at the
Recorder
about a half hour later. Carillo stood in the hall as Tex unlocked the door, turned on the light, then threw his coat on the extra chair. “You want a drink, while we wait on word from Griffin?”

“What’dya got?” Carillo asked, shrugging out of his own coat.

“Whiskey.” Tex poured two glasses, then handed one to Carillo.

Carillo lifted his in toast, then took a sip. Very smooth. He looked over at the bottle, saw it was twenty-five-year-old Scotch whiskey. No wonder. “You think CIA hit her?”

“The reporter? Hell no,” Tex said. “Thorndike would’ve been first in line to find out who her source was.”

“Unless he knew who the source was.”

“Any reason the FBI would want her dead?”

“None whatsoever—never mind we tend to avoid that sort of thing. What other alphabet agencies we need to consider?”

Tex stared at his glass, swirling the amber liquid. “Maybe it’s not one of ours.”

“Then who would it be?”

“I’m guessing whoever is after Griffin. Probably the Network.”

“The Network? What are they? A renegade TV station?”

“International cabal of crooks is probably the easiest explanation.”

“And what, like they infiltrated the government?”

“Some of them
are
the government.”

“Always a comfort to hear.”

Tex put his feet up on his desk, drained his whiskey glass, then looked Carillo in the eye. “So maybe it depends on your interpretation of the government. These guys have some heavy-duty movers and shakers who fund their favorite politicians.”

“Like Grogan?”

“Like Grogan.”

“So they’re behind burning this CIA agent in France? And burning Griffin?”

“I’d bet my retirement on it.”

“Maybe even this Atlantis conspiracy?”

“Whatever that is, exactly, yeah,” he said as his cell phone rang. “Tex.” He listened, then suddenly sat up, putting his glass on the desk. “You’re sure . . . ? Goddamn— Uh, sorry, Father, but goddamn it to hell . . . Yeah . . . Keep me informed.” He disconnected, looking at Carillo. “That was Dumas. He says Griffin and Syd didn’t make the rendezvous.”

Carillo looked at his watch. “They were due a little over thirty minutes ago.”

“It’s possible Griffin found something, maybe needed to backtrack. Happens all the time. But Dumas can’t get a hold of him by cell.”

“What about Sydney’s cell?”

“They wouldn’t have used it on a black op. Too big an identifier.”

Carillo should have known, and the thought sobered him. Suddenly he lost all taste for the expensive whiskey, and he set his unfinished drink on the desk, thinking that he had to do something to help. After a moment, he said, “We find who killed this reporter, we find this Network mole?”

“That’d be my guess.”

“Where do we start?”

Tex pulled a sheet of paper from his desk. “My feeling? Someone who’s been involved in this from the beginning knows something. Here’s the list of names present at each of the security task force meetings ever since Griffin was burned.” He slid over a sheet of paper.

Carillo picked it up, looked at it. “Who are you liking as a suspect?”

“Anyone who’s not me.”

“That narrows it down.”

“Unfortunately it could be any of them.”

“Then we’ve got a lot of bugs to plant. I vote we go alphabetical.”

“That puts Cavanaugh at the top,” Tex replied. “Good place to start, now that I think about it. He’s said a couple things that just seemed off. Besides that, I’m not really sure how he got where he is.”

“Meaning what?”

“Meaning you can usually trace the smashed fingers of those left behind on the ladder of success as others have climbed their way up. Cavanaugh? He sort of came out of nowhere.”

“So even if he isn’t guilty of espionage, he’s guilty of something? How do you want to go about this?”

Tex reached over, grabbed the bottle of whiskey, topped off Carillo’s glass, then refilled his own. “Not get caught, for starters. It could lead to a prison sentence.”

Carillo held up his glass. “I’m all about the gray areas.”

“Yeah, this might be beyond the gray areas. Just so you know.”

“Put it this way, Tex. My wife’s divorcing me for everything I’ve got, and then some. In other words, my pants are already down, so it’s not like throwing me in jail and taking away my pension’s gonna do much more than she’s already doing.”

“Makes me glad I’m not married.”

Chapter 43

December 11

Paris, France

T
he air smelled of moldy, damp earth. Lying on her side, Sydney tried to free her hands. No such luck, and she remained motionless for several seconds while she took stock of herself. Nothing felt broken. A little banged up, definitely bruised, but she could live with that. She could even live with the fact her face was pressed into something smooth and round, about the size of a human skull. What she couldn’t live with was the total Stygian blackness. She hated the dark. Hell, she was afraid of it. Her one phobia. “Griff?” she whispered.

“Over here.”

Somewhere behind her. She tried to roll over, sit up, but with her hands behind her back, the motion sent her sliding down even farther, like being on a mountain of ceramic Lincoln Logs. A much preferable vision to the reality, she thought, aware of the dust in her mouth, grateful it had no taste. She scooted toward the sound of Griffin’s voice, feeling herself sliding again, using the motion to roll in his direction. A few seconds later, her feet touched a more level surface. “This is the point where you tell me that you have a secret tracking device activated and your guys will come rushing to the rescue any second, right?”

“I knew I forgot something when I dressed this morning.”

She heard him moving below her, as though he were shifting around in a bunch of hollow blocks. “What are you doing?”

“Trying to get to the knife in my boot.”

“A knife? For God’s sake, I thought we were going to die down here.”

“We still might die down here. You ever try to get a knife from your boot with your hands tied behind your back?”

“Maybe I can get it.”

He cursed as he slid farther from her. When the pile of bones stopped moving, he said, “I’m putting my foot toward you. You should be able to feel the hilt at the top of the boot. Slide it straight out.”

She heard something clunk down beside her, a skull, no doubt, and she reached back toward him with her cuffed hands. “Can you move a bit closer?”

“I’m upside down. It’s not as easy as you think.”

Sydney snaked toward him, felt the top of the boot. Just a little bit farther, and she had the knife, slipping it out, grasping it tightly in her hand. “Got it.”

“Let’s get to the bottom of this pile. If we drop it, at least we have a chance of finding it.”

Holding tight to the knife, she maneuvered her way down the pile of bones until her feet touched the cave floor. They worked their way to a sitting position, back to back. Sydney opened the knife. And even though she worried he’d slice his wrist, he managed to slide one tie over the blade and cut free. From there, it was short work to remove hers, and he pulled her to her feet. She lost her footing, slipping on a long bone, and he caught her.

“Thank you,” she said, her face against his chest. She could hear his heart beating.

“We’re not out of here yet,” he said, righting her.

And though she wanted nothing more in that moment than to have him continue holding her, erasing the chill of being there bound and helpless, she stepped back. “Any bright ideas?”

“Let’s take a look.”

He pulled his small LED from his pocket. “Guard missed it,” he explained, as he shone it around, lighting up the piles and piles of bones, with the skulls staring out at them.