Payne stood there for a second, thinking. Thompson was his alias. But he had never told her his name. A hundred new agents were housed in the dorm at any one time, yet the Academy operator instantly knew which room was his. Did she have time to look it up during the few seconds he was on hold? Was it automatically displayed on her console? Or had she been told to intercept his calls?
He ground his molars together. “No, that was the only number I needed. By the way, who am I speaking with?”
“Sir?”
“I don’t think we’ve spoken before.”
“Margaret Little, sir.”
“You’re so efficient, Margaret. You sound like you’ve been doing this awhile.”
“I—yes, awhile. Thank you, sir.”
“At least a year, right? I always try to guess how long people have been doing their jobs. It’s my theory that you can always tell when someone’s new and when they’ve been on the job at least a year. It’s kind of an arbitrary cutoff, the one-year mark, but I really think it makes a difference. So, am I right, have you been an operator at the Academy for least a year?”
“Yes, uh, a little over a year, sir. Can I get you another number?”
“No, thanks for your help—and for being so efficient.”
He hung up the phone, sifted through his papers, and found the Academy directory Waller had given him. He scanned the listing of non agent personnel for Margaret Little. There was no one by that name.
He lifted his shoulder harness off the hook on the door and strapped it to his body. He threw his navy suit coat over his shoulder and left his room. He walked downstairs, crossed through the glass-enclosed hallway to the library, and picked up the white in-house phone. He hit zero and waited while it rang.
“Academy operator.”
“This is... Agent Waller. Who am I speaking with?”
“This is Leslie Orens. What can I do for you today, sir?”
Her manner was formal, just like that of the operator he had spoken to a moment ago. “I was just on the phone with Margaret. Can you put her back on for a second?”
“Who?”
“Margaret, the other operator. Margaret Little.”
“I’m sorry, Agent Waller. There’s no Margaret Little here.”
“Are you sure?”
“There are only three of us here, sir.”
“No problem, my mistake.” Payne hung up and rubbed the stubble on his chin. Why had his phone line been diverted? Why wouldn’t they allow him access to an outside line?
Was he merely being paranoid?
He suddenly felt uncomfortable, his eyes panning the library to see if anyone was watching him. Two men in suits were on the balcony above him, speaking in hushed tones with one another.
Come on, Harper. Cut it out. They’re whispering because it’s a library. And they’re just talking about the Wizards game. Or forensic findings. Or a suspect. Or about me.
They’re watching me.
He quickly turned away and walked out, headed for the gun vault to sign out his Glock. Paranoia or not, regardless of what was going on, he was going to be prepared.
“Like you said, Jon,” he said aloud as he quickened his pace, “we do what we need to do.”
“Watch it!” the paramedic called out as he pushed the gurney past Lauren.
She apologized, but the men and their patient were already headed down the hall, out of earshot. Lauren and Nick Bradley walked into the waiting room, where every seat was taken by patients.
“Maybe this isn’t a good time,” she said to Bradley.
“Time is something we don’t have a lot of, Lauren. We take what we can get. Don’t worry about it. We’re going to be talking with an administrator, not one of the doctors or nurses.”
Within ten minutes, they were being escorted to the back office, where a woman of about sixty sat, her gray hair tied up into a tight bun. Although she was plump, a well-tailored business suit gave her a much leaner appearance.
The fifteen line buttons on her telephone were lit up, and some were blinking—indicating that several people were simultaneously on hold.
Nick Bradley handed her his private investigator credentials, and the woman scrutinized them. “I really only have a few questions,” he told her as she continued to stare at the card.
“I also brought a copy of the missing person’s report,” Lauren said, showing her the paperwork from Ilene Mara.
The woman took the documents, scanned through them, and handed them back to Lauren. “What would you like to know?”
“We were contacted by Mr. Chambers a few days ago,” Bradley explained, “and he said he was near Virginia Presbyterian and that he’d had a car accident—”
“—and that he had some problems with his memory,” Lauren offered.
“So we were hoping that he was treated here for the accident.”
The woman contorted her lips, turned to face her computer, and scanned the database for the date they had given her, including a few days before and after. “You don’t know if he was admitted, do you?”
“Why don’t we confine your search to just the ER,” Bradley said.
“The ER,” she repeated as she scrolled down the list. “Nope, don’t see anybody by that name.”
“What if he didn’t have any identification with him?”
“The police and emergency personnel are pretty good about retrieving wallets and such from accident scenes. You know, to help us with identification issues.”
Bradley nodded. “Understood. But what if, hypothetically, they couldn’t find any ID?”
She contorted her mouth again and turned back to the screen. Just then, the phone began ringing. “Excuse me. When it back rings, I’ve got to—Hello, Virginia Pres ER.”
Bradley looked over at Lauren, whose gaze was fixed on the computer screen. She was squinting, trying to read the names on the list.
“There,” she said to Bradley, pointing at the monitor. “John Doe. Head trauma, retrograde amnesia, gunshot wound. Brought in on the thirteenth at—”
“Excuse me,” the administrator was saying as she hung up the phone. “That’s confidential information.”
“I’m sorry,” Lauren said. “But I think I’ve found him. If he didn’t have any ID, you’d list him as John Doe, right?”
“If he’s a male, yes.”
“Then he’s right there.” Lauren pointed. “An entry for John Doe with retrograde amnesia.” The woman arrowed down to the entry. She hit ENTER and it displayed the intake notes and diagnosis, as well as the patient’s disposition. “Looks like he checked himself out. A bullet was removed from his thigh, and he was scheduled for an MRI but he didn’t stay for it.”
Lauren and Bradley shared a glance. She knew he must have been thinking the same thing: Why would he have come in with a gunshot wound?
“Who treated him?” Bradley asked.
“Doctor Farber. I’ll see if he’s available.”
After waiting nearly an hour, a man in his early thirties approached them dressed in surgical scrubs. A mask hung from his neck and a slight smear of blood was on his shirt. He noticed the red stain and called over to an orderly. “I need a new top,” he said, indicating the blood.
“I was told you were looking for me,” Farber said to Bradley.
“We’re looking for information on a patient of yours, a John Doe who came in a few days ago with a gunshot wound to the thigh—”
“I’ve already told you people everything I know.”
“Oh—we’re not police,” Bradley said. “This is the patient’s wife, and I’m a private investigator. We’re trying to find him.”
“You and everybody else.”
“How’s that?”
“He came in without identification. He’d been in a major car accident and had sustained significant head trauma. If I recall, it appeared as if he’d also had a previous, but recent, blow to the head. He was amnesiac, so he didn’t remember any prior injury.”
“The administrator said a bullet was removed from his thigh.”
“Correct.” The orderly brought over a new scrub top, and Farber slipped off the soiled shirt and shrugged on the new one in the hallway, in front of Lauren and Bradley. “Excuse me,” he said.
Lauren pulled the photo of Michael from her purse. “Is this the man you treated?”
Farber took the picture and looked at it. “That’s him.”
Lauren sighed. “Thank God.”
“You said there were others looking for him?” Bradley asked.
“Yeah.” Farber handed the photo back to Lauren. “The police. When a patient presents with a gunshot wound, I’m obligated by law to report it.”
“Because he could’ve been either the victim or instigator of a crime,” Bradley said to Lauren.
“I’d scheduled him for an MRI scan, to evaluate the extent of any brain swelling. But when the techs arrived to take him to radiology, he was gone. The next thing I knew the police were questioning me. Did I know where my patient went, did he say anything to me about where he might go or where he’d come from, that sort of thing. They were really after this guy. The place was swarming with cops. When the FBI arrived, I knew it was pretty serious.”
“The FBI?” Lauren asked.
“Yeah. They closed off all the entrances and exits, except for the ER, but even then everything and everyone coming or going had to be searched. That went on for about three hours. It created a load of logistical problems for us. After we got a call about a multiple car pileup on the interstate, we had to give them the boot out of here. By that point, I got the sense they’d accepted the fact he wasn’t in the hospital.” Just then, Farber’s pager beeped. He looked down at the number and started to back away. “Excuse me—”
Lauren was staring off down the hall, Farber’s voice suddenly off in the distance.
“Hello... Lauren, what’s on your mind?” Bradley moved an open hand in front of her face. “You’re zoning out on me.”
She turned and met his eyes. “Why would the FBI get involved just because someone was brought into an emergency room with a bullet in his thigh?”
Bradley took her by the arm and led her down the corridor. “Could be he fit the description of a fugitive they were tracking.”
Lauren nodded. “Or it could tie in to Michael’s involvement with Scarponi.”
They walked in silence for a moment, dodging the continuous flow of nurses, technicians, and gurneys streaming through the corridor.
“I’m still having a problem with that,” she said. “I can’t see Michael as a cold-blooded killer.”
They turned a corner and headed for the exit. “If Michael’s job was to infiltrate Scarponi’s group, he may’ve needed to do things that proved he was worthy of his boss’s confidence. That could’ve included murder, as repugnant as that may sound. From what I know, that’s against official protocol, no matter what law enforcement agency you’re undercover for. But if the long-term goal was to put a guy like this away for good so no one else would be harmed...” Bradley’s voice tapered off. He shrugged. “As upset as you are about it, if it’s true, think about how Michael must feel. I don’t think anyone can understand what it means to take an assignment like that. He’s had to live with what he’s done.”
“Night before last I lay awake thinking. How well do we know someone, even your lover? You think you know him. But unless you grew up with him and know everything that’s ever happened to that person, how do you know? How do you know who he really is?”
Bradley placed a hand around her shoulder and squeezed. “Sometimes all you have are your instincts. Sometimes that’s all I have to go on. Life is a crapshoot. You have to go where your heart takes you. A lot of times there just aren’t any concrete answers.”
“Go where my heart takes me.”
“Exactly.”
“You sound like my father again.”
“What does your heart say?”
“My heart says that Michael is still my Michael.”
“Okay. Now what?” he asked, talking to her more like a teacher than a private investigator.
Lauren was silent as they stepped through the emergency room’s automatic doors into the parking lot. She stopped walking and threw a hand up to her forehead to deflect the glare of the sun, which was emerging from behind gray thunderclouds. Taking a deep breath of the damp air, she said, “I think we should start with the FBI.”
“Good choice.” He pulled the car keys from his pocket and glanced at Lauren. “When this is all over, maybe you’ll come work for me.”
Lauren forced a smile. She looked up at the cloud that had suddenly blocked the sun, casting a pall of darkness over the ground. Her heart had indeed told her which way to go. First with Bradley, and now with Michael.
But what if she was wrong?
Jonathan Waller slammed the phone down and cursed under his breath. He checked his watch, which read 7:05 p.m. “Why does this shit happen to me?” he spat into the still air of his office. “My one night off in a week and I get a call.”
He grabbed the down elevator and within five minutes was approaching Haviland in the parking garage of the Washington Field Office. He was walking fast, the rapidity of his speech matching his stride. “Just got a call from Martinson at the Academy. Aside from a morning session,
Agent Thompson
didn’t make any of his classes today.”
“And what did Harper have to say about it?” Haviland asked, running to keep up with his partner.
“I can’t find him.”
“As in...”
“As in no one’s seen him, he’s not in his room, and he signed out his Glock from the vault.”
“Shit.”
“Exactly.”
“What about his log-on codes? Has he logged onto the mainframe at all today?”
“Good thought. If he has, it’ll help us pin down his movements during the day.”
“And it may give us a clue as to what’s going on in his head.”
A moment later, they were in their car, headed toward I-95 South and Quantico, Virginia.
It was almost 9 p.m. when Payne walked up Pennsylvania Avenue toward the main entrance to the J. Edgar Hoover Building. Orange traffic cones lined the curb encircling the entire city block, and cement planters were placed in front of the wide steps that led to each of the entrances. Although these measures were security precautions taken to combat terrorism against federal buildings, they isolated FBI headquarters from the neighboring structures and government agencies and gave it a sterile appearance.
Payne recalled the Bureau regulations that governed admittance to headquarters: anyone entering the building without an escort had to have a top secret security clearance and a special building pass. Since he had been in and out of the building before to meet with Knox, he already had clearance. And Knox himself had provided the building pass when Payne’s credentials were returned to him, in anticipation of future meetings.