The Line Between Here and Gone (26 page)

“He left the Forward Operating Base,” the team leader reported. “No one at the New Embassy Compound has seen him.”

The Assistant U.S. Attorney scowled. “Which means you have no idea where he is.”

“We’ve got key personnel searching the whole embassy. We’ll find him.”

As they spoke, the phone in the conference room rang. The team leader picked it up. “Yes?”

A long moment of silence, and then the team leader hung up.

“He left the embassy. He’s already on a flight to Kuwait.”

“Shit.” The AUSA slammed his fist on the table. “We can’t let this happen. We’ve
got to
stop him.”

The phone rang again.

“Yes?” was the impatient response. Then a pause. “Thank you.” A few quick clicks on the team leader’s laptop. “He emailed us.”

Everyone listened as the email was read aloud.

“He’s not coming to D.C.,” the AUSA realized aloud. “He’s going straight to JFK.”

“Then we’ll have him detained there.” The office head paused. “In the meantime, we’ve got to wrap up this investigation. One day. That’s all we’ve got.”

“If we have that,” the AUSA replied. “What happens when he tries to contact Amanda Gleason by phone? You know he will. And there’ll be no weather to screw up his cell service.”

“We’ll take care of that.”

At that heightened moment, the office head’s BlackBerry rang. He glanced at the caller ID and blanched. “It’s
her.
” He gestured urgently toward the door, ordering everyone to leave.

* * *

Minutes later, urgent instructions arrived at the desk of the head network security analyst on duty. He thrust aside his current assignment and turned quickly to the task at hand. With a few mouse clicks, he disabled the targeted cell phone, transforming it into nothing more than an expensive paperweight.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Patricia Carey couldn’t shut an eye all night long.

She was in her office, pacing restlessly about at 5:00 a.m. The current situation forced a flood of raw emotion to surface. How darkly ironic life was. As the Executive Assistant Director, she was the highest-ranking woman in the entire agency. All her life, she’d exceeded everyone’s expectations. In school. In training. In her rapid rise to a position of power. At forty-six years old, she was still successful at everything she did.

Except for the one thing that would truly have been her legacy.

Despite consultations with the most noted experts in the world, and the hundreds of thousands of dollars she’d paid them, she’d failed.

She blamed herself entirely. She’d waited too long. The rise of her career had pushed this onto the back burner. She’d climbed the proverbial ladder, all the while thinking that later would be fine. But when later came, Mother Nature had other plans. And her body refused to cooperate.

Tears. Trials. Injections. In vitro. Nothing had worked.

By the time she’d accepted the inevitable, even adoption was not in the cards. Her age, her now-greater set of professional responsibilities, and, most of all, her depleted emotional reserves—all those factors combined to rule out the prospect of adoption.

A baby was precious. But, for her, it was never to be.

So, yes, her circumstances had colored her thinking. But still she’d debated the current dilemma long and hard, forcing herself to be objective, to view things from all angles. She had the final say. And her primary responsibility was to the agency.

But at what cost?

The hours ticked by, slowly and painfully. Patricia drank her coffee and searched her soul. The decision would be hers. So would the ramifications.

Patricia’s bleary-eyed assistant, Sharon, knocked and then poked her head into the office. “It’s eight o’clock, ma’am. The contingent from New York has arrived. They’ve been driving all night to make this meeting. Everyone is assembled in the conference room as you ordered. Will there be anything else?”

“Yes,” Patricia replied. “I need to see Richard before I go to this meeting. Have him come to my office now.”

“Of course.”

A few minutes later, Richard Fieldstone, the Deputy Assistant Director of the Criminal Investigative Unit, and the Chairman of CUORC—the Criminal Undercover Operation Review Committee—stepped into his boss’s office. “You wanted to see me, Pat?”

“Yes.” She waved him in. “Close the door behind you and have a seat.”

Once he’d complied, she folded her hands in front of her on the desk. “I’m about to attend a very important meeting, one whose outcome will ultimately end up in CUORC’s lap. Let me bring you up to speed on the difficult situation we’re facing. Then I’m going to lay out the way I want this handled and the outcome I want you and CUORC to achieve.”

Richard’s brows rose. CUORC was a joint entity that consisted of their own representatives and representatives from the Department of Justice. The Committee met bimonthly at headquarters, and made its own independent recommendations. It was unprecedented—although well within Patricia’s power to do so—for her to insert herself in the decision-making process.

“Go on,” he said.

Patricia told him the entire story, omitting no details. She didn’t want him to be blindsided by a single thing that might and would be said when CUORC held its emergency meeting.

Richard listened without saying a word. When she was finished, he asked, “I just want to be clear about this—are you saying that if CUORC votes in favor of the Bureau and against the individual, you’ll override our decision?”

“That’s exactly what I’m saying.” Patricia spoke calmly and with authoritative finality. “I’m instructing you to hold the emergency meeting today, and I’m giving you the responsibility of shaping the outcome so as to avoid any confrontation. This way, the decision will be CUORC’s and no one will be the wiser. That said, if you come to me with any other recommendation, rest assured, I will overrule it. I’d prefer it not come to that, which is why I’m giving you a heads-up.”

Richard studied her unyielding expression. “Why this time?”

“Simple,” Patricia replied. “I will
not
be the one responsible for letting an innocent baby die. And I will
not
allow the FBI to be held responsible in the court of public opinion for letting an innocent baby die.”

* * *

Hutch was still asleep when Casey left the brownstone the next morning. But he’d clearly gotten up sometime during the wee hours of the morning, when she’d been out for the count, because his overnight bag was unpacked and his toothbrush was back in the bathroom.

Casey smiled. Tough as the situation was, she was glad he’d decided to stay. He had to be back at Quantico tomorrow anyway. And if they could grab one more night together, it would be worth the professional tension that permeated the air whenever their careers collided.

Nothing good was waiting for her at Sloane Kettering.

The minute she arrived at the PICU, Patrick warned her that Amanda was in a highly depressed state. Justin had had a fitful night, and Dr. Braeburn was concerned that there had been no improvement in his breathing or in his overall condition. The antibiotics should be doing their job by now.

Casey nodded, and then went down the hall.

She stood on the other side of the window, watching Amanda try to hold Justin. It was next to impossible with the ventilator and the chest tube in place. And she was clearly terrified about inadvertently jostling any of the apparatus, for fear that it would cause them to stop working—even for an instant.

It broke Casey’s heart to see Amanda bow her head and brokenly sob over this tiny little person who had endured so much in his few short weeks of life. Her shoulders quaked with emotion as she stroked his face, his downy head. Tears slid down her cheeks and fell onto the railing of Justin’s crib.

Dammit,
Casey thought, squeezing her own eyes shut. Why couldn’t the FBI understand this? Why couldn’t she drag the whole miserable lot of them into this PICU to see the consequences of their actions, to see the result of their impeding FI’s search for Paul Everett? What if it had been their child whose life was on the line? What in the name of heaven could matter more? Some stupid case?

Tears brimming in her own eyes, Casey turned away. She’d lost all objectivity where it came to the FBI’s handling of this investigation. Obviously, whatever they were pursuing was major. But that wasn’t this poor baby’s fault. He deserved the right to live, to thrive. And—if he was lucky enough to do both—he deserved the right to know his father.

Amanda glanced up and spotted Casey outside, her back turned toward her. She resettled Justin in his crib and rose, walking slowly out to where Casey stood.

“Hi, Casey,” she said quietly, a tremor still in her voice. “How long have you been here.”

“I just arrived.” Casey dashed away her tears and turned around. She wasn’t fooling anyone with her show of bravado, but it was her job to appear strong. So strong she would be. “No change?” she asked, fully aware of the answer.

“None.” Amanda eyelids were puffy, and there were deep, dark circles beneath her eyes. She looked as if she’d aged ten years this week. “Have you gotten any information from my uncle?”

“Nothing concrete. Marc met with him last night. He’s going back again this morning. We honestly don’t believe he knows where Paul is. But it’s possible some of his colleagues do. We won’t let it go until we find out.”

“His colleagues,” Amanda repeated. “Yes, those were the words Patrick used. But I’m not a fool. What you’re saying is that my uncle has mob connections.”

Casey blew out her breath. “All we have is speculation to go on.”

“I don’t believe that. You’re too thorough of a woman to fly by the seat of your pants. You know something.”

“And when that something translates into hard facts, you’ll be the first to know it.” Casey raked a hand through her hair. “I realize how much we’re asking of you. But please trust us. We’re pushing this to the limit. If any of your uncle’s associates knows something, we’ll get at it. In the meantime, just promise me you won’t contact him. And don’t take his calls. It would only complicate what’s already a delicate situation.”

“I won’t.” Amanda’s lips thinned. “But if I find out he had any part in Paul’s disappearance—or even if he knew a thing about it—I won’t be responsible for what I’ll do.”

“I don’t blame you. Just do it after we find Paul.”

* * *

Marc called Casey as she was driving home.

“What’s up?” she asked, emotionally drained and bone weary.

“You sound like hell.” As usual, Marc cut right to the chase.

“That’s because I just came from seeing Amanda. She’s
in
hell. Tell me that Fenton gave you something.”

“Only a restraining order.” Marc chuckled. “Evidently I’m a danger to him. So I never got through his gates today. On the plus side, he’s been making phone calls like a demon. Probably warning off his ‘contacts’ and telling them they won’t be using his fleet to transport illegal cargo anytime soon.”

“And Ryan’s tracing the calls?”

“Oh, yeah. Your plan was genius—scare Fenton, watch him run. Ryan’s hard at work—we’ll probably have the names of half the mob by the time he’s done.”

Casey sighed. “All we need are the ones who took part in Paul’s disappearance—if any of them did.” A pause. “What happened with Ryan and that attorney?”

“It was a bust, just as we expected,” Marc replied. “The guy is a Boy Scout without a blemish on his record. He loves kids and puppies and gives to all the local charities. So you think he’d be the epitome of compassion in a situation like this one. But, nope. He shut down like a clam the minute he heard what Ryan wanted. Didn’t give him so much as a clue. He stuck to attorney-client privilege, and said he’d talk to us only if we got written permission from John Morano.”

“Right, like Morano’s going to give us that.”

“Exactly. But, judging from Ryan’s description, this lawyer is just too good to be true. It only makes this situation stink even more.”

“Agreed.”

Marc paused. “Is Hutch gone?” he asked diplomatically.

“No, I think he’s staying till tomorrow.”

Marc heard her loud and clear. “Good. Then he and I can grab a beer before he takes off.”

“I’ll let him know.” Casey pulled up to the curb and parked the car, grateful that she’d found a spot only half a block from the office. Meanwhile, she could hear Ryan’s muffled voice talking to Marc at the other end of the phone.

“Hey, Case?” Marc responded. “Ryan asked if you’d stop in the conference room when you get back to the office and see if we’re getting Gecko’s transmission from Morano’s trailer. It seemed to be functioning well the last time Ryan checked his laptop—which, by the way, was fifteen minutes ago—but he wants to double-check that it’s coming through clearly at your end so we have a backup copy on the server.”

“No problem. I’m here. I’ll do that first thing.”

“You won’t be seeing anything too impressive,” Marc reminded her. “Just the crappy interior of a trailer-turned-office. And a polished, harried-looking guy.”

“Morano.”

“Yup. Morano.”

“Got it.” Casey unbuckled her seat belt. “I’m hanging up now. I’ll give you a call later.”

She went straight upstairs to the conference room and sat down at the large oval table.

“Good morning, Casey,” Yoda greeted her. “Will you be requiring my services?”

“Yes, Yoda. Please display the live feed from Gecko.”

“Certainly. Would you like me to fill the entire wall?”

“No. Please size the video for optimal resolution.”

“Engaging Faroudja video enhancement,” Yoda announced. A brief pause. “Video is coming up now. How is the quality, Casey?”

“Perfect, Yoda.” Casey focused on the screen and the clear image that had appeared. “Thank you.”

“My pleasure. Let me know if you need anything else.” Yoda fell silent.

Yup. Gecko was doing a fine job, Casey thought, leaning forward to scrutinize the picture. She could clearly make out the dumpy trailer that Morano was using as an office. Morano was in and at his desk. Casey recognized him from the online photos Ryan had showed her when he traced Morano’s background. The guy wasn’t doing anything too exciting; just typing at his keyboard and flipping through a few files.

Just as Casey was about to call her findings in to Ryan, Morano’s cell phone rang. Not the one on his desk, but another one, which he yanked out of his pants pocket.

“Yeah,” he answered. He went rigid. “What do you mean, he’s on his way home? How the hell did he get out of there so fast? And how did he put the pieces together?” A pause. “Shit. He’ll be flying straight to JFK. That’s just thirteen hours in the air. Which gives me one fucking day. How do you suggest I pull this off?” He stood up and began pacing, so agitated that he looked as if he might kill someone. “Okay, good. Just have him stopped. I need a little more time. I know, I know. Just buy me a couple of days.”

He punched off the phone. “Shit!” he shouted at the empty room. “Shit, shit, shit!” He picked up a mug and hurled it against the wall. It shattered into fragments. Then, he sank down at his desk, dragging an arm across his sweating forehead. Whatever he had to accomplish, it was big. And it was in the process of being compromised.

A myriad of thoughts flooded Casey’s mind.

The person Morano was referring to had to be Paul Everett. And Morano himself was in this as deep as Fenton. Maybe more so, if he were part of the mob.

Without further speculation, Casey punched Ryan’s number on speed dial. “Are you behind the wheel?” she demanded.

“Nope, a passenger,” he replied. “I just switched off with Claire, since I’ve been driving since last night. I needed to take a break.”

“Well, don’t. Tell Claire to pull over to the side of the road. All three of you get in the back of the van. Rewind the transmission from Gecko about three minutes. Then, watch.”

“Done.” Ryan didn’t ask any questions. He just acted.