End Game (4 page)

Sarah pulled a bloody piece of paper from her pocket—the very piece of paper, Jolaine realized in a flash of panic, that Gregory had given Bernard when he spilled into the front door.

“Take this,” Sarah said to her son.

Jolaine reached out to intercept. “No,” she said.

Graham shoved her. “Get out of my way,” he said.

Jolaine didn’t know what the paper was, but she knew that people had died for it, and that her most pressing job was to keep Graham from dying, too. “Really, Sarah?” she said. “He’s your son.”

Sarah made no indication that she’d heard. “Take this,” she said to Graham.

“What is it?” He seemed to sense the danger, too.

“Please,” Sarah said. “It’s important.”

“I’ll take it,” Jolaine said.

Graham and Sarah replied in unison, “No!”

Wilkerson stepped up to the table. “I told you to get her clothes off.”

“Leave us alone for a moment, Doctor,” Sarah said, grunting through a spasm of pain.

“You’re going to die if we don’t get that wound stabilized.”

“It’s my life to lose,” Sarah snapped. “Two minutes.” Without waiting for an answer, she rocked her head to readdress Graham, and she thrust the note closer. “Do you remember the protocol?”

Graham froze. Terror invaded his face. He said, “Um.”

“You do, don’t you?” Sarah said.

Jolaine asked, “What are you talking about? What protocol?”

Sarah stayed focused on her son. “You remember, don’t you, Graham? You always remember.”

Graham nodded.

“Sarah, I must insist,” Jolaine said. “Whatever this
protocol
is, whatever the content of the note, if it endangers—”

“Shut up, Jolaine,” Sarah snapped. “Take this, Graham.” She thrust the note into his hand. “Look at it. Look at it
carefully.
”

“I don’t want—”

“For crying out loud,” Wilkerson said. “Look at the damn thing. The quicker you do, the better chance I have of saving her life.”

Graham took the note and opened it. When Jolaine tried to peek, he angled away so she couldn’t see. The glimpse she did catch revealed a long string of numbers and letters. As far as she could tell, it wasn’t an equation, and it spelled nothing.

As Graham studied the paper, trying to make sense out of it, she realized that Sarah had snared her son in a trap.

When Graham looked up from the paper, Sarah smiled. “You memorized it, didn’t you?” She laughed and triggered another spasm. “You can’t help it.”

Jolaine knew it was true. Graham’s version of photographic memory placed him in the one percentile of the one percentile. To read was to remember forever. He had no control over it.

“Give me the paper back now,” Sarah said.

After looking at it one more time, Graham handed it back. Sarah stuffed it into her mouth and swallowed. “Execute the protocol,” Sarah said. To Jolaine, she added, “Remember your mission, too.”

“What is this, Sarah?” Jolaine demanded. “Why is all this happening? You owe me that much.”

“The protocol,” Sarah said again. “Graham knows the code and the protocol. Repeat it only in person, son. That’s very important. In person, not over the phone.”

“But the protocol
is
a phone call,” Graham said. “That’s all it ever was.”

“You’ll have to meet. The man on the other end will know what to do. Just follow his directions.”

Jolaine stepped in again. “Sarah, he is not meeting anyone unless I know what he’s walking into. Is this code, as you call it, the reason why people are dying?”

“Follow the protocol,” Sarah repeated. “Once the loop is closed, the killing should stop. There’ll be no reason. Jolaine, protect Graham.”

“Sarah, this isn’t fair. I can’t protect him if—”

Behind them, the mechanics of the elevator hummed. Jolaine’s hand jerked to her holster, and one second later, her Glock was in her hand. She pushed Graham across the room and made herself as big as possible in the space between him and the door.

“That’s my team arriving,” Wilkerson said.

From a two-handed isosceles stance, she centered her sights on the middle of the door. “They need to pray that they don’t have weapons in their hands,” she said.

“For God’s sake,” Wilkerson said. “Take a breath. We don’t need any more shooting.”

Jolaine didn’t bother to respond. She trusted her reserve and her resolve. She wouldn’t shoot at anyone who didn’t need shooting. Tonight, that bar was dropping lower by the minute.

The elevator hydraulics hissed, and then there was a soft thump. Two seconds later, the door opened. She moved her finger from the pistol’s frame to its trigger. If it came to that, she could rain down ten rounds in a little under four seconds, every one of them drilling a hole within an inch of where she wanted it to drill.

The first man out of the elevator didn’t look like a doctor. With gray hair and a jet-black beard that was a throwback to the Civil War, he looked like a sixties-era beatnik. “Show your hands or die where you stand!” Jolaine yelled.

The guy jumped. Had there not been three more men plugging the entrance behind him, he might have bolted back through the door. “Whoa, whoa, whoa!” he yelled. He held his hands out in front of him, his fingers splayed to ward off the attack. “I’m a doctor.”

“Stop!” Wilkerson bellowed. “Jesus Christ, these are my colleagues. Put your gun away!”

Jolaine held her aim long enough to assess each of the faces coming off the elevator. Every one of them looked like they’d be more comfortable in front of a video game than engaging in a gunfight muzzle to muzzle.

Finally, she moved her finger outside the trigger guard and moved the weapon to low-ready—not aiming at anyone in particular, but still pointing at the floor in their general direction, just in case a target presented itself.

“Don’t pay attention to her,” Wilkerson said. “She’s part of the Community, she’s scared, and she’s about to leave.”

Behind her, Graham grabbed a fistful of the back of her shirt. She didn’t know what it meant, but she knew that it was an appeal for help. Still not ready to re-holster, she lowered the Glock a little more.

“I think we’re all right, Graham,” she said. This would be over soon, one way or the other.

The arriving team moved to surround Sarah Mitchell. In seconds, it was as if Jolaine and Graham didn’t even exist. It was actually the lack of attention that convinced her that it would be safe to holster her weapon. When it was secure, she turned her attention to Graham, looking him in the eye.

“How are you doing?” she asked.

He shrugged and made a jerky motion with his head. It might have been a nod, or it might have been just a twitch. His brain still wasn’t processing it all.

“Here it is, Graham,” she said. “We’re going to have to leave. The doctors will care for your mom, but there’s no place for us here. We need to move on.”

The terror in the boy’s face deepened and multiplied. “Where are we going?”

The truthful answer was
I don’t have any idea.
Instead, Jolaine said, “We’ll find a hotel room. We’ll kind of hide for a while and see what happens.”

“Who are we hiding from?”

Damn good question.
“We don’t know yet. What was on that piece of paper? What did it mean?”

Graham shook his head. “I don’t know,” he said. Tears balanced on his eyelids. “Mom said it was a code, so I guess it’s a code. But I don’t know what it means.”

“Please don’t lie to me, Graham. Not tonight.”

“I’m not lying, Jolaine. I can tell you that it was a string of letters and numbers—I could even recite them for you—and according to Mom, they’re some kind of code, but beyond that, I have no idea what they are.”

“Why are they important?”

“I don’t know that either.”

She believed him. “It’s time to go now.”

“What about Mom?”

Jolaine ignored that question and looked to the crowd that had gathered around Sarah. “Doctor Wilkerson!” she said. “I’m going to need a car.”

A voice from the clinical scrum said, “Find the kitchen upstairs. There are a set of keys on the hook by the door to the garage. Take whichever car you want.”

Really? It was that easy? So much about this just didn’t make sense.

“Let’s go,” Jolaine said. She put her hand back on Graham’s arm.

“But what about
Mom?
”

“
Now,
” Jolaine said.

M
aryanne was waiting for him at the base of the JFK bust that to Jonathan’s eye was the single ugly piece of artwork in the building. It looked like mud balls that had been crammed together. From a distance, it resembled the countenance of the thirty-fifth president of the United States, but up close it looked like an elementary school art project gone wrong.

“This really is important,” she said as he approached within earshot.

Jonathan gestured toward the door that led to the terrace. It was a flawless night in Washington. The cherry blossoms had bloomed a few weeks ago, but the stifling humidity and heat that so defined the capital city still lay in the future. The terrace offered a spectacular view of the Potomac River.

He took another hit of his scotch. At this rate, it wasn’t going to last long. “I’m all ears,” he said. “What’ve you got?”

“First some background,” Maryanne said. She looked soft for a Fibbie, too feminine. “You know that the Soviet Union collapsed back in the eighties.”

“I believe I heard the rumor.”

“Well, when it fell, it didn’t fall softly. For years, the US has been running a network of informants in the former Soviet Republics—both the friendly ones, and the other ones.”

“If that’s supposed to surprise me, you’ve missed the mark,” Jonathan said.

“Thing is,” she continued, “the Russians are slouching back to their old ways. I’m sure you heard the news story a few months ago about the Russian sleeper cells that were operating here and in Canada. They brought down that airliner in Chicago before the Mounties took them out.”

“I remember reading something about that,” Jonathan said. It seemed inappropriate to mention that that had been his op. The fact that she didn’t know told him that Wolverine had been appropriately circumspect in the information she shared.

“We have every reason to believe that nothing remains of the Movement, as they called themselves. But as cultural and religious tensions increase, the chatter has elevated immensely. We know that other cells exist, and for that reason, we continue to develop and run sources.”

Jonathan checked his watch. So far nothing in this conversation trumped the Puccini he was missing. “You know that I don’t work for Uncle Sam anymore, right? I’m out of the business of giving much of a shit about terrorist cells. I pay taxes for that stuff.”

Maryanne took a breath. “One of our most prolific operators was killed tonight. Bernard Mitchell. He was a nuke expert.”

Jonathan’s neck hairs rose. If this pretty young thing worked for Wolverine, then she knew better than to throw out details that weren’t relevant. “A nuke expert for whom?” he asked. “Our side or theirs?”

She hesitated. “Both.”

“Okay, which side did he love more?”

“Ours,” she said. “We’re almost positive of that.”

In Jonathan’s experience with government-speak, the difference between
almost positive
and
we don’t
have a freaking clue
was barely discernible.

“At this stage, we know very little that is concrete, but what we do know is disturbing. Bernard Mitchell is dead, and we received a panic code from their house, presumably when the attack was happening. Judging from the amount of damage done to the home, and the number of bullet holes and bloodstains, it was a hell of a fight, and more than just good guys were killed.”

“Did Bernard live alone?” Jonathan asked. He felt himself being drawn in.

“No, and that’s even more disturbing. We know nothing of the whereabouts of his wife, Sarah, their son, Graham, or an au pair named Jolaine. They have disappeared, and so has one of the Mitchells’ cars. A BMW.”

“Doesn’t the smart money say they got away?”

“Under normal circumstances, yes,” Maryanne said. “But there are protocols in place for events such as this, notifications to be made by survivors of a hit.”

Jonathan considered where the conversation was going. “Let me guess. None of them were implemented.”

“Exactly. They were to call a central number, and the person on the other end of the call would have given them specific instructions on what to do next.”

“So you’re saying that they disappeared.”

“Essentially, yes,” Maryanne said.

“Why are you telling me this instead of briefing a roomful of fire-breathing Fibbies?” As far as Jonathan could tell, there were only a couple of reasons for Uncle Sam to reach out to contractors, and more times than not, it had something to do with breaking the law.

“Because Wolverine asked me to?”

“Not enough this time,” Jonathan said. “First of all, I don’t see Wolverine. And second, I’ve got bullshit bells ringing in my head like it’s Armistice Day. Let’s start with the fact that these missing people—what are their names?”

“The Mitchells.”

“Let’s start with the fact that the Mitchells were first and foremost the responsibility of the federal government. It’s not as if you folks are understaffed.”

Maryanne seemed unmoved. “I revert to my original comment,” she said. “Director Rivers asked me to ask you. She seemed to think that that would be enough incentive.”

She had a point, and she seemed to know it. Jonathan shifted topics. “How were the Mitchells’ covers blown?”

“We don’t know.”

“Aren’t you a little worried?”

“We’re a lot worried. We literally have no idea. All we know is what I’ve told you—Bernard is dead and the others are missing.”

Jonathan considered the details. “The au pair,” he said. “What do you know about her?”

“She’s local talent, but recruited by us.”

Jonathan laughed. “The feds are recruiting au pairs now? How about house cleaners? Do you recruit them, too?”

Maryanne smiled. Or maybe she had a gas pain. “Okay, she’s more than your average au pair.”

“More like a bodyguard, then?”

“Exactly.”

“You’re sure you can trust her?”

“You know my business, Mr. Grave. I don’t trust anyone.” Beyond Maryanne’s left shoulder, a steady stream of taillights flowed across the Teddy Roosevelt bridge toward Virginia, while virtually no cars headed into the District.

“Yet you trust me,” Jonathan said.

“Heavens no,” she said. “I’ll pretend to trust you because my boss trusts you.” The smile turned menacing. “But if you cross me, I’ll kill you.”

The laugh escaped before Jonathan could stop it. He had Christmas tree ornaments bigger than she, but he admired her zeal.

“How old is the kid?”

“Fourteen. His name is Graham.”

“Does he know about Mom and Dad’s other life?”

“I don’t know. If they followed the rules, no. But rule-following gets really murky when it comes to families.”

“So what do you want from me?” Jonathan asked. This Maryanne chick had eyes that could melt the ice caps. Blue, wet, and beautiful.

Her face darkened. “I was hoping that would be obvious.”

Jonathan smirked. “I’ve learned to live by hard requests. That old saw about assumptions making an ass of you and me applies in spades.”

“We want you to rescue the mother and her son.”

Jonathan crossed his arms and dug in for a second swing at the details he wanted to know. “There’s that first person plural again. Who’s
we?
”

“Uncle Sam.”

Jonathan cocked his head. This was the problem with young people. They said the lines without fully understanding the meaning. “How much of Uncle Sam?” he asked, not bothering to camouflage his smile. “All of him, or just certain parts?”

“I speak on behalf of Director Rivers,” Maryanne said. “I can’t speak for anyone beyond her.”

Jonathan found himself liking this kid. She didn’t show any of the know-it-all hyperbole that was so common to her generation. She stuck with the mission. Jonathan could count a dozen or more warriors he knew who had died at the hands of commanders who had violated that one sacred tenet of command—stick to the goddamn mission.

If Irene Rivers wanted him to march into harm’s way, that was almost enough unto itself.

“Maryanne, I like your spunk and your approach. But I have a lot more experience at not trusting people than even you. If we’re going to take another step together—Wolverine or no Wolverine—I want a straight answer to this. Why isn’t my dear Uncle Sam making use of his enormous resources to take care of this rescue himself?”

She did something with her eyes, a casual glance away, a break in eye contact. It was a tell. “There are only so many routes for that kind of information to get out,” she said.

There it was. “You’re telling me that the Bureau continues to leak.”

“Like a cheap diaper.” She looked away, casting her glance upriver toward the Georgetown Harbor complex.

Leaks had been a burgeoning problem within the Bureau ever since Congress had gotten on its high horse and demanded that agents play by all the rules all the time, irrespective of criticality. Between the career advancement that was guaranteed for whistle-blowers, and the subterranean celebrity that was afforded to those who leaked information to the press, it had become harder and harder to keep a secret in this town.

“Tell me your worst fears regarding this case,” Jonathan said.

“That the family will die.”

“Bullshit. First of all, you answered too quickly, and second, saving families has never been a priority of the Bureau. Protecting careers first, catching bad guys second, and saving lives somewhere below that. This isn’t my first trip to the races.”

Jonathan let his words penetrate. He suspected that Maryanne was still young enough not to comprehend that difficult truth. All government agencies—not exclusively the FBI, but they were the worst offenders, in his experience—valued process over all. Careers were far more deeply jeopardized when a clerical error let a bad guy go than they were by the death of a citizen. More than anything else, that philosophy defined the chasm that separated the worldviews of elite law enforcement groups from those of elite military teams.

“We can’t afford for them to be squeezed for information,” Maryanne said.

“What do they know?”

“I can’t tell you that.”

“Okay,” Jonathan said. “We’re done, then. Have a good night.” He turned and headed back inside.

“Really?” Maryanne said. Her voice sounded shocked. “That’s all?”

Jonathan stopped, turned, and planted his fists on his hips. “What more would you have? I’m not a soldier anymore. I don’t take orders. I make decisions whether a risk is worth its reward. There’s never been a free agent freer than I. The rest is up to you. My team, my rules. Play by them, or pick a different field.”

Not waiting for an answer, he turned and headed back to the opera. He figured that she’d come to her senses or she wouldn’t. Personally, he didn’t much care.

Jonathan was a little disappointed when he exited the Opera House and Maryanne wasn’t there waiting for him. Now there was one more mystery in the world for which he would never know the resolution.

“What exactly did she want?’ Venice asked as they turned the corner into the Hall of Nations, a vast corridor where the flags of dozens of countries hung from the sixty-foot ceiling—the flag of every country with which the United States had diplomatic relations, in alphabetical order. Jonathan had heard stories that after the fall of the Soviet Union, workers had to reorder everything to make room for twelve additional standards.

“A home was invaded in Indiana and the family was taken. They were spies for the good guys. She wanted our help getting them back.”

“Isn’t that what the FBI gets paid to do?”

“My thoughts exactly,” Jonathan said. A set of doors led to the first of a series of escalators that would take them down to Jonathan’s car.

“There must be some kind of internal problem within the Bureau,” Venice said. “Why else turn to outside talent?”

Jonathan caught the drift that Venice’s curiosity was piqued. “Again, you’re channeling me. Too many outstanding questions to get any closer. History has proven that there’s no upside to getting in the middle of a catfight between Uncle Sam’s various children.”

“Speaking of children,” Venice said, “were any kids involved in the kidnapping?”

He held up his forefinger. “One,” he said. “Fourteen. Plus a nanny-slash-bodyguard and maybe the mother. Dad was killed in the initial assault.”

At the base of the first escalator, they turned and continued down. “This isn’t like you. Don’t you think—”

Jonathan touched her arm. “Perhaps this is a discussion to have in a smaller crowd.” On the moving stairway, they were but two of hundreds who would soon be clogging the roads. Venice and he were speaking quietly enough not to stand out, so there was little chance of being overheard, but still. Also, Jonathan didn’t want to talk about it anymore.

They made it to the second-level garage and Jonathan led the way to his BMW. As he unlocked Venice’s door, Jonathan stopped her again with another gentle touch on her arm. She looked up, her brown eyes flashing a reflection of the harsh overhead lights. “You look stunning tonight,” he said.

Her smile flashed brilliant white. “Why thank you, Mr. Grave. You clean up pretty good, too.”

He wondered sometimes if the gap in their ages were less, would he have returned the crush she’d had on him as a teenager. While age differences meant less with every passing year, it had been an obscene and felonious gap back then, and even though they remained close, a slice of Jonathan’s brain would always see her as the googly-eyed kid.

Jonathan was about to push the passenger-side door closed when he saw the business card that had been tucked under his windshield wiper. Even from a distance, he could see the emblem of the FBI shield.

“Uh-oh,” he said.

“What is it?”

He pulled the card away from the rubber wiper and took a closer look. The name embossed on the front read
Irene Rivers, Director.
On the back were written the words, “This lvl, sect B row 2.”

“Well, shit,” Jonathan said. He handed the card to Venice.

She read it, and right away started to climb out of the car. Whatever it was, she was coming along.