House Divided (29 page)

“All right, Joe. Where do you want to meet?”

DeMarco thought about that for a second. He didn’t want to meet her too close to where he was staying. “Rosslyn,” he said. “There’s a little coffee shop on Wilson Boulevard, close to the metro station, called the Java Hut. How long will it take you to get there?”

“An hour. I can’t make it any sooner.”

“Okay, see you in an hour,” DeMarco said, and hung up before she could change her mind.

He didn’t know what Diane would do after he talked to her but at least someone else would know what the hell was going on. And once he told her Hopper had been killed, she’d do something—DeMarco didn’t know what—but something.

He started to leave the phone booth, but then something else occurred to him. Last night he’d been desperate to escape from Dillon’s thugs and running to Perry Wallace had been the best, most expedient solution. But this morning he also remembered that he’d called Perry just a couple of days ago to ask about Mahoney’s condition and that phone call, more than anything else, would have led the NSA right to Perry’s doorstep. The consequence of all this was that to save his own hide DeMarco had selfishly gotten Perry involved in this whole, deadly NSA affair and he wondered if Dillon’s goons had Perry’s wide-bodied frame in a little room somewhere, twisting his nuts to make him talk.

Perry wasn’t a good friend, but he didn’t deserve that.

Since he didn’t know Dillon’s phone number, DeMarco called directory assistance and was surprised to find that the NSA had a listed number, just like they were some sort of normal government agency.

“You got an old spook there named Dillon,” DeMarco said to the NSA operator. “I’m pretty sure that’s his first name. I need to talk to him.”

“Sir,” the operator said, “I have no idea who you want to speak to. This is a very large agency and I—”

“Lady, listen to me before you hang up. This guy Dillon is in his sixties, tall, white hair, dresses like a million bucks. He’s probably six hundred pay grades above you and he’s trying to find me. He will have you fired if you don’t put this call through to him. Now I know you can’t possibly know everybody at the NSA, but Dillon’s not a common first name and, like I said, this guy’s a big shot.
Somebody
will know him. Now I’m just gonna wait five minutes, and if I’m not talking to him before five minutes are up, I’m gonna hang up and you’re gonna get fired.”

DeMarco meant what he said: calling Dillon was dangerous and there was no way he was going to wait longer than five minutes. He knew that as soon as Dillon came on the line and realized DeMarco was on the other end, he’d trace the call and dispatch a bunch of armed thugs to pick him up. But DeMarco figured that unless the thugs were eating breakfast at the Hyatt, they wouldn’t be able to get to him in five minutes and he’d be gone before they arrived. He hoped.

Three minutes later, he heard Dillon say, “Good morning, Joe. Where are you?”

“You know damn good and well where I am,” DeMarco said, “and in two minutes I’m gonna be gone.”

Dillon chuckled. “You’re right, of course. I do know where you are. But really, Joe, you’re safe from us. You are not safe from General Bradford’s people, however. Your life is in danger. So just stay there and someone will be by shortly to pick you up.”

“I don’t think so,” DeMarco said. “Last night you almost got me killed. Anyway, the reason I called is I borrowed a car from a guy I know because I figured you had tracking devices on my car.”

“Yes, we’re aware Mr. Wallace assisted you.”

“Well, that’s why I called. I wanted to tell you that I didn’t tell Wallace anything. He doesn’t know about Bradford or Breed or Hopper or anything else. I just told him I was in trouble and needed a car—and that’s all I told him. So if you guys are holding Wallace and interrogating him, you need to let him go.”

“Joe, who do you think we are, the Gestapo? We spoke to Mr. Wallace early this morning, very politely, and he told us he had loaned you a vehicle. We have no intention of troubling him any further. But you need to let us bring you in, Joe. I wasn’t being melodramatic when I said your life was in danger.”

“I don’t think so,” DeMarco said again. “But that’s the other reason I called. I want you to know I have no intention of talking to the press or anybody else about what happened last night. I did what you wanted by meeting with Hopper and now I’m just gonna lay low and wait for this thing between you and Bradford to blow over.”

Lying to Dillon didn’t bother him at all.

“Claire,” Dillon said into his phone, “DeMarco just called me.”

“Why’d he call?”

“He called to tell me that his friend Mr. Wallace has no idea where he is and to assure me he’s not planning to talk to the press. At any rate, he called from the Hyatt in Crystal City. Find him, Claire. Use a satellite, assuming we have one that’s functioning.”

Dillon let Claire absorb that little barb before he added, “Oh, and Claire, do one other thing. Check the phone he used at the Hyatt. See if he called anyone else.”

DeMarco needed to get to Rosslyn, which was about four miles from the Hyatt. Since Dillon knew he was driving Perry’s ancient pickup, he imagined a flock of NSA geeks were watching traffic cameras so he couldn’t drive to Rosslyn, and the nearest metro stop was at least a mile from where he was. He decided the easiest thing would be to take a cab.

There were four cabs waiting in front of the hotel, and he started to approach the first one in the taxi line—and then realized he didn’t have enough money to take a cab. He’d had about a hundred and twenty bucks when he’d checked into the Day’s Inn last night and now had four bucks left. And he was hungry. He needed money.

He ran back into the Hyatt and used the hotel’s ATM. He knew Dillon’s people would be able to see that he’d used the machine, but he figured that didn’t matter because they already knew where he was because of the phone call he’d made to Dillon. Once he had the money he’d split, and unless the NSA had somehow managed to stick a GPS device up his ass when he wasn’t looking, Dillon’s guys shouldn’t be able to track him.

Two minutes later, he was in a cab and on his way to Rosslyn.

Claire assigned Gilbert to see if DeMarco had called anyone other than Dillon from the phone booth at the Hyatt. She then dispatched Alice and three other agents toward Crystal City. She knew DeMarco wouldn’t still be at the Hyatt but she figured he’d be someplace close by and she wanted Alice headed in that direction so once they located him, Alice would be there to pick him up. And Claire knew she’d locate the bastard shortly—particularly with a satellite at her disposal.

Five minutes later she acquired the satellite she needed, and after that it was a thing of beauty, the way her technicians worked. They took a satellite image of the greater D.C. area at the exact time DeMarco had called Dillon and displayed the image on a screen in the operations room. They zoomed in until the image showed the Crystal City area. They zoomed in again until they were looking at the entrance to the Hyatt. Then they ran time forward and saw, looking down from the stratosphere, DeMarco walking out of the Hyatt and getting into a taxicab. They ran time forward again and watched DeMarco exit the cab in Rosslyn near the metro station and enter a McDonald’s. Two minutes later, Claire was watching DeMarco in real time, looking like a bum in his baggy gray sweat shirt, munching on a breakfast burrito, trudging up Nash Street toward Wilson Boulevard.

Claire sat back and smiled.

The smile lasted about three seconds,

“Claire,” Gilbert said, “right before DeMarco called Dillon a call was made from that same phone booth to an FBI agent named Diane Carlucci.”

“Aw, shit.”

Two seconds later, another technician turned away from his monitor and said, “Claire, DeMarco used an ATM at the Hyatt before he left there.”

“Oh, that idiot!”

“He used an ATM when he was at the Hyatt,” Claire said.

“That’s not good,” Dillon said.

“Yeah, but that’s not the worst news. Right before he called you, it looks like he called an FBI agent named Diane Carlucci.”

Dillon closed his eyes briefly, then opened them and said, “How long was he on the phone with her?”

“Thirty-eight seconds.”

“He couldn’t have told her the whole story in that amount of time. He probably set up a meeting with her. Carlucci must be someone he trusts at the Bureau, maybe someone he’s worked with before.”

“Do you want me to find out?”

“No, we don’t have time for that. Find out what Carlucci knows and stop her from meeting with DeMarco.”

“And how do you propose I do that?” Claire asked.

“Talk to the woman, Claire. Be convincing.”

Walking back into the operations room, Claire said, “Where’s DeMarco now?”

Using a laser pointer, Gilbert placed a red dot on the front entrance of a building that was visible on the wall-mounted screen. The image of the building was coming from the satellite they’d used to follow DeMarco.

“He’s right there,” the tech said, “in that coffee shop.”

“Good. Stay on the bastard,” she said.

Claire went into her office, shut the door, and dialed a phone number.

“This is Agent Carlucci.”

“Agent, my name is Claire Whiting. I work for the National Security Agency.”

“Five minutes ago DeMarco used his ATM card at the Hyatt Regency in Crystal City,” Perkins said.

“Good work, Perkins,” Levy said. He sat for a moment, thinking, and then said, “Fax a photograph of DeMarco to the front desk of the Hyatt. I’ll take it from there.”

Levy waited three minutes and called the Hyatt. “This is Agent Douglas Kirk, United States Secret Service.”

The person at the Hyatt who’d answered the phone inhaled sharply and said, “What?”—the reaction you’d expect from a person who’s just been told he’s talking to the Secret Service.

“This is urgent,” Levy said, “and involves the protection of the president of the United States. You’ve just been faxed a photograph of a man. Do you have the fax?”

“Lemme see,” the man said. Two minutes later he was back on the line, sounding breathless. “Yeah, I’ve got it. What’s this about?”

“Do you recognize the man in the photo?”

“Oh, my God! He was here just a few minutes ago. He used a pay phone.”

“Did he use the ATM?”

“Yeah. How did you know that?”

“Did you see where he went after he used the ATM?”

“He left the hotel.”

“In which direction was he headed?”

“I don’t know. I can’t see outside the hotel from the front desk. But wait a minute. I’ll go ask the parking valet.” A moment later the clerk was back on the phone. “The valet said he caught a cab.”

“Which cab company?”

“He just said it was a maroon-colored taxi.”

“Thank you, sir. We appreciate your help.” Levy hung up and immediately called Perkins. “Perkins, DeMarco took a maroon-colored cab from the Hyatt after he used the ATM. Figure out which company he used and find out where the cab took him.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Agent Carlucci,” Claire said, “you received a phone call from a man named Joseph DeMarco about fifteen minutes ago.”

“How do you know that?” Diane said.

“Did you hear what I said when I introduced myself? I said I work for the National Security Agency. We’ve been watching DeMarco.”

There was a pause as Carlucci absorbed that shocking nugget. “Why?” she asked.

“I can’t tell you,” Claire said. “You don’t have need to know.”

“How do I know you’re NSA?”

“You mean other than the fact that I know DeMarco called you? Well, call the agency. We’re in the book. Ask for me. Or call anyone you know at the NSA and have them verify I work here.”

“I don’t know anyone at the NSA.”

“Agent Carlucci, I need to know what DeMarco told you.”

“If you know he called me, why don’t you know what he said?”

“Because we didn’t have a warrant to tap the phone he was using. Now will you please tell me what he told you, or do you want my director to call your director?”

Carlucci went silent again, probably thinking:
Go ahead. Call my director
. Claire had already gotten the impression that there was some steel in Carlucci and she wasn’t going to be able to walk right over her.

“Okay, Carlucci,” Claire said. “I probably shouldn’t be telling you this but …”

Claire was treading on dangerous ground here. She didn’t know what DeMarco might have told Carlucci, but she agreed with Dillon that he wasn’t on the phone long enough to have told her the whole story.

“… but DeMarco has been dating a woman who works for the CIA and this woman is currently in Afghanistan. The other night she called DeMarco. We know this because we monitor almost all communications coming from that part of the world. Well, what DeMarco’s lady friend passed on to him is controversial. Politically controversial. And it involves the CIA, the NSA, and high-ranking members of the U.S. military. I’m sorry to be so cryptic, but that’s all I can tell you.”

“Joe said it involved the FBI.”

“Only in a peripheral way. DeMarco’s girlfriend disagrees with what her superiors are doing in Afghanistan regarding a particular operation and when her chain of command wouldn’t listen to her she spoke to the FBI’s legal attaché in Kabul. The attaché had the good sense to know this was not an issue in which he should get involved, he told Ms. DiCapria’s superiors that she was talking out of school, and now Ms. DiCapria is in hot water, both legally and professionally.”

“And if I call our legal attaché in Kabul, he’ll confirm this?” Carlucci said.

“No, he won’t,” Claire said. “This operation is highly classified and strictly need to know. But I imagine five minutes after you talk the attaché, the FBI’s Office of Professional Responsibility will be in your office asking how it is you happen to have information on this subject.”

“Why would Joe call me about this?”

“I won’t know that until you tell me what he said to you.”

Claire held her breath until Carlucci responded.

“All he said was that he needed to see me, that he couldn’t talk on the phone, and that it involved the FBI.”