The Dark Hour (36 page)

She was the perfect political wife.

The Network came first.

“D
addy,” she said, walking into the front parlor where her father, gray-haired and in his early seventies, sat on the couch, waiting for her. “You look well.”

He stood, and she leaned over, allowing him to kiss her cheek. “How are you?”

“Fine,” she said. “A bit tired.”

“I’ll make this short and you can nap before you have to get ready for this afternoon.”

She took a seat in the chair opposite him. The same chair she’d been sitting in the day when she’d greeted those who’d come to pay their respects after her husband’s murder. The same chair she’d been sitting in when her father had come to tell her that her husband had become a liability. She took a breath, sat up straight, and waited, even though this time, she knew what he had to say. After the events of today unfolded, everyone involved in the planning and security of the summit would be removed from office, and the Network could move in quickly, quietly, presumably to clean up the mess, taking over the vacated positions that would allow them one step closer to totally controlling the government.

“It’s here,” he said, opening a long, thin case. He lifted a strip of gray foam, revealing more of the same, and nestled within it, a thin vial containing a cloudy substance. She reached out to touch it, and he pulled the container back. “Careful. You could get frostbite. It was frozen with dry ice for shipping.”

“Will it thaw in time?”

“It’ll be ready. More important, are you ready?”

Chapter 59

December 12

Washington, D.C.

C
arillo looked up at the elegant brick townhouse. Old money, he thought, walking up the steps. He knocked on the door, waited, and was about to knock again when it suddenly opened. Olivia Grogan stood there, looking at him, her expression one of bland patience.

“Mrs. Grogan? I’m Special Agent Carillo, FBI,” he said, holding out his credentials so that she could see them, as well as the badge. “I was the agent assigned to your husband’s homicide.”

She seemed somewhat taken aback, as though not expecting to come face-to-face with anyone on the case. “Would you like to come in?”

“Thank you.”

She led him inside and to the front room. “This is my father, Brandon Godwin.”

Agent Carillo stepped forward, shook her father’s hand, saying, “Nice to meet you.”

“Have you learned something in the investigation?” Brandon asked.

“Truth is, I’m here about another matter entirely. There’s no real delicate way to say this, ma’am, but is there anyone you know who might have an interest in seeing you dead?”

Olivia looked at her father, before turning her attention back to Carillo. “I—I don’t understand.”

“All I can really say is that we’re concerned enough to ask you not to attend this affair you have planned.”

And her father said, “I’m sorry. That’s not possible.”

“This is your daughter’s life we’re talking about.”

“And
her career.”

Olivia sank into an armchair, not saying anything.

“And what,” her father continued, “is the Bureau’s plan if she decides to attend?”

“If it can’t be avoided, we do have agents who do dignitary protection.”

“How credible is this threat?” he asked.

“Very. Without going into details that could compromise our investigation, I wouldn’t be here if there wasn’t a good reason.”

“Allow me to talk to my daughter a moment. Privately.”

“Of course,” Carillo said.

“Olivia?”

Grogan’s widow stood and followed her father to the patio, through a set of French doors, closing them behind her. Carillo could see them talking, quietly, urgently, and wished he could hear the conversation. When they emerged a few minutes later, he fully expected Olivia’s father to take the reins.

He was wrong.

“This dignitary protection?” Olivia asked. “What does it entail?”

“We assign an agent to escort you around the next few days. Where you go, the agent goes. We will have someone sitting on your house, too.”

“Who would escort me? You?”

“No, ma’am. We’d assign a female agent. She can, uh, go places I can’t.”

“And how will I explain this—what would you call her? A shadow?”

“She can pose as your aide. Arrive when you arrive, leave when you leave.”

Olivia crossed her arms, closing her eyes for a moment, then looking straight at her father. “I think this will work out fine.”

“She can meet you here or at the fund-raiser this afternoon,” Carillo offered.

“Here is probably best. It starts at two. Say, one o’clock? It will give us time to familiarize ourselves with each other.”

“I’ll drop her off here at one.”

“Thank you, Agent Carillo. I so look forward to meeting her.”

Chapter 60

December 12

Paris, France

S
ydney wished Dumas had not left, but he had an appointment that he couldn’t break, which meant she was alone with Griffin, en route to see his wife’s CIA handler, Reggie Carter. It wasn’t that she expected Griffin to act any differently, or lash out. She just wasn’t sure how to phrase it—delicately or otherwise. Somehow saying Carter might be the only one who could verify whether Griffin’s wife was actually dead or alive seemed, well, harsh. Instead she said, “Are you okay to drive?”

“More than fine,” he replied, and she handed him the keys, then gave him the address.

The main roads, which had been cleared and salted, were beginning to take on a gray, gritty look from the afternoon traffic. In spite of the cold, the brasseries and cafés on the Boulevard du Montparnasse were doing a thriving business. As they drove past a gothic-styled church, she glimpsed a flurry of gaudy mufflers and snowcaps—children hard at battle in a snowball war in the open
place
. Eventually the cafés and restaurants vanished, being replaced by the elegant apartments, embassies, and ministries of the Seventh Arrondissement, as the wide street transformed into the Boulevard des Invalides.

Griffin turned the car into a narrow side street, which, probably because a government ministry occupied most of the block, had been cleared of snow. He turned another corner, then pulled up in front of a discreet iron gate that fronted the courtyard of a belle époque apartment with a steep mansard roof. There was no parking out front, but plenty around the corner. They walked back to the apartment, and Griffin opened the gate, its hinges squeaking as they stepped into a narrow courtyard, flanked by a staircase on either side. They took the stairs on the left, which led up to Carter’s fourth floor flat.

“Is he expecting us?” Griffin asked.

“I’m pretty sure he’s not,” Sydney replied.

“All the better.”

“Why?” she asked, thinking he was taking this very well, considering.

“To see his reaction. Get a feel for what’s going on. If he’s covering up something or not. If nothing else, he’ll have the answers we need.”

Made sense, she thought, as they stood outside Carter’s door, painted robin’s egg blue.

Griffin knocked.

No answer.

He knocked again. Nothing. He tried the handle, found it locked, started to turn away, then hesitated. “You hear something?”

Sydney listened. The sound barely carried through the door. A soft buzz. “Alarm clock?” she said.

He looked at his watch. “At three in the afternoon?”

In Sydney’s mind, there was only one reason someone didn’t shut off an alarm. Because one had set it and left, or something prevented one from reaching it.

Griffin motioned for her to move back. Neither of them had weapons, and normally, when one broke into an apartment, one would want a gun handy.

Sydney had a sinking feeling, however, that a weapon was totally unnecessary in this instance. And as Griffin kicked the door open, and they stepped in, then walked to the bedroom, she saw her instinct was correct. Reggie Carter, the handler, apparently had never made it out of bed. Hard to do when one was missing half one’s brain.

G
riffin hoped to find some indication of his wife’s existence, even though he knew he’d find nothing. A good handler would never keep evidence on the premises that might jeopardize him or his covert operative. Even so, Griffin made a quick search of the bedroom, riffling through the drawers, hoping to find something. Anything.

He carefully ran his hand around the edge of the mattress, looking for a slit where one might stash paperwork that would be overlooked in an ordinary search. Coming up empty-handed, he eyed the corpse, figuring the guy hadn’t been dead that long. Probably killed sometime in the night. And if there was anything? Whoever killed him probably took it.

A professionally staged suicide, with the gun just inches from his right hand. Someone didn’t want him talking, that much was obvious. But talking about what? That Griffin’s wife was alive or that she wasn’t? Or was there something else he knew?

A distant siren cut his thoughts short. “We better get out of here,” Griffin said. “Careful not to touch anything. You don’t want your prints coming back to this scene.”

Sydney nodded, started for the door, then stopped by the dining table, looking at something that had fallen to the floor, the corner of ivory paper just visible beneath an antique china cabinet. She bent down, picked it up. “An invitation,” she said.

Before she had a chance to examine it, Griffin looked out the window, “I think the police are coming up here. Let’s go.”

She shoved the card in her pocket, then followed him from the room. They took the back stairs, wanting to avoid running into the responding officers, and Griffin didn’t relax until they were safely back in Dumas’s hotel room. It could have been coincidence the gendarmes were called right after their arrival. Then again, maybe not.

Dumas walked in shortly after they did. “I have news about the police investigation on the shooting in your hotel last night,” he said. “It turns out the deceased would-be robber is wanted for murder in Amsterdam . . . For Faas’s niece.”

“His true record, or a doctored record?” Griffin asked.

“His true record. Apparently he was a little sloppy when he climbed out the window after the murder. A pack of cigarettes fell out of his pocket onto the bathroom floor. Detective Van der Lans was able to lift a print off the cellophane.”

“And where does that leave the investigation here?” Griffin asked Dumas.

“My contact at the police tells me they’re taking the entire affair at face value—a good thing, since your precarious medical condition precluded the luxury of waiting for a cleanup crew to come out and sterilize the scene. Sydney did a good job of ridding the place of items that might raise questions beyond the robbery scenario she’d concocted. Had the Amsterdam murder case not come out, they might look deeper. As it is, they are not.”

To which Sydney replied, “The second Amsterdam suspect must be the associate that Bose talked about in his call to Cavanaugh. I wonder if he’s the one who killed Becca’s handler.”

“Her handler is dead?” Dumas asked.

Griffin told them what they’d discovered. That was when Sydney pulled out the card she’d found on the floor, saying, “What are the chances?” She handed the paper to Griffin. “Same date, same time as marked on the calendar in the lab. And in a dead CIA agent’s apartment, no less.”

Griffin examined the cream-colored card, an engraved invitation to the Château d’Montel Winery. “Buyer 9
P.M.
” was scrawled across the top. “Hope the two of you don’t have plans for the night.”

Chapter 61

December 12

ATLAS Headquarters

Washington, D.C.

T
ex leaned back in his chair, exhausted, ready for a nap even though it was only midmorning when McNiel walked in. “You heard Carillo got Olivia Grogan to agree to a dignitary escort?” Tex asked.

“Good,” McNiel said. “What about Griffin? You have an update yet?”

“Sydney said he was out of the hospital, and they were going to follow up on a lead.”

“What lead?”

“I gave Dumas the information on Becca’s handler. They’re going to pay him a visit, if they haven’t already. That should at least verify if she really is a working asset and not a figment of someone’s imagination, resurrected from the dead for the sole purpose of leading us like lambs to the slaughter.”

“I hope not. Thorndike’s last contact with her handler was that LockeStarr had lined up a buyer for their port security data that had been stolen. He was counting on Becca to recover it before it could be sold. Now he’s wondering if even that information is suspect. If she really did steal that virus, it’s hard to imagine she’d be procuring the port security data to bring to us.”

“You think she was working a double deal? Procure the data and sell it
and
the virus to the same buyer?”

“I have no idea what to think. No one’s seen or heard from her that we know of, and there’s only Thorndike’s word that she’s alive, and even that has only been through her handler.”

“What about the witness and the sketch?” Tex asked. “Petra’s description was on the money.”

“Petra? As far as we know, she was part of it and they killed her in case anyone got to her. Or maybe she merely saw someone who looks like Becca—a double they arranged to make it look good. Like the ambush at the French lab, this whole thing could be a setup.”

“You believe that?”

“I’m not sure what to believe anymore.” McNiel sat, leaning his head on the back of the chair, clearly as frustrated as Tex was about all this. “The one thought I keep coming back to is what if it is her?”

“That presents a whole new set of problems. I’ve run it every which way. Let’s say she’s innocent. On the one hand, she and Griffin were getting divorced, so it’s not like she needed to ask Griff for permission to take on this assignment. On the other, playing dead without telling your spouse, even if it is for the good of your country—well, it’s pretty damned low no matter how you spin it. But espionage? I just can’t see her guilty of that. Not the Becca I knew.”