Fallen Angel (22 page)

"What he needed was not to be tortured by guys like you."

"I've already told you, I wasn't there."

"But you knew about it, didn't you?"

"Egonov doesn't inform me of very much. Just what he wants me to know."

"Where is he?"

"Who? Your man, or Egonov?"

"Both." Anger swelled in Masters.

"Your man—Sergeant Chaddick—is still in the room. We will bury him as soon as possible."

"Room. You mean cell, don't you?"

"I suppose so. Egonov was able to confirm what Chaddick revealed to him. He has followers in every area of the government. He has gone to look for the satellite."

The news sucked the air from Masters. "Why are you doing this?"

"Because if you do not receive the antibiotics, you will die, and I have seen enough death today."

"Why tell me about Egonov, Igor?"

"Because telling you doesn't change anything. Egonov is already gone."

"If he knows you've helped me, won't he kill you?"

"I'm not that lucky. Now hold still. The torture is about to begin." He removed a large plastic bottle of medical alcohol, opened it, and poured some on a gauze pad. "Turn your head to the side." He leaned over Masters's damaged face. "This might hurt."

There was pain, but nothing hurt more than learning he just lost another man. By his count, there was only one other man on his team still alive.

He had a feeling that wouldn't be true much longer.

For thirty minutes, the doctor cleaned Masters's wounds, irrigating them with water then with antibiotics applied directly to infected tissue. It hurt. A lot. Masters took it without complaint, although a large part of him thought it was just an effort to keep him alive long enough so they could kill him later.

The doctor packed up the soiled and bloody gauze pads and walked to the door, placing a hand on the knob. He paused and turned.

"No, Captain Masters, my father would not be proud of me." He seemed to drift away. "In fact, he would be furious."

Masters stared the man in the eyes. "You know what my father used to tell me? He used to say, 'Doing the same thing over and over again and expecting a different outcome is the definition of insanity.'"

"Meaning?"

"Meaning, results will only be different if you change what you're doing."

"If only it were that easy."

"He never said anything about it being easy."

"Do you and your father still speak?"

Masters moved his head from side to side on the pillow. "He's dead. Died two years ago." It was a lie, but the last thing he needed was for this group to know about his real father.

Igor nodded then left the room, leaving Masters to his own thoughts and to wrestle with the knowledge that his team had been whittled down to just two.

CHAPTER 26

"YOU KEEP REPLAYING THAT
video. What are you looking for?" Rob entered his room again. Zinsser sat in the chair in front of the computer, FBI agent Brianne Lazzaro and CID agent Terry Wallace sat in chairs taken from the dining room. They were shoulder to shoulder with Zinsser.

"Clues, Rob. There are always clues."

"You've found clues?" Rob stepped closer.

"We've found information, but nothing very helpful. At least not yet." Zinsser advanced the video a frame at a time.

"What kind of information?" Zinsser could hear the anxiety in the young man's voice. Talking might ease some of the pent-up frustration, give him a sense of participation.

"First, how's your mother?"

"Not good. I've never seen her this way. She's always been so strong."

"I think she's showing remarkable strength," Brianne said. "When it's your kid in trouble, things change."

"What have you found?" Rob stood behind Zinsser and leaned on the seat.

"Ease up on the chair, pal."

"Oh, sorry."

Zinsser turned and smiled. "No problem." He addressed the monitor again. "Okay, the FBI is breaking out all their video kung fu tricks and will have more information for us ASAP. Right now, we have only our eyes but we've noted a couple of things." Zinsser paused. "Are you sure you want to look at this thing again? I mean, it's your sister."

"I want to do something to help. Sitting around is making me crazy. I'm gonna start punching walls if I can't be involved."

"Do you know how much you sound like your father?"

"There was a time when that would have been an insult. I wish he were here now."

"He's where he's supposed to be." Zinsser pointed at the monitor. It was time to teach, if for no other reason than to distract Rob for a few minutes. "Okay, Rob, there are two ways to look at things: first is the big picture; second are the details. Big picture: We're looking at a room designed to hold Gina. It's not a regular bedroom in a house or apartment."

"How do you know that?"

"No electrical outlets for one," Brianne said. "There's only one. It's on the wall, just behind Gina. We can only see about half of it. She and the chair block the rest from view, but it's there."

"That means the back wall is part of the real structure." Zinsser ran the video stream forward a bit. "Cash is about to enter."

"Cash? You know who this guy is?"

"No, Rob. He's dressed in black—Johnny Cash—the man in black. Always wore black."

"If you say so."

"Anyway, the kidnapper is about to enter. Now your eye is going to want to follow him. I think that's planned, but for now just watch the wall to Gina's right." Zinsser started the video stream again.

"It moved."

"Exactly. The wall isn't permanent; it wasn't fastened down well. Okay, no electrical outlets, phone jacks, cable jacks, and a wall that wiggles when Cash walks in. They've staged the area."

"How does that help us?"

"It means this was planned but had to be put together quickly."

"Couldn't they just be sloppy?"

Zinsser agreed. "They could but they thought about the other details. My gut tells me they had to work fast, which fits with your dad's mission. It came up quick, as they usually do."

"It also gives a bit of a lead," Brianne said. "I have agents going to hardware stores and home-improvement outlets asking questions. It will probably lead to a dead end but sometimes we get lucky. There will be thousands of purchases, but we know that we're looking for someone who bought wood studs and drywall. By estimating the length of the three walls, we can guess at how many studs were purchased. At the very least we have a range. The room is maybe eight feet by eight feet. Studs are normally spaced every sixteen inches, but let's assume they spaced them one to two feet apart, then we need someone who bought twelve to twenty-four studs. Something in that range."

"Also," Wallace said, "we think the wall height is eight feet. Drywall panels are four feet by eight feet. That equates to about six sheets of drywall, assuming they didn't drywall the other side, and why would they if they were in a hurry. It's not exact, but it will reduce the invoices we have to go through."

"Look at the window, Rob, what do you see?"

"Just a window."

"It's not just a window. Do you have a window like that in your house?"

He looked closer. Zinsser gave him a moment. "No."

"It's called a double-hung window. The window doesn't move left and right, the bottom section moves up and down. We can't see out the window because they have it blocked off, but we can see enough of the window itself and it looks like an old double-hung, so . . ."

"So it's an older building."

"Right."

Rob sighed. "It's hopeless."

Zinsser turned in his seat. "Never give up hope, Rob. I don't know how this will turn out, but right now we need to take every bit of information we can get. Crimes have been solved with less."

"I know, I just . . . I don't know what to think."

"That's why we're here, son." Wallace sounded kinder than Zinsser had ever heard him. "Let us do the thinking."

"Got anything else?" Rob's despair dripped from every word.

Zinsser said, "A few things. The kidnapper is a male. Using the height of the window as a guide, we think he's six foot two, maybe six-three. Strong build, broad shoulders, confident bearing. Maybe military trained. When he was pretending to . . ."

"Snap Gina's neck," Rob prompted.

"Yeah, that. He used the same motion we learn in Spec Ops. And that's another thing. He used the phrase "Spec Ops." That doesn't prove he's ex-military or paramilitary, but it makes me think he's tied to the service one way or another."

Brianne said, "He sounds American but there is a hint of an accent. FBI linguists will go over it. We can't make out an accent that might apply to an ethnic group or a terrorist country. My guess is we're dealing with a white male."

"The question is: How many of them are there?" Zinsser leaned back. "These things aren't usually done alone, especially when they have a political agenda."

"Now that's interesting, isn't it?" Brianne said. "How do they know about Moyer's mission?" She turned to Wallace. "Do you know where Moyer is?"

"Not a clue."

"What about you, Zinsser? You in the know?"

"Nope. I'm not part of the team anymore. They wouldn't tell me if they wanted to. I don't know where they are or what they're doing."

"Then how does this guy know?"

Zinsser rubbed his eyes. The question conjured an answer he didn't want to give. "Spec Ops has a mole, or at the very least, an insider in the Pentagon."

Wallace groaned. "That, Agent Zinsser, is a terrifying thought." He rubbed his chin for a few moments. "You had better call Colonel MacGregor."

"I think I should make it a personal visit. I also think you'd better come with me."

"Why?"

"Because Colonel Mac is going to go ballistic and I may need someone to hide behind."

"Thanks."

"I try to spread the love." Zinsser pushed back. "Let's do this. Agent Lazzaro, will you bring Stacy up to speed?"

"Yeah. I need to check on the tech guys. Make sure they have the trace set up in case Cash calls."

"Come on, Boss, let's go get our heads handed to us."

ANDREW BACLIFF HAD A
decision to make and he was having trouble making it. He sat in his office in the West Wing. So much had happened in the last few days his resignation seemed a month ago. Truth was, the formal letter still sat on President Huffington's desk, unannounced in the White House, still unknown on Capitol Hill. Functionally, however, Bacliff was out and soon Brownie would occupy the space.

Staff had already packed many of the personal items but kept the action and the boxes out of sight. If one reporter saw the bare walls or the sturdy cardboard boxes being moved from the office, the world would know about it by the end of the news cycle. The amount of attention such news would generate would spread around the world and might even make it to his son's captors, who might make a connection Bacliff needed kept secret.

As yet, there had been no communication from the Russian splinter group holding his son. That didn't mean much. The timing was in their control, not his. If they, through torture or other means, learned that Captain Scott Masters was son to Vice President Andrew Bacliff, it was game over for his boy.

He pulled the phone close and mulled over his decision. When he first revealed to his wife the news about their son's situation, she wept, became angry, threw things, and beat his chest with her fists, blaming him for encouraging their "baby" to go into the service. It took almost an hour for the fury and fear to dissipate enough that she could talk rationally. When she could, she'd wrung a promise from him: "You keep me in the loop, do you hear? I don't care if national security is at stake. I have a right to know what's going on with Scott. No secrets. You share everything you know with me."

He agreed. He was too shell-shocked to do otherwise.

Bacliff fingered the phone and looked at the bare walls. The furniture remained and would until Brownie officially moved in. Keeping his promise meant calling and telling Gertrude about Eric Moyer's daughter. He could tell her the mission is still a go and nothing was going to change, but she wouldn't hear that part. Her mind would translate the information into something darker and more hopeless.

Lying. He considered the option. After all, he had already kept something from her. Angel-12 was so highly classified that standing law made it illegal for him to discuss it even with his wife. That was good news. He had no idea how to tell Gertrude the rescue of their son was second on the mission list, not first.

He picked up the receiver and called home. He could imagine the phone ringing in the mansion on the grounds of the Naval Observatory. Gertrude answered on the second ring.

"Yes."

"Hi, sweetheart. I'm still at the office, but I wanted you to know that the overseas business is starting."

"How long before we know the outcome?"

"It will be some time. I can't give an exact time. Too many variables. Do you want me to come home or monitor things here?"

"I need you, Andrew, but I also need you there. You'll let me know how things turn out?" Her voice cracked.

The line was secure, but over the years, they developed the habit of speaking in generalities. "Of course. I'll be able to keep an eye on things."

"I understand."

She did. As the VP's wife, she was invited to the White House many times for social events, but she was also given a private tour, seeing things about which tourists could only guess. As VP he was, to use the media cliché, just a heartbeat away from the Oval Office. That meant he had to be dialed in on all security protocols and sit in on intelligence briefings. It also meant being aware of how things in the Situation Room operated. It was the one room in the White House that most impressed Gertrude.

The pause was as heavy as a saturated wool blanket.

"Have you spoken to my favorite daughter-in-law?" Bacliff asked.

"Yes. Twice today. She's . . . she's having trouble with it all."

"We all are. Is there anything I can do for her?"

"No, just keep telling us the truth. We'll make it one step at a time."

The truth. The very thing he was keeping from her.

"Is there something else?"

Bacliff hesitated a moment, rolling the prickly decision around in his head. "No."

"Andrew?"

"I'm just a little distracted, Gertrude. There's nothing else." Politics taught him how to lie and to lie well.

"Okay, if you say so." She didn't sound convinced, but she had been a public servant's wife too long to start questioning him over the phone.

"You know I love you." He struggled to take a breath. Fear and sadness bound his lungs. The next time they spoke, he might have to deliver the worst news any parent could hear.

"I know, Andrew. And I love you."