Inside Out (20 page)

45

Inside the Gulfstream II, Chief Marshal Richard Shapiro stood up from a gray leather couch, opened a cabinet, and removed a bottle of Oban. He handed Winter a glass with an ounce of the golden liquid in it. Shapiro poured one for himself and reached over to touch his glass to Winter's.

“You're off duty,” Shapiro said. “Drink up.”

The scotch ignited a velvet fire that burned the length of Winter's throat.

“Another?” Shapiro offered.

“No, thank you, sir.”
If I start drinking now, maybe I won't ever stop.

“The FBI has a good start, thanks to you,” Shapiro said. “The Citation will take you home as soon as you're ready. I want you to take some time off.”

Winter was relieved—he desperately wanted to go home and resume his life. He looked through the window at the water tank and his mind painted Forsythe standing at the rail, on the island.

“That's odd,” Winter said.

“What?” Shapiro's eyes narrowed.

“That professional killers felt secure enough to stage this operation from here. They were smart. Their planning was perfect. They modified a King Air. Flew in and out. They stole a helicopter from the Navy. They killed maybe sixteen people like it was nothing. They blew up the jet in the hangar to destroy any evidence they might have left behind to lead to them. But those same killers let two kids who could identify them walk away. Why would they do such an obviously stupid thing?”

“The boy said they threatened and bribed them,” Shapiro reminded him. “Perhaps they didn't want to harm kids. Maybe they were afraid if they killed the boys there would be a search, they'd be discovered.”

“There's something wrong,” Winter insisted. “Like they believed it wouldn't matter if the kids told.”

Shapiro shook his head and got to his feet.

“What about Mrs. Devlin?” Winter asked him.

“No reason they'd bother her. She's just an ex-witness's widow now. We'll take care of her, watch her just in case.”

“I'll get my things,” Winter said and started down the steps.

“By the way,” Shapiro called from inside the plane, “the A.G. wants this all to stay classified for the time being. So, you weren't here, or on Rook, either. Media blackout is in force. The A.G. wants us to sit on everything. We don't want those bastards to know the FBI's right behind them.”

Winter intended just to grab his bag and leave. Sean sat in the rear of the Justice Department's Lear 31 and fixed him in her gaze as he entered. She closed the computer in her lap and set it aside. Her face looked like porcelain, white and as hard, the bruise under her bottom lip like a water stain. Winter reached into the cargo hold and retrieved his duffel. “Guess this is good-bye.”

“I suppose so,” she replied. “I'm so sorry about your friends.”

“They were doing their jobs, and we all accepted the risks knowing something like this could happen. Someone paid those men to kill your husband and they figured out a way to do it.”

“You're an interesting man, Winter Massey. Don't guess I'll be seeing you again,” she said softly, smiling faintly.

“Not likely. I'm going back to Charlotte, where it's quieter.” God, he hated to leave this fascinating woman he longed to learn more about.

“What's next?”

“FBI will take all the evidence they have, identify the unidentified dead subjects, and go out and catch the others.”

“What about the man behind this? Does he win?”

“It depends on whether or not the government can convict him without Dylan's testimony. The A.G. will most likely have to drop those charges associated with Dylan's killings, maybe try and go for something else. They might have to let the old gangster out of jail unless they can prove conspiracy to commit murder. They'll probably dangle death sentences over the weakest of the killers, and probably one will turn over Manelli to get off with a slapped hand and join WITSEC.”

“Manelli?”

“Sam Manelli.” Winter realized, too late, he shouldn't have revealed his name. Dylan obviously hadn't told her, either.

“From New Orleans?”

“The Justice Department has been trying to get him in jail for forty years,” he said, privately cursing his stupidity.

Winter saw something in Sean's brown eyes that he hadn't seen before, not even during the life-or-death battle of the previous evening. Anger? Bewilderment?

“Sean, what is it?”

“Its nothing.” Her smile seemed uncertain. “It's just that I know who Manelli is—who doesn't, but it never crossed my mind that Dylan worked for him. Now, this all makes more sense . . . sort of.”

He offered his hand and Sean gripped it like a child being left at a nursery the first time. “Thanks for protecting me from Dylan, for saving my life and for making me feel safe. And, for being my friend, I suppose.”

“You are safe. Talk to the USMS psychiatrist. His specialty is these kinds of emotional roller coasters. I've talked to him a couple of times myself. He'll make you feel better. I promise.” He smiled, studying her features one last time to lock them into his memory.

Her eyes turned up into his. “Maybe someday I'll come to Charlotte, buy you dinner, and you can tell me how all of this turned out.”

He remembered that Fletcher Reed had said pretty much the same thing on Rook Island, the night before. “It would be my pleasure,” he said meaning it.

When he lifted his bag from the seat, she stood up, put her arms around him, pressed her cheek against his, and hugged him. “Good-bye, Deputy,” she told him. “God bless you and keep you safe.”

Winter turned at the door and looked back at Sean, who waved tentatively. Maybe it was his imagination, but it looked as though her bottom lip quivered. He nodded one final time, stepped down from the plane and walked toward the waiting Citation. The sensation of her cheek against his stayed with him for a long time.

46

Sean waited five minutes, then descended from the Learjet to watch the Citation carrying Winter Massey lift off. She kept the plane in sight until it was a speck in the Virginia sky. She had met very few men of Winter Massey's equal. Now he was out of the equation, and she felt both sorry and relieved.

She realized her hands were shaking. She had never been more surprised than when Winter said that Dylan had been involved with—had crossed—Sam Manelli. No wonder Dylan had wanted to keep her in the dark. No wonder the killers found them. If only she had known, she would never have joined Dylan on Rook Island. Dylan was lucky—he obviously had died fast.

She scanned the base as if memorizing the positions of the vehicles, the men and women who dotted the landscape. She spotted Archer in the command tent and stiffened. Manelli's name meant everything was different now and everybody had to be evaluated anew. She knew better than anyone that when it came to his influence, his money, anybody could be an enemy.

A female deputy strode from the Gulfstream toward the Lear. Her boxy body looked hard and her face, beneath the USMS cap's visor, rigid. “I'd like you to get inside the plane, Mrs. Devlin, and remain there until further notice,” she ordered.

“I just came out.”

“It's a security matter.”

“If you can explain how I might be in danger here, I'll consider your
request.”

“If you do what I say, we'll get along just fine.”

Not a chance.
“Could you please tell your boss, Director Shapiro, I want to have a word with him?”

“The chief marshal is busy. Tell me what you want and I'll relay the message.” It seemed to be an effort for the deputy to keep her voice even and pleasant.

“Tell Chief Marshal Shapiro that I will be leaving now. I'd like my things removed from the jet and I want someone to drive me to the closest airport or bus station.”

Sean went back inside the Lear. Through the window she could see the woman speaking with two male deputies, one of whom went into the Gulfstream. A few seconds later, Shapiro left the G-II and headed her way, just as she had expected.

“You want to leave?” he asked her.

“I intend to,” she corrected.

“We'll need to work some things out first. We need to consider what's best for you. We're going to request some psychological help so you can deal with what you have been through. We certainly owe you that.”

“First, I never asked to be involved, but now that my husband is dead I assume I am no longer needed to keep him occupied. I haven't committed any crime and I don't have any information to give anybody. I have no intention of remaining here in this horrible place while people pick through that pile of rubble. And I won't spend another instant in the company of ‘our lady of the perpetual sneer' out there. If you will call me a cab, or have one of those policemen drive me out, I can take charge of my own life from now on.”

“You don't even know where you are,” he protested.

“I assume wherever we are is connected somehow to roads which lead to towns and eventually to a commercial airport. At this point I'd hitchhike before I'd stay here in this cracker box another ten minutes.”

“I'll take you back to Washington within the hour. And if Deputy Munsen isn't to your liking, I'll replace her.”

I doubt your deputy is to anyone's liking, except the man who sells her steroids,
she thought.

“Mrs. Devlin, you are our guest. We feel a responsibility for you and we will do everything we can to make you comfortable. I'll have your bags moved to my plane,” he said solicitously, hoping to appease her.

“Sir,” she replied, “I have not yet been comfortable being your guest. I just want my life back. And a stiff drink.”

Shapiro lifted her briefcase. “If you will follow me,” he said, “the United States Marshals Service will make every effort to oblige you.”

Two minutes later Sean was seated in the Gulfstream holding a scotch on the rocks. She swiveled the chair, looked out, and caught Deputy Munsen staring up at her sourly from the tarmac. Sean touched her glass to the window and smiled.

47

New York, New York

The ebony Lincoln pulled up in front of a six-story building in lower Manhattan. The driver got out, walked around to the passenger's side, and opened the door. Herman Hoffman and four other men climbed out of the vehicle. Herman moved with the confidence of a man who was certain his brittle legs would snap if he dared go any faster.

The driver, a blond with a tattoo of barbed wire wrapping his wrist, used a key to open the building's door. “Thank you, Ralph,” Herman said.

The four men followed Herman inside and stepped into the elevator with him, affording the elderly man more than his share of space.

“I'm bushed,” Herman said. “Could sleep for a week.”

“Yes, sir,” Ralph said. “I expect we all could.”

“First, Ralph, find out why my other team hasn't reported in. If they were captured, we have to get to them immediately. If there were casualties, we need to get them collected. If they didn't get the target—if by some miracle she made it through—we'll have to deal with that immediately. Get me all the intelligence you can compile
ASAP.
”

Herman looked at the man in the corner wearing a black all-weather coat and matching baseball cap and smiled weakly. “I doubt even the hand of God could have saved the inhabitants of that house if the men made it there. If they didn't make it to the island, we'll deal with fixing that. I can't assess the situation until I have all the information.”

The elevator stopped at the fifth floor and the four other men got out, leaving Herman and Ralph alone in the car.

“You men get some rest and we'll meet later and see what we have left to do, or if we are done.” Herman raised his head slowly and stared at the man in the ball cap until the doors closed.

“Sir?”

Herman opened his eyes to find Ralph kneeling beside the chair where he had dozed off after lunch.

“Sir, sorry, but we have word on the island team. All four were erased and their equipment was captured.”

“I was afraid the sailors would somehow get an alarm out to the Marine base. Damn.”

“That deputy, Massey, killed them.”

“What?” Herman sat up, fully awake now. He had taken a risk, knowing the marines could respond before the team was done, but . . . “A deputy marshal killed four of my boys? That's impossible. The intelligence is wrong. The SEALs must have caught them in the open.”

“The Devlin woman and the marshal are definitely alive, sir. Our four are confirmed dead.”

“You're absolutely certain?”

“Their fingerprints have already been put through the system. Control picked them up and Fifteen is on the phone, wanting to talk to you.”

“What else?”

“The radar staff was neutralized. The female marshal was, too. They got that far without a problem. But Massey turned it. He took them one by one.”

Herman felt like a great weight was sitting on his chest. “Send the snapshots to the client as planned. We have to find Sean Devlin.”

Herman lifted up the encrypted telephone on the table beside the chair and put it to his ear.

“What the hell is going on?” Herman wasn't surprised that the demanding voice on the other end was icy. Herman had known Fifteen since he'd recruited him twenty-four years earlier. For the past six years his protégé controlled all of the dark cells except Herman's. After Herman's death, he would have them all. But until that happened, Herman didn't answer to Fifteen or anyone else.

“Fifteen, how thoughtful of you to call. I need assistance with some light sweeping.”

“I know that,” Fifteen replied. “When were you going to mention this to me?”

“When you had a need to know,” Herman said.

“I presume I have, now that all hell has broken loose. We have to discuss this matter, Herman.”

“I'd be happy to talk with you anytime, Fifteen. Perhaps in a few days.”

“So,
this
thing—whatever it was—is over, right? You don't plan any more surprises, do you?”

“Very close to being done. I have a couple of loose ends. Nothing for you to worry about. Everything is hunky-dory.” Herman hung up the phone.

“Ralph, we'll need to put some effort into finishing Mrs. Devlin before our client finds out and reacts stupidly.”