The Hearing (31 page)

Friday night, her phone rang.

“How ya doin’?”

Cheerful, relaxed, not a problem in the world.

“Fine, Warren. What’s happening?”

“Not for the phone. You wanna meet?”

Oh, no, Warren, of course not. Why would I ‘wanna meet?
“In the office? Right now?”

“I could come over. Save you the trouble opening up.”

Warren Gier in her home? That’ll be the day.

“The office is easy. Thirty minutes?” “You got it.”

Warren came in slowly, taking his time, strolled around the white conference table, picked a chair, leaned back, and sighed.
A man at the end of a productive mission, lots to say, no need to rush, savoring the impatience of his audience.

“So, Mr. Warren Gier, is there anything you can’t do?”

She hated sucking up to that revolting ego, but it was the price he put on his wares.

“It does not look good for the judge. The car-bomb operation is controlled by Colombian security agents inside the Colombian
Trade Commission across the street from the house Parham’s in. The chief of the operation drove the Mercedes into the block,
parked it, went into the Trade Commission, changed from his chauffeur’s uniform to civilian clothes, and even now, as we speak,
is watching the operation from the end of the street, right in among the cops and reporters.”

“Warren …”

“Yes?”

“How do you know all this?”

“Everyone knows it. Almost everyone. The only thing the cops don’t know yet, I think, is that the agent’s at the end of the
street.”

“So how do you know?”

“You don’t believe me?”

“I believe you, Warren. How do you know?”

“A Filipino girl who works in a building behind the Trade Commission saw him come out—a cook, undocumented, not supposed to
be here, but can’t keep from telling friends, who tell other friends. I’m always amazed how
much trouble people have keeping their mouths shut. Sometimes you just can’t turn them off.”

He smirked. If Helen believed in the devil, she’d say Warren had his help.

She said, “So what do you know about him, the guy on the street?”

“Tall, dark hair, blue polo shirt, jeans, white running shoes. I saw him this morning, standing around, chatting with cops
and reporters. He wandered off a couple of blocks and talked on a mobile phone, briefly.”

“Have you told the police any of this?”

He let his jaw drop in mock surprise.

“I work for the cops? I work for you, Helen.”

“We don’t pay you, Warren.”

“Don’t I know. But Taeger pays me, and he says, ‘You’re not working for me, you’re working for the Freedom Federation.’ He
pays, so I’m working for whoever he says I’m working for. Why is it no one wants to claim me but everyone wants to know what
I know?”

“Don’t you think you should tell the police?”

“Most of it they already know.”

“And the rest? The part about the agent on the street?”

“I can find out, they can find out. I don’t have to worry about the police.”

“Have you told Harrington?”

“Of course. He—”

“—pays you. What did he say?”

“He was too scared to say anything.” Warren’s lips formed a contemptuous little smile. “Isn’t it interesting? There’s no end
to what some people will do to destroy each other as long as it’s not actually physical. Then a guy like Ernesto Vicaro comes
along, couldn’t care less, actually
prefers
if it’s physical, and people go into absolute megashock. A
bomb?
A real
bomb?
Blow someone up? Couldn’t we just ruin the guy, wreck his life, send him off into outer darkness, disgrace, contempt, poverty?
Do we actually have to
hurt
him?”

“I guess they don’t have your high moral values, Warren.”

“Does anyone?”

She got rid of Warren and telephoned Carl. As the phone rang, she mentally thanked Warren for letting her know who she was—one
of those blighted people who drew the line when things got physical. She might be an idealist, but she was not a terrorist.

No answer. She tried his mobile phone. Still no answer.

Warren had said the agent in the street was chief of the operation. So he could do something—call it off, make a deal,
something
.

She called both numbers again. At 10:40 Carl answered the mobile phone.

“It’s Helen. I have to see you.”

“What’s the problem?”

“I have to see you.”

“I’m really tied up now, Helen. What is it?”

“I can’t tell you on the phone. I know something you have to know. You’ve got to see me.”

“How important is it, Helen? I’m involved in something pretty critical right now.”

“On a scale of one to ten, it’s a hundred.”

“Where are you?”

“In my office.”

“Be out front in five minutes.”

She jumped into Carl’s car, closed the door, and as he pulled away from the curb he said, “What is it?”

“The car bomb’s controlled by two Colombian agents inside the Colombian Trade Commission, and a third outside who’s really
running things. He’s the same guy who drove the Mercedes in and parked it.”

“Where is he, the guy outside?”

“Around the intersection someplace, with the cops and reporters.”

“How d’you know this?”

“I can’t tell you. A very reliable source.”

“Warren Gier?”

“I can’t tell you.”

“What’s the agent’s name?”

“I don’t know, but I know what he looks like.”

“Tell me.”

They had arrived at the intersection, Carl showing his DEA badge to uniformed cops blocking the street.

He said it again. “What’s he look like?”

She didn’t want to tell him. As soon as he knew everything, he’d drop her, send her away.

She said, “Let’s take a look around. Maybe I’ll see him.”

“Tell me what he looks like.”

“Just let me see if I can find him.”

Carl took a pair of handcuffs from the glove compartment and put them in his jacket pocket.

They got out, and she led him on a wandering path through the crowd of onlookers. Gier had said the agent was tall and dark.
Well, big help. There must have been about 2,000 people milling around the intersection, crowding the police barriers.

So she looked for a blue polo shirt, jeans, and white running shoes. She scanned the crowd for tall Latin males in blue polo
shirts, then maneuvered until she could get a glimpse of their pants and shoes.

When she finally saw him, it was easy. He was outside the crush of spectators, standing alone. She wondered why Warren, with
his taste for the bizarre, hadn’t mentioned the man’s face. It was fat and beefy, dark but not clearly Latin, the face of
a German butcher, sitting on top of a frail, skinny body like a pumpkin on a stick. As she watched him, his gaze kept roaming.
He wasn’t smiling, talking to friends, having a good time. He was intent, purposeful, there on business.

“That’s him.”

Carl followed her gaze.

“How do you know?”

“I was told—tall, dark, blue polo shirt, white running shoes, Latin.”

Carl was still and quiet, studying the man. The polo shirt hung loose outside the pants.

“Helen, how sure are you of whoever told you?”

“Very sure.”

“You’re going to have to tell me, Helen. Was it Warren Gier?”

She was silent.

“People could die, Helen.”

“It was Warren.”

“That’s good.”

“Why is it good?”

“Because Warren would know.”

Carl didn’t move. Finally he said, “Helen, will you help me? I don’t want to take my eyes off this guy.”

“What can I do?”

He handed her his car keys.

“Bring the car right over there.” He pointed.

Helen said, “It’s one-way. And there aren’t any parking places.”

“Doesn’t matter. Put the car there, in the street. If there’s a problem I’ll come over and talk to the cops. Just put it there.”

She got the car, parked it where she’d been told, left the emergency flashers on, and went back to Carl. He hadn’t moved.
Nor had the agent.

Carl said, “You know his name?”

“No.”

“Rubi Aguilera. We got a profile on him, but we couldn’t find him. Old buddy of Vicaro, when Vicaro was in the legislature
mixing coke and politics. Did eleven months as an intelligence officer in the Colombian embassy right here in Washington,
can you believe that? Let’s take a walk. Just a casual couple, live nearby, out for a stroll, see what’s going on.”

He took her hand, walked toward Aguilera, angling to pass through a knot of onlookers on a plot of roadside grass. When they
were three yards from Aguilera’s back, Carl let go of her hand and took two quick, silent steps. Directly behind Aguilera,
he put both arms around his belly in a bear hug, reached one hand under the polo shirt, withdrew a pistol from the waistband,
and slipped the hand with the gun into the front of Aguilera’s jeans.

Aguilera, not turning around, laughed. “Whoa, man! Whoa!”

From behind Aguilera’s ear, Carl said softly, “I’m a friend, Rubi. Just relax. Everything’s okay.”

“Who are you, man? Get your hand outta my crotch!”

Carl said, “Settle down, Rubi. Let’s not disturb all these nice people. You don’t want someone calling a cop. Just relax.”

“You’re the boss. You got a gun down my pants, I’ll do anything you want.”

Carl relaxed his hug but kept one arm around Aguilera’s waist in what looked like a friendly embrace. The hand holding the
gun was still hidden under the polo shirt.

“Everything’s cool, Rubi. We need to talk for a minute. What we’re going to do, the lady’s gonna drive a car over here and
we’re gonna get in the back seat. We’ll sit there and talk for a couple minutes and then you’ll get out and go on your way.
No trouble for anyone. You understand that?”

“You’re the boss, my friend.”

“Helen, if you could bring the car over, please?”

Helen went to Carl’s car, and sat for a second behind the wheel. She was shaking. She took a deep breath, closed her eyes,
and for the first time since college, when she had come briefly under the influence of a Pentecostal football player, she
prayed. “Dear Lord, make me do the right thing. Don’t let me screw this up.”

Then, driving slowly through the milling crowd, she pulled the car to the curb next to Carl and Aguilera.

They climbed into the back seat. To Helen it looked as if Carl’s hand was halfway down the front of Aguilera’s jeans.

“Just drive ahead a few yards, Helen, get out of the crowds. Maybe over there, away from the streetlights. Yeah, that’s good.
Right here. Fine.”

She stopped the car and turned off the lights and ignition. In the rear-view mirror she could see their faces, pro
fessional and businesslike, as if none of this was new to either of them. But from Aguilera, no longer laughing, came a threat
completely different from the toughness she saw in Carl. She was frightened to have him behind her.

Carl said, “Well, Rubi, what a day it’s been, right?”

Aguilera chuckled, as if he and Carl were old friends and this entire encounter were some kind of prank.

“Some day, that’s right.”

Carl’s arm moved.

Aguilera gave a painful grunt. “What do you want with me? Who are you?”

“The point, Rubi, is that you’re a DAS agent and you’re running this car bomb and you know when the bomb’s going off. That’s
a given, okay? So we don’t need to discuss that. What we—”

“You’re crazy, my friend. I don’t know what—”

Aguilera let out a low, sudden howl so charged with pain it made Helen sick.

“I said, we already
know
these things, Rubi. They’re not open for discussion, okay? Don’t waste time. I’m a nice guy, calm and considerate, but if
I get angry you could get your balls shot away. What I started to say, all I want to know is when the bomb’s going off.”

Aguilera was quiet, and as the seconds ticked away Helen was terrified that Carl would do what he’d done before, and there’d
be another howl of pain.

Aguilera said, “If I told you, how would you know I was telling the truth?”

His voice didn’t match the face now, or the menace. Behind the Latin accent, the pretense of mirth abandoned, was the almost
soft-spoken tone of a disciplined professional, a
man who had never acted on impulse, who could always be counted on to do the reasonable thing.

“A very good question, Rubi. Been thinking about that myself. My feeling, I think you’re an honest man. I think I can trust
you. You’re not some thug, are you Rubi? Not some cheap terrorist? You’re an educated, trained intelligence agent. Isn’t that
right, Rubi?”

Aguilera didn’t speak or move. His eyes were closed.

“And here’s something else I think, Rubi. I think you’ve been standing in the street there, trying to figure out how to get
back to your friends in the Trade Commission. So here’s what we’re going to do. You tell me when the bomb’s going off, and
I’ll walk you right past the police line, through the barricades, and take you straight down that street to the Trade Commission
and watch you walk inside. You’d like that, right? Tit for tat. You do something for me, I do something for you. How’s that?”