The Hit - Страница 18

She drove to Virginia and stopped in front of an imposing building that was relatively new.

United States Courthouse.

It was inside here that justice was supposed to be accomplished. It was inside here that wrongs were supposed to be righted. The guilty punished. The innocent absolved.

Reel didn’t know if any of that happened in courthouses anymore. She wasn’t a lawyer and didn’t understand the intricacies of what lawyers and judges did.

But she did understand one thing.

There were consequences to choices.

And a choice had been made by someone in that building and she happened to be the consequence of that choice.

She waited for another hour, her car parked on the street, its engine running. There was virtually no parking around here. She had been lucky enough to snag a spot and didn’t want to give it up.

The clouds had steadily moved back up the river and thickened. A few drops of rain plopped onto her windshield. She didn’t notice; her attention was riveted on the front steps of the courthouse. Finally, the doors opened and four men walked out.

Reel was only interested in one of the four. He was older than the rest. He should have known better. But perhaps with age, at least in his case, did not come wisdom.

He was white-haired, tall, and trim, with a tanned face and small eyes. He said something to one of the other men and they all laughed. At the bottom of the stairs they parted company. The white-haired man went to the left, the others to the right.

He opened his umbrella as the rain became steadier. His name was Samuel Kent. His intimates called him Sam. He was a federal judge of long standing. He was married to a woman who came from money. Her trust fund fueled a lavish lifestyle with an apartment in New York, a historically important eighteenth-century town home in Old Town Alexandria, and a horse farm in Middleburg, Virginia.

A year ago, the chief justice of the U.S. Supreme Court had appointed Sam Kent to the FISC, which stood for Foreign Intelligence Surveillance Court, the most clandestine of all federal tribunals. It operated in absolute secrecy. The president had no authority over it. Neither did Congress. It never published its findings. It was really accountable to no one. Its sole purpose was to grant or reject surveillance warrants for foreign agents operating in the United States. There were only eleven FISC judges, and Sam Kent was thrilled to be one of them. And he never rejected a warrant request.

Reel watched Kent walk down the street. She knew his Maserati convertible was parked in a secure section of the courthouse garage, so he wasn’t driving anywhere. His town home would have been within walking distance of the old federal courthouse in Old Town, which was now used by the bankruptcy court. But it was too far to walk from this courthouse. There were two Metro stops in the area, but Reel doubted he would be taking public transportation. He just didn’t seem the sort to mix with regular people. At this hour of the day she assumed he might be going to grab a bite to eat at one of the nearby restaurants.

She pulled out onto the street and followed the judge at a discreet distance.

In her head Reel had her list. There were two crossed off.

Judge Kent was the third name on that list.

She had covered the intelligence sector. Now it was time to move on to the judiciary.

Kent was very foolish for walking alone even in daylight, she thought. With Gelder and Jacobs dead he would have to know.

And if he knew, he should be aware that he was on the list.

And if he didn’t know, he was not nearly as formidable an opponent as she thought.

And I know that’s not the case.

Something was off here.

Her gaze hit the rearview mirror.

And that’s when Jessica Reel realized that she had just made a very costly mistake.

Chapter 21

“You look like your government pension got shit-canned,” said Robie as he walked next to Blue Man down the hallway.

“It did. But that’s not why I’m upset.”

“I didn’t think they could take pensions away from federal employees.”

“We’re not the Department of Agriculture. It’s not like we can write an op-ed in the Post because we’re upset.”

“So where are we going?”

“To talk.”

“Just you and me?”

“No.”

“Who else? I’ve already spoken with Evan Tucker. And number two is no longer with us.”

“There’s a new number two. At least an interim one.”

“That was fast.”

“Never let it be said that government bureaucracy doesn’t move fast when it has to.”

“So who is he?”

“She.”

“Okay. Glad to see the agency is progressive. What’s her name?”

“I’m sure she’ll introduce herself.”

“And you can’t tell me because…?”

“It’s a new paradigm, Robie. Everyone is feeling their way.”

“New paradigm? Because of what happened to Jacobs and Gelder?”

“Not just that, no.”

“What else is there?” asked Robie.

“I’m sure that will be explained.”

Robie didn’t ask another question, because it was clear that Blue Man was not in the mood to answer. And Blue Man was not the one to question about the crime scenes being policed and the roses taken. Robie wondered if the interim number two would be the one to talk to about that.

The door at the end of the hall opened, Robie was ushered in, and Blue Man left, closing the door behind him. Robie looked around the room. It was large but with minimal furniture. A round table with two chairs. One was empty. The other was not.

The woman was in her late fifties, about five-five, stout, with a heavily wrinkled face and graying hair that hung straight to her shoulders. Big round glasses partially obscured her plump face. She looked like the smartest girl in high school who had aged badly.

Robie didn’t recognize her. But it was a clandestine agency after all. It didn’t advertise its personnel.

“Please sit, Mr. Robie.”

Robie sat, unbuttoned his jacket, and put his hands on his stomach. He wasn’t planning on starting the conversation. She had summoned him. It was her show to run.

“My name is Janet DiCarlo. I have assumed Mr. Gelder’s duties.”

Not “the deceased Mr. Gelder.” Not “the unfortunate Mr. Gelder.” Not “the murdered Mr. Gelder.” Apparently no time for sympathy.

“That’s what I understand.”

“I have reviewed the files and your recent steps.”

Robie wanted to say, You mean my missteps.

Something was not making sense here. He was wondering why the one-two punch. First Tucker at home. Now his new lieutenant. Had this been planned out in advance?

DiCarlo stared across the width of the table at him. “How are the injuries?”

“Fixed.”

“It was close,” she noted.

“Yes, it was.”

“I saw the satellite feed. I don’t think you’ll survive another one like that.”

“Probably not.”

“You haven’t found out much.”

“I’m working it. Takes time.”

“But we’re running out of time.”

He said, “Well, you folks are making it harder.”

She leaned forward. “Well, perhaps I can make it a little easier. Jessica Reel?”

“What about her?”

“I think I can help you with her.”

“I’m listening.”

“You need to listen very carefully,” said DiCarlo.

“I am.”

“There is a reason why I have been elevated to this spot at this point in time.”

“I’d like to hear it.”

“I can tell you things about Reel that you might find helpful.”

“How is that?”

“I helped train her.”

Chapter 22

Reel did not do the obvious. The obvious would have been to speed up or otherwise take evasive action. She did neither after processing the ground conditions in her mind and arriving at the best scenario for her survival.

There were two cars. One SUV, one sedan. Both were black. Both had tinted windows all around. Reel figured they were full of men with weapons. They were no doubt in communication with one another.

As though she were competing in a chess match, she jumped four moves ahead, retraced each link in that mental chain, and decided it was time.

She still didn’t punch the gas. She didn’t try to turn down a side street. That was too predictable. She calmly eyed the rearview mirror, looked at the rain-slicked streets, glanced at the traffic around her, and finally noted Judge Kent’s position on the street.

She counted to three and slammed not the gas, but the brakes.

Smoke poured from her rear wheels as traffic veered around her.

She counted to three again and hit the gas. But only after putting the car in reverse.

She surged backward, right at the SUV and the sedan.

In her mind she could hear the communications going back and forth between the two attack units: She’s trying to ram us. Disable us.

She angled her car’s rear at the grille of the smaller sedan. It was the game of chicken played at speed and partially in reverse.

The sedan blinked. It veered a foot to the left. But the bigger SUV instantly filled this gap.

In her mind Reel imagined the next communication.

The far heavier SUV would take the impact, while the sedan stayed clear. She could almost see the men in the SUV checking their seat belts, getting ready for the impact. After the collision, the men in the sedan would perform the execution on Reel.