Iron Orchid (15 page)

“Did you question the staff?”

“An FBI agent blundered in there and alienated the only person who seems to work there. We’re trying to tread more lightly now.”

“Good idea. How is it working out, your people and the FBI?”

“The team has made a good start,” she said. “They’re trying very hard to work together, and it’s my hope that gradually, their institutional attachments will be superseded by their loyalty to the team. It’s not an easy transition for any of them.”

“Bob Kinney starts his confirmation hearings this week, and I expect he’ll be asked for his views on that subject.”

“I’ll be watching, Mr. President. I’ll be interested in hearing his views.”

“Is Bob being helpful?”

“Yes, when he’s not finding things to complain about in the way the Agency works.”

Will laughed. “You left yourself wide open on the question of FBI I.D. cards,” he said.

“Don’t rub it in. Please.”

“I’ll do my rubbing when you get home.”

“I’m shocked, Mr. President, that you would indulge in sexual harassment. On a White House telephone line, anyway.”

“See you later.”

“You betcha, Mr. President.”

TEDDY CONTINUED to pore over the CIA’s file on Omar Said. The most interesting item he found was that, while Said had a wife ensconced in an apartment in the U.N. Towers, he also had two girlfriends kept in apartments located on the East Side. He spent his weekdays with the wife, and the weekends with the girlfriends.

One of the girls, in particular, interested him. She was a belly dancer in a Middle Eastern restaurant a few blocks south of the U.N., and Said frequently began his weekends with her, dining at the restaurant and watching her performance, then taking her to her apartment later to express his appreciation for her work. The transcripts of their recorded conversations were disgustingly vivid, involving imagery that included references to various desert animals. Said was usually with her until the wee hours. Then, the following night, he would be with the other girlfriend. A busy man, Omar.

Teddy began to formulate a plan.

THIRTY

ROBERT KINNEY ARRIVED at the office of the chairman of the Senate Judiciary Committee promptly on time, then was required to wait for half an hour while the chairman tended to whatever chores he considered to be more important than seeing the director of the FBI.

Finally, the senator emerged from his office and heartily shook Kinney’s hand. “Good morning, Bob,” he said cheerfully. “Good to see you. Looking forward to your hearing.”

“Good to see you, Senator.”

“Come, let’s walk over to the hearing room together,” the senator said, striding out the door, leading the way.

Kinney, with his long legs, had no trouble keeping up with the shorter man.

“My committee staff tells me you were unhelpful during the staff interview period, Bob. Why was that?”

“I’m sorry, Senator, but as you can imagine, we’re going through a very busy time at the Bureau, and I didn’t really have time to answer questions twice, when once ought to do.” Kinney had infuriated the committee staff by refusing to schedule meetings with them. He was aware that the members of their committee used their report to formulate their questions, and he was happier answering original questions from members without being crawled over by an army of staff ants.

“It’s how we do things, Bob.”

“Senator, this isn’t a talk show, where guests get pre-interviewed by staff before being questioned by the host, is it?”

“Some might say it is, Bob.”

“I’m sorry, I never looked at a Senate hearing as a talk show.”

“Welcome to showbiz, Bob.”

The senator led Kinney into the huge hearing room, which was packed with spectators and press, shook his hand for the cameras and deposited him at the witness table, where he endured a barrage of strobe flashes from the photographers. Kinney had chosen to be seated at the table alone, against the advice of a Bureau lawyer, who was sitting in the first row of seats, looking nervous.

After five minutes of idle chatter and backslapping among the committee members the chairman called them to order, and Kinney was sworn.

“Good morning,” the chairman said. “We sit today for hearings on the president’s appointment of Robert Kinney as director of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. Mr. Kinney, welcome.”

“Thank you, Mr. Chairman.”

“Let’s begin with your education and experience in law enforcement, Mr. Kinney.”

“I grew up in the Greenwich Village neighborhood of New York City and attended New York University and the NYU law school,” Kinney said. “After that I joined the New York City Police Department as a patrolman, was promoted to detective three years later and spent, in all, twenty-one years in the department, rising to the rank of lieutenant. Then…”

“Excuse me, Mr. Kinney, did you say that you rose only to the rank of lieutenant during your twenty-one years’ service?”

“That’s correct, Mr. Chairman. Lieutenant was the highest rank I could hold and still conduct investigations, which I felt was my strong suit, so I did not seek promotion beyond that level. Captains and above are primarily concerned with administrative matters.”

“I see,” the chairman muttered. “Please go on.”

“I was recruited from the NYPD by the FBI twelve years ago, when the director at that time felt that the Bureau’s investigative techniques needed strengthening. In short, he needed new people who could actually solve crimes. I led investigations into criminal activity designated by the director as special, among them investigations into bank robbery, financial wrongdoing and serial killers. Four years ago I was appointed deputy director for investigations, and after that I oversaw all the criminal investigations conducted by the Bureau.”

“Well, that’s fascinating, Mr. Kinney,” the chairman said drily. “I understand that you and the most recent director had different opinions about one or two things.”

“The most recent director and I disagreed about almost everything,” Kinney replied.

“Can you think of any instance when you felt able to give your director your full support for his actions?”

Kinney thought for a moment. “No, Mr. Chairman. I cannot.”

There was a roar of laughter from the audience in the big hearing room, and the chairman angrily gaveled them into silence. “Did you mean to be funny, Mr. Kinney?”

“No, sir, simply candid.”

“Did you think that your disloyalty to your director made you a better FBI man?”

“Mr. Chairman, my loyalty was to the quality of the investigations conducted by the Bureau. The director’s actions often infringed on that quality, and when that happened, I opposed him.”

“That’s your opinion, is it not?”

“It’s a fact, sir.”

The chairman, looking thoroughly unhappy, passed the questioning on to another senator.

“Mr. Kinney,” the senator began, “the president has proposed that the FBI be severed from the Justice Department and operate as an independent entity. Do you support this recommendation?”

“Yes, Senator, I do, unreservedly.”

“Why don’t you want the supervision of the attorney general?”

“I think we have a fine attorney general, Senator, but I believe the Bureau can operate more effectively if it is independent. In the
past,
some attorneys general have used the Bureau for political ends, and that is not the Bureau’s purpose.”

“Would you care to be specific about that?”

“No, sir, I would not. I’m not here to criticize former officeholders.”

“Except the former director.”

Kinney simply shrugged. “I answered the questions I was asked.”

“When you were with the New York City Police Department you worked in conjunction with the district attorney’s office, did you not? They prosecuted the cases you investigated. Is that so different from the way the Bureau has worked with the justice department in the past?”

“Yes, Senator, it is. The NYPD is an independent police organization, and it does not report to the district attorney or follow his orders.”

The questioning continued for another two hours. Kinney was, by turns, blunt and charming. Some committee members seemed miffed, but the audience loved him.

When the hearing ended, Kinney was surrounded by reporters and cameras and besieged with questions, which he declined to answer.
                                                                                 ____________________

ON THE WAY BACK to the Hoover Building, Kinney called Kerry Smith. “Are you all set for tonight at the Met?” he asked.

“Yes, sir, we are,” Smith replied. “We’ve pulled everybody off everything else in order to saturate Lincoln Center with our people. If he shows, he’ll be ours.”

“Don’t fuck it up,” Kinney said, then hung up.

THIRTY-ONE

HOLLY STOOD IN FRONT of the Metropolitan Opera House, shivering in the cold and occasionally stamping her feet to keep them warm. Her eyes raked the giant plaza of Lincoln Center, searching for Hyman Baum. All she saw were CIA and FBI agents. She hoped to God they were not as visible to Teddy Fay as they were to her.

She stood near the door where she had met him on the previous Friday night and hoped he would arrive before she froze to death. She had spent the last four winters in Florida, and she had forgotten what cold weather was. New York was reminding her.

A young man approached her. “Looking for opera tickets, ma’am?”

“No, thanks. I already have mine.” She felt old, being called “ma’am.”

“Want to sell them?”

“No, thanks.” She watched him wade back into the crowd, then continued her search. Not even Teddy Fay could turn himself into a twenty-one-year-old black kid.

Gradually, the crowd thinned, as people moved into the opera house and found their seats. She could now see every person left in the plaza, and not one of them could possibly be Teddy Fay. Her phone vibrated. “Yes?”

“There’s an elderly man and woman sitting in seats H two and three,” Lance’s voice said. “Get inside and cover the entrance to that aisle.”

She showed the pass she had been issued to the ticket taker and ran toward the door, stepping inside just as an usher was closing it and the first strains of the overture to
Le Nozze de Figaro
rose. She could see two agents standing in the aisle next to row H, hands in their coat pockets, talking to a man in the first seat. Gesticulating, he got out of his seat and started up the aisle.

He was different, but he could be Teddy, she decided. Then, as the three men reached where she was standing, she decided he was not.

“I’m telling you, I traded my tickets for these seats,” the man was saying.

“Where were your original seats?” an agent asked.

“At the rear of the parterre level,” he said.

“Where’s that?”

“One level up.” He pointed and gave the agents the seat numbers.

Holly followed the two men, who were sprinting across the lobby for the stairs while one of them spoke into the microphone in his fist. They arrived at the entrance to the parterre level and brushed aside an usher who tried to stop them. They found the proper row and began wading down it, stepping on peoples’ toes, and a moment later they were back with a boy of about nineteen. They hustled him out the door.

“What the fuck is going on?” the boy asked, clearly scared.

“How did you get your seats?” an agent asked.

“I traded some in the dress circle for them,” he said.

A moment later the agents were running up more stairs, but Holly did not follow them. She called Lance. “We’ve been had; Teddy has traded seats at least twice. He’s probably not here.”

She could hear Lance speaking into his radio. “Everybody hold your positions and check out anybody who leaves by any exit.” He came back to his phone. “Holly, wait in the lobby and keep an eye out for anybody who might be Teddy.”

“Right,” she said, then started down the stairs.

TEDDY SAT in a stolen 1988 Oldsmobile, parked halfway down the block from the Middle Eastern restaurant. Omar Said’s car was double-parked out front, its engine running to keep the driver warm-Teddy’s eyes ran up and down the block, building by building, looking for surveillance. For the life of him, he could not spot anybody.

Suddenly, to his surprise, Said and a woman left the restaurant and got into his car. Apparently, urgent loins precluded dinner. Teddy waited until the Cadillac turned the corner, then drove to the end of the block and, just to throw off any undetected surveillance, turned in the opposite direction and drove around the block, before continuing. After all, he knew where they were going.

He got there in time to see the door to the brownstone closing behind them. He had already cased the building, top to bottom. The downstairs door had not even required lock picking, just a credit card. Said’s Cadillac was idling outside, and the driver had settled in for the duration. Teddy parked his stolen car in front of a fireplug and got out. No need to wipe anything down, since he had been wearing gloves all evening.

He trotted up the front steps of the building and quickly let himself in. The apartment was two floors up, and he listened to be sure they were not still in the hallway, then walked slowly and silently up the stairs.

He stood outside her apartment door and placed one end of a listening device of his own construction in an ear and the other, microphone end, on the door. The two pieces were connected by a wire. The first thing he heard was ice cubes striking glass; they were mixing drinks. There was a minimum of conversation, then they moved out of the living room. No doubt where they were headed.

Teddy waited three minutes, leaning against the wall next to the door, then produced a set of lock picks from a little wallet and in thirty seconds had the door open. He pulled down the knitted cap he was wearing, and it became a ski mask. He took his little Agency Keltec .380 from his overcoat pocket and screwed the silencer into the barrel. Then he stepped inside and very quietly closed the door behind him.