Mortal Fear (37 page)

Chinese, she says. I figured we were due for a change.

You are a
goddess,
Miles says with genuine reverence. I shall kiss your feet and worship forever at the altar of your infinite kindness.

Drewe laughs. Just chew with your mouth closed, and Ill be satisfied.

As she walks away, Miles sits back down at the Gateway.

You coming? I ask.

He waves one hand. Just let me post this message. Be right there.

As I pass through the door, I hear him say, This is going to be better than sex. This from a man who has seen, heard, and perhaps participated in just about every carnal activity the human mind can imagine. I turn and look back. It is the new sight for this century, I think, a man in digital bliss. And yet it is as old as the first hominid who stared mesmerized into a campfire.

We are fascinated by that which can destroy us.

Miles beat his own prediction by over an hour. By the time we finished supper, three ham radio operators in the Washington, D.C. area expressed interest in helping us monitor the communications of the FBI (in the interest of the publics hallowed right to know, of course). One of thesean ex-marine named Sid Moroneyadmitted that he often monitored CIA training exercises on the streets of Washington and its suburbs, and boasted that he maintained a notebook containing the frequencies most commonly used by the governments more aggressive acronymic agencies. This resource put him over the top, and Miles told him we would e-mail our requirements to him ASAP.

We spent fifteen minutes arguing about the best way for Moroney to relay what he overheard to us. We wanted it in real time, but we also knew my phones might be tapped. We decided I would stay linked to Sid Moroney via CompuServe on the Gateway, while Miles monitored the EROS computer for any Lilith-Maxwell activity. Sid could update me on the stakeout by tapping messages into a private room on a CompuServe chat channel. If anything radical started to happen, he was to call my office number and press the mouthpiece of his telephone to his radio receiver, so that we could hear the traffic ourselves. This was a risk, but Miles figured anything serious enough to warrant a call would probably be the climax of the manhuntwhich would exonerate us both.

So far the wait has been anything but climactic. Moroney has intercepted communications indicating a stakeout in progress in the vicinity of the McLean safe house. So far Ive received six reports from him via
CompuServe, transcribing such bloodcurdling radio traffic as:
Alpha? Red here. Kensington quiet. Ten four, Red. Yellow? You there? Affirmative, Alpha. Wimbledon clear. Tomorrow must be garbage pickup, everybodys coming out in their robes to put out the cans. Button it, Yellow. Out.
And so on for the past three and a half hours. The use of Alpha reminds me of Daniel Baxter in the trailer at Quantico, but since I cant hear the voice, theres no way to tell.

This time I let Drewe in on what we were doing, since clearing our names seemed possible. But when eleven p.m. came and went, she raised a white flag and retired to the bedroom. I worried that Moroney would get bored and do the same, but after a few queries I found out he keeps a cot in his radio room and, like a good marine, has developed the capacity to detect significant radio traffic even while sleeping.

I am half asleep myself when the balloon goes up.

Miles, sitting six feet behind me at the EROS computer, says, Hello. As I turn in my seat before the Gateway, he raises his hand, forbidding any interruption.

Brahma just logged on, he says in a monotone. Hes using Maxwell.

Whats he doing? I ask, rubbing my eyes and straightening up in my chair.

Looking for Lilith.

Where?

His shoulders stiffen. Lenz is there now. Theyre going into a private room. Im turning up the sound.

Brahmas digital baritone fills the office with an almost calming cadence.

What about his error rate? I ask.

Im looking. Three typos already. Hes definitely not using his voice-rec unit.

Miles adjusts the speakers, then looks over at me. Already this conversation seems different from the ones weve become used to. This time Brahma is taking the lead.

Is Lenz showing a little restraint at last? I ask.

Looks like it. I guess we wait now.

We dont wait long. In less than five minutes, a
message from Sid Moroney flashes onto the screen of the Gateway.

Miles, the FBI is trying to trace him now.

When he doesnt respond, I turn. Hes listening closely to Lenz and Brahma. Baxter was supposed to give Lenz a week without trying to trace Brahma, I remind him. Why do it now and risk blowing the whole operation?

Momentum, Miles replies, not bothering to turn. This is like any big business deal. At first everybodys lovey-dovey. But when closing time comes, major egos are involved. The FBI knows Brahma is close. Theyve got the capability to trace him, therefore they trace him. Its not even a question.

Moroney says theyre holding off on a pinpoint trace, whatever that means.

Brahmas probably moving between cells, and they dont want to put out scanning vehicles for fear of spooking him.

But why not just stop his car and arrest him, if they can find him?

At last Miles turns to me, his look contemptuous. Arrest him for what? Riding around with a laptop computer and a cell phone and typing sex talk?

Couldnt they backtrack over his movements, compare them to the murder dates, stuff like that? Why risk him getting away?

Theres no reason to think hell try. Hes following an established pattern. Hell shadow the decoy agent for two or three days, then make his move on the house.

Right, I say, unconvinced.

Suddenly the speakers fall silent. Miles checks his screen. Brahma just logged off.

Shit. You think he found out they were trying to trace him?

Maybe. Hes got guts, this guy. I wonder if he might actually try to hit her the first night.

Thats the feeling I have, Miles. Dont ask me why. Like somethings wrong. Really wrong.

Like what? What could be wrong?

I think Brahmas about to make a fool out of everybody. Hes been three steps ahead of us all the way. Why should he act like an idiot now? Why walk into a trap?

Tell me.

I dont know, damn it!

Miles looks thoughtful. Okay, say youre right. How could he make a fool out of everybody?

I dont
know
. My mind is fuzzy with anxiety and fatigue. By doing the unexpected?

And whats that?

Maybe he knows Lilith is a trap, but hes figured a way to kill the decoy anyway. You know, the girl I told you about. Margie Ressler.

Harper, right this second a dozen SWAT guys are perched in trees and on rooftops around that safe house. They can shoot the balls off a hamster at five hundred yards, and the range is probably less than forty. If Brahma shows up there, hes dog meat.

But Brahma doesnt think like other people. Remember Dallas? He wont walk up with a target painted on his shirt. They wont even see him. Or if they do, theyll think they know who he is. One of them maybe. Hell do his thing and split before they even know what hit them.

Miles bites his lower lip. Shit, he says finally.

Miles?

What?

What if Brahmas not even going there? What if hes after someone else?

Like who?

Eleanor Rigby.

Thats nuts. She lives in California. We know Brahmas in D.C. or Virginia.

No, we dont. We know
somebodys
in D.C. or
Virginia, logging on as Maxwell. Remember the team-offender theory? If theres really a group behind this, Brahma himself could be anywhere. He could be in California right now. He could be
here,
man.

Miles shakes his head. Calm down. He has no idea this place exists. And why in Gods name would he pick Eleanor Rigby out of thousands?

Not thousands. Six hundred. Shes a blind-draft account, remember?

The odds are still ridiculous. Give me one shred of logic.

Maxwells Silver Hammer, remember? A Beatles song. And shes Eleanor Rigby. Theres death in that song too. Wouldnt he gravitate to that?

Miles purses his lips in concentration. Maybe.

Is there some central data bank where all EROS conversations are stored? An archive or something? I know you told the FBI there wasnt, but

Theres a sixty-day record. Every word is automatically filed to disk for sixty days. Then its erased. We do it for legal protection, in case of things like crimes against children ricocheting back on us. One of my techs handles it.

I want you to check it. Right now.

Why?

To find out whether Brahma has talked to Eleanor recently.

But

If you dont, Im going to call Eleanor myself. And thats the first step to the whole story coming out.

He clicks angrily at his mouse, then types a brief e-mail message and transmits it to New York. I told them it was urgent, but it might take a while.

Thank you.

We sit in uncomfortable silence for a few minutes. I watch the screen of the Gateway, but Sid Moroney sends nothing through.

Here we go, Miles says. Eleanor Rigby spoke to Maxwell in a private room three days ago. The conversation lasted eight minutes. You want me to get the text from them?

My heart is in my throat as I pick up the phone.

Hey, what are you doing? Miles asks.

Warning Eleanor.

Lets at least look at the file first!

Forget it.

Eleanors line is busy. I set down the phone, an image of a lonely young woman in a wheelchair burning behind my closed eyes.

Busy, I say quietly.

Thank God. That would have started a network-wide panic.

I slap the desk with my right hand. Like I give a shit, okay? Were talking about life and death here! I dont care if the whole goddamn company implodes. Everybody will just have to go back to using magazines to jack off.

Miles looks at me like a scientist observing some rare protozoan, then blinks and goes back to his screen. When I turn back to mine, I find a message from Sid Moroney awaiting my attention.

Without consulting Miles, I type a quick confirmation that the subject of this stakeout could be
very
dangerous. By the time Miles asks what I typed, Ive sent the message; by the time I finish explaining the situation, Ive received a reply from Moroney.

My pulse has settled into a rhythm far above its normal rate. You were right, Miles! Theyve got sharpshooters up there.

Can Moroney hear what theyre saying?

No. Its scrambled.

He shakes his head, obviously disgusted. Thats about what Id expect from the FBI.

What do you mean?

Using encrypted radio traffic around the safe house is stupid. You think Brahma wont have scanning equipment? Scrambled chatter is like a neon sign screaming COPS.

What choice do they have?

Radio silence. Or they could use fake radio chatter, like theyve got a drug bust set up near there.

Should we try to warn them?

Way too late.

We stare at each other in silence. Then a familiar male voice floats out of the speakers, and the printer behind Miles begins humming.

Brahmas back, he says, turning. Same room.

By the time Brahma finishes his first sentence, Miles and I have frozen like ice sculptures.

He killed somebody, Miles says in a flat voice. Right now, somebody close to Lenz is dead or dying.

My hands are shaking. Before I can speak, my office line rings.

Dont answer it! Miles commands.

Its Moroney, I reply in a hoarse whisper. The machinell get it.

I steel myself against dreadful news.

After my outgoing message ends, a voice says: Hello? Guys? Guys! This is Sid! All hells breaking loose up here!

I am rooted where I sit, but Miles reaches the phone in three lightning strides. Keep talking, Sid, whats happening?

Im going to hold the phone to the radio.

Static-filled radio chatter bursts from the tinny speaker of my answering machine:
Alpha, what the hell? Whats going on in there?
More static, then:
Stand by, Green, standshit! Stop him, Ressler, goddamn it!