The only thing in the envelope was a dinky digital recorder.
Sitting in the operations room, Claire watched on a large plasma screen as DeMarco pulled his car off the Memorial Parkway and into a parking lot where people could look across the Potomac at the District. From this particular vista, DeMarco had a good view of the Lincoln Memorial, the Kennedy Center, and the dome of the Capitol shimmering in the distance—although Claire doubted DeMarco was thinking about the view.
Through three different bugs—one in DeMarco’s car, one in his cell phone, and one in his belt—Claire listened as DeMarco played Martin Breed’s recording. The sound quality was excellent and when DeMarco muttered, “You gotta be shittin’ me,” Claire felt like she was sitting right next to him.
Claire had sent her technicians out of the room while DeMarco played the recording. Dillon had told her that he didn’t want anyone but him and her—and DeMarco—to know about the things Martin Breed had done for Charles Bradford. Claire still didn’t think it was smart giving the recording to DeMarco, even one that had been doctored, but Dillon had overruled her objections. Once DeMarco listened to the recording, he would know almost as much as they did—and that was dangerous.
But the oddest thing about Dillon’s plan—if you could call it a plan—was that he didn’t appear to have an endgame. He said he hadn’t decided what to do with the information on the recording, whether to use it to destroy Bradford or simply force him to resign, as Breed had planned. It was very unlike Dillon not to have thought things completely through.
Then another thought occurred to her: maybe Dillon did have an endgame and he just wasn’t telling her what it was.
What in the hell was he supposed to do with this thing? DeMarco wondered, looking down at the small recorder resting in the palm of his hand. He knew it was his imagination, but the damn recorder actually felt
hot,
like it was going to burn right through his flesh.
He was only sure of two things—neither of which he could prove. First, he was sure Paul had been killed because of what he’d just heard, and second, Paul had wanted to get the recording to that reporter, Hansen. But other than those two things, he was completely confused.
He assumed the man who had made the recording was General Breed. That made sense, considering the things he claimed to have done for this guy Charles, but Breed never identified himself on the recording nor did he ever state Charles’s last name or the last name of this guy Thomas, who he’d obviously made the recording for. He found it odd that their last names weren’t mentioned, but even worse, it made the recording almost useless in terms of evidence. The other thing he didn’t understand was why Paul decided to give the recording to a reporter instead of Thomas, whoever the hell Thomas was. He didn’t know. He didn’t know shit.
Well, he did know one thing: the damn recording was a political A-bomb and way, way too big for him to handle. He needed to give it to somebody who had the clout to deal with it. But who? Normally, he would have given it to the FBI, but he was afraid to do that because he didn’t trust Hopper. He did know someone personally at the Bureau, a woman he’d once dated, and he knew he could trust her but he didn’t feel comfortable taking this to her. He hadn’t seen her in three years.
Another thing bothering him was that
somebody
had assigned Hopper to take the case away from the Arlington PD. Maybe it was this guy Charles—and Charles, based on the recording, was a guy big enough to boss around a two-star army general, which made Charles pretty damn scary.
So if he couldn’t go to the Bureau, who could he go to? He supposed he could go directly to the Justice Department. The only problem with that bright idea was that the FBI, at least theoretically, worked for Justice and, for all he knew, Charles worked for Justice.
The guy he needed was Mahoney. Mahoney was Speaker of the House. Mahoney had
major
clout and could definitely force Justice to investigate and make sure they didn’t try to cover anything up. But Mahoney was still flat on his back in a coma from which he might never wake up.
The only other person he could think of was his friend Emma. Emma had retired from the DIA—the Defense Intelligence Agency—but she’d been a power player when she worked there. She had helped him on cases in the past and she knew powerful people all over Washington, people who could be trusted. But, right now, like everyone else in his life, she wasn’t available. She was cruising the Mediterranean with her lover, and DeMarco didn’t even know what cruise line she was on.
The more he thought about it, he concluded that Paul had the right idea: turn this whole mess over to the press. They’d print a front-page headline in eighty-five-point font and all hell would break loose. Congress would call a bunch of hearings, special prosecutors would get assigned, and, if the FBI was told to investigate, every politician on the Hill would be watching them. Yeah, that sounded like the best idea. Just do what his cousin had been trying to do: set up a meeting with some reporter—which one, he didn’t have a clue—and hand over the recording.
Or he could just mail the recorder to the press. No, that wouldn’t work. Without an explanation as to where it came from and its connection to Paul and General Breed, people might just ignore it or take it for a hoax. No, he had to talk to a reporter and convince the reporter that the recording was the real thing.
And he had to do one other thing: he had to make sure he didn’t get killed like Paul.
Dillon walked into the operations room Claire was using. Three of her technicians were now back in the room, sitting in front of computer monitors, earphones on their heads. DeMarco was still visible on the plasma screen, still sitting in his car on the banks of the Potomac, pondering what he’d just heard. Alice, Claire’s favorite field agent, was the one filming DeMarco and transmitting the picture.
“How many people do you have on him?” Dillon asked Claire.
“Four,” she said. “More than enough to follow a guy like him. And I’ve got a tracking device on his car and we can use his cell phone to track him, too. If I need to, I can cover him with a satellite.”
“I certainly hope it doesn’t come to that, Claire.”
“Me too.”
“So what do you think he’s going to do next?” Dillon said.
“How would I know?” Claire said. “We can record his voice, not his thoughts.”
“Well, not yet,” Dillon said, smiling slightly.
DeMarco had no idea whom to call at
The Washington Post
. At one time, he’d known a
Post
reporter, an old alcoholic named Reggie Harmon. But Reggie got married for the fourth time last year—to another reporter, also an alcoholic—and moved to Houston where his new bride worked. The only other reporters at the
Post
whose names he knew wrote for the sports page. Yeah, he knew all the sports guys, especially that one pessimistic son of a bitch who started off every football season by saying how bad the Redskins were gonna be that year. Unfortunately, most of the time, he was right.
Then he thought: Woodward and Bernstein—although he wasn’t sure Bernstein even worked there anymore. But this thing he was holding, this recording, it was right up Woodward’s alley: an army general admitting he’d killed a bunch of people because some guy named Charles told him to. Oh, yeah. Woodward would drool like a rabid dog when he heard the recording.
The problem with Woodward, DeMarco figured, was he probably had a thousand conspiracy nuts calling him every day of the week. There was no way he’d take a call from DeMarco even if he worked for Congress. No, wait a minute. The
Post
had lost a reporter. Woodward might take a call from somebody who said he had information related to the disappearance of a brother scribbler. Yeah, that would work.
Dillon and Claire watched as DeMarco opened his cell phone.
“Are you ready, Claire?” Dillon asked.
“Gilbert?” Claire said.
“Yeah, I’m ready,” Gilbert said.
Claire listened as DeMarco punched a number into his cell phone.
“Who’s he calling?” Claire asked.
Gilbert and Dillon both said at the same time, “
The Washington Post
.”
Gilbert could tell DeMarco was calling the
Post
because as soon as DeMarco dialed the
Post’s
number, the number showed up on his screen and the software he used automatically gave him the identity of the party being called. That’s how Gilbert knew who DeMarco was calling. But how had Dillon known? Answer: because he was Dillon.
Dillon put on a headset, one which had earpieces covering his ears and a microphone on a wand in front of his lips. Then Dillon, Claire, and Gilbert all listened as DeMarco navigated the
Post’s
voice mail system until he finally reached an operator.
DeMarco said, “I need to speak to Bob Woodward. I have information relating to the disappearance of—”
At that moment, Dillon made a slashing motion across his throat and Gilbert cut off the call to the
Post
.
DeMarco heard his cell phone make a funny click and cursed, figuring the operator at the
Post
had accidentally disconnected him. But then he heard: “You don’t really want to talk to Bob Woodward, Mr. DeMarco.”
“What?” DeMarco said, and then looked at his cell phone like it had turned into a snake. “Who the hell’s this? How the … how the fuck did you get on my phone?”
“Magic, sir. The same magic I used to determine that you’re in possession of a recording made by the late General Breed.”
“You got me
bugged
?” DeMarco said.
“Three ways from Sunday, my friend,” Dillon said.
“Who the hell is this? FBI? Is this you, Hopper?”
It didn’t sound like Hopper, though.
“No, Mr. DeMarco. As I think you know, Special Agent Hopper is not your friend. I, on the other hand, am the man who can keep you alive.”
“Keep me alive? Who the hell is this?”
“Mr. DeMarco, you are now in possession of the same information that got your cousin killed. And since I know this, and if I was the person who killed Paul Russo, you’d be dead right now, right there where you’re parked on the banks of the Potomac.”
“What? How the hell do you—”
“Turn around and look behind you. No, turn the other way. Do you see the SUV, the black one with the tinted windows? The driver’s a nice young lady named Alice. I want you to join Alice. She’s going to drive around for a while to make sure she’s not being followed, and then she’s going to bring you to me.”
“Hey, screw you, whoever you are. I’m not going anywhere with your people.”
DeMarco heard the guy laugh. “DeMarco, I can see you. I can hear you. I can cut in on your cell phone conversations. Think about that. So, please, just calm down and do what I say. I want to help you. There are some other people out there, however—the kind of people General Breed speaks about on that recording—who want to kill you. And maybe they’ll kill your girlfriend as well. Killing someone in Afghanistan isn’t all that hard to do.”
Jesus, they knew about Angela and where she was. Who the hell
was
this guy?
“Please join Alice in her car, Mr. DeMarco.”
Alice was an athletic-looking young woman in her early thirties, wearing a black blazer over a white blouse, jeans, and running shoes. She had a cell phone gizmo in her ear. She was kind of cute, DeMarco thought: long black hair, brown eyes, a long straight nose, and a red-bronze complexion. Because of the nose and her coloring, DeMarco thought she might have some Native American in her, but the main impression he had of Alice was:
serious
.
Alice was as serious as a heart attack.
“Kneel on the seat,” Alice said. “I need to frisk you to see if you’re carrying a weapon.”
“I’m not carrying one,” DeMarco said. “I still need to pat you down.”
“Bite me,” DeMarco said.
Before Alice could respond to DeMarco’s childish comment, the man who had spoken to him previously, said, “It’s okay, Alice. I doubt Mr. DeMarco is armed. I’m sure I’ll be safe from him.” The man’s voice came from a speaker in Alice’s vehicle which was directly behind DeMarco’s head and he jumped in his seat when he heard the voice.
Alice stared at DeMarco for a few seconds—letting him know she wasn’t pleased that he’d interfered with her job—then said, “Buckle your seat belt.” She didn’t speak to him again for thirty minutes.
Alice drove onto the Memorial Parkway, crossed the Fourteenth Street Bridge into the District of Columbia, and then got on 395. She stayed on 395 until she came to the Capitol South exit, took the exit, and then made a tour of Capitol Hill, turning frequently, backtracking occasionally. A couple of times she spoke to someone, saying, “Am I clear?” Apparently whoever she was talking to said she was. From Capitol Hill she took surface streets to reach the D.C. Beltway and then took the beltway exit to Silver Spring, Maryland, where she once again began driving through residential areas, this time dodging down the occasional alley, blowing through stop signs as if they didn’t exist, scaring the shit out of DeMarco. Finally, she stopped in front of a small house whose lawn was badly in need of cutting. There was a kid’s big-wheeled tricycle sitting on the grass near the front door.
DeMarco followed Alice into the house. The front door opened into a living room filled with inexpensive, mismatched furniture and smelled musty, as if the house had been locked up for some time. DeMarco stood in the living room for a moment, not sure what to do next, until a voice called out, “Mr. DeMarco, I’m in the kitchen.”
DeMarco entered the kitchen and saw a white-haired man in his sixties pouring coffee into two cups, and the guy was dressed like he’d just posed for the cover of
GQ
. DeMarco couldn’t afford to spend a lot of money on his clothes. He bought the suits he wore for work at a Men’s Wearhouse in Alexandria and his casual clothes at outlet malls. He figured the guy pouring coffee had spent more on his tie than he had spent on his suit.