Through the doors Lee watched in the numbest horror as Faith repeatedly jerked under the impact of the electrical current surging through the paddles. Only when he saw the heart monitor go from flat line to its regular peaks and valleys did he find he could even move.
Barely two hours later they had to cut her chest open, spread her ribs wide and massage her heart to get it going. Every hour seemed to bring a new crisis as she barely clung to life.
Lee paced the floor incessantly, hands shoved in his pockets, head down, talking to no one. He had said every prayer he could remember. He had made up some new ones. He was helpless to do anything for the woman, and that’s what tore at him. How could he have let this happen? How could Constantinople, that old, bulky sonofabitch, have gotten that shot off? And him right beside the guy? And Faith, why had she taken the round? Why? Buchanan should be the guy lying on that gurney with people swarming over him, trying desperately to push life back into his wrecked body.
Lee slumped against the wall and slid down to the floor, covering his face with both hands as his big body shook.
In a private room, Reynolds waited with Buchanan, who had barely spoken a word since Faith had been shot. He just sat there and stared at the wall. To look at Buchanan, no one would have guessed that anger was building in him: the absolute hatred he was holding for Robert Thornhill, a man who had destroyed everything he cared about.
About the time Fred Massey arrived, Faith was taken to the ICU. She was stabilized for the time being, the doctor told them. The bullet was one of those vicious dum-dums, he said. It had tumbled through her body like a runaway bowling ball, doing considerable damage to organs, and the internal hemorrhaging had been severe. She was strong and for now she was alive. She had a chance, that was all, he cautioned. They would know more soon.
As the doctor walked away, Reynolds put a hand on Lee’s shoulder and handed him a fresh cup of coffee.
“Lee, if she survived until now, I have to believe she’s going to make it.”
“No guarantees,” he mumbled to himself, unable to look at the woman.
They went to the private room, where Reynolds introduced Buchanan and Lee to Fred Massey.
“I think Mr. Buchanan should start telling you his story,” Reynolds said to Massey.
“And he’s willing to do that?” Massey asked skeptically.
At this Buchanan perked up. “Something more than willing. But before I do, tell me one thing. What’s more important to you? What I did, or arresting the person who killed your agent?”
Massey leaned forward. “I’m not sure I’m prepared to discuss any sort of deal with you.”
Buchanan put his elbows on the table. “When I tell you my story, you will be. But I’ll do so on only one condition. You let me deal with this man. In my own way.”
“Agent Reynolds informed me this person works for the federal government.”
“That’s right.”
“Well, that’s pretty damn unbelievable. Do you have proof?”
“You let me do this my way, and you’ll have your proof.”
Massey looked over at Reynolds. “The bodies at the house. Do we know who they are yet?”
She shook her head. “I just checked in. The police and agents from D.C., Raleigh and Norfolk are on the scene. But it’s too early yet to have that info. But everything’s on the QT. The locals have been told nothing. We’re controlling all flows of information. You won’t see anything on the news about the bodies or about Faith being alive and in this hospital.”
Massey nodded. “Good work.” As though suddenly remembering something, he opened his briefcase, pulled out two objects and handed them to her.
Reynolds looked down at her pistol and creds.
“I’m sorry any of this happened, Brooke,” Massey said. “I should have trusted you and I didn’t. Maybe I’ve been out of the field too damn long. Pushing too many papers and not listening to my instincts anymore.”
Reynolds holstered her gun and put the creds in her purse. She once more felt complete. “Maybe I wouldn’t have either, in your position. But it’s in the past, Fred, let’s move on. We don’t have much time.”
“Rest assured, Mr. Massey,” Buchanan said, “you’ll never identify those men. Or if you do, they’ll have no ties to the person I’m talking about.”
“How can you be so sure of that?” Massey demanded.
“Trust me, I know how this man operates.”
“Look, why don’t you just tell me who it is and I’ll handle it from there?”
“No,” Buchanan said firmly.
“What do you mean no? We’re the FBI, mister, we do this for a living. If you want any sort of deal—”
“You will listen to me.” Buchanan hardly raised his voice, but his eyes bored into Massey with such overwhelming force that the ADIC lost his train of thought and fell silent. “We have one chance to bring him in. One! He’s already infiltrated the FBI. Constantinople may not be the only mole. There may be others.”
“I highly doubt that—” Massey began.
Now Buchanan raised his voice. “Can you guarantee me that there aren’t? Can you?”
Massey sat back, looking uncomfortable. He glanced at Reynolds, who shrugged.
“If they could turn Connie, they could turn anybody,” she said.
Massey looked miserable, shaking his head slowly. “Connie . . . I still can’t believe it.”
Buchanan tapped the tabletop. “And if there is another spy in your ranks and you try to trap this man on your own, you will absolutely fail. And your chance will be gone. Forever. Do you really want to risk that?”
Massey rubbed his smooth chin, thinking it over. When he looked up at Buchanan, his expression was wary but interested.
“Do you really think you can nail this guy?”
“I’m prepared to die trying. And I need to work the phones. Call in some very special help.” Buchanan smiled to himself. A lobbyist to the very end. He turned to Lee. “And I need your help, Lee. If you’re willing.”
Lee looked surprised. “Me? What can I do to help anybody?”
“I spoke with Faith about you last night. She told me about your ‘special’ abilities. She said you were a good man to have in a bad situation.”
“I guess she was wrong about that. Otherwise she wouldn’t be lying up there with a hole in her chest.”
Buchanan put a hand on Lee’s arm. “I can barely function with the guilt I have, for her having stepped in front of that bullet. But I can’t change that now. What I can do is try to make sure she didn’t risk her life for nothing. There’s great danger for you. Even if we get this man, he has many at his back. There’ll always be some out there.”
Buchanan settled back in his chair and watched Lee closely. Massey and Reynolds stared at the PI too. Lee’s muscular arms and broad shoulders were in stark contrast to the fragility of the look deep within his eyes.
Lee Adams took a deep breath. What he really wanted to do was stand next to Faith’s bed and never leave until she woke up, saw him, smiled, said she’d be okay. And then, so would he. But, Lee knew, one rarely got what one wished for in this life. So instead, he looked at Buchanan and said, “I guess I’m your man.”
The black sedan pulled up to the front of the house. Robert Thornhill and his wife, dressed in formal evening clothes, came out the front door. Thornhill locked the house, then the two got in the car and were driven away. The Thornhills were attending an official dinner at the White House.
The sedan passed the phone-line control pedestal belonging to the community where the Thornhills lived. The metal box was large, bulky and painted light green. It had been placed there about two years ago when the phone company had upgraded the communications lines for this old neighborhood. The metal box had been a sudden eyesore in an area that prided itself on splendid homes and high-dollar landscaping. Thus, the residents had paid for a number of large bushes to be planted around the aboveground pedestal. These bushes now hid the box completely from the road, which meant that the telephone servicemen had to approach it from the rear side, which faced the woods. Aesthetically pleasing, the bushes were also very welcome to the man who had watched the sedan pass by and then had opened the box and begun delicately picking his way through its electronic guts.
Lee Adams identified the line going to the Thornhills’ residence with a special piece of his own customized equipment. His background in communications hardware was serving him well. The Thornhills’ home had a good security system. However, every security system had an Achilles’ heel: the phone line. Always the phone line. Thank you, Ma Bell.
Lee went through the steps in his head. When an intruder broke into someone’s home, the alarm went off and the computer dialed the central monitoring station to inform him of the break-in. Then the security person at the monitoring station called the home to see if everything was okay. If the owner answered, he had to give his special code or else the police would be sent. If no one answered the phone, the police would be sent automatically.
Simply put, Lee was making sure that in this home security system the computer’s phone call would never reach the monitoring station, yet the computer would think that it had. He was accomplishing this by building an in-line component or phone simulator. He had dropped the Thornhill home from the landline feed, effectively severing outside phone communication. Now he had to trick the alarm computer into thinking it had phone service. To do this, he installed the in-line component and threw the switch, effectively giving the Thornhills’ home a dial tone and phone line that went absolutely nowhere.
He had also found out that the Thornhills’ alarm system had no cellular backup, just the regular landline. That was a big hole. A cellular backup was incapable of being fooled, since it was a wireless system with no way for Lee to access its feed line. Virtually all alarm systems in the country had the very same backbone land- and data-lines. And, thus, they all had back doors in. Lee had just completed his.
He packed up his tools and made his way through the woods to the rear of the Thornhills’ home. He located a window that was not visible from the street. He had a copy of the Thornhills’ floor plan and alarm layout. It had been provided to him by Fred Massey. By accessing this window, he could reach the upstairs alarm panel without passing any motion detector points.
He pulled a stun gun from his backpack and held it flush against the window. The windows were all wired, even the second-floor ones, he knew. And both top and bottom window components had contacts. Most homes only had contacts at the bottom window casement; if that had been the case here, Lee would have simply picked the window lock and slid down the top window, without breaking any contacts.
He pulled the trigger on the stun gun and then moved it to another position on the window where he thought the contact elements were probably located. In all, he fired eight shots into the window frame from the stun gun. The electrical charge from the gun would melt the contacts, fusing them together and rendering them inoperable.
He picked the sash lock, held his breath and slid the window up. No alarm sounded. He quickly climbed through the window and closed it. Pulling a small flashlight from his pocket, he found the stairs and headed up. The Thornhills, he quickly observed, lived in extremely comfortable luxury. The furnishings were mostly antique; real oil paintings hung on the walls; and his feet melted into the thick and, he assumed, expensive carpet.
The alarm panel was where all such alarm panels were located; on the upper floor in the master bedroom. He unscrewed the plate and found the wire for the sound cannon. Two snips and the alarm system had suddenly developed laryngitis. Now he was free to roam. He went downstairs and passed in front of the motion detector, waving his arms in defiance, even giving it the finger, pretending it was Thornhill there scowling at him, helpless to do anything about the intrusion. The red light came on and the alarm system was activated, although the system no longer could scream its warning. The computer would soon be dialing the central station, only its call would never get there. It would dial the number eight times, get no answer and then it would stop trying and go back to sleep. At the central station, everything would seem perfectly normal: a burglar’s dream.
Lee watched as the red light on the motion detector disappeared. Each time he passed in front of it, though, it would go through the same routine, with the same result. Call eight times and then stop. Lee smiled. So far, so good. Before the Thornhills came home he would reattach the wires for the sound cannons: Thornhill would be suspicious if the normal beeping sound didn’t occur when he opened the door. But for now, Lee had work to do.
The white house dinner was very memorable for Mrs. Thornhill. Her husband, on the other hand, was working. He sat at the long table and made inconsequential conversation when called upon, but spent most of his time listening intently to the guests. There were a number of foreign visitors tonight, and Thornhill knew that good intelligence might come from unusual sources, even a White House dinner. Whether the foreign guests knew he was with the CIA, he wasn’t sure. That was certainly not public knowledge. The guest list that would be printed in the
Washington Post
the next morning would identify them only as Mr. and Mrs. Robert Thornhill.
Ironically, the invitation to the dinner had not come because of Thornhill’s position at the Agency. Who was invited to White House functions such as this, and why, were the greatest of mysteries in the capital city. However, the Thornhills’ invitation had been extended because of his wife’s well-known philanthropic work for the District of Columbia poor—a charitable endeavor in which the first lady herself was much involved as well. And Thornhill had to admit, his wife was dedicated to this cause. When she wasn’t at the country club, of course.