Then came NBC’s Lois Nedrick’s little-girl voice. “Agent Sherlock, what are your plans now?”
Comey stepped aside and Sherlock moved close to the microphone. “The Bureau has asked me to stay on here in New York to pursue the investigation. After we have apprehended those responsible for these terrorist attacks, I plan to go home to my husband and son. For some R and R.” That brought a few laughs.
There was a jumble of voices before Mark Allen of FOX managed to outshout everyone else. “Director Comey, do you believe the bombing of the TGV in France today is tied to the attempted bombing of Saint Pat’s?”
There it was, the eight-hundred-pound gorilla.
Director Comey looked out into the sea of faces. His first inclination was to duck the question, but instead he said, “We are in contact with the French authorities and will continue to be. As yet we have no direct proof, but in my opinion, yes, there is no question in my mind the two acts are tied together.”
Mark Allen picked it up before Director Comey had finished taking a breath: “A newly appointed French minister was killed in that explosion. Vice President Foley and dozens of other high-ranking officials were in attendance at the attempted bombing at Saint Pat’s. Do you believe these terrorist attacks could have been intended not only to destroy national treasures, but to kill national leaders or specific individuals?”
Comey had expected that question, too. No one was stupid. “Let me say again that the FBI does not yet have information to tie the two attacks together. There has as yet been no credible announcement by any group taking responsibility for these attacks, or their stated goals. Both have the hallmarks of terrorist operations. But as you said, the attempted assassination of public officials in high-profile public venues goes beyond what we’ve seen from terrorist attacks in the past, and it raises serious questions.”
Harold Carver from NPR started to speak, but a stout woman shoved him from behind. As he windmilled to regain his balance, she yelled out, “Agent Sherlock, what about you? What is your personal opinion?”
Sherlock shot a look at Comey, who nodded. She said, “I personally cannot imagine what a terrorist supposedly feels when he’s managed to murder innocent people. Is he pleased? Is he dancing for joy at the sheer number of people he’s robbed of their lives? Is he convinced he is fulfilling his duty to Allah? Is his hatred so great for those who believe differently that their destruction is all that matters to him?”
She paused, shook her head. “Whatever those people’s motivation, they are not wise enough to represent God on earth. In my experience, many of them are violent psychopaths and self-serving egotists. I believe such individuals are behind these attacks.” Are you out there, listening?
Director Comey finished it. “Thank you all for coming. We will keep you informed. If you have further questions, please submit them to my office.” He stepped off the dais, ignored the loud tide of shouted questions. He paused to shake a few hands as he walked back into 26 Federal Plaza, surrounded by aides and all the agents. He looked back over his shoulder at Sherlock. “You just about invited the Strategist to come after you out there, Agent Sherlock.”
Sherlock never broke stride. I surely hope so. “Someone had to say it.”
MULBERRY STREET, LITTLE ITALY
NEW YORK CITY
Saturday night
Cal hadn’t realized he was so hungry until he took his first bite of spaghetti Bolognese and his taste buds sang hallelujah. Kelly laughed. “Hey, is that a spiritual moment you’re having, Cal? With your spaghetti?”
“I gotta say it’s better than my aunt Millie’s,” he said as he took another bite. “And I use her recipe. Eat, Sherlock. I don’t want to deliver a beanpole back to Savich.”
Sherlock was picking at her chicken parmigiana, hungry but too wound up to eat much. “I’ve got to get myself calmed down. It’s been an extraordinary day.”
Kelly took a bite of her caprese. “What better place to decompress than right here? I’ve been coming to this place so long, the owner put me on his Christmas card list. Yes, I’m Italian, in case you were wondering.”
Cal, who’d thought Kelly was as wound up as Sherlock, said easily, in a tone to invite confidences, “And here I thought Giusti was a famous Irish name.”
“Har, har.” Kelly tossed her napkin at him. He caught it midair, handed it back to her.
“Where in Italy do you hail from?” Sherlock asked her.
“Mind you, I’m not descended from the Napoli Giustis—they’re a tough bunch, to put it nicely. My family comes from the Dolomite Giustis, most of us born not ten miles from the Swiss border. Great skiers, most of us. As you might guess, both sets of Giustis claim to go all the way back to Romulus and Remus.”
At Cal’s grin, she went on. “My great-grandparents immigrated to New York in the forties. You really should taste my mama’s pizza—she makes the best pie, learned at my grandmother’s knee.”
Cal swallowed another bite of spaghetti, shared a silent moment with his taste buds. “I don’t ever say no to pizza. I’ve found it goes great with my favorite Irish stew, from O’Flynn’s in Foggy Bottom. I have a dog named after O’Flynn, a big Irish setter, my dog, that is. Sherlock, turn off your brain and eat your parmigiana. Kelly’s now stuffing the caprese down her gullet. Both of you, we scored a big win today rescuing the Conklins. We deserve to celebrate.”
Sherlock dutifully took a bite. “It’s delicious.” She shook her head sadly. “But no one’s parmigiana beats Dillon’s. Yes, you’re both invited.”
Kelly whistled. “That big tough dude makes parmigiana? Sherlock, don’t let that man escape.”
Cal said, “If he ever tried, I picture cement shoes and a deep body of water.”
They both laughed, as he hoped they would. Cal raised his glass of Chianti. “Here’s to your favorite restaurant, Kelly. And to our win today.”
As they drank it down, Sherlock’s cell phone sang out P. Franklin’s “Ancient Wisdom.” “It’s Dillon.” She rose immediately. “You guys go ahead.”
They watched her walk past the beautiful mahogany bar with its dozens of liquor bottles lined up in front of its mirror, all of them glowing softly in the dim golden light of the main dining room. Cal watched her stop beyond the arched doorway to the restrooms. He scanned the restaurant again. No one seemed to be paying her any attention.
Kelly said, “I haven’t spent so much time on the phone with someone since I was in college.”
“That’s because you aren’t jointed at the hip like Savich and Sherlock. I think this is the first time they haven’t worked a case together. It’s tough on both of them, each worrying about the other. He reads her so well I don’t see how she’s going to keep her nearly getting shot from him. She’ll try, though. None of us want him to come roaring up here.”
“What would he do?”
Cal saw she was grinning. Good, she was staring to unwind a bit, like his uncle Mort’s antique watch. “Lay me flat, maybe knock me in the head a couple of times, then he’d try to take over the case.”
Kelly realized he wasn’t going to stop trying to distract her. She also realized it was working. She said, “He’s a good guy, isn’t he?”
Cal nodded. “The best. He and Sherlock have already spoken half a dozen times today. Now they’ll talk about the press conference and she’ll try to calm him down about sticking her middle finger in the Strategist’s eye in front of the world.”
“If it were my husband who’d done that, I’d be upset, too.”
“He’ll deal with it, no choice. Both of them are sometimes in harm’s way.” Cal shrugged. “You either deal with it or the marriage doesn’t last.”
Kelly wondered if Cal had had a marriage go south on him, but now wasn’t the time to ask him. She’d keep it light, like he had. “I still can’t get over a married couple working together in the FBI. Savich has
quite a rep.” She paused, shook her head. “But now it’s Sherlock in the spotlight, not Savich. There’s one thing I couldn’t deal with, though, if I was wearing her boots.”
“What’s that?”
She laughed. “The obvious. She has to report to him, right? He’s her boss?”
“Sherlock calls him the Big Dog. We all report to someone, so what’s wrong with her reporting to him? After all, Savich is the one who started the Criminal Apprehension Unit.”
“But what if they have an argument? How would you like to have to follow orders from the love of your life when you felt like smacking him on the head?”
“Savich says as long as she does what he tells her to at work, he’s willing to pay for it at home.” Cal gave her a fat grin. “Then he rolls his eyes.”
As he did every few seconds, Cal automatically checked on Sherlock. She was still talking on the phone. She’d moved to stand directly beneath the arched hallway, in plain view. He looked back at Kelly. Despite the smiles he’d gotten out of her, she still looked bruised somehow, in spite of all the kudos for a job well done, in spite of the success of the press conference. So much had happened in such a short time. She had lost Nasim, and that had been a big blow for her, even though it was Nasim himself who’d led the killer to them. She wasn’t used to losing, he thought, at anything. “How’d you get started in the FBI, Kelly?’
She took another bite of her caprese. “Not a big mystery. I’m third-generation law enforcement. The first Fed, though, much as it burned my granddad. He’s retired now, but my dad’s still a homicide detective in the Albuquerque PD, tells me he better not hear me bigfooting any local police.”
“And your mom, who makes the great pizza?”
“My mom’s the high achiever. She’s chief of staff in Governor Turnbull’s office in Santa Fe. No doubt in my mind that one of these days, she’ll be governor.”
“What does she think of your being a federal cop?”
“She’d like it if I were Director Giusti by the time I’m forty. She pushes me more than my brother, James, probably because I’m a woman. Pretty soon she’s going to see I’m not cooperating.”
“Your brother’s FBI, too?”
“No, James is a priest. He laughs at her when she tells him he’d make an excellent cardinal. After all, he speaks Italian fluently, doesn’t he? My mom never gives up. What about you, Cal? Why’d you sign up?”
“Unlike you, it had nothing to do with having cop in the blood. I was in high school when Nine-Eleven happened, already accepted into MIT. That day changed my life. I never looked back.”
“Did you lose a relative? A friend?”
“No, nothing like that. I simply realized on that day what lengths terrorists would go to try to wipe us from the face of the earth. I wanted to help stop them.”
“How long have you been in the counterterrorism unit?”
“I started there when I was nearly twenty-five, seven years now.” He looked over to check on Sherlock, who hadn’t moved, then back at her. “It’s where I belong, where my talents lie. This terrorist operation—Bella—it’s got me in overdrive, just like you. Thanks for letting me in, Kelly.”
She tapped her fingertips on the table. “I took one look at you and wanted to boot you back to Washington. I’ve got to say, though, you’ve been pretty useful—well, so far.”
He was out of his chair, moving fast toward the arched doorway. A man was moving purposefully, directly toward Sherlock, his hand going to his pants pocket.
Cal caught up with him, pressed his Glock against the man’s kidney. “Don’t move. I need to check what’s in your pocket.”
The man was jerking around toward Cal when he felt the gun. “What—what?”
“Take your hand out of your pocket. Slowly.”
“But—”
“Now.”
Cal patted his thigh, felt a cell phone. “I-I was coming back here to call my wife,” he said, and looked nervously back at his table, where a very pretty young woman sat sipping wine.
Cal eased his Glock back onto the clip at his waist. “Okay, my apologies. Federal agent, doing my job. Enjoy your evening, although given what you’re doing, I gotta say you’re a jerk.”
The man’s mouth tightened and he started to say something more but thought better of it. He wouldn’t make a scene while out with a woman who wasn’t his wife. And with a cop. The guy wasn’t entirely stupid.
“Yes, okay, but it’s none of your business,” the man said, and walked quickly back to his table.
“Thanks for moving so fast, Cal. I’m all right, go back to your dinner.” He smiled, nodded and left her. She said into her cell, “Dillon, no worries, it was only some cheating guy who was going to call his wife. Cal was being careful.” She’d seen the man’s face close up, realized she wasn’t even on his radar, but Cal hadn’t, and he’d moved fast. She watched Cal walk between the tables back to Kelly, looking her way a couple more times, just in case.
She shifted the cell to her other ear. “Everything’s okay, Dillon. False alarm. Yes, I promise. Now you want me to tell Kelly you spoke to your friend John Eiserly at MI5?”
“Yes, and he’s keeping me up to date,” Savich said, his heart still stuttering.
Sherlock wondered if Kelly would be pissed about Dillon sticking his nose under the tent. She realized she didn’t care. She wanted this to be over, she wanted to go home. She wanted her life back.
He said, “You know, I’d really prefer to hear you were in a closet with four armed guards.”
“Cal’s been sitting right next to me, Dillon, one hand spooning his Bolognese sauce, the other an inch from his Glock. Everything’s okay.”
“Keep being careful, all right?”
“I promise. You were telling me about your visit to Charlie Marker’s hospital room this evening.” Finally, she had her own fear for him under control. He and Griffin both could so easily have been killed by a hypnotized man who didn’t have any idea at all of what he was doing, much less why or who had convinced him to do it.
As he spoke, Savich pictured the young man propped up in bed, silent, pale, in some pain, and scared to death. He knew he’d done something bad but didn’t remember what it was. His parents, an older couple, as scared as their son, were in his room, his mom continually patting his arm, watching him closely, as if afraid of what he suddenly might do, his dad pacing, neither understanding enough of what happened to know who to yell at. It was the dad’s Kel-Tec that Charlie had taken from his locked gun box, his Silverado that Charlie had driven to the woods. Maybe Dr. Hicks could help Charlie remember what had happened, as he had Brakey. Savich told them what had happened, tried to explain the inexplicable. He’d already glossed over the attack when he’d told Sherlock about it earlier, assuring her that Griffin had everything under control. He finished with, “It was tough, for Charlie and his parents. At least Charlie hadn’t killed anyone. I assured them he wouldn’t be arrested and left it at that. Obviously they know all about what happened to Brakey and Walter Givens, as everyone in Plackett knows the McCutty woods where Charlie ambushed us. Ah, the woods, they were in Dalco’s first dreamscape, so since he knew those woods, that’s where he sent Charlie.
“Now, enough about my insanity. Was Mrs. Conklin able to tell you anything?”
There’d been more danger than he’d ever let on, Sherlock knew, and that was why he wanted to move right along. “She knew very little that’s new, Dillon. Three men burst into her front door in Notting Hill in London, threatened her children and husband if she resisted. Two handlers she couldn’t identify flew with them to Boston where they were put in an SUV, blindfolded, and driven she had no idea where. They let her speak to Nasim only once. The Boston agents had to tell her everything else that happened.”
“Could she tell Boston anything pertinent about Imam Al-Hädi ibn Mirza?”
“Marie Claire believes the imam is involved, but she has no proof. And she’s never heard of anyone called the Strategist.”
“John said they have the imam under surveillance, but they’re holding off bringing him in for questioning, hoping to identify his contacts.”
Sherlock sighed. “Dillon, if you could have seen Marie Claire’s face, her children’s faces. It was a horror for her, believing finally that her children would die, having no reason for hope. When this is all over I imagine she’ll go back to live in France. She’ll be a wealthy woman, won’t she, from the business Nasim inherited from his father?”
“Yes, the business will be hers now. I’m sure she’ll sell it, and that she’ll never want to go back to England again. She survived because of you, Sherlock. You gave her and her children a future.”
She closed her eyes, so relieved and thankful everything had turned out as it had. Except for Nasim. “Thank you, but you know it was all of us working together. Now tell me how you managed to get Sean to bed tonight.”
THORNSBY, ENGLAND
Saturday afternoon
Imam Al-Hädi ibn Mirza crossed his arms over his white-robed chest and sat back in his caned chair, well aware that the other dozen or so customers were eyeing him, not surprising because he looked so different from them, a foreigner they didn’t trust or understand, a holy man who belonged in the desert, not in this time-warped little English village barely large enough to be on the map, in this middle-class little tea shop with its lace draperies and middle-aged serving women.
He looked with pride at the stylish man opposite him, the one he called Hercule, the name only those intimate with him were privileged to know. He dipped his almond biscotti into his cappuccino to soften it and chewed gingerly since one of his back teeth ached from a cavity again, a cavity he had to get taken care of but didn’t want to. He saw Hercule was scanning the room from their small back-corner table to be sure no one would hear them before he spoke. The imam noted he didn’t even look fatigued from his red-eye private flight back from Boston, not six hours before. A privilege of youth and money, the imam thought, and he wondered what the Strategist would look like when he’d reached his own age—if, that is, he was still alive.