Dark of Night (47 page)

“We're in lockdown,” Decker said. “The building's secure. Don't even
think
about coming out here. Tracy's already started calling people in— we'll have backup ASAP.”

Jimmy glanced at Tess, who looked pointedly back at him. “I'm not going anywhere,” he promised them both.

“Besides,” Decker continued, “I need you working the
what the fuck
angle. Everything these motherfuckers are doing now? It's drenched in panic. We need to figure out what it is that they know that we know. Jesus, I'm tired. Did I just make any sense at all?”

“They, as in the motherfuckers,” Tess translated, “appear to know, absolutely, that we, as in the collective we currently participating in this phone call, have information that will, again absolutely, serve to identify them, thus resulting in their going to jail for a long, long time.”

“They're not afraid of jail,” Jimmy interjected. They were afraid of him—and they were right to be.

But Tess wasn't done. “However, we haven't yet figured out what it is that we, collectively, know. So really, the best thing we can do right now isn't to hunt for them in order to shoot it out, but instead to hunker down, do research, and crunch facts and information. I think when we put it together, we
will
know who they are.”

“Exactly,” Deck said. But then he paused. “I understand why you're not eager to share that list that you made, but—”

“No,” Jimmy interrupted him. “I'm doing it. In fact, I'll call Cassidy right after I hang up. He's got a copy for Tess. I'll have him get a copy to you, too. Just…” He sighed. “Shit.”

“I won't leave it lying around,” Decker said.

“No.” Jimmy tried to explain. “It's just… Christ, this is hard to say, when I don't even fucking know what I
want
to say—”

“How about that we've
both
done things that we never would've done, except we thought we were working for the good guys,” Decker said quietly. “We found out, the hard way, that the end really
doesn't
justify the means. Because if you believe that it does, then you shoot the seven-year-old in order to kill the terrorist, and you don't fucking blink. Am I right?”

Jimmy looked at Tess, who'd clearly spoken to Deck at some point over the past few hours. But she shook her head. She
hadn't
talked to him. This was something he'd figured out on his own.

“And then? Eventually? You just shoot the seven-year-old,” Decker continued. “Unless, sometime, long before you hit that point, you admit you got it wrong, and you walk away. You walked away, Jim. We both did.”

Jimmy felt himself nodding, even though Decker couldn't see him. “It's just that those things on that list—”

“Are in the past,” Decker finished for him. “It's over and done.”

“I'm just,” Jimmy said. “I'm …” Afraid. He, who'd spent most of his life fearless, was afraid that the two people who mattered most to him in the world were going to turn away from him when they found out the truth.

“Jimmy,” Decker said quietly. “I know you. I
know
you. And Tess does, too. The list is… It's not nothing, because I see that it matters to you, but there's so much more to you than some list of past transgressions.”

Tess had pulled her knees in tightly to her chest, and was sitting there on the floor—with tears in her eyes—nodding.

“Okay?” Deck asked.

“I hear you,” Jimmy said. What he really wanted to say was
I want to hear you say that—later.
But he didn't. Because he was too afraid of what he might hear from Decker later.

“Tom Paoletti's over at the Hilton, with Dave,” Deck said. He added, “And Sophia,” almost as an afterthought. “I was gonna go over there—”

“Not
a good idea,” Tess spoke up.

“If anyone should be told in person, face-to-face …” Deck said.

“I agree,” Tess said. “It should be Tom. And Dave and Sophia. But you're talking about putting yourself at risk in order to do that. As well as risking the safety of everyone who's currently at the office.”

“I think I should call him,” Jimmy interjected. “Dave. Tom, too. I want to call them. Is that okay with you?”

Deck was silent on the other end of the phone. “Fair enough,” he finally said. “But do let them know that the sooner they get over here, the easier I'll breathe.”

“I'll pass that along,” Jimmy told his friend. “Keep us posted if anything comes up.”

“Will do,” Decker said. “Oh, yeah. The picture. Tracy's photo of Michael Peterson–Peter Olivetti. Let's crop his car and his plate numbers out before we float it out there. It's a long shot that those numbers will lead us to a current address, but let's play that card close for now, all right?”

“Agreed,” Tess said. “I'll tell Jules and Alyssa to dig for an address under the radar. We'll let you know what they come up with.”

“Thanks,” Deck said, and cut the connection.

Jimmy turned off his speaker and dialed Jules Cassidy's cell.

The FBI agent took three rings to answer it, which meant that Robin had made good on his promise to help him sleep. “Everything okay?” Jules asked.

“Yeah,” Jimmy said. “Sorry to wake you, but I just spoke to Deck. I've got some info I want to pass along, plus… I'm ready to show Tess the list, so as soon as you can …”

“I'm on my way,” Jules said.

Jimmy hung up the phone to find Tess looking at him. “Well, here we go,” he said.

But she shook her head. “I'm not going anywhere.”

He nodded, but he wasn't going to hold her to that.

He reached for his phone again, because he had to call Tom and Dave—give 'em the “good news.”

Although, ultimately, when Dave realized the implications of Jimmy's not being dead? He was
not
going to be thrilled.

Dave rewrote his will, longhand.

He also made a list of all of his various bank accounts. His years of frugal living would make it possible for Sophia to never have to work again, provided she lived modestly and the kid went to state schools and …

Dear God, he didn't want to die.

But he had to be ready to. And knowing that he could take care of Sophia, even after death, was going to help him be ready for anything.

He'd used up all the paper in the room, and had sent SEAL Chief Ken Karmody down to the front desk for more. And then, finally, for envelopes.

“Anything else I can get you, master?” Ken asked. “Maybe a snack from the kitchen, a bottle of wine, a foot massage … ?”

“No, thank you,” Dave said as he wrote Decker's name on the outside of one of the envelopes. He'd written a note—well, a report-sized note— telling Decker everything he'd found out on his recent trip to Kazabek, about Sophia's husband Dimitri's death. He put the note inside and sealed the envelope.

“Yeah, see, I was kidding,” Ken was saying as across the room, Tom Paoletti's phone rang. “And … Just… Never mind.”

“Don't go far,” Dave said, looking up to add, “Please? I'm sorry if I seem rude or abrupt, but… I'm trying to do this while Sophia is sleeping. I need you to witness this, to make it legal.” Tom had already signed it, while Ken was downstairs.

Ken realized what Dave was doing, and sat down on the other side of
the writing desk. “I'll sign whatever you want,” he said, “but it's not necessary, because we're not going to let anything bad happen to you.”

Dave looked at the SEAL. “You mean, you're going to
try
not to—”

“Star Wars
fan,” Ken said, shrugging expansively. “I can't use the word
try
without my mental Yoda kicking in. So … we're
not
going to let anything bad happen to you.”

“Holy shit,” Tom said from the other side of the room. He was talking on his phone. He said it again, laughing this time. “Holy
shit.”

“Well, in my experience, there are no guarantees in this line of work, so in case using the Force doesn't get the job done …” Dave handed Ken his pen, spinning the document to face him.

“I think I know what you're thinking,” Ken told him as he painstakingly printed his full name. “One of the most beautiful women in the entire world is in your bed. The universe doesn't randomly do shit like that, you know, the beauty falling for the geek, so your death
must
be imminent.”

Dave nodded. “It's a
little
more complicated than that.”

Ken nodded as he put the pen down on top of the paper and pushed it all back across the desk. “Of course it is. It always is. But sometimes you've just got to bring it down to the bottom line.” He leaned forward and spoke in a stage whisper. “There's a gorgeous woman in your bed, Dave. Right now. And you're out here, talking to me. What is wrong with this picture?”

Dave just shook his head as he sealed his will in a second envelope, which was when Ken noticed the first one.

“Aren't you going to write
Open only in the event of my death
on this?” he asked as he tapped on the envelope.

“I was going to,” Dave answered evenly, “but I thought it would be too dorky, even for me.”

“What if Deck opens it and you're
not
dead? That could be embarrassing.”

“I'll be happy,” Dave said, “to be embarrassed, which means I won't be dead.”

“Good point.” Ken nodded, but then said, “Well, I'd write it, but, hey, I'm a dork.”

“You're a SEAL,” Dave reminded him.

“And a dork. One is not exclusive of the other. It's not like they give
you your budweiser pin with one hand and take away your laminated Battle -star Galactica Fan Club card with the other.”

“Yeah, well,” Dave said, “I'm not a SEAL, so people don't think it's cute when I'm a dork.”

“So what if you're not a SEAL,” Ken scoffed. “You're a legend in the SpecWar community. Anyone who knows anything knows you could breeze through BUD/S with one hand tied behind your back. And the fact that you're capable of fooling people into thinking you're too geeky to tie your own shoes? That's money in the bank. Being underestimated has saved
my
ass a time or twelve. I know you know what I'm saying.”

Dave did know.

“You want me to hold on to those for you?” Ken asked, pointing at Dave's two pristine envelopes.

Dave nodded. “I'd appreciate that.”

“No problem-o.” Ken folded and smashed both envelopes in half and stashed them in one of the many pockets in his cargo pants. “I look forward to giving them back to you,” he said. “Now, go into that bedroom, wrap your arms around that woman o’ yours, and get your ass to sleep.”

Dave stood up, the pain in his knife wound making him press his hand against his side. Something wasn't right with it. An infection was setting in that the antibiotic he'd been given wasn't able to kick out of his system. Either that, or some little piece of dirt or fabric hadn't been removed. He needed a return trip to the hospital—which wasn't going to happen in the near-future.

The SEAL however, didn't miss anything. “You okay?”

“I think I might need an upgrade in my antibiotic.”

Ken got out his phone. “You want me to call Kelly?”

Tom Paoletti's wife, Kelly, was a doctor. “No,” Dave said, “it can wait. Until morning.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah, thanks,” he said. “And thank you, too, for saying what you said about BUD/S.”

The SEAL held out his hand for a fist bump. “I speak the truth, my brother. Besides, it's good when we brainiacs stick together. You and I are living proof that the hottest of the hot blond chicks? They loves it when their men be super-smart. We catch their attention with our ability to use
complicated physics and/or calculus to save the world from destruction, and we seal the deal with our uniquely dorky but endearing charm.”

Dave had to smile. “If only that were true.”

“Malkoff.” He looked up to find Tom Paoletti coming toward him. “Phone call.”

Tom was holding out his sat phone, as if Dave should take it.

So he did. “Who is it?” he asked Tom.

“It's the answers to a lot of questions,” Tom told him.

It wasn't like his boss to be so cryptic or evasive. Or annoying because he was being cryptic and evasive. Dave reminded himself that both Tom and Ken were doing him a huge favor as he dutifully put the phone to his ear, and said, “Malkoff.”

“Hey, Dave,” came a familiar voice. “It's Jimmy Nash. I'm kind of not dead.”

C
alling the Troubleshooters staff was a two-step process.

Step one was a phone call to a potentially non-secure line. The message, whether delivered to an answering machine, voice mail, or an actual human, contained code that would give the operative the heads-up that a) the situation was urgent and their response was needed immediately (9-1-1); b) the return phone call should be made on a secure line (call when you get to Grandma's); and c) the situation was dire enough that said operative should get him-or herself, and his or her family if applicable, to immediate safety (red alert); and d) if available, they should come in (we need help).

Tracy had written a brief script that included all of those phrases, and had left messages, not just across the country, but around the world. “Hi, PJ, this is Tracy, with a 9-1-1 red alert. Auntie had a little accident and we need your help. Please call when you get to Grandma's.”

Tom currently had forty-three operatives on staff, most of whom were part-time employees. Many of them lived overseas. There were only about twenty who operated, full-time, out of either the San Diego or Sarasota offices.

Of course, the roster grew considerably if all of the SEALs, both officers and enlisted, who'd given up a day or even a week off to “do Tommy a favor” were added to that list.

But Decker was working that military angle, making phone call after phone call to the Coronado Navy Base from his desk.

Lindsey was fielding the incoming calls and breaking the news that Nash wasn't dead.

By three
A.M.,
Tracy was done, and she knocked on Decker's half-open door. She could see him at his desk, still on the phone, but he waved her in.