Last Chance to Die

22



When they got to the off-site, John Kalix was parked outside waiting for them. They went upstairs, and Kalix handed Vail the list of names, along with their photos.

“Names and photos—you must have something on this guy.”

“Actually, I do. Like I said, he and I went all the way back to law school. We were pretty close. We were out one night having a few cocktails, and he spotted a source of his in the bar. I guess he thought I’d be impressed, so he introduced me to the guy. The source was horrified that someone would see us, and he tried to leave. My friend caught him outside and started slapping him around. The asset made a stink, and I wound up lying about it to a couple of their internal grunts. He was absolved, and now he’s paying the bill.”

Vail made a quick count. “Nine. That’s not bad. Have you run the names through indices?”

“Personally searched them myself. Nothing.”

“We have one advantage right now—surprise. If we confronted them, we’d lose that. Besides, from the moment these people decide to start spying, they’re constantly rehearsing their answers to any questions about their loyalty. Anybody have any ideas?”

Kalix and Bursaw both shook their heads.

“Sorry, boys, there appears only one thing we can do,” Vail said. “We’ve got to show the photos to Kate.”

“How are you going to do that?” Kalix asked. “They won’t let anyone from the Bureau near her.”

“John, this is where we separate the temporary help from the truly self-destructive.”

Kalix laughed. “Talk about making something sound irresistible.”

“Come on, how many FBI agents can say they helped a federal prisoner escape?”

“If you mean without becoming a federal prisoner themselves, I’m going to guess zero.”

Alfred Bevson, the United States Attorney for the District of Columbia, sat at his desk rereading a newspaper article regarding a shooting in Annandale the day before. The facts seemed deliberately vague, and that, coupled with the participants’ being two unnamed FBI agents and two suspected East European illegal immigrants, made him wonder if it had something to do with the Kate Bannon case. His secretary buzzed him. “Yes.”

“There’s an attorney by the name of Karl Brickman on the line. He insists on talking to you.”

“Just tell him I’m in a meeting and I’ll call him back.”

“He said he was representing Kate Bannon.”

“What?” Bevson swore under his breath. The FBI must have leaked her detention. “Okay, Claire, put him through.”

Bevson knew that the Bureau was upset with him for cutting off their access to her, but by his own admission their director was too close to her to let the FBI stay actively involved. The last thing Bevson needed right now was more bad press. They’d been all over him recently on the issue of the escalating crime rate in the District, and there were rumors that the present administration was about to replace him because of it. The Bannon case was supposed to sweep all that into obscurity, and it probably would once its depth was reported to the world.

If they fired him anyway, the important thing was having a soft place to land. If he could publicly manipulate his role in this treason case against an FBI higher-up, the big firms would be calling. Washington loved a good spy story, and there were firms that would hire him for no other reason than to hear the insider gossip. But all that would be diluted if the FBI was going to leak every detail of the case, as they usually did when it was to their advantage. For once he was going to beat them to the punch. But first he would have to put out another one of their well-placed brush fires. “This is Al Bevson, can I help you?”

“Karl Brickman. I see from your online bio that you went to Georgetown Law, so I know you were taught the concept of due process. Apparently you think there’s some exception to the rule when it’s an FBI agent who’s been charged.”

“I’m sorry, who is your client again?”

“You want to know who my client is? Put on the six o’clock news tonight and you’ll find out. It won’t matter which network—they’ll all be carrying it.”

“You told my secretary it’s a Kate Bannon.”

“And you’ve had her in custody for three days without taking her before a judge or a magistrate. In civilized countries that’s called an abduction.”

“Mr. Brickman, if we were holding someone as you have suggested and you went to the media, be advised you could be violating national security.”

“If you consider what you’ve done to Kate Bannon as being in the best interests of national security, then it needs to be violated.”

“There’s a lot you don’t know about the case.”

“Apparently there’s a lot you don’t know about prosecutorial malfeasance. I’ve already contacted the assistant director at the FBI who has jurisdiction over this case, William Langston, and given him the same option I’m about to give you. If I don’t meet with my client within three hours, in three hours and one minute I start making calls to the media.”

The door opened, and Bevson’s secretary came in and handed him a note.

Assistant Director Langston, line 3. Urgent!

“Mr. Brickman, can I call you back?”

“No, you can’t. In exactly three hours, I’ll be at the FBI building. If I’m not immediately taken to see my client, you know where I’ll be going next.” The line went dead.

Bevson punched the line-three button. “Al Bevson.”

“Bill Langston. I’m the Counterterrorism AD. Did you get a call from a lawyer named Brickman?”

“That’s who I was on the phone with. Who is he?”

“I made a couple of calls after he threatened me. His practice is primarily criminal. A one-man firm, and he is not a media hound. I guess that’s why I’ve never heard of him, but the word is he’s the last guy you want to have coming at you.”

“How the hell did he find out about Bannon?”

“I was going to ask you. You’re the one who won’t let us near her, remember?”

Bevson said, “Someone might think a call to a lawyer would be a good way to get even with us for that.”

“It’s just as likely that someone from your side did it. You’re the one with all the lawyers. Maybe you should ask around and find out if any of your people know him personally.”

Bevson knew that was true. These days, “leaking” was an act of self-indulgence. “It’s out there now, so it doesn’t matter. What do you think we should do about it?”

“This cannot get to the media. Until we can secure some cooperation from Bannon or we can be sure no one else is involved, we’ve got to keep this buttoned up. Every time there’s the least hint of someone’s being identified, that person is murdered, and each time it’s arranged so it looks like the Bureau had a hand in it. How about this: Have a couple of marshals bring her over with one of your assistant prosecutors, and we’ll give her the full-court press one more time before Brickman shows up. He told me he was coming over at three o’clock. In fact, how soon can you get her here?”

“I’m guessing an hour or so.”

“Good, I’ll line up our best available interviewers, and they can take a shot at her.”

“Can my man sit in?”

“The best interviews are done one-on-one, but if she breaks, your man can draft up the formal statement, and then you’ll be able to spin it any way you want.”

“I don’t care who gets credit, I’m just—”

“Please, Al, save it for the press conference. Just have them call my extension when they bring her in—2117.”

Kate sat in her cell at the Correction Treatment Facility in southeast Washington. It was where all female prisoners arrested in the District of Columbia were housed. The cell had a window, but it had been covered over with sheet metal, which made the cement-block cubicle seem that much smaller. She had never experienced claustrophobia, but the moment they shut the door, she felt a sense of mild suffocation, as if the air were being secretly drawn out of the space, or at least the oxygen level was being manipulated to a level that would not allow logical thought.

A concrete bed with a thin mattress, a seatless toilet, and four pale green walls were all she’d seen for the last three days, except for the matronly guard with a lifeless face who brought her meals twice a day.

Kate was well aware that this sensory and social isolation had a purpose. It was to soften her up. But it wasn’t the austere surroundings that were having an effect. It was the three days. Three days without someone rushing to her cell, throwing open the door and telling her that a terrible mistake had been made, something she was waiting for even now.

When arrested, she was confronted with the evidence: the photos, the prints, and the dust on her shoes. She had to admit that if she’d been on the other side of the table, she wouldn’t have been interested in listening to the unprovable denials that she presented in her defense.

All of a sudden, she realized she was crying. Not full sobbing, but she could feel the weight of her tears working their way down her cheeks. She couldn’t remember the last time she cried, probably when her mother had died. She suddenly realized just how scared she was.

Even if she were somehow miraculously cleared of the charges, her career would be destroyed. It had been hanging by a thread ever since her “attempted suicide.” Legally, people could be found not guilty, but within the pedantic confines of the Bureau she would never be judged innocent.

Isolated like this, with no apparent end in sight, she couldn’t help but worry that somehow this case would be proved at trial. The evidence wasn’t airtight, but conversely she had absolutely nothing to refute it. The only thing that was keeping her sane was knowing that Vail was out there somewhere. If anyone could unravel this, it would be him. But there was a very good chance he didn’t even know she’d been arrested. She let out a short, hysterical laugh. It had been part of their plan to keep these arrests out of the public eye. And the last time she saw Vail, she’d sided with the Bureau against him. Then she was told that he had again been stripped of his credentials. Because she’d told him there was no possibility of a personal relationship between them, he’d undoubtedly left Washington by now, on his way to Florida, where no one knew how to contact him. Luke might have been able to track him down, but of course Luke wouldn’t know about her arrest either.

Her thoughts were broken by the sound of the cell door opening. She stood up in anticipation of rescue, but it was the same female guard, her face stony as usual, who set down a metal tray and left.

Assistant United States Attorney Fred Bisset had been put in charge of Kate Bannon’s prosecution the day she was arrested. The case against her had been damning, with one exception: She’d helped gather the evidence against the other spies that had led to her unmasking. But in all probability, Bisset theorized, she was trying to find any evidence against her and destroy it before it came to anyone’s attention. Despite everyone’s best efforts, she had steadfastly maintained her innocence. Then, an hour ago, he’d received a call from the United States Attorney himself, ordering him to get her over to FBI headquarters ASAP.

That was why he was now walking into the J. Edgar Hoover Building with Kate, who was flanked by two U.S. Marshals, one male and one female. Bisset had made the decision that if she were handcuffed and brought into her place of employment, any remaining secrecy about her status would be destroyed. And that would certainly preclude any admissions she might be about to make.

Bisset went to the receptionist, showed his identification, and told the woman that they were expecting him at extension 2117. She dialed the number and said, “Someone will be right down.”

Within a minute Lucas Bursaw got off the freight elevator that was away from the mainstream traffic and held the door open. He was careful not to show any recognition of Kate, hoping to send her the message to do the same. “Mr. Bisset!” he yelled over to the group. “We can take this one!”

They walked to the elevator, and as they got on, Bursaw moved to the back of the car. “We’re going to room 349.” He leaned forward slightly and pointed at the buttons. “Can you press the third floor, please?” As the female marshal hit the button, Bursaw slipped a small, folded piece of paper into the back of Kate’s waistband.

When the door opened on the third floor, Bursaw said, “It’s to the right. Number 349.”

Once the four of them were in the room and seated, Bursaw said, “Can I get anyone anything?” When they declined, he said, “I’ll be standing by in the director’s suite if you need anything. The extension there is 1207.” He wrote down the number and handed it to the AUSA. Then Bursaw closed the door behind him.

Immediately Kate said, “I’d like to use the ladies’ room before we get started.”

Bisset looked at the marshals and pointed at the female. “Okay, but she’ll be going inside with you.”

“Fine.” Kate led the way, and when they got there, the female marshal went inside and checked it for avenues of escape while the male stayed with the prisoner. When she came out, she said, “No other doors or windows.” The male nodded. Once the two women were inside, Kate went into the stall and shut the door. She took out the note and read it: Tell them you’ll talk, but only after you apologize to the director in person. It was in Vail’s handwriting. “About time, bricklayer,” she whispered.

“What?” the female marshal called in to her.

“Sorry, nothing.” She flushed the note down the toilet and came out.

Once they were back in the interview room with Bisset, Kate, for the first time, took a good look at him. He was in his early thirties, and even though he was severely balding, he kept the remaining patches of his hair closely cropped. Without paying much attention to his attempted banter on the way over, she remembered his using the line “I’m no fool—I graduated from Stanford Law School.”

“What time is it, Fred?” she asked.

Though he hadn’t noticed it before, he now detected some warmth in her attractive face. He quickly checked his watch and said, “It’s almost two.”

Kate examined him more closely and decided that anyone who would cut his hair that short, drawing attention to the uncomeliness of male pattern baldness, was someone who probably had an inability to interpret common social cues, especially those of rejection. Book-smart with absolutely no people skills, something she suspected was going to be to her advantage. “I’m sorry, where did you say you went to law school?” She was careful to ask the question with just a hint of sarcasm.

“Stanford. I thought I mentioned that.”

“I guess you did. I’m just a little tired. Bet you were the top of your class.” This time the sarcasm was as obvious as she could make it. She glanced at the two marshals and could see that they were experienced enough in handling prisoners that all conversations around them were no more than white noise.

“I made law review,” he answered, trying, but failing, to sound humble.

“It’s pretty obvious how smart you are. Me, I just thought I was smart. I’m tired of all this. I’d like to make a statement.”

Bisset straightened up, appearing as though he hadn’t been paying attention and wasn’t sure what she’d said. “You want to make a statement?”

“Can’t get anything past you law-review boys. Yes, I’d like to make a statement.”

“Now you’re being smart.” Quickly he dug into his briefcase and pulled out a pad of legal paper. “Where would you like to start?”

“I’d like to start with an apology to my director, Mr. Lasker.”

“As soon as we get your statement.”

“I see him first or there is no statement.”

“You’re the prisoner, Miss Bannon.”

“This offer expires in five seconds . . . four . . . three . . .”

Bisset grabbed the phone on the desk. “Okay, I’ll get him on the line.”

“No. This has to be in person. Face-to-face. He’s been very good to me, and I owe him that much.”

Bisset stiffened, and it took a moment for him to realize what had to be done next. He dialed the number that the black agent had left him. Bursaw answered, “Director’s office.”

“Yes, this is Assistant United States Attorney Bisset. Miss Bannon has had a change of heart and is willing to make a statement, but first she says she needs to talk to the director.”

“About what?” Bursaw asked, as skeptically as possible.

“She wants to apologize to him.”

“I don’t know if he wants to talk to her.”

“She says she won’t make a statement until she can.”

“Hang on.” Bisset heard the line go on hold, and then, within a minute, Bursaw came back on. “He said he’ll see her. Let me get another agent, and we’ll come down to get her.”

Ten minutes later there was a knock at the door, and when the marshal opened it, Luke Bursaw was standing there, and behind him was Steve Vail. Bisset said, “You’ll bring her right back here after she’s done with the director.” It wasn’t a question but an order.

“The director says she’s got five minutes and that’s all,” Bursaw said. “So you’ll have her back in no more than twenty minutes.”

The elevator car that Kate, Vail, and Bursaw got into had a half-dozen other employees in it, so they didn’t speak until they were out the front door of FBI headquarters. Kate said, “It took you long enough. I almost forgot what you looked like, Stan.”

As they walked toward their car, Vail watched her profile in the clear winter sunlight, her breath clouding the cold air in rhythmic streams. She took a deeper, stuttering breath, her freedom evidently registering. “Actually, it’s Steve.”

“I assume that since you’ve turned me into an escaped federal prisoner, you still haven’t figured out who’s responsible for setting me up.”

“After looking at the evidence, I’d say your innocence is questionable.”

“Then why did you break me out, Stan?”

“I thought by now you’d be ready for a conjugal visit.”

“Suddenly prison isn’t looking so bad.”

They got to the car, and Bursaw climbed in. Kate grabbed Vail and turned him around, kissing him fully. “Thanks, bricklayer.” She got in.

“Let’s see if you’re thanking me when this all goes south.”

Suddenly her smile was gone, and her eyes started to well up. “Sorry, Steve, but all this is scaring me.”

“You’d be a fool not to be scared.” He put his arm around her. Then he took out his credentials and showed them to her.

“I thought you had to give those up to Langston.”

“And who’s the one person in the Bureau who can rescind my being fired?”

“The director?”

“So you’ve got friends in high places. Plus, you’re innocent. Or so I’m told. I promise you you’re not spending another minute in jail.” Then Vail filled her in on his trip to Chicago and the shoot-out he and Kalix had been involved in. He told her about his phone call to the United States Attorney, with him posing as her attorney and Kalix playing the telephone role of his boss, William Langston.

“Kalix did all that for me?” she said.

“What about me?”

“How many times do I have to thank you? You’ve really gotten needy while I’ve been in the big house.”

“But unlike John I’m not trying to suck up to the director,” Vail said.

“That’s a great way to talk about a guy who saved your life.”

“Yeah, well, I’m sure you’ll find some way to get even with him for that.”

AUSA Fred Bisset checked his wristwatch again. It was now exactly twenty minutes since the two agents had left with Kate Bannon, and it was starting to seem a little too long. He again called the extension the black agent had given him for the director’s office. It rang six or seven times before a female answered it. “Hello.”

“Hello? This is Assistant United States Attorney Fred Bisset. Let me speak to the director, please.”

“The director? This is the employees’ break room. Let me get you back to the switchboard.”

When the operator came on the line, Bisset again identified himself and asked to be put through to the director’s office. He waited a moment, then heard, “Director Lasker’s office.”

“This is AUSA Bisset. Could I speak to the director, please?”

“I’m sorry, he’s in New York for a regional conference.”

“Then can you transfer me to Assistant Director Langston?”

“I’m sorry, he’s with the director.”