The Kill Room (5 page)

S
HREVE METZGER SAT AT HIS DESK
in lower Manhattan, motionless, as a band of morning light, reflected off a high-rise nearby, fell across his arm and chest.

Staring at the Hudson River, he was recalling the horror yesterday as he’d read the encrypted text from NIOS’s surveillance department. The outfit was no more skillful than the CIA’s or NSA’s, but wasn’t quite so visible, which meant it wasn’t quite so hobbled by the inconvenience of FISA warrants and the like. And that in turn meant the quality of its information was golden.

Yesterday, early Sunday evening, Metzger had been at his daughter’s soccer game, an important one—against the Wolverines, a formidable opponent. He wouldn’t have left his seat in the stands, dead center on the field, for anything.

He trod lightly when it came to the children, he’d learned all too well.

But as he pulled on his light-framed glasses—after cleaning the lenses—and read the perplexing then troubling then shattering words, the Smoke formed, fast and unyielding, more a gel than vapor, and it closed around him. Suffocating. He found himself quivering, jaw clenched, hands clenched, heart clenched.

Metzger had recited: I can handle this. This is part of the job. I knew there was a risk of getting found out. He’d reminded himself: The Smoke doesn’t define you; it’s not part of you. You can make it float away if you want. But you have to
want
. Just let it go.

He’d calmed a bit, unclenched fingers tapping his bony leg in dress slacks (other soccer dads were in jeans but he hadn’t been able to change between office and field). Metzger was five ten and three-quarters and clocked in about 150 pounds. Formerly fat, as a boy, he’d melted the weight away and never let it return. His thinning brown hair was a bit long for government service but that’s the way he liked it and he wasn’t going to change.

Yesterday, as he put the phone away, the twelve-year-old midfielder had turned toward his section in the stands and smiled. Metzger had grinned back. It was fake and maybe Katie knew it. Wished they sold scotch but this was middle school in Bronxville, New York, so caffeine was the strongest offering on the menu, though the Woodrow Wilson PTO’s kick-ass cookies and blondies gave you a high of sorts.

Anyway, liquor was not the way to defeat the Smoke.

Dr. Fischer, I believe you. I think.

He’d returned to the office last night and tried to make sense of the news: Some crusading assistant district attorney in Manhattan was coming after him for Moreno’s death. A lawyer himself, Metzger added up the possible counts and knew the biggest, bluntest truncheon would be conspiracy.

And he’d been even more shocked that the DA’s Office had learned of Moreno’s death because the Special Task Order had been leaked.

A fucking whistleblower!

A traitor. To me, to NIOS, and—worst of all—to the nation. Oh, that had brought the Smoke back. He’d had an image of himself beating the prosecutor, whoever he or she was, to death with a shovel—he never knew the themes his rage would take. And this fantasy, particularly bloody and with a gruesome soundtrack, both mystified and viscerally satisfied with its vivacity and persistence.

When he’d calmed, Metzger had set to work, making calls and sending texts wrapped in the chrysalis of sublime encryption, to do what he could to make the problem go away.

Now, Monday morning, he turned from the river and stretched. He was more or less functioning, after a grand total of four hours’ sleep (very bad; fatigue gives the Smoke strength) and a shower in the NIOS gym. In his twenty-by-twenty office, bare except for safes, cabinets, computers, a few pictures, books and maps, Metzger sipped his latte. He’d bought his personal assistant the same—Ruth’s had been assembled with soy milk. He wondered if he should try that. She claimed the substance was a relaxer.

He regarded the framed picture of himself and his children on a vacation in Boone, North Carolina. He recalled the horseback ride at the tourist stable. Afterward an employee had taken this souvenir snap of the three of them. Metzger had noted that the camera the cowboy-clad employee had used was a Nikon, the same company that made the scopes his snipers used in Iraq. Thinking specifically of one of his men firing a Lapua .338 round 1,860 yards into the shoulder of an Iraqi about to detonate an IED. It’s not like the movies; a round like that will kill you pretty much anywhere it strikes. Shoulder, leg, anywhere. That insurgent had simply come apart and fallen to the sand, as Shreve Metzger exhaled with warm peace and joy.

Smile, Mr. Metzger. You have wonderful children. Do you want three eight-by-tens and a dozen wallet pictures?

There was no Smoke inside him when he was planning and executing the death of a traitor. None at all. He’d told that to Dr. Fischer. The psychiatrist had seemed uneasy and they didn’t explore that theme further.

Metzger glanced at his computer and at his magic phone.

His pale eyes—a hazel color he didn’t care for, yellowish green, sickly—looked out his window again at the slice of Hudson River, the view courtesy of a handful of psychotic fools, who, one clear September day, had removed the buildings that interfered with that vista. And who had inadvertently, to their surviving compatriots’ loss, driven Metzger into his new profession.

With these thoughts, the Smoke coalesced, as it often did when 9/11 came to mind. The memories of that day used to be debilitating. Now they simply stabbed with searing pain.

Let it go…

His phone rang. He regarded caller ID, which reported, in translation, You’re fucked.

“Metzger here.”

“Shreve!” the caller blurted cheerfully. “How are you? Been a month of Sundays since we chatted.”

Metzger had disliked the Wizard of Oz. That is, the wizard himself, as a character (he rather enjoyed the movie). He was furtive and manipulative and arbitrary and had ascended to the throne by false pretense…and yet he commanded all the power in the land.

Much like the caller he was now speaking to.

His own personal Wizard was chiding, “You didn’t call me, Shreve.”

“I’m still getting facts,” he told the man, who happened to be 250 miles away, south, in Washington, DC. “There’s a lot we don’t know.”

Which meant nothing. But he didn’t know how much the Wizard knew. Accordingly he would steer the course of ambiguity.

“Imagine it was bum intelligence about Moreno, right, Shreve?”

“Appears to be.”

The Wizard: “That happens. That surely happens. What a crazy business we’re in. So. All your intel was buttoned up, double- and triple-checked.”

Your…

Choice of stark pronoun noted.

“Of course.”

The Wizard didn’t specifically remind him that Metzger had assured him Moreno’s death was necessary to save lives because the expat had been about to blow up American Petroleum’s headquarters in Miami. When in fact the worst that had happened was a woman protestor threw a tomato at a policeman and missed.

But with the Wizard, conversations involved mostly subtext and his words—or lack thereof—seemed all the more pointed for it.

Metzger had worked with the man for several years. They didn’t meet in person often but on those occasions that they did, the stocky, smiling man always wore blue serge, whatever that exactly was, and impressively patterned socks, along with an American flag pin in his lapel. He never had a problem like Metzger’s, the Smoke problem, and when he spoke he did so always with the calmest of voices.

“We had to act fast,” Metzger said, resenting that he was on the defensive. “But we know Moreno’s a threat. He funds terrorists, he supports arms sales, his businesses launder money, a lot of things.”

Metzger corrected himself: Moreno
had been
a threat. He’d been shot to death. He wasn’t
is
anything.

The Wizard of Washington continued in that honey voice of his, “Sometimes you just have to move fast, Shreve, that’s true. Crazy business.”

Metzger took out a fingernail clipper and went to work. He chopped slowly. It kept the Smoke from materializing, a little. Snipping was weird but it was better than gorging on fries and cookies. And screaming at your wife or children.

The Wizard muffled his phone and had another muted conversation.

Who the hell else was in the room with him? Metzger wondered. The attorney general?

Someone from Pennsylvania Avenue?

When the Wizard came back on the line he asked, “And we hear there’s some investigation?”

So. Fuck. He did know. How had word gotten out? Leaks are as big a threat to what I’m doing as the terrorists themselves.

Smoke, big time.

“Seems to be.”

A pause that clearly asked: And when were you going to mention it to us, Shreve?

The Wizard’s stated question, though, was: “Police?”

“NYPD, yes. Not feds. But there’s a solid case for immunity.” Metzger’s law degree had been gathering dust for years but he’d looked up
In re Neagle
and related cases very carefully before taking on the job here. He could recite the conclusion of that case in his sleep: That federal officials could not be prosecuted for state crimes, provided they were acting within the scope of their authority.

“Ah, right, immunity,” the Wizard said. “We’ve looked into that, of course.”

Already? But Metzger wasn’t really surprised.

A viscous pause. “You’re happy that everything
was
within the scope of authority, Shreve?”

“Yes.”

Please, Lord, let me keep the Smoke inside now.

“Excellent. Now, it was Bruns who was the specialist, right?”

Either no names or code names over the phone, however well encrypted.

“Yes.”

“The police talked to him?”

“No. He’s deep cover. There’s no way anyone could find him.”

“Of course I don’t need to say—he knows to be careful.”

“He’s taking precautions. Everybody is.”

A pause. “Well, enough said about that matter. I’ll let you take care of it.”

“I will.”

“Good. Because it turns out some Intelligence Committee budget discussions have come up. Suddenly. Can’t understand why. Nothing scheduled but you know those committees. Looking over where the money’s going. And I just wanted to tell you that for some reason—it really frosts me, I’ll say—NIOS is in their sights.”

No Smoke but Metzger was stunned. He couldn’t say anything.

The Wizard steamed forward. “Nonsense, isn’t it? You
know
we fought hard to get your outfit up and running. Some people were pretty concerned about it.” A laugh that seemed utterly devoid of humor. “Our liberal friends didn’t like the idea of what you were up to at all. Some of our friends on the other side of the aisle didn’t like the fact you were taking business away from Langley and the Pentagon. Rock and a hard place.

“Anyway. Probably nothing’ll come of it. Ah, money. Why does it always come down to money? So. How’re Katie and Seth?”

“They’re fine. Thanks for asking.”

“Glad to hear it. Have to go, Shreve.”

They disconnected.

Oh, Jesus.

This was bad.

What the cheerful Wizard with his serge wizard suit and brash socks and his dark razor-sharp eyes had actually been saying was: You took out a U.S. citizen on the basis of bad intel and if the case goes to trial in state court it’s going to bleed all the way to Oz. A lot of people down in the capital would be keeping a very close eye on New York and the results of the Moreno matter. They were fully prepared to send a shooter of their own after NIOS itself—figurative, of course, in the form of gutted budget. The Service would be out of business in six months.

And the whole affair would have been quiet as a snake’s sleep, if not for the whistleblower.

The traitor.

Blinded by the Smoke, Metzger intercommed his assistant and picked up his coffee again.

All your intel was buttoned up, double- and triple-checked…

Well, about that…

Metzger now told himself, Think the situation through: You’ve made some calls, you’ve sent some texts. Clean-up was well under way.

“You, ah, all right, Shreve?” Ruth’s eyes were on his fingers around the cardboard cup. Metzger realized he was about to crush it and send tepid coffee over his sleeve and several files that only a dozen people in the whole of America were authorized to read.

He released the death grip and managed a smile. “Yes, sure. Long night.”

His personal assistant was in her early sixties, a long, attractive face, still dusted with faint freckles, making her appear younger. She’d been, he’d learned, a flower child decades ago. Summer of Love in San Francisco. Living in the Haight. Now her gray hair was, as often, pulled back in a severe bun and she wore bands of colored rubber on her wrists, bracelets signifying support for various causes. Breast cancer, hope, reconciliation. Who could tell? He wished she wouldn’t; messages like that, even if ambiguous, seemed inappropriate in a government agency with a mission like NIOS’s.

“Is Spencer here yet?” he asked her.

“About a half hour, he said.”

“Have him come to see me as soon as he’s in.”

“All right. Anything else I can do?”

“No, thank you.”

When Ruth had left the office and closed the door, leaving a trail of patchouli oil scent behind her, Metzger sent a few more texts and received some.

One was encouraging.

At least it thinned the Smoke a bit.

R
HYME NOTED NANCE LAUREL
scrutinizing her face in the dim mirror of the gas chromatograph’s metal housing. She gave no reaction to what she was seeing. She didn’t seem like a primping woman.

She turned and asked Sellitto and Rhyme, “How do you suggest we proceed?”

In Rhyme’s mind the case was already laid out clearly. He answered, “I’ll run the crime scene as best I can. Sachs and Lon’ll find out what they can about NIOS, Metzger and the other conspirator—the sniper. Sachs, start a chart. Add the cast of characters on there, even if we don’t know very much.”

She took a marker and walked to an empty whiteboard, jotted the sparse information.

Sellitto said, “I wanna track down the whistleblower too. That could be tough. He knows he’ll be at risk. He didn’t tip off the press that some company’s using shitty wheat in their breakfast cereal; he’s accusing the government of committing murder. Amelia, you?”

Sachs replied, “I’ve sent Rodney the information about the email and the STO. I’ll coordinate with him and Computer Crimes. If anybody can trace an anonymous upload, he can.” She thought for a moment and said, “Let’s call Fred too.”

Rhyme considered this and said, “Good.”

“Who’s that?” Laurel asked.

“Fred Dellray. FBI.”

“No,” Laurel said bluntly. “No feds.”

“Why not?” Sellitto’s question.

“A chance word’ll get to NIOS. I don’t think we can risk it.”

Sachs countered, “Fred’s specialty’s undercover work. If we say be discreet, that’s how he’ll handle it. We need help, and he’ll have access to a lot more information than NCIC and state criminal databases.”

Laurel debated. Her round, pale face—pretty from some angles, farm girl pretty—registered a very subtle change. Concern? Pique? Defiance? Her expressions were like lettering in Hebrew or Arabic, tiny diacritical marks the only clues to radically different meanings.

Sachs glanced once at the prosecutor, said insistently, “We’ll tell him how sensitive it is. He’ll go along.”

She hit speaker on a phone nearby before Laurel could say any more. Rhyme saw the prosecutor stiffen and wondered if she was actually going to step forward and press her finger down on the cradle button.

The hollow sound of ringing filled the air.

“S’Dellray here,” the agent answered. The muted tone suggested he might’ve been on an undercover set somewhere in Trenton or Harlem and didn’t want to draw attention to himself.

“Fred. Amelia.”

“Well, well, well how’s it goin’? Been a while. Now how imperiled am I, speaking into a telephone that on my end is nice and private but on yours is broadcasting to Madison Square Garden? I do truly hate speakers.”

“You’re safe, Fred. You’re on with me, Lon, Lincoln—”

“Hey, Lincoln. You lost that Heidegger bet, ya know. I’ma peeking in my mailbox everday and as of yesterday, ain’t a single check appeared. Pay to the order of Fred Don’t-Argue-Philosophy-With Dellray.”

“I know, I know,” Rhyme grumbled. “I’ll pay up.”

“Y’owe me fifty.”

Rhyme said, “By rights, Lon should pay part of it. He egged me on.”

“Fuck no I didn’t.” Delivered essentially as one word.

Nance Laurel took in the exchange with a bewildered look. Of all the things she wasn’t, a banterer would be high on the list.

Or maybe she was just angry that Sachs had overridden her and called the FBI agent.

Sachs continued, “And a prosecutor, ADA Nance Laurel.”

“Well, this
is
a special day. Hey there, Counselor Laurel. Good job with that Longshoremen’s convic. That was you, right?”

Pause. “Yes, Agent Dellray.”

“Never, never, never thought you’d pull that one off. You know the collar, Lincoln? The Joey Barone case, Southern District?
We
got some fed charges on that boy but the jury went for wrist slaps. Counselor Laurel, other hand, ran downfield in state court and bought that boy twenty years min. I heard the U.S. attorney put a pictura you up in his office…on a dartboard.”

“I don’t know about that” was her stiff response. “I was pleased with the outcome.”

“So,
pro
-ceed.”

Sachs said, “Fred, we’ve got a situation. A sensitive one.”

“Well, I gotta say the tone of your voice sounds so perplexingly intriguing, don’t stop now.”

Rhyme saw a brief smile on Sachs’s face. Fred Dellray was one of the bureau’s best agents, a renowned runner of confidential informants and a family man and father…and amateur philosopher. But his years as an undercover agent on the street had given him a unique speaking style, as bizarre as his fashion choices.

“The perp’s your boss, the federal government.”

A pause. “Hm.”

Sachs glanced at Laurel, who debated a moment and then took over, reiterating the facts they knew so far about the Moreno killing.

Fred Dellray’s waiting state was calm and confident but Rhyme detected unusual concern now. “NIOS? They’re not really
us
us. They’re in their own dimension. And I don’t necessarily mean that in a good way.”

He didn’t elaborate, though Rhyme wasn’t sure he needed to.

“I’ll check out a few things now. Hold on.” The sound of typing flew from the speaker like nutshells on a tabletop.

“Agent Dellray,” Laurel began.

“Call me Fred. An’ don’tcha fret. I’m as encrypted as can be.”

A blink. “Thank you.”

“Okay, just looking at our files here, our files…” A lengthy pause. “Robert Moreno, aka Roberto. Sure, here’s some notes on APDR, American Petroleum Drilling and Refining…Looks like our Miami office was scrambled on a potential terrorist incident but it turned out to be a big false a-larm. You want what I got here on Moreno?”

“Please, Fred. Go ahead.” Sachs sat at a computer and started a file.

“Hokay, our boy left the country over twenty years ago and only comes back once a year or so. Well,
came
back. Let’s see…Watchlisted but never in any active-risk books. He was mostly all talk—so we didn’t pri-oritize him. Hobnobbed with al-Qaeda some and Shining Path, folk like that, but never actually shouted out for an attack.” The agent was whispering to himself. Then he said, “Note here says that the official word is some cartels might’ve been behind the shooting. But that couldn’t be verified…Ah, here’s this.”

A pause.

“Fred, you there?” Rhyme asked impatiently.

“Hm.”

Rhyme sighed.

Then Dellray said, “This could be helpful. Report from State. Moreno was here. New Yawk City. Arrived April thirty, late. Then left May second.”

Lon Sellitto asked, “Anything specific about what he did here, where he went?”

“Nup. That’s gotta be your job, friends. Now, I’ll keep on it from my end. Make some calls down to my folks in the Caribbean and South America. Oh, I got a picture. Want it?”

“No,” Laurel said abruptly. “We need to minimize any communication from your office. I’d prefer phone calls to me or Detectives Sellitto and Sachs or Lincoln Rhyme. Discretion is—”

“The better part of valor,” Dellray intoned cryptically. “Not a single problem in the world on that. But broachin’ that subject: You
sure
our friends don’t know anything yet? At NIOS?”

“No,” the ADA said.

“Uh-hum.”

Rhyme said, “You don’t sound convinced.”

He chuckled. “Good luck, one and all.”

Sachs clicked the phone off.

“Now, where can I work?” Laurel asked.

“How’s that?” Sachs wondered aloud.

The ADA was looking around. “I need a desk. Or table. It doesn’t need to be a desk. Just something big.”

“Why do you need to be here?”

“I can’t work out of my office. How can I?” As if it were obvious. “Leaks. NIOS’ll eventually find out we’re running the investigation but I need to delay that for as long as possible. Now, that looks good. Over there. Is that all right?”

Laurel pointed to a worktable in the corner.

Rhyme called Thom in and had the aide clear the surface of books and some boxes of old forensics gear.

“I have computers but I’ll need my own line and Wi-Fi router too. I’ll have to set up a private account on it, encrypted. And I’d prefer not to share the network.” A glance toward Rhyme. “If that can be arranged.”

Sachs clearly didn’t like the idea of this new member of the team. Lincoln Rhyme was by nature a solitary person but at least when a case was ongoing he’d come to tolerate, though hardly relish, the presence of others. He had no particular objection.

Nance Laurel hefted her briefcase and the heavy litigation bag onto the table and began unpacking files, organizing them into separate stacks. She looked as if she were a student moving into a dorm on the first day of freshman year, placing her few possessions on the desk and bedside table for most comfort.

Then Laurel looked up to the others. “Oh, one thing: In working the case I need you to find everything you can to make him look like a saint.”

“I’m sorry?” From Sachs.

“Robert Moreno—a saint. He’s said a lot of inflammatory things. He’s been very critical of the country. So I need you to find what he’s done that’s good. His Local Empowerment Movement, for instance. Building schools, feeding third-world children, that sort of thing. Being a loving father and husband.”

“You
need
us to do that?” Sachs questioned. The emphasis pointed the question in the direction of disbelief…and gave it a nice tidy edge, to boot.

“Correct.”

“Why?”

“It’s just better.” As if obvious.

“Oh.” A pause. “That’s not really an answer,” Sachs said. She wasn’t looking at Rhyme and he didn’t want her to. The tension between her and the ADA was simmering just fine on its own.

“The jury again.” With a glance toward Rhyme who’d apparently fueled her argument earlier. “I need to show he was upright and a good, ethical man. The defense is going to paint Moreno as a danger—like lawyers try to portray a rape victim as somebody who was dressing provocatively and flirting with her attacker.”

Sachs said, “There’s a big difference between those scenarios.”

“Really? I’m not so sure.”

“Isn’t the point of an investigation to get to the truth?”

A pause for digesting these words. “If you don’t win in court, then what good does having the truth do?”

Then, for her, the subject was settled. Laurel said to everyone, “And we need to work fast. Very fast.”

Sellitto said, “Right. NIOS could find out about the case at any time. Evidence could start disappearing.”

Laurel said, “That’s obvious but it’s not what I’m talking about. Look at the board, the kill order.”

Everyone did, Rhyme included. Yet he could draw no immediate conclusion. But he suddenly understood. “The queue.”

“Exactly,” the prosecutor said.

She continued, “Now, I can’t find out anything about this Rashid or where he is. Maybe
his
kill room’s a hut in Yemen, where he’s selling nuclear bomb parts. Or given Metzger’s zeal, maybe it’s a family room in Ridgefield, Connecticut, where Rashid is blogging against Guantánamo and insulting the president. But we do know that NIOS’s going to kill him before Friday. And who’ll be the collateral damage then? His wife and children? Some passerby? I want Metzger in custody before that.”

Rhyme said, “That won’t necessarily stop the assassination.”

“No, but it’ll send a message to NIOS and Washington that somebody’s looking very carefully at what they’re up to. They might delay the attack and have somebody independent review the STO and see if it’s legitimate or not. That’s not going to happen with Metzger in power.”

Like counsel in a closing argument Laurel then strode forward and dramatically tapped the kill order. “Oh, and these numbers at the top? Eight/twenty-seven, nine/twenty-seven? They’re not dates. They’re
tasks
in the queue. That is, victims. Moreno was the eighth person NIOS killed. Rashid’ll be the ninth.”

“Twenty-seven total,” Sellitto said.

“As of a week ago,” Laurel said briskly. “Who knows how many it is today?”