Archer leaned back in his chair. “I know a guy there, we’ve hacked together before.”
“You live in a weird world, you know that? Normal people like me, we hang out together, throw back a beer or catch a movie. You hang out and hack.”
Archer ignored his partner. “He’ll take a look at it without a problem, Hector. And, he’ll keep quiet about it if I ask him to. He owes me.”
DeSantos was shaking his head. “I don’t care how much shit you’ve done for this geek. You’re not seeing the big picture, Brian. What if he’s the one who developed this code for this—this Memogen Project—whatever that is? We’ll have breached his system. I don’t think he’ll take that lightly. Faster than you can say ‘we’re cooked,’ we’ll be filleted, fried, and served up in federal court. That’s after they start asking questions—like, ‘Why were you hacking into our secure network? Where did you get the pass codes? Why did you do it?’ The fact we’re government employees won’t count for shit. Heat will come from all over the fucking place.”
“Knox will clear it up—”
“Knox won’t do shit. He’ll put a fucking football field between us and himself. And if you don’t think he’ll do that, you’ve had your head buried in computer code too long.”
“Knox is the one who gave us the entry codes to begin with. His handwriting is all over this. Who else would have access to what he gave us?”
“Knox doesn’t know what we did.”
“Don’t be so sure.”
DeSantos laughed. “He sure as hell didn’t intend for us to use some
earthworm
program to hunt around the NSA and DOD databases.”
Archer held his hands out, palms up, professing his innocence. “He didn’t say not to. Maybe he wanted us to find this stuff.”
“Yeah, and maybe he didn’t.”
“Why wouldn’t he? What’s in here that we’re not supposed to know about?”
DeSantos was silent for a moment, then shook his head. “I don’t know. But none of that matters, Brian. We don’t know what we stumbled onto here. We could’ve just stuck our noses into some fucked-up shit that we have no business being in. Without knowing what we’re up against, we can’t be making calls to anyone even remotely connected to NSA, especially a techie analyst who works there. For now, we keep this between us. We don’t even tell Knox. No one. No exceptions.”
Archer rubbed at the strained creases in his forehead. “None of that matters if we can’t figure out what the rest of the memo says.”
“Don’t you know anyone else who can crack this code?”
“There’s always the Yellow Pages,” Archer said with a smirk. “They’ve gotta have a listing for encryption cracking specialists.”
“Wait a minute,” DeSantos said. “I know someone. He may not the best source, but it’s worth a shot.”
“Who does he work for?”
“The state of New York.”
“Too risky.”
“I don’t think so.” DeSantos stood and opened his attaché. “He doesn’t exactly
work
for the state.” He pulled out a small black book. “He’s in Attica.”
“The prison?”
“Like I said, he might not be the best source. But if we’re desperate...”
“You’re out of your mind.”
DeSantos thumbed through his book. “Think about it. He’s got no connections to feds. He can’t hurt us.”
“Forget about hurting us. Why would he help us?”
“He helps us out, we help him out a little with his parole.”
“What’s he in for?”
DeSantos smiled. “He broke into the state’s abandoned-items database and started assigning some of the assets to himself. White-collar crime.”
“And he ended up in Attica?”
DeSantos shrugged. “He pissed off the prosecutor, the judge, and the jury. He can be a little obnoxious.”
Archer eyed DeSantos suspiciously. “I don’t know about this.”
“‘Subject Scarponi is an ideal blank blank for this project,”’ DeSantos repeated. “Aren’t you the least bit curious how Scarponi is tied in to all this?”
“Even if we jump through all the hoops and get this thing deciphered, I doubt we’ll have all the answers.”
“Probably not. But shit, my curiosity is piqued.”
“Curiosity killed the cat.”
“So I’ll have to be a little smarter than that dead feline.”
Archer was silent for a moment, his gaze fixed on the tabletop. Finally, he said, “I don’t like this.” He looked up at his partner with dark eyes. “You mark my words: this is going to be trouble.”
Scott Haviland was driving his Bureau-issued blue Chevrolet Caprice along Pennsylvania Avenue headed toward Interstate 395. Waller, sitting in the back seat with Payne, was leaning against the door facing his passenger. None of them had spoken since leaving the lobby of headquarters. Payne was not interested in making small talk; he wanted answers, but he had to be careful. He did not know to what extent Waller and Haviland were involved, if at all. Regardless, he was not about to tip his hand and tell them what he knew unless it was to his advantage.
Finally, realizing it was to his benefit to initiate the conversation, he turned to Waller. “So what did you want to talk about?”
“You missed your day of classes today.”
“Something was wrong with the laptop. Couldn’t get online.”
“Where were you all day?”
“Trying to figure out what was wrong with the computer.”
Waller looked away for a moment, staring out the front windshield. “Something’s up, Harp. We want to know what it is.”
Payne grunted. “You want to know what’s up.”
Waller turned back to him. “That’s right.”
“I’m conducting an investigation.”
“On what?”
“It’s ongoing, I can’t discuss it just yet. You’ll know when I’m done.”
“Not good enough. You know standard Bureau procedure.”
“Yeah, I do. And no one seems to be following it.”
Payne looked hard at Waller, locking eyes with him. He needed to show strength without giving any indication that he knew what was going on. Of course, in reality, he only had theories and assumptions. He had no facts.
“Knox is concerned.”
Payne nodded. “I can understand that. I’m very important to him.”
Waller turned his attention back to the front windshield. “You’re going to have to be more specific with the director. He won’t tolerate evasive answers.”
“Or what? What’s he going to do? He needs me. I’m his case. Without me, Scarponi goes free.”
Which might be exactly what he wants,
Payne felt like saying.
Waller sighed, then extended his hand. “I need your firearm, Harp.”
Payne looked at him. “My firearm?”
“You’re behaving irrationally, and given the opportunity to explain, you’ve failed to provide support for your actions. I don’t know if it’s all part of that blow to the head or what, but if you give Knox a good explanation, it’ll be returned.”
Payne casually reached into his jacket, removed his Glock from its holster, and pointed the barrel at Waller’s head. “Sorry, partner. Can’t go that route, not yet.” Glancing over at Haviland, Payne said, “Keep both hands on the wheel where I can see them, Scott.” He turned back to Waller and held out his left hand. “Give me your wallet.”
“Harper, this isn’t the way to go.”
“My life, my concern. Hand it over, now.”
Waller’s gaze seemed to focus on the gun, which was two inches away from his eyes. Payne knew that Waller had assessed the situation, and given a choice between being severely reprimanded by Knox for allowing this to happen—or facing the prospect of a bullet ripping through this brain—he would take the lesser of the two risks.
“Come on, Jon,” Payne said. “Remember what you said to me a few days back? If I ever needed anything?”
“The offer still stands. But I can’t help you break the law.”
Payne grunted. “Exactly what law am I breaking, Jon?”
“Fidelity, Bravery, Integrity. It’s how we swore to conduct ourselves, Harper. It’s not just a catchy phrase on the Bureau seal.”
“I think I’m being pretty damned brave holding a gun to your head. As for fidelity and integrity, first you have to prove yours to me before I commit to them myself.” Payne wiggled the fingers of his free hand. “Your wallet.”
Waller clenched his jaw, then reached beneath his jacket.
“Slowly, Jon. Keep it clean.”
He produced the wallet and handed it to Payne, who shoved it into his pocket.
“Now slowly remove your weapon with two fingertips and hand it to me.”
Waller complied, and Payne took it with his left hand. Pointing the Glock in his right hand at the back of Haviland’s head, he now had both of them at gunpoint. “Same thing, Scott. Two fingers, remove your weapon.”
With his right hand, Haviland complied.
“Now point the gun toward the windshield and release the magazine onto the floor.”
Haviland held the firearm out and pressed the small release. The metal receptacle containing fifteen bullets dropped and clunked to the carpet.
“Good. Now toss the gun down.”
The weapon thumped somewhere on the passenger side.
Payne pressed the release on Waller’s Glock and placed the magazine in his pocket. He unchambered the remaining round still inside the gun and tossed the weapon to the floor in the front of the car.
“Okay, gentlemen. See you around. When I’ve completed my investigation, maybe we’ll enjoy a beer and laugh about this.”
“Don’t count on it,” Waller said.
“No, I guess not.” Payne turned to Haviland. “Stop the car, Scott.”
Haviland stayed silent, his eyes focused on the road.
“I said,
stop the car.”
“He’s not going to let you off, Harper. You can shoot us if you want, but I don’t think that’s what you’re about.”
“That’s part of the problem, Jon. I don’t remember what the fuck I’m about. Now stop the goddamned car!”
“You can go ahead and shoot us,” Haviland said, “but I’m not stopping this car.”
The sudden acceleration was obvious. Payne glanced at the speedometer and saw the needle gliding past thirty-five miles per hour. As he looked down to grab for the door handle, Haviland suddenly slammed on the brakes.
Payne’s head and right shoulder smashed into the front seat. He felt a hand on his arm as Haviland floored the accelerator. He fell backward, fighting to maintain a grip on his handgun with his right hand while trying to find the door handle with his left. The door popped open—and the frigid wind hit him in the face, momentarily vacuuming away his breath.
He closed his eyes and—despite Waller’s hand gripping his suit jacket from behind—he leaned forward.
And leaped from the moving vehicle.
The initial impact was absorbed by his shoulder. But as Payne tumbled and rolled along the pavement, the only thoughts spinning through his mind related to protecting his head. Another concussion was something he definitely did not need.
A few more rolls amidst the blaring of an approaching horn and he was scrambling to his feet. He dodged an oncoming van and zigzagged across the avenue. As he landed on the curb with his left leg in full stride, he felt a ripping sensation in his thigh. He knew the stitches had torn open, at least partially. But the adrenaline was pumping, and if there was any pain, he was not feeling it.
He half-hobbled and half-ran down the street, in the opposite direction Haviland had been driving, looking for a restaurant, somewhere he could hide. But this was Washington, and this part of the city had no night life to speak of. It consisted mostly of government buildings that had long since closed. He needed a side street, a bar or hotel, somewhere to get off the main drag.
Twenty yards away, he saw something better.
Haviland slammed on the brakes, the tires screeching to a halt. “You see him?”
“Where’s my fucking gun?” Waller was on the floor in the backseat, his hands skimming the carpet, fingers getting nicked by the sharp edges of the seat track. “Turn the goddamned light on!”
Haviland hit the switch on the overhead dome light and located the two Glocks.
“He took my mag,” Waller said. “Give me the one from the glove box.”
“What are you going to do, shoot him?”
“Whatever I have to do to stop him. Take out his other leg if I have to. Son of a bitch.”
Haviland handed him the spare magazine and grabbed the radio handset.
“What are you doing?”
“Backup—”
“You fucking out of your mind? Knox will have our badges if we broadcast Payne’s escape across the radio.”
“And if we don’t find him?”
“We will,” Waller said, slapping the magazine into the handle of his Glock. “He’s a gimp, he won’t get very far.”
“So we go it alone?”
“Alone.”
Leaving the car in the middle of Pennsylvania Avenue, Waller opened the door and dodged a couple of oncoming cars as his eyes suddenly locked on a moving figure a couple of blocks away.
Haviland was running alongside Waller, forty caliber in hand. “There, by Seventh—”
“I see him.”
“He’s headed for the Mall.”
“Then we’ve got him.”
Payne was winded. His lungs were burning from the cold air, and he was now beginning to feel pain in his leg. But going back to the Academy and continuing on as Knox’s puppet—or worse—did not appeal to him. He needed to find out what the bigger picture was... and despite his suspicions, he needed facts.
And then there was Lauren.
He turned right off Pennsylvania Avenue and crossed through a wooded planter, which provided dense cover from the silhouetting headlights of the oncoming traffic. He emerged in a cobblestone plaza, which was part of the side entrance to the National Gallery of Art’s West Building. He shuffled alongside the structure, moving parallel to Fourth Street. Forty feet ahead was the Mall, the 146-acre elm-tree-lined park that stretched from the Capitol at the east end to the Lincoln Memorial at the far west end.
Payne turned right, following the footprint of the Gallery, now moving parallel to the Mall. Unfortunately, because the art museum was such an exceptionally long building—more than two blocks in length—it left him exposed, unable to escape should Waller or Haviland locate him.
He glanced to his left, and in the shadows of the dim streetlight, he noticed a man walking toward him. He threw his back against the darkness of the building’s cold marble facing. Payne squinted, trying to make out the gait and size of the person. Could it be Haviland or Waller? As he stared, he could see the silhouetted form of a leashed dog at the man’s side.