“How nice.” Catherine forced a little smile at the comment, then she scooped a stack of manila shipping pouches off of one of the two extra chairs in her cubicle area and offered the seat to Andy. He plopped down and dropped his backpack on the floor, and she sat back down in front of her monitor, holding the pouches in her lap because she didn’t want to foul up her filing system by placing them on any other surface in the messy cubicle.
“Hope you don’t mind me dropping in unannounced,” Andy said, looking around at the mess while he spoke.
“Not at all. Apparently you not only work nights, but you also work weekends. Is that it?”
By way of explanation, Andy said, “I’m a cops reporter.”
Catherine understood. “I guess criminals don’t work bankers’ hours.”
Andy smiled. “Only bank robbers.”
Catherine returned a polite smile at the joke. “Did you find out anything new about the Brandywine Street murders?”
“The victims are all still in the hospital—one is in ICU—but I doubt they will be talking to me or the cops.”
“Why do you say that?”
“They are all getting charged with possession with the intent to distribute. They will lawyer up, and their lawyers will tell them to button their lips.”
“Any more from the police?”
“No description of the killer other than male, white, thirties. There was one thing that was really weird, though.”
“What’s that?”
“The killer left a bunch of fingerprints.”
Catherine scrunched up her mouth. That didn’t seem weird to her at all.
“In a symbol,” Andy added.
“A symbol?”
“Well, a number. He used his right thumbprint to make a big number six on a nightstand in the room with the dead guys.”
“It sounds like a calling card of some sort. Have you seen that at any other crime? A gang sign or something?”
“I haven’t, and I checked a nationwide database on gang signs. A six by itself doesn’t seem to mean anything.”
“Could be a message.”
Andy said, “You mean, to the CIA?”
Catherine gazed out the window and down onto 15th Street. “I don’t know.”
Andy asked, “Did you find anything out about the spooks who toured the scene?”
“Jordan Mayes I told you about. The woman’s name is Suzanne Brewer. She’s CIA as well, in their Programs and Plans office. Her job is to identify threats against the Agency, terrorists and such, and then task assets to eliminate the threats.”
“What does she have to do with Mayes?”
“No idea,” said Catherine. “According to my contacts she served in Baghdad protecting facilities, and then she served in Kabul and Sana’a, Yemen. She came back to HQ three years ago with a lot of accolades and commendations for her work and a promotion to go with it. She has an excellent reputation in the Agency.”
Catherine sat quietly a moment, just thinking. Andy did not get in the way of the process. She said, “It makes me wonder if Mayes and Brewer had information about the perpetrator last night. That he was somehow related to a threat against CIA. It would have to be something substantial to bring out the AD of NCS and a senior program officer.”
“What do you want to do now?” Andy asked.
“I’d like to know more about the man they are after. I’ll stay away from Carmichael for now.”
Andy said, “If you want I can reach out to Mayes. Just play dumb and ask him what he was doing there.”
King shook her head. “He won’t talk. At this point the best we can hope for is an official CIA press officer comment, which would be worthless.”
Andy sighed. It was clear to Catherine that he wanted a story, and he wanted it now. He said, “In your world, you can’t get people to talk. When I go to a crime scene to get an interview, I usually can’t get people to shut up.”
Catherine laughed. “Do what I do long enough and you learn to read between the lines. Often I get more information by what the CIA doesn’t say.” She spun back around to her computer, indicating to Andy she was ready to get back to work. “Keep your nose to the ground, Andy. My interest is piqued about Mayes and Brewer.”
—
Zack Hightower had been handed a garment bag in the Eurocopter, and in it he found a suit and tie. The control officer on board asked him to change out of his hunting gear, not because CIA demanded formality, but rather so he did not draw attention to himself in the building dressed in camo and muddy boots. He stripped down to his boxers as they flew high over Northern Virginia, and as he did so he could immediately tell his new outfit had been borrowed off another man; it didn’t fit very well around his muscular arms, and there was a hint of both antiperspirant and BO.
Zack smelled like a goat, however, so he just shrugged and put on the suit. The control officer kicked off his own wing tips and Zack slipped them on, finding them just one size too small.