At Any Cost (16 page)

He smiled apologetically. “Hi. I'm Frank. I assume you're here to speak to me, but you aren't safe here.”

“What do you mean?”

“You aren't safe here,” he repeated. “This is about Antoine Campbell, right?”

Tom didn't answer.

“Right. Meet me at 21329 West Kendall Street in about twenty minutes. Leave now.”

“Why am I not safe here?”

A thin, unhappy smile smirked across his face. “You look like a cop. And generally speaking, this is not a cop-friendly crowd.”

Tom glanced around and realized there were a lot of hostile stares. But what kind of world had he entered where he wasn't safe because he was an agent? The two ogres from the doorway were stalking toward him. He suddenly realized that he had not come with his creds or his handcuffs. So much for thinking he'd be able to walk in and get whatever he needed in a roomful of nerds.

“Twenty minutes,” Tom agreed and began walking away.

The address was a Waffle House. Tom made himself comfortable at a booth, where he ordered black coffee. Exhaustion was seeping into his bones though he was still wired from adrenaline and the buzz that Fallon always inspired.

The doors opened and Frank from Midnight Research breezed in. He was short, Tom realized, and a little older than Antoine Campbell had been when he died. He slid into the booth and tapped his hands on the table like he was waiting for something.

“Why did you know the street address of this place?” Tom asked.

“I think better in numbers.”

“Was Antoine Campbell the same way?”

The same cool smile crossed his face. “Antoine Campbell was even more agile with numbers than I am. He was incredibly smart. I have an IQ of one eighty. Antoine's was over two hundred.”

“So he was still hacking illegally?”

The man shrugged. “I don't know.”

“What is Midnight Research?”

“It's a group of technologists who share info about various systems, talk about encryption and decryption.”

“So … what are you, like an identity fraud ring?”

He scoffed. “Not even close.”

“What then?”

“Let me ask you a question. Was calculus invented or was it discovered?”

Tom, whose math education now seemed terribly inadequate, shrugged. “I don't know. You tell me.”

“Basically we are figuring out the new maths. New, unimaginably complex encryptions. We sometimes practice on private systems, but we're the good guys. White hats. We don't steal. It's just the only way to get real-world experience.”

“Did Antoine ever talk to you about the National Security Agency?”

“Sure, all the time.”

“Was he hacking into the NSA?”

“That's the ultimate goal,” Frank answered smoothly. “But the NSA has so many redundant layers, it's impossible right now. The first person who cracks the NSA will be a god among men.”

“So Antoine never told you that he cracked the NSA?”

He chuckled softly. “No, that was still years off.”

“Does Midnight Research make money?”

“Some of us do penetration testing for companies who want to see what their weaknesses are.”

“Did Antoine do that? Did he have any clients you know of?”

“Yeah, the NSA. They offered him a million dollars if he could crack the servers before the end of the year.”

Tom sat back in the banquette, absorbing the information. “What's a map of the keys?”

Frank smirked. “Please don't tell me you're a conspiracy theorist.”

“Not at all. I don't even know what it is.”

“It's a myth,” Frank said. “Some people believe that there is a map of all the encryption keys that will expose the entire US government infrastructure. Like a skeleton key for a house that fits every door. Once you know the map of the keys, you'd be able to control the entire US government.”

“Did Antoine Campbell ever mention the map of the keys to you?”

“Never,” Frank said. “It's like an Area 51 type thing. Nobody takes that seriously.”

Tom frowned, realizing something. “Antoine must have had research notes,” he said. “And since he was a computer guy, he would have kept them in the cloud, right?”

Frank shrugged his shoulders. “I have no idea what he would have done.”

“He would have used regular web-based programs like Twitter, Flickr, maybe Facebook too.”

Frank took a sip of his soda. “So?”

“I will pay you to find his passwords for those websites.”

“How much?”

“A thousand.”

Frank smirked.

“Three thousand.”

“Thirty five hundred. Cash.”

Tom sat back in his chair. “Fine. I'll deliver it tomorrow.”

The bitter cold made conversation almost impossible. Leah hunkered down in her pea coat, scarf, and cap and walked as fast as she could, matching Collin's long strides, step for step. They ducked into the Farragut West Metro, thankful for the weak heat. At the kiosk, she bought a ticket. She was not quite sure what was going on. Despite Collin's flirtation at Nordstrom, he was now unreadable, being charming at times but not reliably so. To make it even more awkward, when she tried to respond, he seemed indifferent. After dinner and drinks, he said, “I'll walk you to the Metro.”

Leah felt like she'd made a fool of herself, though she couldn't think of anything she had done specifically wrong. She was just embarrassed for having thought he would be her Prince Charming. It was impossible trying to date. Interpreting statements and gestures, trying to decipher if he was interested in her or not. She wished she could just stop wanting to find a relationship. Indifference would solve so much.

After the machine spit out the Metro ticket, to her surprise, Collin fed some money into the machine. Unwilling to confess her hope even by asking what he was doing, Leah said, “Well, thanks …”

He grabbed the Metro card and said, “I was going to ride back with you, if that's okay. To make sure you get home safe.”

Leah smiled, hope flickering anew. “I'd like that.” Together they proceeded through the turnstiles to the trains. It was warmer down here in the concourse, and Leah relaxed slightly as they sat on a bench and waited for the next orange line train. Collin made small talk, and Leah continued to try and figure out his intentions. He did not seem particularly romantic, but it was possible that was because they did not yet know each other well.

It was only a ten-minute ride to Court House but it felt much longer. She could not calm down, could not get a read on what Collin was doing or what he wanted. At the Court House Plaza apartment building, Leah swiped her magnetic entrance fob and they rode up to the twentieth floor.

Her apartment was tidy and plain, but the view was breathtaking. Collin drifted to the glass doors of the snow-covered terrace and peered out. Leah joined him, shivering in the cold. “It's pretty, isn't it?”

The Capitol Building and Washington Memorial were visible among the smattering of lights. The White House looked noble, blazingly white against the eclipsed sky. A necklace of airplanes landing at Regan National Airport sparkled along the horizon. She stood very still, contemplating the view as if it was the first time she'd ever seen it.

“There's a really pretty roof where the view is even better,” she said. “This is the tallest building in Arlington, so you can see everything.”

“Really? Can we take a look?”

“Sure,” she said and led him to the elevators.

The roof, as Leah had promised, was extraordinary. A large pool was covered for the winter, and numerous chaises were laid out. As they walked to the balustrade, they left shoe prints in the snow.

Collin pulled her close to him and they looked out at the city in all its dazzling 360 degrees. “You could sell tickets for this view,” Collin said with a little laugh in his voice.

“Actually they do on the Fourth of July. They give tickets to people because so many people come up here.”

“You look cold.”

“I am.”

“Let's go back.”

As they were coming inside her apartment, Collin said suddenly, “I'm glad somebody is looking into Antoine's death.”

She had told him about the strange death of Antoine Campbell, that she was looking into it for a friend. It was, in fact, the only thing they discussed which had to do with her. They had discussed Collin's education and his career, his accomplishments on the soccer field, and his kindness to strangers, but the topic of Antoine Campbell, and indeed anything personal to Leah, had been avoided.

“So what have you discovered?” he asked.

“Not much,” she replied. “Seems like his life was kind of a lockbox.”

“That's a shame.”

Before Leah could agree, he stepped forward and kissed her. Once she recovered from the surprise, she realized that she was enjoying it. She wasn't quite sure about Collin as a person, but wow, he was a good kisser. His lips moved to her neck as his hand cupped her breast. She did not resist. Nor did she resist when he suggested they find her bedroom immediately.

It had been a long time since she'd had sex, so when it was over four minutes later, she was inclined to keep any complaints to herself. Leah rolled on to her side and looked at Collin. He smiled, kissed her nose, and sat up. “That was amazing,” he said and scooted out of the bed. Leah watched him dress in the semidarkness. He sat on the edge of the bed and put on his shoes and then belatedly said, “I have to get to work early tomorrow.”

Leah nodded.

“Can I see you again?”

“Sure,” she replied. Her voice was barely a scratch in the darkness. She flung off the covers and grabbed her sweater from the floor, yanking it on quickly because she didn't want him to see her naked anymore. As he tucked in his shirt, he looked at his reflection in the darkened mirror over her bureau. “Walk me to the door?” he asked, shifting his eyes to her in the mirror.

Wordlessly she stood up and, with her arms folded over her chest, followed him to the door.

“I'll call you,” he said.

“Okay.”

“Lock the door behind me,” he said and leaned in to swipe his dry lips against hers. “You never know who is lurking around the corner.”

Leah shut the door and locked it and took her phone from where it was charging on the bar. As she walked back to bed, she dialed Tom.

“I just had the strangest date,” Leah said by way of greeting.

“You sound kind of … odd. Are you okay?”

“I'm fine. Collin just left here. We had sex.”

“Oh,” Tom replied carefully. “Well, how was it?”

“I don't know. Weird. He seems to have pockets of time when he's affectionate and normal, and the rest of the time he's kind of a dick.”

“And you had sex with this guy? Leah ….”

“I know. But it's been a long time. I miss the company of men.”

“Well what else happened?”

“He asked me out for tomorrow.”

“If you're feeling uncomfortable around him, don't go.”

“It's not discomfort. It's a synchronicity issue, maybe. Or maybe the problem is me. I mean, he's very good looking, and smart, and I …”

“And you are very beautiful and brilliant and deserve a guy who is going to rock your world.”

“Tom, you're just saying that. I'm thirty-two and not married. It's fucking hard to find a man in this town …” She felt the old hysteria welling up and fought to clamp it down, be pragmatic.

“Just be careful,” Tom said.

“You're the second person who has said that to me in the last ten minutes. What do you think is going to happen? Somebody's going to throw me off a building?”

“Leah …”

“I'm sorry. I'm just frustrated and I don't even know why.”

“It's okay. Just relax this evening. Let's meet for lunch tomorrow, okay?”

“Aren't you working?”

“I can take an hour for lunch.”

“Okay. Lunch then.”

“I'll text you.”

“Goodnight, sweet Tom.”

Leah placed her phone on the bedside table and shut her eyes. Freezing rain tapped against her bedroom window. It had the potential to be a romantic sound if she heard it with somebody who cared about her and would hold her in his arms to keep her warm. Despite the dull ache between her legs, she felt vast and complete loneliness.

A familiar molten ache welled up in her chest. She pushed her face into her pillows as the sobs overtook her.

The next morning, while Fallon was en route to the memorial service for Antoine Campbell, Tom was standing at the door of Midnight Research. The office was in the basement of a narrow three-story townhouse not far from the Russian embassy on Wisconsin Avenue. Tom had the impression the location was not an accident.

Frank flung open the door. “You showed up.”

“I'm surprised, too,” Tom said sourly.

“Come on,” Frank said and walked into the interior of the basement.

Tom followed him through a warren of dim, narrow hallways to a deep, cluttered room that he surmised was Frank's studio because there was a large desk upon which several computers were awake and working. A giant whiteboard on the back wall was covered in squiggles and symbols. No numbers that he recognized at all. Tom reached into the breast pocket of his jacket and pulled out the cash. He tossed it on the desk. “Find Antoine Campbell's research notes.”

“They might not even exist,” Frank said and picked up the stack of money. He looked at Tom sharply. “Why can't you get a warrant and get one of your government hacks to do this?”

“This is off the books,” he replied evenly.

Frank smiled. “Interesting.”

Tom ignored the unspoken questions. “Call me as soon as you find something. And obviously, this is between you and me.”

“No problem.”

Tom hesitated at the doorway. “By the way, if the FBI shows up here …”

“Whoa, what the hell? The FBI?”

“Antoine Campbell's death has attracted the attention of certain people,” Tom replied simply.

“The FBI though?”

Tom didn't tell him that he didn't believe it was the real FBI. He just said, “Yeah,” and left it at that. “If they arrive, deny everything and get in touch with me.”

“Should I be worried?”

“No,” Tom said. He didn't feel as confident as he sounded, but he was glad when Frank became interested in the cash again. “Just … find the passwords.”

He intended to drive directly back to Fallon's office to wait for her to return from the memorial service but changed his mind. He took Connecticut Avenue to N Street, turned left and saw the large white townhouse that was the Egyptian embassy.

He cruised two streets over and looked up at the building where Antoine Campbell had supposedly jumped. He parked at the curb across from the Four Seasons and looked up, thoughtfully measuring the distance between life and death.

He thought of Leah. He thought of Bethany.

Some cases you don't ever resolve
, he thought. It was possible this was one of them.

Fallon wasn't sure what she hoped to find here, at the memorial service at Abyssinia Baptist Church. Nothing stood out. The mourners were a celebration of diversity: women and men, black and white and Asian and Hispanic, young and old. They were all dressed respectfully. From Fallon's vantage point, every attendant seemed to be there for no other reason than to mourn the death of a young man.

The interior of the church was beautiful. Beeswax candles burned, the scent of the melted wax mingling with the many flower arrangements. A gleaming black casket lay in the front center of the room, and it felt to Fallon like an accusation. She paused in the doorway, profound dread spreading through her veins like a disease. The air was redolent with candle wax and the abundance of flowers, perfume of the women, faint perspiration. A beautiful, melancholy scent. Low thrumming voices rose and fell against a melody of soft crying. No cameras. No famous people. Just grief, raw and exposed.

Fallon took a seat in a back pew. On her right was a large dark skinned man of indeterminate age. His chin was quivering and his chest would heave, and his wife would pat his arm, and he'd collect himself. Every person she saw was grieving, exactly as one would expect.

What, exactly, had she expected? That an obvious conspirator would be among the grieving—someone who wanted him dead because of his “national security” secrets?

The reverend, like most holy men, was an exceptionally good orator, and Fallon was immediately charmed by his familiarity with the congregation.

The service lasted one hour, ending with an invitation to join Antoine's friends and family at the home of his sister, Charlotte Campbell Mosely. Fallon wanted to meet Charlotte Campbell Mosely but hesitated accepting the invitation. Her presence might disrupt.

Reluctantly she asked Rowland to take her back to the office.

The moment they stepped back into the Johnson Sloan Pruitt offices, Ingrid Breyer appeared, summoned by some demonic energy that was bent on destroying anything good. Ingrid made herself an obstacle in Fallon's path.

“It's imperative that you are actually present in the office during office hours.”

“I am here.” Fallon said and strode past Ingrid to her office. Predictably, Ingrid followed.

“Also, I must tell you that there is some suspicion that you are not being completely honest on your timesheets.”

Fallon wanted to laugh. After laying Antoine Campbell to rest, everything Ingrid was saying felt incredibly insignificant. “I will double-check them from now on,” Fallon replied levelly.

Ingrid seemed a little deflated. Her eyes bore into Fallon, then realizing there was no more ground to be gained, she retreated.

Fallon began working on the outline for a deposition she was scheduled to give one of Robert Chandler's witnesses. The work was good; it kept her mind from wading too far into the sadness of Antoine's funeral and the infinite loop imagery from last night with Tom. Pleasurable, ecstatic, wonderful and … cowardly were the words she would use to describe last night. She had completely chickened out and not asked him The Question.

When he strode in a few minutes later, she was still wrestling with The Question, trying to figure out how to phrase it, how to time it. When she was around him, next to that sexy body and high-voltage intelligence, The Question seemed unimportant. But when he wasn't around, it ate at her. The only way to solve the problem was to ask. Tonight, she resolved. She would ask tonight.

“How are you?” he asked.

Fallon shrugged. “The memorial service put me in a bad mood, but I'm happy to see you.”

Tom sat across from her, looking at her curiously. “You sure you're okay?”

She shook her head. “I don't know what's going on.”

“I don't either,” he said. “But we're going to find out. Don't forget that we're going to win. We are going to prove your innocence, and we're going to find out exactly how and why Antoine Campbell died.”

“You sound so confident,” she said.

“I am confident.”

She impulsively squeezed his hand. “These people, whoever they are, are not fucking around.”

“No, they aren't. Which is why we have to solve this.”

Tom's phone buzzed. He read the text and frowned, and a stern line of concern appeared between his eyebrows. To Fallon he said, “Your computer was just found on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial.”

Collin watched the Secret Service agents approach the steps where the jogger was standing guard over the computer, a swarm of dark blue suits, earpieces and dark shades. Excitement coursed in his veins. He liked watching the infidels up close, knowing that they could not see him. His fair good looks had been a blessing from Allah himself, a weapon to be used against them. Brazen
imshallah
. He'd been born for this, born for revenge.

And these infidels, in particular, interested him. Omar Koss might be an old fool, but his talk of patience did have some practical relevance: it was wise to study how the Secret Service reacted to something as simple as finding a laptop that had been seized in a search by the FBI.

How well he was getting to know them. These elite blue-suited crusaders who supposedly were invincible. FBI, Secret Service, they all looked absurd and pitiful—no match for his plans.

A technician was placing the computer in a plastic sleeve. They would find no physical evidence on the machine, or the spyware he'd installed, or anything of value that would tell them who had taken it. The Secret Service would no doubt examine it thoroughly, but they'd never find even a molecule that could help them.

The plan was officially underway. It filled him with anticipation; he could just imagine both the current president and the president-elect on television, begging for the return of the girl. And he, Collin, with the power of life and death in his hands.

The jogger who discovered the laptop was pretty. She reminded him of Leah, with her curly hair and slender frame.

On her replacement computer, Fallon watched the news conference online. Her father had taken time out of his incessant transformation-of-power meetings to stand beside the attorney general and the director of the Secret Service announcing to the press corps that a fake search warrant had been served on Fallon Hughes, and she was not being investigated for any role in the death of Leo Jacobellis. Fallon frowned as she watched; nobody had bothered to officially notify her. Though it was a great relief, it would be nice to receive a personal phone call to let her know her life wasn't about to be ensnared in a murder trial.

Her father should get most of his retainer fee back from the lawyer. That should make him happy. She frowned, realizing he had not spoken a word to her since he wrote the check for her defense. Her mother, on the other hand, had sent a few emails and voicemails, which Fallon had not answered. She felt guilty about listening to them about halfway through before hitting delete. She simply didn't have the patience to concern herself with her mother's obsession with
Kill Shot
and her utter lack of concern that her son was being neglected. Fallon would not be able to keep her mouth shut for very much longer about Elizabeth's drinking. Eventually she would need to confront her mother.

After her experience with Leo Jacobellis, however, Fallon did not feel competent to handle her mother's addiction on her own. She would eventually need to beg her father again to become involved—a herculean task because he was quite happy with the quiet little wife who largely stayed out of his way and made him look good when she appeared on his arm.

Of course, now Elizabeth wasn't so content to be quiet. Two of the calls to Fallon's cell phone had been babbling missives about the script she was determined to accept with or without the permission of Preston Taylor Hughes.

Eventually, Fallon told herself. Soon. Soon she would take care of her mother. After the inauguration, perhaps, she would ask to speak privately with her father and implore him to do something to help his wife.

Fallon's buzzing cell phone nudged her from her thoughts. It was a text from Gwen: WTF? ARE YOU OK?

Fallon replied: FINE. CAN YOU MEET FOR DRINKS LATER?

Gwen declined; she was busy but would call later.

A few moments later, the phone on her desk rang. The kick of dread in her stomach was immediate: it was Alan Johnson's extension. She shut her eyes for a second of prayer that she could at least speak to him without getting fired, then answered the phone.

Alan Johnson's assistant asked her to hold, then a few seconds later, Johnson himself took the line.

“Miss Hughes, it appears the concerns about the search warrant have been, well, unmerited. Your job is safe.”

“Thank you. I appreciate that.”

“Goodbye, Fallon.”

Fallon dropped the phone back in the cradle.

She stared at the phone for a while, feeling nothing. She was supposedly free now, so why wasn't she thrilled?

It was early afternoon when Tom rode the Metro to DuPont Circle. As he strode into the café, Leah, already sitting at a table, looked up at him. He knew instantly that something had changed. She had that blank expression, dull-eyed and pale, that conveyed a story of agony.

Leah was sick again.

Tom arranged his features into an expression of gentle compassion and kissed her cheek. “How are you?”

“Okay.”

“Have you ordered? Do you want some food?”

“I haven't ordered.”

Tom ordered sandwiches, chips and sodas and then brought the meal back to the table. Leah took a bite of her egg salad sandwich and chewed thoughtfully. “Thank you,” she said.

“No problem. Tell me how you're doing.”

“I've been thinking. I wasn't supposed to be born.”

“Oh, Leah.”

“No, really. Hear me out. I've never accomplished anything. I matter to no one. It's a miracle that you put up with me, Tom.”

“Leah, you are so wrong about all of that. You've—”

“I faked an orgasm with Collin last night. I realized that I've never actually had a real orgasm with a man, but I've faked hundreds.” She wore a dark, abstracted expression as she said this.

He understood that she could no longer hear him. He had been through this often enough to know that her depression was like a tide of darkness inching over a planetary coast, blotting out every bit of lightness or hope. It pained him to see her this way.

“Leah, why don't you check in with Dr. Horner?”

She did not answer. She chewed her egg salad sandwich, looking at a place over Tom's shoulder.

“Are you going to see him tonight?”

Leah nodded and only then looked at him with a cold smile that sent a chill down his spine. “Yes.”

“Why?” Tom asked.

“Because it's better than being at home alone.”

“Leah, no.” Tom reached across the table and took her left hand. “Please don't see him again. He sounds like a jerk. You deserve better.”

“You don't get it,” she said, and for the first time, he detected life in her eyes. “It doesn't matter who it is,” she said, looking at him but miles away. “Any one of them is leading me to the same fate.”