Cross Down, page 21
“Winny,” he says, standing up to shake her hand. “I want—”
“Forget it,” she says. “Right now, I don’t care about the time we’ve spent together or the bonds we have. Right now you’re the FBI, and you sure as hell don’t have permission to call me by my first name. Got it?”
Ned sits back down. “Got it, Madam Mayor.”
“Good,” she says, her eyes burning right into him. “I want to know right now what the hell is going to happen here in my city.”
“Madam Mayor, with all due respect, I think you should be talking with Chief—”
“That fool?” she interrupts. “He wants just two things—his photo on the front page of the Post and to run against me next year. All I get from him is the crap he gets from his folks who attend a law enforcement meeting twice a day.” She unclasps her hands, leans forward. “Ever since the sniper attacks and bombings started here in DC, I’ve been like a mushroom with the chief—kept in the dark and fed bullshit. That ends now, Agent Mahoney.”
He feels her anger and frustration roll over him like a huge heat lamp. He says, “All right. It ends now. Ask away.”
She seems taken aback. “That’s it? ‘Ask away’? No sweet words about going through channels or shit like that?”
“Ask away, Madam Mayor,” he repeats.
The mayor still seems surprised. “All right, well, this is a nice change of pace. We’ve always been treated like some goddamn poor relation here. We’re at the end of the line for federal aid, have no real representation in Congress—we’re mostly ignored. So tell me this, Ned: Who’s behind all these attacks?”
“We don’t know.”
“Oh, don’t give me that,” she says. “You’ve got to have some sort of lead, some intelligence.”
“I wish we did,” he says. “We’ve managed to make some arrests, crack some domestic terrorist cells, but there’s nothing connecting them together. We have right-wing militia groups. We have people associated with Antifa and with Black Lives Matter. We have rabid environmentalists, anarchists, Marxists, and yesterday, we had a suburban mom from Ohio who wore a suicide vest and tried to murder scores of commuters at Union Station.”
“I know, I know,” she says. “I was there. But you can’t find a connection?”
“None at all,” he says. “My agency, the CIA, the NSA, and pretty much every law enforcement outfit in the nation are able to track these people up to a point, and then it stops. No incriminating phone calls, texts, or e-mails. What we do know is that beginning nearly a year ago, all of these groups got a sudden infusion of cash and intelligence.”
“A supporter with lots of money and influence,” she says.
“That’s right,” Ned says. “But whoever is providing those funds is doing it from various sites on the dark web that use cryptocurrency. We try to trace those sites, but they pop up for a day or two, then disappear.”
They’re both quiet for a moment.
“So that’s it, then,” she says.
“I’m afraid it is.”
She seems to steel herself. “I’ve heard rumors that you have intelligence indicating that one final, spectacular attack is going to happen soon. Do you know when?”
The answer to that question is one of the most closely guarded secrets in government, but Ned doesn’t hesitate.
“Tomorrow,” he says. “Or maybe the day after. No later than that.”
She nods crisply. “All right. Any idea what’s coming our way?”
“Something big,” Ned says. “Perhaps bioterrorism, a gas attack, maybe a dirty bomb or something bigger. But it’s coming.”
The mayor lowers her head for a moment, composing herself, and when she looks up, Ned says, “Just so you know, there’s been an unofficial evacuation of key people from the government and Congress. Nothing public, but there’s been a steady outflow of people either visiting their home states or taking a couple of sick days.”
“Why are you telling me this?” she asks, voice hard as stone.
“Because you could do the same, Madam Mayor. No shame in it.”
Her next words are almost spat out. “The hell there isn’t. I’m not running away, not for one damn second. Nobody’s running me out of my city. Are you leaving?”
“No,” Ned says. “My work is here.”
“Good,” she says, gathering up her coat and purse. “Same for me. And if you need anything, anything at all from me or in DC, call me and you’ve got it. No questions asked.”
“Thank you, Madam Mayor.”
A slight smile. “You’re welcome, Ned. You take care of yourself, okay?”
She heads to the door and Ned says, “You too, Winny.”
Chapter
100
Valerie Penny lives in a lovely retirement community in Silver Spring, Maryland, just off Route 29 but not so close that she hears traffic at night. She’s a retired Department of Labor accountant, and thanks to her late husband’s careful investments, she lives a very comfortable life on Sunset Shore Drive.
The other day, Valerie saw two dark blue SUVs roll up to the Balantics’ house. She doesn’t know much about the Balantics except that they both served in the navy—Ugh, imagine having to wear a uniform every day—and after working for defense contractors, they retired here.
The Balantics’ visitors were a large Black family: An older woman, a woman in her forties or thereabouts, and four children, ranging in age from maybe first grade to their late teens. Not a problem, of course, but still…having all these kids abruptly arrive in her quiet neighborhood was certain to stir up concern among the older residents.
For the better part of a day, she watches the large family through a pair of binoculars she uses for field trips with the local Audubon Society chapter, and when she recognizes the younger woman’s face—not the one who looked like she was seventy or something—she is startled.
The next day, while volunteering at a Silver Spring food bank, putting boxes of instant macaroni and cheese up on a crowded shelf, she says to her friend Becky Zimmer, “You won’t believe who’s living next door to me.”
“Who?” Becky asks.
“Bree Stone,” Valerie says. “Remember her? A few years back, she was a big deal with the police department in the District, then there was some sort of scandal and she left. She’s married to Alex Cross.”
“Oh, yes,” Becky says, putting up cans of Dinty Moore beef stew. “That investigator and psychologist, the one who wrote those books. Wasn’t he almost killed the other day, got shot?”
Valerie says, “Yes, I know, how horrible. Too many guns and nuts in this country, if you ask me. Anyway, she’s moved in with the Balantics, and it looks like she’s brought her entire family with her, from the grandma to the littlest. Six in total.”
“Six!”
Valerie nods.
“But why move someplace like your neighborhood?’
Valerie carefully places another box of macaroni and cheese on the shelf. “I bet with Alex recovering, they’re low on money. It’s expensive to take care of all those kids. And I bet the Balantics are letting them live there rent-free.”
Her friend says, “Isn’t that nice.”
The next day, Becky Zimmer is having lunch with three of her closest friends at the Capital Grille in Chevy Chase. She waits for a pause in the conversation—which covers topics ranging from the latest doctor’s visits to ungrateful grandchildren to husbands who still leave the toilet seat up—and says, “You’ll never guess who’s moved in next door to my friend Valerie Penny.”
After a chorus of “Who? Don’t hold back! Tell us!” Becky says, “Bree Stone and the whole Cross family, that’s who. She’s married to Alex Cross, that doctor and detective who’s written all those books. Can you believe that?”
Her three friends most definitely can’t believe that, and they discuss the puzzling news as their lunch is served: four Cobb salads with sliced tenderloin.
Hector Ramirez doesn’t consider himself a spy; he thinks of himself as an information courier. For the past year and a half, he’s worked for a number of folks who want to know about the gossip and bits of news he picks up from the diners he serves. Military personnel, government employees, and executives from certain corporations in and around the Beltway have all been at his tables.
His latest request is for anything involving Brianna Stone, Alex Cross, or John Sampson. It’s to be passed along via a call to a number in the burner phone he uses only for his part-time work.
When his shift is over—it was a rough day, with one tray dropped and two orders screwed up—he calls the supplied phone number from his burner and says, “This is Hector Ramirez. I have information on the location of Brianna Stone.”
“Go,” says a male voice.
He says, “She and her family are living in the household of the Balantics in a gated retirement community in Silver Spring.”
“Good,” the man says. “How much were you promised for this information?”
He’s tempted to lie but doesn’t. The man’s tone frightens him. Hector says, “Five hundred dollars.”
“You’ll get one thousand,” the man says.
Hector disconnects the call, smiles. What a great day this is turning out to be.
Two hours after Hector Ramirez’s phone call, a dark blue GMC van bearing the logo of Lorenzo’s Deli and Catering rolls slowly down Sunset Shore Drive, and the armed man sitting in the passenger seat says, “Okay, got it. That white Colonial.”
The driver, a former Homeland Security investigator, says, “The place has got good forest coverage at the rear yard, a few nearby oaks. Good staging point.”
“Yeah,” the other man says. “I mean, how hard could it be to snatch a seven-year-old girl?”
They drive past the target house. In the rear of the van are other operators for the task at hand. The driver says, “It is a snatch job, right? Not an elimination?”
“Well,” the other man says, “at least for the first day.”
Chapter
101
Even at supersonic speeds, it’s a long damn trip back to the States. I drink bottled water and eat some energy bars and doze, and when I’m awake, all I think about is Elizabeth Deacon.
Ned Mahoney said, Don’t trust anyone.
But Elizabeth and I were both on the battlefield, and I slipped up.
When we’re about a half an hour out of Joint Base Andrews in Maryland, my burner cell phone comes to life. I log in to my regular phone account, and there’s a continuous beeping noise as e-mails, texts, and updates flow into my cell.
I give the list a quick, disheartened scroll, thinking of what I’m going to do when we finally land.
Lots of messages from the DC Metro Police, and those I’ll ignore.
Four messages from Ned Mahoney, all with the same subject line: CHECK IN PLEASE.
I’m about to call Ned when I see there’s a message from yesterday from Bree Stone. Its subject line is YOUR TAJIKISTAN GENERAL.
The note says:
Took some digging but the officer you saw on that Tajikistan airfield two years ago is General Gerrold Mason. He retired shortly after you spotted him. His CV is attached in another document, but it looks like a typical officer who went up the career ladder, entering the army via West Point. Rose in the ranks with service in the Eighty-Second Airborne Division in Kuwait, Iraq, and Afghanistan.
You’ll see he went to various schools along the way, including the NATO Defense College, the School of Advanced Military Studies at Fort Leavenworth, and the Center for Strategic and International Studies.
Also wrote a number of papers for proceedings concerning the future of military warfare with an emphasis on drone weapons and other over-the-horizon combat systems.
He’s currently a VP of operational development at Global Security Services, based in Arlington.
But here’s the kicker: Check out this link to the Stars and Stripes newspaper.
I do just that and see a news brief announcing General Mason’s retirement, and sure enough, the guy in the photo is the officer I saw arguing vigorously with Elizabeth Deacon at that CIA airfield.
I go back to Bree’s note.
Did you see the date in the story, John? It looks like Mason had a retirement ceremony on the same day you saw him overseas.
Guess he was already playing in the spook world at the time.
I look up from the screen. More questions, more puzzles.
I go back to Bree’s message.
Hope this helps. Call us as soon as you can. Willow misses her dad. Alex is recovering. He’s in and out of consciousness, but he keeps saying, “It’s not random, it’s not random,” whatever that means.
Love, Bree
And there’s a second kicker, much harder than the first one, in the postscript.
P.S. As to Mason’s marital status, he’s divorced but used to be married to Elizabeth Deacon, a CIA officer now working as a consultant.
Chapter
102
It’s past midnight and Bree Stone is sitting at a large round oak table in the luxurious dining room that belongs to her Bluestone Group associates Frank and Lori Balantic. They’re navy veterans who now work in her company’s counterintelligence section, and both are away tonight, visiting a sick nephew.
In the house with her are her stepdaughter, Jannie, and John’s daughter, Willow. Her stepsons, Ali and Damon, are spending the night with their father at George Washington University Hospital, where he’s improving by the hour, thank God. Nana Mama, who can’t sleep, is in the large kitchen, working on a dinner to freeze for later.
Bree smiles as she hears Nana Mama muttering in the supposedly well-equipped Balantic kitchen: “Why the hell do you have to hang up these pots and pans so damn high?” and “What kind of kitchen doesn’t have cayenne?” and “Bread crumbs. Is that so hard to keep on hand?”
Bree continues working on her company-issue laptop, trying to catch up by reading the minutes taken at the meetings she’s missed over the past week.
She senses Jannie standing next to her, and Jannie says, “Bree.”
Bree holds up a finger. “Give me a sec.” Where in hell is that last set of minutes? Is it in the trash folder?
“Bree.”
Her colleagues have been very sympathetic and understanding ever since Alex was shot, but still, she needs to show everyone that she’s keeping on top of matters and—
Jannie raises her voice. “Bree, please!”
Bree looks over, says, “What’s going on?”
When Jannie speaks again, Bree hears the fear in her voice.
“I’ve got to show you something right now,” Jannie says.
In the living room, Jannie points out the large bay window and says, “There’s a van parked at the end of the cul-de-sac, under that streetlight. It’s been there for at least fifteen minutes. I checked it out a few minutes ago with Mrs. Balantic’s old spyglass, the gift she got when she retired from the navy.”
Bree picks up the heavy and ungainly spyglass. It trembles in her hand, and when she looks through the window, the view isn’t that sharp. It’s a typical GMC van belonging to a catering company.
Bree lowers the spyglass. “Some caterers. Maybe they’re prepping for an early event.”
Jannie shakes her head. “The van says Lorenzo’s Deli and Catering.”
“So?”
“That catering company belongs to Lorenzo DeMarco. I go to school with his niece Stacy. She told me he had to close his business a few months ago because he has high blood pressure and his wife told him enough was enough. There’s no more Lorenzo’s Deli and Catering.” Jannie points to the van again. “That’s a fake.”
Chapter
103
About forty-five minutes after the late-night landing at Joint Base Andrews and after I steal yet another car, I’m back at the Cross house.
With the new spare key to the back door I secured from Bree during my last visit—which seems ages ago—I let myself into the kitchen and quietly close the door behind me. I pause for a few sweet seconds, taking in the familiar smells of this blessed place, recalling all the fun times here with Alex and his family, the wonderful meals from Nana Mama, the shrieks and yells from his children, my own Willow lovingly being part of the action, part of this family.
I feel like standing here forever. But God, I can’t.
When my eyes have adjusted to the dim light of the kitchen appliances, I gingerly make my way through the first-floor rooms and up the stairs.
It’s darker up here, so I keep a hand on the wall as I walk to Alex’s office. The door is open and I go in, then stand still.
Is it here, what he’s been talking about? What Alex talked about just before he got shot, what he whispered to me before I flew off to Afghanistan, and what he’s been saying to Bree?
It’s not random.
I gently close the door behind me.
I fumble a bit as I draw the shades to two of the office’s windows, and with a small penlight cupped in my large hand, I sit at Alex’s wide and cluttered desk, feeling like an intruder. There are bookshelves, filing cabinets, piles of folders.
How can I be here, in his office, in his chair, pretending to be one-fifth the man he is when it comes to figuring out puzzles and seeing details with his cold and smart logic?
“Patterns,” I whisper. “Get your ass to work, John.”
I carefully go through the papers and notepads on his desk, seeing the information we received during that very first briefing, the list of the terrorist attacks beginning April 15 in Columbus, Georgia, scribbled in Alex’s handwriting. There are check marks next to a few, probably meaning Alex had done confirming research on those cases.
