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Joey’s mother rushed to him, pulling him into her arms. His father hugged them both, no longer hiding his tears. The chief sat dumb-founded, and Kate just looked at Vail, shaking her head.
Mrs. Walton asked Vail, “Was Joey … Is he all right?”
Vail nodded at her knowingly. “He’s fine.”
She tightened her arms around the child.
Vail turned the Stanton boy toward them so he could get the full impact of the reunion. Then he squatted down and looked into his eyes. “Now do you see why it’s important to go back to your real parents? This mom and dad have only been separated from their son for a couple of hours, and look how they feel. Your parents have been without you for four years.” The boy nodded dutifully, but Vail could see it still wasn’t registering fully.
Kate came over to them and smiled. “And who is this good-looking young man?”
“This is Edward Stanton,” Vail said. “He was taken in Maryland four years ago.”
Kate’s head snapped toward Vail. It took her a few seconds to comprehend that this boy was another kidnapping victim. “The same guy had him? How’d you find him?”
“I’ll tell you later.”
Kate sensed that her questions were interfering with Vail’s attempt to have the Stanton boy realize that he belonged with his real parents, but, like Mrs. Walton, she couldn’t help but ask about his well-being. “And he didn’t …” She bobbed her head back and forth euphemistically so the boy wouldn’t know what she was talking about.
Vail pulled Kate back away from the eleven-year-old. “Apparently not. This guy who abducted them, George Hillstrand, his wife and son died in childbirth just before he took Edward, here. He just wanted some part of his family back. As far as I can tell, Edward’s been raised well. He’s having a little trouble comprehending it all, figuring out where his loyalties lie, but otherwise he seems okay.”
Kate watched the boy carefully. She knew that it was not unusual for long-held kidnapping victims to identify with their abductor rather than their family.
For the first time, Kate noticed that Vail’s hand was wrapped in a white handkerchief and was damp with blood. “Are you all right?”
“That depends. Do you believe in sympathy dates?”
“Obviously you’re fine.” She looked closely at him and then back at his hand, as if putting off some argument until they could be alone.
The chief came over and asked Vail how he’d found the boys. Vail explained about the race photos and how Hillstrand’s name had come up in the Maryland investigation. “Where is Hillstrand?” Mallon asked.
Vail took Kate’s car keys out of his pocket and tossed them to Mallon. “I didn’t have any cuffs, so I duct-taped him and put him in the trunk.”
“What happened to your hand?”
“In all the excitement, I must have cut it.”
The phone rang, and Mallon picked it up, listening for a moment. “Okay, give us a few minutes.” He hung up. “The media is on the way. Straighten your tie, Steve, you’re about to be a hero.” The chief nodded at the Stanton boy. “And wait till they hear about this young man also being safe and sound after all this time.”
Kate looked at Vail and knew what he was thinking. “Tim, we appreciate it, but this is your time. Just mention that the FBI assisted in the investigation.”
“Are you kidding me? I can’t take credit for this.”
Kate cleared her throat, signaling Vail that she was about to tell a lie. She nodded for Mallon to follow her and Vail out of the room. In the hallway she said, “Tim, I’m sorry, but I wasn’t being straight with you when I said Steve wasn’t with the Bureau. This is classified. You’ll have to tell your people and the Waltons not to say anything about his involvement. He’s been working a major municipal corruption case undercover in Chicago as a bricklayer. His name or face in the news will blow two years of hard work. Just tell the media what I told you: An undercover agent found them and is involved in an ongoing investigation. Except lie about Chicago. Since Edward was taken in Maryland, tell them it was Baltimore. That’ll keep them running around in circles until this calms down. And don’t be too modest—you are the one who called us.”
“Kate, I may have worked applicants my whole career, but I was in the same FBI as you. Plus, I know what a terrible liar you are. I don’t understand why Steve wants to duck this, but I’m too indebted to you both to question it. I’ll just assume it’s necessary.” He gingerly shook Vail’s hand, just interlocking fingertips to avoid the wound. “Whether you’re an agent or not, Steve, I am most grateful.” Mallon hugged Kate. Then he walked back into his office and said to the Stanton boy, “Edward, what do you say we go call your parents?”
“Yes, sir,” the boy answered, his voice starting to gain some enthusiasm.
Kate unwrapped Vail’s hand, revealing the grazing wound. Fortunately, the round had hit only the fleshy edge. “You’re going to need some stitches.”
Vail tightened the handkerchief back around his hand. “I’ve been here less than four hours and you’ve already gotten me shot.”
“Me? You’re the one going off on your own. Again. How is this my fault?”
“I don’t know. Every time I get near you, something like this happens. It’s like you’re crime’s version of Typhoid Mary.”
On their way out, Vail remembered something and detoured back through the detective bureau. He picked up the note he’d left on the desk and handed it to her. “Before we have an argument, I just wanted you to know that I wasn’t cutting you out. When I left here, I was cursing myself for not going with you, because your lead looked so much better.”
Kate glanced at the note. “You’re getting a lot better at covering your tracks.”
“From your tone, apparently not good enough. Just remember who unleashed the hounds. I am a simple mason who was looking forward to free liquor and unsuspecting maidens.” Vail checked the clock on the wall. “Happy New Year, Deputy Assistant Director Bannon.” He kissed her lightly on the cheek, trying to determine if they were back on a date. Her response was disappointingly neutral. “Pace yourself, woman, we’ve got the whole night in front of us.”
This was how it was with Vail, she thought. If there was a mystery in front of them, he was amazing, but once it was over, difficulties between them were inevitable. “Just because you rescued a couple of kids and got a little shot up, don’t think that I’m waving you in for a landing, Vail.”
When she called him “Vail,” it was a good sign. She used it only when she wasn’t mad. As they walked out into the parking lot, she took his arm, her touch sending electricity through him.
By the time they left the emergency room less than an hour later, dawn was coming up. Vail had taken four stitches in his hand, and the doctor had told him there shouldn’t be any permanent problems.
“Well, what’s your poison?” Kate asked. “I guess I owe you some sack time—on the couch. I can get you to the airport later.”
“Why don’t you just drop me there now.”
“If you’ll let me buy you breakfast first.”
Then Kate noticed a familiar black Lincoln Town Car idling in the parking lot, its white-gray exhaust disappearing into the icy air. It belonged to the director of the FBI. As they approached the vehicle, the driver got out.
Kate said, “Hello, Mike. What’s up?”
“The director sent me to get you.”
Kate looked at Vail with a mixture of apology and apprehension.
One corner of his mouth lifted sardonically. “Ever notice how seldom the really good dates start out in the emergency room?”
The driver turned to Vail. “He sent me to get both of you.”
TWO
THE BLACK TOWN CAR PULLED UP TO THE CURB IN THE 1100 BLOCK OF SIXTEENTH Street in northwest D.C. They parked in front of an old mansion that had a tall wrought-iron fence surrounding it. “Where are we, Mike?” Kate asked the driver.
Vail pointed across the street to a large tan and gray four-story residence. “That’s the old Russian embassy over there.”
“They’re waiting inside for you,” the driver said, ignoring Kate’s question and Vail’s observation.
As they got out, Vail pointed at the building they were about to enter and said, “This is the old observation post where the Bureau used to monitor who came and went across the street, but then the Russians built that big compound up on Tunlaw Road, so this place was no longer necessary. Apparently they’ve found some new use for it.”
When Kate and Vail walked up to the entrance of the huge old dwelling, an agent who was not wearing his suit coat opened one of its heavy, ten-foot-tall oak doors. Along with his sidearm, two magazine pouches were clipped to his belt. He studied both of their faces briefly and then, in a voice that was neither welcoming nor overly official, said, “The director is waiting for you upstairs.”
THEY FOLLOWED A CURVED STAIRCASE to the second floor, and Vail took a moment to appreciate the craftsmanship of the elegant structure, which he estimated to be at least seventy-five years old. The staircase was constructed of Spanish black marble that was almost without any impurities to distort its ebony gloss. A large but delicate glass chandelier hung down through the helix of stairs. “Okay, I’ll ask first,” he said to Kate. “What’s going on?”
“Not a clue,” she said. “But considering that today’s a holiday, the smart money is that it’s not going to be good news.”
“Next time I’m planning the date. Someplace without telephones or emergency rooms. Or FBI directors.”
“Do you think if you use the word ‘date’ enough times, we’ll actually be on one?”
“I’m hoping you’ll admire me for my perseverance.”
“Isn’t that the stalker’s official mantra?”
On the second floor, they could hear low voices coming from a room that faced the street. They walked in, and Vail could see that it had once been an oversize bedroom but was now filled with equipment that looked dated. Metal tables, recording equipment, a small telescope on a long table at the window—which was covered with what he recognized as a one-way shade. A second telescope stood on a smaller table at an adjoining window, also shaded.
Aside from the director, there were five other men in the room sitting on a couch and chairs. As they entered, Vail was surprised that most of their curiosity seemed to be directed toward him. A room full of men invariably turned their attention to Kate when she entered, even if they already knew her.
Bob Lasker got to his feet and shook hands with Vail. “Steve, how’s the hand?”
“It’s fine.”
The director nodded to one of the men, who got up and closed the door. “Good morning, Kate,” Lasker said.
She looked at the faces of the other men. “Is it a good morning, sir?”
“We’re about to find out. Please, both of you, have a seat. Kate, I think you know everybody here.” The director then introduced the others to Vail. “Bill Langston is the assistant director in charge of the Counterintelligence Division. His deputy, John Kalix. Tony Battly, Jake Canton, and Mark Brogdon are unit and section chiefs within the division.”
The director watched as Vail gave them each a snapshot evaluation. It was something Lasker wanted him to do, something that would help convince Vail to grant the request Lasker was about to make, that these men, while adequate administrators, were unqualified to do fieldwork.
The three unit and section chiefs were startlingly nondescript, reminding Vail that at FBI headquarters individuality was rewarded only with suspicion. Each of the men was overweight, as if even that shortcoming also met some sort of Bureau standard. Their suits varied little in color or quality and had become too small due to burgeoning waistlines. The sleeves on Battly’s jacket were too long, covering half of his thumbs. Judging by the wear on the elbows, it had fit him that way since its purchase years before, and he’d never felt the need to have the minor tailoring done, probably because he took it off at his desk.
Brogdon’s suit was equally fatigued, the pant cuffs frayed, the lapels wilted and beginning to curl up. Canton’s shirt collar was too tight and had been left unbuttoned. Dusty spots dotted his tie where he had apparently scraped away food particles. The apprehensive expressions on all three faces, aside from their momentary curiosity about Vail, were those of men who were much closer to retirement than to taking on anything remotely associated with the unpredictable rigors of the street.
John Kalix, although not overweight, had a round, doughy face that was aged prematurely by a receding hairline that he made more prominent by combing over what was left of his mousy brown hair. Sitting to his boss’s right, he somehow managed to mimic the assistant director’s slightest movements. He wore the ageless uniform of an FBI manager: gray slacks, navy blazer, white shirt, and a striped tie that had been knotted too many times between cleanings.
On the other hand, Bill Langston, the assistant director in charge, looked like the second most important man in the room. In his mid-fifties, he was trim, even thin. He had a full head of brown hair that was going gray at the temples. His suit was moderately expensive, and he sat with his legs carefully crossed so as to not wrinkle the sharp creases along the front of his trousers. His posture was unusually erect, as though he were waiting for an “unexpected” photo. The expression on his face, somehow inappropriate for the moment, was one of patrician stoicism. Vail guessed that it was an effort on his part not to be easily read.
“Steve, I never did get a chance, face-to-face, to thank you for what you did during the Pentad investigation in L.A.,” the director said. “I’ve told everyone here about your involvement in the case.”
Waving his hand in the direction of Kate, Vail said, “As a result you offered this one a promotion—some thank-you.”
Lasker smiled. “Speaking of which, nice work last night on those abductions, Kate. We’re getting a ton of good press for a change.”
“Since your driver knew to pick us up at the emergency room, I assume you talked to the chief in Reston. To be honest, sir, the only thing I had to do with finding those boys was driving Steve there.”
“Looks like you were going somewhere nice before you got sidetracked.”
Vail spoke first so that Kate wouldn’t have to be embarrassed by trying to explain the circumstances of their failed date. “The Irish ambassador’s reception. Just as well. I don’t speak the language.”
The director laughed. “You and Washington’s elite in the same room, Steve? That would have been worth the price of admission.”
“You might have been disappointed. I was under strict orders to keep my shirt on and not arm-wrestle anyone for beer.” Vail cocked his head to one side to let the director know that he was becoming suspicious of the small talk. “But then I doubt we’re here to catch up on my lack of social breeding.”
“Sorry,” Lasker said. The single word seemed genuine. “We’ve got a major problem. There’s no way to make this sound like it’s not hyper-bole, but it is legitimately a matter of national security. The people in this room are the only ones who know what I’m going to tell you.”
“Classified, I got it.”
“I’ve been through your old personnel file again, so I know you’ve been trained in counterintelligence.” Because of a master’s degree in Soviet history, Vail had originally been hired to work the Russians. Out of training school, he’d been sent to Detroit to work general criminal cases in order to develop broader investigative skills, but he was frequently sent back to Quantico for in-service training. That’s how he knew about the old embassy across the street and the building they were now in. “Other than the technology, not much has changed. It’s still pretty much cloak-and-dagger. Actually, more cloaks than daggers. Have you followed any of the recent cases?”
“I’ve always been interested in anything American-Russian, so I read a lot of what’s published.”
“Good, then we won’t have to waste time explaining every nuance of how all this works. Bill, can you fill him in?”
The assistant director stood up, went over to a laptop computer, and tapped a key. The wall above the fireplace, which was being used as a makeshift screen, lit up. A photograph of grainy surveillance quality appeared, showing a man with the flat, pale features of an Eastern European, his sideburns and mustache a little too bushy to be stylish in the United States. “A month ago this individual contacted our Washington Field Office and requested a meeting. He was guarded in the information he supplied but said that he was an intelligence officer with the Russian embassy here in Washington. He would not identify himself by name but instead used the code name Calculus. At this meeting, to qualify himself as legitimate, he turned over five classified documents. When we asked him what he wanted from us, he said he had a list of Americans, some employed by the government and some by corporations with defense contracts, who were supplying information to the SVR, which if you’ve been keeping up, know is the new KGB. He wouldn’t say how many were on the list or where they worked. However, one of the individuals, he was certain, worked in the U.S. intelligence community. He didn’t know which agency.”
“The documents he turned over—how critical was the information?” Vail asked.
“Nothing earth-shattering, but enough to convince us that he could have access to what he claimed. Why do you ask that?”
“Just curious.”
Kate watched Vail carefully. She detected a note of discovery in his voice.
“I assume he wants money,” Vail said.
“Why else would someone betray Mother Russia and risk the executioner?” Langston said. “The way he set it up was quite clever. He would give us, in his words, the ‘smallest fish first, the largest, last,’ which we assume is the intelligence agent. Once we identified the first one, we were to wire-transfer a quarter of a million dollars to a Chicago bank, for which he provided an account number. He said it’s a large bank and that the account, which was opened by one of his relatives who works there, is in a dummy name. He warned that if the Bureau tried to find out who it was or trace the funds, the relative would be alerted and all contact with us would be severed, because if he couldn’t trust us, he was as good as dead. Once the relative notified him that the money had been deposited, we would get the next name. He wanted a quarter of a million for each of them and a half million for the last one, because according to him it’s a highly placed intelligence agent.”
“Did he say how quickly after payment you would get the next name?”
“In fact, he made that quite clear. We would get it, in his words, ‘immediately if not sooner,’ because he felt the longer this dragged out, the better the chances of his being exposed. He said the SVR had been given strict orders by Moscow that it must never become public knowledge that the Russians were spying on the United States again. Although their agents are extremely cautious to start with, apparently that directive has made them completely paranoid. Even the faintest hint of disloyalty launches an all-out probe.”
Vail said, “So he gives you a name, you arrest that person, and then wire a quarter of a million dollars to the Chicago account. Once it’s deposited, you get the next name, and so on until the intelligence agent is caught, and then you send a half million.”
“Right.”
“Does that mean he’s given you the first name?”
“More or less,” the assistant director said.
“As far as spycraft goes,” Vail said to the director, “this sounds pretty paint-by-the-numbers. Why am I here?”
“A couple of reasons,” Langston said. “Two days ago we got a short, cryptic text message from him. He has been recalled to Moscow unexpectedly.”
“Uh-oh,” Vail said.
“What?” Kate asked.
“When someone is suspected of spying, the Russians find some routine excuse to get them back to Moscow. Once there, they’re interrogated, for months if necessary. Should they confess or if the SVR develops any proof, the suspected individual is usually executed for treason. And since it’s not something the Russians are likely to make public, you’d never know,” Vail said.
Langston continued, “Since the first letter, we’ve been trying to identify Calculus. And now we think we know who he is. The CIA has a fairly high-level source in the Russian embassy. In a rare act of cooperation, they’ve identified an individual for us. If they’ve given us the right name, he’s an electrical engineer by training and is extremely cautious, even obsessive, which in the spy business is a good thing. His job is what we call a technical agent. He’s sent all over the United States to their safe houses to wire them for sound and video and record meetings in case any of their double agents should get cold feet. Then they could be threatened with exposure, a foolproof way of keeping an asset’s attention. The rest of it we’re guessing at. We think, after meetings between American sources and their Russian handlers, he would collect the recordings and store them at the embassy. We think that with his financial future in mind, he started making a list of their identities. Maybe even keeping copies of the documents they turned over or other information we could use as corroborating evidence.”
