Chapter 38
For Clint Hamilton the wait was agonizing.
An hour ago, an agent in the Lafayette office had called to inform him that the scheduled meeting between Honor Gillette and Tom VanAllen had ended disastrously with a car bomb explosion.
Since receiving the staggering news, Hamilton had been alternately pacing his Washington office or sitting with his elbows propped on his desk supporting his head while he massaged his forehead. He considered taking a shot from the bottle of Jack that he kept in his bottom desk drawer. He resisted. Whatever the forthcoming update from Tambour was, he needed to receive it with a clear head.
He waited. He paced. He wasn’t a patient man.
The anticipated call came shortly after 01:00 EDT.
Unhappily the update confirmed that Tom VanAllen had died in the explosion.
“My condolences, sir,” the agent in Louisiana said. “I know you had a special regard for him.”
“Yes, thank you,” Hamilton replied absently. “And Mrs. Gillette?”
“VanAllen was the only casualty.”
Hamilton nearly dropped the phone. “What? Mrs. Gillette? Coburn? The child?”
“Whereabouts unknown,” the agent told him.
Mystified, Hamilton processed that, but couldn’t come up with an explanation. He asked, “What is the local fire department saying about the explosion?”
He was told that an arson inspector from New Orleans had been asked to assist in the investigation. ATF agents had also been summoned. There were many unanswered questions, but of one thing the authorities were certain: Only one body was discovered in the burned-out car.
Hamilton asked if VanAllen’s wife had been notified. “I want to call her myself, but not before she’s been officially informed.”
“Two agents have been dispatched to the VanAllen home.”
“Keep me posted on that. I also want to know anything else you hear, whether it’s official or scuttlebutt. Anything. Especially about Coburn and Mrs. Gillette.”
He ended the call and slammed his fist onto his desk. Why the hell hadn’t Coburn called to advise him of his present position and situation? Damn the man! Although, he grudgingly admitted to himself, a car bomb wouldn’t exactly inspire an agent’s confidence in his agency, would it?
Hamilton decided that the situation down there could no longer be handled by long distance. He needed to go himself. In hindsight, he wished he had jetted to Louisiana immediately after receiving that first SOS call from Coburn. Since then, the shit had only gotten thicker.
He placed a series of calls and secured clearance from his superiors. He asked for a squad of agents trained for special ops. “No less than four men, no more than eight. I want them at Langley, geared up and ready to board the jet at 02:30.”
Everyone with whom he spoke asked why he was flying men and equipment down there when he could use personnel from the district office in New Orleans.
His answer to all of them was the same. “Because I don’t want anyone to know I’m coming.”
When her doorbell rang, Janice VanAllen ran to answer it, mindful that she was wearing only her nightgown, but uncaring about her lack of modesty. She had her phone in her hand and a look of concern on her face when she pulled open the front door.
Two strangers looked back at her. One was male, the other female, but their dark suits and serious expressions were practically identical.
“Mrs. VanAllen?” The woman palmed a leather ID wallet and extended it toward Janice. Her partner did the same. “I’m Special Agent Beth Turner, this is Special Agent Ward Fitzgerald. We’re from Tom’s office.”
Janice’s chest rose and fell on several short breaths. “Where’s Tom?”
“May we come in?” the woman asked kindly.
Janice shook her head. “Where is Tom?”
They remained silent, but their stoicism spoke volumes.
Janice made a keening sound and gripped the edge of the door for support. “He’s dead?”
Special Agent Turner reached for her, but Janice jerked her arm back before the woman could touch her. “He’s dead?” she repeated, this time on a ragged cry. And then her knees gave way and she crumpled to the floor.
The two FBI agents lifted her and supported her between them, half carrying her into the living room where they deposited her on the sofa. All the while Janice was screaming Tom’s name.
Then Agents Turner and Fitzgerald began asking her questions.
Is there someone we can call to come be with you?
“No,” she sobbed into her hands.
Your minister? A friend?
“No, no.”
Is there a family member who should be notified?
“No! Just tell me what happened.”
Can we make you some tea?
“I don’t want anything! I only want Tom! I want my husband!”
Is your son…
Clearly they knew about Lanny, but didn’t know how to phrase a question regarding him. “Lanny, Lanny,” she chanted mournfully. “Oh, God.” She buried her face in her hands and sobbed. Tom had loved their son. As hopeless as it was that his love would ever be returned, Tom’s love for Lanny had never wavered.
Special Agent Turner sat down beside her and placed a comforting arm across her shoulders. Fitzgerald had moved away and was now standing across the room with his back to them, speaking softly into a cell phone.
Turner said, “You’ll have the full support of the bureau, Mrs. VanAllen. Tom was well liked and respected.”
Janice threw off her arm and wanted badly to slap her. Tom wasn’t respected at all, and, to hear Tom tell it, few of his fellow agents had liked him.
“How did it happen?”
“We’re still trying to determine—”
“How did it happen?” Janice repeated harshly.
“He was alone in his car.”
“His car?”
“He was parked near some abandoned railroad tracks.”
Janice raised trembling fingers to her lips. “Oh, God. Suicide? We… we had a quarrel this afternoon. He left the house upset. I’ve been trying to call him, to… to explain. Apologize. But he wouldn’t answer his phone. Oh, God!” she wailed and shot to her feet.
Turner grabbed her hand and pulled her back down onto the sofa. She stroked her arm. “Tom didn’t take his own life, Mrs. VanAllen. He was killed in the performance of his duty. The initial report is that a bomb was planted on his car.”
Janice gaped at her. “A bomb?”
“An explosive device, yes. A full investigation is already under way.”
“But who… who—”
“It pains me to tell you that the person suspected of involvement is another agent.”
“Coburn?” Janice whispered.
“You know of him?”
“Of course. First because of the warehouse massacre. Then Tom told me he was an agent working undercover.”
“Did they have contact?”
“Not to my knowledge. Although Tom told me earlier today that he might be called upon to bring Coburn in.” She read the pained expression on the agent’s face. “That’s the duty Tom was performing?”
“Mrs. Gillette was supposed to be at the train tracks. Tom went there to get her.”
“Coburn set him up?”
“We’re trying to ascertain—”
“Please tell me that Coburn is in custody.”
“Unfortunately no.”
“Jesus Christ, why not? What have you people been doing? Coburn is obviously crazy. If he’d been apprehended before tonight, as he should have been, Tom would still be alive.” Composure deserted her. She sobbed, “The whole freaking bureau is incompetent, and because of it, Tom is dead.”
“Mrs. VanAllen?”
Janice jumped. She wasn’t aware that Fitzgerald had rejoined them until he laid a hand on her shoulder and spoke her name.
He held his cell phone out to her. “For you.”
She stared at him, then at the phone, and eventually took it from him and put it to her ear. “Hello?”
“Mrs. VanAllen? This is Clint Hamilton. I just heard about Tom. I wanted to call and tell you personally how profoundly—”
“Fuck you.” She disconnected and handed the phone back to the agent.
Then she forcibly composed herself. She wiped her face and took several deep breaths, and when she felt more in control, she stood up and walked toward the door. She left the room, saying, “Let yourselves out. I need to check on my son.”