Friday, late morning
Special Agent Callum McLain was standing next to the helicopter at Quantico, chatting with their pilot, J. J. Markie, a fireball who told stories about how he’d flown a helicopter into the heart of hell in Afghanistan, mixed it up with the devil, and flown back out whistling, when Sherlock drove onto the tarmac in her trusty Volvo. Sherlock had met Callum—Cal—a couple times, and liked him. He was smart, funny, and no-nonsense when he was focused. He was a big guy in his early thirties, buff and well dressed in a dark suit, white shirt, his Glock doubtless clipped to his belt. She saw he was wearing black boots, not wing tips. She was glad Dillon had picked him to accompany her. She hadn’t argued because she knew it was important to him, to do all he could do to keep her safe.
“Agent Sherlock? Good to see you again.” She and Cal shook hands and he took her overnight bag. “Been about four months, since that barbecue the director gave at his house for a bunch of agents.”
Sherlock smiled up at him. “I remember the special dishes he made for the vegetarians, especially that grilled corn on the cob, one of Dillon’s favorites.”
“Worked out. I got his share of barbecue ribs. You and Savich had your little boy with you—Sean, right? Do you know, I’d like to have one like him someday?”
Markie poked him on the shoulder. “To pull that off, you’ve got to find an unsuspecting woman first, McLain. Congratulations, Sherlock, on bringing down that terrorist at JFK, amazing what you did. My daughter Ruth says she wants to be an FBI agent like you when she grows up. I asked her if she was going to curl her hair and dye it red to match yours. Not a problem, she told me, she’d already picked out the exact shade. She wants to start karate tomorrow.”
“How old is your daughter, J.J.?”
“The little pistol turned six last week.” He looked down at his watch. “You guys ready to go? I’d like to get this bird in the air. We don’t want to keep New York twiddling their thumbs.”
When they were buckled in the back seats, their headphones clear, Markie gave them the safety rundown. Then, “A little under an hour to the helipad on Thirty-fourth Street. We’ve got a nice wind on our tail pushing us north.”
They rose slowly to about fifty feet, banked and headed northward. Minutes later, Sherlock was looking down at dozens of white granite buildings and monuments, the Potomac lazily curling around them, the Washington Monument spearing toward the clouds. She said into her mike, “Cal, if you didn’t know, Dillon asked Mr. Maitland for you specifically. He said you’d have my back, that you have no fear, which is really not that reassuring if you think about it. I thought you’d like to know, though.”
No fear? Yeah, he liked the sound of that, but then he caught Sherlock’s crooked smile. “My boss told me both of you wanted someone with you from our house, not some New York cowboy you didn’t know. I gotta tell you, Sherlock, to be involved in this particular terrorist investigation, to actually be in on the chase, it’s more than I hoped for. Trust me, I’m going to be your second skin.”
That sounded good to her. Cal studied her, then lightly touched his hand to her arm. “Not that you need me. They ought to be showing that JFK video of you at Quantico, how you got the terrorist’s attention right away, engaged him, distracted him. The woman he grabbed—Melissa Harkness—she was impressive, too, the way she saved herself. I told my brother he ought to give her a call, ask her out for a cup of coffee. He’s with Treasury, harmless and single. Someone like her might do him good.”
“I hope he follows through. Melissa deserves a really good guy. He might have some competition, though. I spoke to her this morning. She’s blooming, enjoying her coworkers drooling all over her.”
“I wonder why the terrorist is insisting on speaking only to you? I mean, you beat the crap out of him. If a woman did that to me in front of the world, the last thing I’d want to do is have a nice chat with her.”
“Everyone’s wondering the same thing. Maybe it’s a case of the devil he knows, or maybe the devil he’d like to strangle if he gets the chance. I’m expecting Agent Giusti to bring us up to date on the investigation and give us an idea of what to expect before I sit with him.”
Cal said, “If he does try to strangle you, I’d appreciate it if you’d let me take him apart this time.”
“Well, okay, I can hold myself back, let you get your licks in. Oh, yes, Agent Giusti doesn’t know you’re coming. She’s probably already assigned another agent to protect me.”
“Another body who can shoot a gun can’t hurt. I heard Giusti’s got quite a rep as a badass in the New York office, and that’s saying something, since a lot of them are yahoos.”
“You have the same rep, Cal. That’s one of the reasons Dillon wanted you with me.”
He looked surprised. “Me? A badass? Nah. Now, Giusti, I’ve never met her, but like I said, I’ve heard some things. I expect she’ll try to take me down a notch—or two—if she can manage it.”
Sherlock pictured Kelly Giusti’s ramrod-straight back and squared shoulders, remembered the small smile she’d finally managed to coax out of her. “My money might be on her, Cal. She’s tough, smart, and focused—hmm, sounds like you, doesn’t she?—except I’m not sure she has your sense of humor. Yeah, I think you can expect some grief from her. So could Darth Vader. I’m sure you’ll both be professional about it, right?” And she punched him in the arm.
“No worries, I’m the very definition of the word.” He fell silent and drummed his fingertips on his knee. “I heard Savich didn’t like your getting involved in this. Can’t say I blame him.”
All Sherlock said was “He wasn’t thrilled.” Dillon had been silent, which meant he was afraid, not about what he was dealing with, but for her. He’d held her so tight she felt her ribs creak. She’d leaned back, held his face between her hands, and kissed him, twice. “I love you. I will be all right. I’ll call you as often as I can.” She had time only to call Sean, tell him she had to leave, a couple of days, no more. New York? He’d asked her to visit FAO Schwarz and buy him something very cool, like Captain Munchkin’s new video game with the river trolls.
EAST THIRTY-FOURTH STREET
NEW YORK CITY
Friday afternoon
It was a beautiful afternoon in New York City, the sun glistening off the East River. Their helicopter flew low over the river toward the thick traffic on FDR Drive. J.J. set them down smoothly on the Thirty-fourth Street helipad. As soon as they were away from the helicopter, J.J. gave them a grin and a wave, and lifted off.
Agent Kelly Giusti, with the wind from the rotor blades whipping her dark hair around her head, strode forward and shook hands with Sherlock, then turned to stare at Callum McLain, a dark eyebrow arched, a look Sherlock admired and had never managed. She was impressed. Giusti said, “Who is this?”
Sherlock gave her a sunny smile. “This is Special Agent Callum—Cal—McLain. He’s in counterterrorism in Washington, so the two of you are automatically on the same team.”
“That remains to be seen,” Giusti said, her dark hair settling into a wild tangle around her face. “Why is he here?”
Cal waved his hand. “Hello, I’m standing right here.”
Giusti never looked away from Sherlock and Sherlock never dropped her smile. “Like I said, Cal’s in the counterterrorism section. Mr. Maitland assigned him as a liaison to our office and to assist in the investigation. We know him and trust him to protect me. Can’t have too many experienced hands, right?”
Cal gave Sherlock a sideways glance. She’d heaped some tribute on his head, but he didn’t think Giusti was buying it. She was looking at him like the Wisconsin lineman who’d slammed him into the ground so hard he’d almost broken his throwing arm. Odd how he’d pictured her older and heavier, with maybe a cell phone bud hooked to her ear and a thin mustache on her upper lip. She was the very opposite—tall, dark-haired, about his own age, almost as tall
as he was, wearing black pants and jacket, a white stretch cami, and a lanyard around her neck with her shield. Even though her hair was all over her head, the rest of her was stiff and straight. And would you look at those dark laser-beam eyes—talk about pinning a guy. He wondered if she ever laughed.
He smiled, stuck out his hand.
Giusti shook his hand. “I suppose I could get in trouble if I dumped you in the East River, McLain, so stick close to Sherlock. If anything happens to her, we’re both screwed forever and I will personally cut off your most beloved body parts—if you live.”
“That’s a bit harsh,” Cal said.
Sherlock said, “Trust him, Agent Giusti, Cal’s not going to let anything happen to me.”
Giusti turned to the older man who stood at her elbow. “Agent Sherlock, Agent McLain, this is Special Agent Erwin. Pip was supposed to guard you, Sherlock.”
The two men eyed each other. Pip Erwin said, “You look tough enough. Are you fast on your feet?”
“Yes,” Cal said. “Maybe as fast as you once were.”
“Good to hear,” Erwin said, “because I ain’t wired to be a bodyguard.”
Cal liked the looks of Pip Erwin, black wing tips and all. He was pushing fifty, looked fit, a sharp dude in his regulation black Fed suit. He took in the world through intense dark eyes, darker than Giusti’s, harder even, like a man who’d seen most everything and couldn’t be surprised, his cynicism fairly dripping off him. Then again, Giusti was younger and she looked like nothing would surprise her, either.
Giusti waved them toward a big black SUV. “We’ve got to get going. We’re heading out straight away to Colby, Long Island. We’re keeping Nasim Conklin there in a safe house.”
Erwin eyed them in the rearview mirror as they climbed in. “Hey, interesting name, Agent Sherlock. Any relation to that Holmes fellow?”
“I believe he’s somewhere back there in the family tree.”
Erwin smiled at that. It changed him utterly. “You get lots of that, don’t you?”
“It’s been a while. Thanks for reminding me of my roots.”
“How are you faring with the media, Agent Sherlock?”
“Both of you, call me Sherlock and him Cal. It’ll take some time before they get tired of camping out in our neighbors’ front yards. But now I’m in New York, where no one expects me to be.”
Giusti pulled two tablets out from a leather briefcase and handed one to Sherlock. “There are classified files on there for you about our investigation thus far. I didn’t know you were bringing Mr. Hot Dude, so he’ll have to look over your shoulder. They’re updated regularly. You can fill yourselves in on some of what we’ve learned about Nasim Conklin on the way.”
“That’s Special Agent Mr. Hot Dude,” Cal said, and was sure he saw a corner of her mouth kick up.
Sherlock turned on the tablet, and she and Cal dug in as Erwin pulled out his opaque aviator glasses and got the behemoth running. Cal smiled as he watched him negotiate the insane traffic like a bomb squadron leader, ignoring the obscene gestures from taxi drivers screaming at him in languages he didn’t understand. It wasn’t long before they were on the Long Island Expressway.
After reviewing the info, Sherlock looked up at Giusti. “So there’s still no definite link between the bombing at Saint Pat’s and Conklin’s grenade attack at JFK?”
Giusti shook her head. “Other than the timing, no, though there’s no doubt in anyone’s mind. It’s a classic, pulling first responders and resources in one direction, then attacking in another.
“You’ll see we have a partial facial of the bomber at Saint Pat’s, but no ID. He was careful. Cell-phone videos are still being turned in and posted, but we don’t have more than that yet. We’ve found traces of C-4 in the crater the bomb left at Saint Pat’s, right in the middle of Fifth Avenue, and we’re trying to trace it. It wasn’t a low-tech, homemade bomb. This was well planned.”
“I’ll bet that’s made New York really pleasant now,” Cal said. “All that rerouted traffic.”
“Nothing short of a nightmare,” Erwin said, looking back at Cal. “And you wouldn’t believe the gawkers—tourists, for the most part. New Yorkers take one look, go home, and order Chinese takeout.”
Cal said, “This bomber Sherlock will be interviewing, Nasim Conklin. Your theory is he was coerced into lobbing the grenade at JFK? He was threatened with the murder of his family?”
Giusti nodded. “You’ll see from the profile there’s no other likely conclusion. We’ve found no suspicious electronic communications, not in his e-mail, Internet activity, or phone records, no evidence he might be capable of this. Every professional contact who knows him agrees this was way out of the blue. If he really is an operative, under deep cover for some purpose, blowing himself up would be a waste of a good resource.”
“They expected him to die at the airport,” Sherlock said. “And we’d never be able to find out who forced him there.”
“Correct,” Giusti said. “MI5 video surveillance records have confirmed Conklin did visit a radical London mosque, the South London Mosque, on three occasions in the past two weeks, twice in the company of his mother at afternoon prayers and once alone. Nothing unusual in that, except that the mosque is run by Imam Al-Hädi ibn Mirza, who is radical enough to be capable of this. MI5 has had him under surveillance for some time. Nasim Conklin’s mother, Sabeen Conklin, has attended the mosque for several years, seems to admire the imam and his bombastic rhetoric, his relentless recruiting efforts, his calls for a jihad against the West despite her big, lovely home in Belgravia. She lawyered up immediately, won’t answer any questions.”
“Using family as leverage, another common practice,” Cal said. “I wonder about Conklin’s mom, though. I can’t imagine she’d put her grandkids at risk to be killed—or her son, for that matter.”
Erwin said, “We don’t know what she knew or knows. She’s not talking. MI5 hopes she might roll on the imam if the grandkids are hurt, but like you, I can’t imagine she’d knowingly sacrifice her own son.”
“Agreed,” Sherlock said. “My guess is she didn’t have a clue about much of it.”
Giusti said, “We suspect Nasim’s mother disapproved of Nasim’s wife, Marie Claire, since she is French and a Catholic. But you’re right, it’s a stretch. Since Nasim won’t talk to us either, we assume he’s more afraid of the people holding his family than he is of us. And yet he demanded to speak to you, Sherlock, for some reason. It’s going to be up to you to convince him to open up. We may be able to help him if he tells us what he knows. You’ve got some time to think about it. We’re coming up to Great Neck, and it’ll be another forty-five minutes in the god-awful traffic before we exit at Colby.”
Erwin said, “My stomach’s rubbing against my backbone. I know a good deli in Great Neck. Anyone want a sandwich?”
ON THE WAY TO QUANTICO
Friday morning
Savich carefully steered the Porsche around an eighteen-wheeler, accelerated, and seamed back between two cars. Traffic would lighten later as they approached Quantico. It was a day you were happy to be alive. The sky was a clear blue, no summer heat yet to blanket Washington, but it would come. He wished Sherlock were with him, especially this morning, but she’d been pulled back to New York to interview Conklin. He’d promised her he’d take another agent with him to Quantico for Brakey’s hypnosis, and she’d known it would be Griffin for the simple reason that Griffin would believe what had happened to Savich the previous night, without question. She’d known he’d take the leap of faith. He himself was gifted.
Savich looked over at Griffin sitting beside him. Not only was he gifted, he was very smart, ferocious in his dedication, and intuitive, some of the reasons Savich had asked him to transfer from the San Francisco Field Office to Washington. He knew Griffin would be well able to see the possibilities and the problems of the psych
ic they now faced. It didn’t hurt that he was already involved in the case and knew Brakey. If Savich was right, Griffin would hear Brakey describe exactly the scene Savich himself had been drawn into under hypnosis.
He’d started telling Griffin about it this morning in the office as if he was telling him a dream, about the pine forest, about following the smell of smoke to the ancient tower, about Stefan Dalco appearing. Griffin had listened, sure, but it wasn’t until Savich had baldly told him it wasn’t a dream but an illusion created for him, probably exactly what Walter Givens and Brakey Alcott had experienced before they’d become murderers, that Griffin’s eyes had blazed—no other way to describe it. As Savich had hoped, he wanted to know everything. Savich took him through it, step by step.
Griffin was quiet now, thinking about everything. He said matter-of-factly, more to himself than to Savich, “What do you think would have happened if Dalco’s knife had stabbed you?”
“I don’t know what would have happened, but I’ll tell you, Griffin, the illusion had substance, it felt real.”
“And you believe it’s the same illusion Dalco used on Walter Givens and Brakey Alcott.”
“Yes, a variation. Dalco came after me for a very different reason than Walter or Brakey. Dalco came after me to kill me. He wanted the investigation stopped.”
Savich shook his head. “We don’t even know all that much yet. Doesn’t he realize you’d simply pick it up where I left off if something happened to me?”
“It wouldn’t be the same, and you know it. It’s amazing what you did, Savich—changing the scene to Winkel’s Cave. Maybe it saved your life.”
“Maybe. Or maybe Sherlock did when she started shaking me and slapping me to wake me up.”
“We know it had to be Brakey who killed Deputy Lewis. It would have been an insane risk for anyone other than Brakey, even in the dark. But Dalco said nothing about why he chose Brakey? Why Walter Givens?”
Savich shook his head, settled the Porsche behind a Volvo like Sherlock’s that cruised right at the speed limit. “I think Dalco, as our Brit friend Nicholas Drummond would say, is barking mad. He has his reasons, though. Revenge, perhaps. The deputy may have been unlucky enough to arrest him or someone he cared about very much, and his murder was payback. Why did he use Brakey? I don’t know yet.”