Going Dark (Thorn Mysteries) (32 page)

“She’s been informed.”

“So I should call the others, your SWAT group?”

“Tell them we’ll meet at the armory at three,” Frank said. “I need to run a couple of errands this morning. I’ll be out for a while.”

“You’ll visit Billy Dean? He’s at Jackson Memorial, room 403.”

“He’s first on my list.”

“Then?”

“You’ve got to know everything, don’t you?”

“This makes me bad?”

“I’m going to see Ms. McIvey, tell her in person about the drill.”

“You want to see her face.”

“You got it.”

“She won’t like it. You taking charge.”

“And here I thought I was in charge all the time.”

“You were wrong.”

Frank had to smile. “You’ve only met her once, fifteen, twenty minutes.”

“She thinks she’s the boss of everything. She won’t like this change. You tell me later if I’m wrong.”

Marta wasn’t wrong, but it took him a few hours before he confirmed it.

*   *   *

The National Infrastructure Protection Center was housed in the same downtown office building as the Department of Homeland Security. Sheffield parked in their lot, took the employee elevator to the eighth floor, found the office. A pleasant view of the north fork of the Miami River over the shoulder of the middle-aged black lady at the reception desk. The nameplate on her blouse said she was Portia Jackson-Hibber. The name familiar.

She was typing at her computer and didn’t look up when Frank walked in and she didn’t look up when he held out his ID. Even clearing his throat got no reaction.

“Excuse me.”

That slowed down her typing, but her eyes never left the screen. “Yes?”

He gave his name and his title, and that slowed her typing to a crawl.

“Here to see, Ms. McIvey.”

Finally she ceased. The magic words. “She’s in a staff meeting.” Portia was staring at Frank, cocking her head to the side, a cold appraisal as if sizing him for a straitjacket.

“This is somewhat urgent.”

“Only somewhat?”

Frank felt the blood heating his face. An angry flush. He was in a hurry to get to the SWAT meeting before three. It was already after noon. He’d spent too long with Billy Dean. The guy still gung ho after two surgeries, with another scheduled for later that day. Still some cleaning out of bullet fragments left to do, then another operation in a week to repair the last of the damage.

“Let me speak to your superior.”

She took her hands off her keyboard and crouched forward as if she might leap across her narrow desk and sink her canines in Frank’s throat. “I
am
my superior.”

“Yeah? And how does that work?”

“The way that works is that as director of the southern district of the NIPC, I hire and fire all personnel. In this office, I’m the supervisor. Special agent in charge of Ms. McIvey and the staff she’s currently meeting with.”

“Sorry.” Clearly he’d stepped into the lady’s personal minefield. “Since you were sitting here—”

“Yes, yes. Since I’m a woman and an African-American, you naturally assumed I’m Ms. McIvey’s subordinate.”

“Since you were sitting at this desk instead of behind that door marked
DIRECTOR
, yes, I made an assumption.”

“If that’s typical FBI acumen, no wonder we’ve got problems.”

“Hey, could we start fresh?”

“No,” Portia said. “We have too much history already.”

“Yeah, well, I need to speak to Nicole about a drill she’s part of. The time and date’s been changed, and it’s urgent I let her know.”

“So it’s
Nicole
now?”

Frank looked out at the river, searching for its calming effect. “I’ve known Ms. McIvey for some time.”

“You have a personal relationship with her?”

Frank took a breath, reached up, and massaged the tightness in his jaw.

“Is that a yes?”

“If by
personal
you mean do I know her outside the office, then yes.”

“By
personal,
I mean this.” She rolled her chair back a few inches and did two quick pelvic thrusts.

“Jesus, what’s going on with you?”

“So I take it that’s another yes?”

“What’re you talking about?”

“Okay, here’s how it is. I don’t share this information with just anyone, but I know who you are. We’ve attended the same conferences several times, but you’ve obviously never noticed me. That’s fine. I’m used to it. But since you’re a man and in a position of authority, someone who might reward Ms. McIvey’s pattern of behavior, it’s important you know some facts about that pattern.”

Frank had put the name and face together. Conferences. Yes, he’d seen Portia give a couple of presentations on sexual harassment. Her professional sideline—enlightening her fellow employees on the subtle ways such conduct occurred in the federal workplace and its insidious effects on morale and the pursuit of justice. She was passionate and smart and told some damn funny stories that always had a serious kicker.

“For the last decade Ms. McIvey has been using her considerable charms to maneuver her way to her current position. This has badly damaged her own reputation and the reputations of several men with whom she’s served.

“However, now that she works for me, she will no longer be able to employ these skills. And until I see a radical change in her behavior, I consider myself her personal glass ceiling.”

“I see.”

“So if by knowing her ‘outside the office’ means you have succumbed to Ms. McIvey’s allure, then you should be on notice that quite possibly you are being manipulated for professional gain.”

Frank nodded. “Screwed her way to the top, now you’re blocking her.”

“I prefer to think of my role as educational. If McIvey is to advance any further in the federal system, then she’ll have to do it the old-fashioned way.”

“Do a half-assed job.”

“At least half-assed.”

“How about doing me a favor, Portia?”

She cocked an eyebrow at him.

“When Ms. McIvey is out of her staff meeting, have her call me on my cell right away. I need to let her know about the change of plans for the drill.”

“I’ll be happy to, Agent Sheffield. And I certainly hope I haven’t broken your heart. That was not my intention.”

“No, I appreciate your directness. And good luck with your project.”

He was still in traffic, almost to the office, when Nicole’s call came.

“You met Portia.”

“I did.”

“She can be a handful.”

“So I gathered.”

“What’s wrong, Frank? She say something poisonous about me? I’ve heard she does that.”

“No, nothing.” He pulled into a parking lot. This was not a conversation he wanted to have while driving. Might endanger the public.

“Why don’t I believe you?”

“Change of plans. We’re hitting the plant tonight. Meet at the armory in an hour and a half. We’re suiting up at three, going over last-second details. Turkey Point’s been notified, Sheen is fine with it, Claude says he’s raring to go. Their three-day window starts at sundown today. We’ll move in at eleven p.m. Probably be done by dawn.” He could hear her breathing. “So get moving. Can’t be late for this.”

“This cold shoulder, Frank, I’m on your shit list now?”

“You’re not on my shit list.”

“Then why didn’t you consult? Why alert me at the last second?”

“I’ll see you at three. We’ve got a uniform that’ll fit you. We’ll provide lasers and vests. Weather’s supposed to be clear, eighties, light breeze from the south. This won’t be Prince Key again. I promise you that.”

*   *   *

Just after noon Flynn and Prince returned from a quick run-through, up and back to Turkey Point, to make sure Flynn had the route clear. Flynn was looking relaxed, his face lit up, chapped by the wind and sun. Docking in front of the assembled group, he handled the Whipray nicely, slipping into the tight space between Thorn’s skiff and the Chris-Craft, coming alongside the pilings without a bump. Cameron tossed the lines to Thorn and stepped ashore.

“Piece of cake,” Flynn said to Leslie. “Shouldn’t be a problem.”

Everyone had gathered at the dock to await their return, Leslie with the cell phone still in her hand. The Chee brothers were perched side by side on the seawall.

“There’s been a change,” she told Flynn and Cameron, holding up the phone. “Drill’s going down tonight. They’re going to hit at eleven.”

“Why?” Cameron said.

“Somebody got a wild hair. A conflict in schedules. Who can say?”

“Maybe they’re suspicious?”

“Don’t think it’s that. Our guy blames it on some FBI power play.”

“And the gator roundup?” Thorn being helpful, one of the team.

“I’ll get my gear and you and I will head out now.”

Cameron followed Leslie to the house, Wally tagging along. Pauly climbed off the seawall, went over to the Whipray, pocketed the ignition keys, gave Thorn a long, warning look, then headed up the lawn to join the others.

“Listen, Flynn.” Thorn was knotting the bowline to a cleat.

“Save your breath. I’m going ahead with this. What Pauly did to Sugar, that was wrong. He and his brother are seriously fucked up. But the rest of us aren’t like that. I believe in this. It’s important, worth the risk. Someone has to take a stand or there’s not going to be anything left worth saving.

“People your age, you won’t be around when the worst of it starts, so it doesn’t matter. My generation didn’t screw it up, but we’ve got to fix it if we’re going to survive and leave something for our kids. So stop trying to push me around. Decision’s made. Just back off.”

Thorn looked off to the eastern sky where a single frigate bird was hanging high in the blue distance like the silhouette of some prehistoric dragon. To sailors long at sea there was nothing graceful about that bird’s soaring flight. They saw it simply as an ominous sign, a symbol of impending doom. Until this moment Thorn had never entertained such horseshit.

“All right,” he said. “I get it. It’s completely your call. I don’t have a say. But listen to me for one second. Another issue.”

Flynn was squatting down beside the rear cleat, retying the stern line. Pauly had halted on the back deck, keeping watch on the two of them. Thorn was pretty sure he was out of earshot. But he kept his voice low.

“There’s a pistol in Sugar’s car. Might come in handy.”

“You’ve got me confused with somebody else. I don’t shoot people.”

“I’m not talking about shooting people. You say you want to survive, that’s what I’m talking about.”

Flynn rolled his eyes up to the heavens and shook his head.

“If you change your mind,” Thorn said, “it’s in the glove box.”

THIRTY-EIGHT

“SURE, MCIVEY. YOU WANT TO
drive, help yourself. Just not so fast this time, okay? We’re in no hurry. Curtain doesn’t go up till we walk onstage.”

Her mouth stretched into a smile, but her eyes remained estranged. Whatever heat there’d been was finished, along with Sheffield’s usefulness.

Everyone wore black trousers, black shirts with gold FBI logos front and back, and all of them were fitted out with laser-sensitive vests. No Kevlar tonight. Minus Billy Dean, it was the same crew as Sunday night, everyone haggard and hungover from the ordeal, but still fairly upbeat at the news that no one was going to be docked for the Prince Key mess.

Out in the armory parking lot in the balmy night air with the Suburban gassed up, doors flung open, ready to roll, Sheffield walked from man to man in a last-minute inspection. One more time everyone presented his handgun, opening the clip or cylinder, showing it was empty, working the slide. Worst threat in a drill like this one, a live round snuck into the mix.

Frank took a close look at each of their vests, checking the battery packs, the Velcro fasteners, making sure their white, reflective armbands were in place. When he got to Nicole, she was slipping her phone in her trousers pocket.

“You were making a call?”

“Texted my dog-sitter. Told her I won’t be home tonight.”

“You have a dog?”

“A corgi. Why?”

“What’s his name?”

“Max. Jesus, you want to polygraph me about my dog?”

Frank turned to the group. “Make sure your phones are off. We’re not on the grid tonight. All the way off, not just silent.”

When they’d finished checking, he raised a hand for quiet. “Okay, I promise, this is the last time.”

To a chorus of groans, he did one more step-by-step repeat of the attack plan. A variation of one of Nicole’s scenarios. Very basic: concussion grenades for distractions, slip past the sentries, more grenades, more distraction, move into the control room and take over.

If all went well, no lasers were fired. Rub Sellers’s face in how his crew of rent-a-cops were so grossly incompetent, even with advance warning they couldn’t stop a group of hostiles coming through the front door. The best possible outcome, besides wholesale changes to security procedures at Turkey Point, would be that Sellers was demoted to latrine duty for the rest of his days.

But something told Frank this simple plan he was selling to his guys was going to be bumpier than he was making out. Yeah, Frank had high confidence in his guys’ superiority to the security team at Turkey Point, and he was changing things up, running a hurry-up offense that should have them on their heels, but all afternoon he’d been having the same gut quivers he’d felt out on Prince Key just before Nicole reached for the ice chest. Then a minute ago, catching her with her phone, the quivers ticked up a notch.

As the men were buckling into their seats and Nicole settled behind the wheel, his phone buzzed in his pants pocket. Frank disobeyed his own order. He huddled behind a light pole out of view of the truck. Angie Stevens.

“You find something?”

“I found something. How’d you know?”

“A guess, Angie. What is it? Another software bomb?”

“A virus.”

“Can you fix it?”

“It’ll take time. A virus spreads and hides. This has gotten into so many nooks and crannies it would be weeks to find it all, and if I missed a scrap of code anywhere, it would take hold again and mutate.”