The Blackbird Papers (30 page)

“He's dead.”

“I know. I found an old phone book of his in the cottage. He had a bunch of numbers listed for you. This was the only one we didn't already have.”

It made sense to Sterling. When Reverend Briggs had taken him in after the beating at the Hotel DeWitt, Harry was the only person in the Bureau whom Sterling had contacted, because he needed someone on the inside to cover for him while he was on the mend.

“This means a lot to me,” Sterling said.

Brusco swung the door open. “Just don't make a fool of me, Bledsoe. I got two kids on their way to college. I need this fuckin' job.”

47

S
terling raced down the steps of Penn Station. With the train departing in only half an hour, he didn't have a minute to spare. The main concourse was a sea of moving bodies and colors, each person in more of a rush than the next. Sterling allowed himself to be swallowed in the commotion. He quickly walked behind the big board, avoiding the small police depot in the northern corridor. Finding an empty ticket machine, he pulled out the credit card Reverend Briggs had loaned him. Several buttons later he had purchased a one-way ticket to Savannah, Georgia.

The train was called the Silver Meteor and it was perfect for the mission. Sterling had memorized most of the route: quick stops in Newark and Trenton, New Jersey, then Philadelphia, Delaware, Maryland, D.C., and a few other stops on the way to Savannah. The long train ride and frequent stations would make it difficult for them to nail down his location.

With the ticket safely in his possession, Sterling bought a newspaper, a small roll of tape, and a pair of scissors. He got into line at the boarding gate and moved with the crowd as the conductor lowered the chain. A quick flash of his ticket and he descended the long escalators to the dark tracks. He looked at his watch.

While most of the commuters filed to the front of the train, Sterling headed to the back for one of the unreserved coach cars. He hurried past the café, then two cars down locked himself in the bathroom. Time was slipping by. He pulled out his old cell phone and turned it on for the first time since coming to New York. Seven minutes before departure. He started counting down in his head. He pulled out a small piece of paper from his pocket and punched in the 800 number. It belonged to a cut-rate pharmacy that sold everything from ginkgo biloba to Viagra, all promised at an unbeatable discount. He already forgot the name of the city, but he remembered their headquarters was somewhere in Oklahoma.

Sterling checked his watch again as he waited for the call to go through. Five minutes. After eight rings, he heard the recording. A woman's voice slowly took callers through a long list of options. She paused after each choice, then continued if there was no response. When none of the choices had been selected, the loop started all over again. Sterling had done a test run the previous night. For five hours she ran through the menu of choices again and again and again.

Three minutes before the departure whistle. Suddenly a tap on the door. He quickly flushed the toilet and waited for the water to stop before calling out, “Just a few seconds.” By the time he finished in the bathroom and stepped out the door, the train's engines were slowly coming to life.

H
e's hot,” Special Agent Glazer screamed as the monitors in the truck sprang to life. The others were in various positions of repose, but jumped into action when those words bounced off the walls. “And he initiated the call.”

Skip Dumars barreled his way down the aisle, pushing aside anything that stood in his way. He yanked a pair of headphones off the table and adjusted them to his wide head. “What's the number?” he grumbled. He was in a nasty mood, much worse than his normal disagreeable state. He'd had his ass chewed out and handed back to him when Washington learned they had bungled the capture at the Hotel DeWitt. Find Bledsoe or get used to pushing files in the office had been the thinly veiled threat. Murph and his contingent had even flown up from headquarters to deliver the message in person.

“We'll have a match in forty-five seconds,” Walsh replied, running her fingers across the keyboard.

Three monitors had been arranged on a small table in this portable command center. Three agents from IT—Glazer, Walsh, and Perkins—operated the computers. Everyone else had lined up behind Dumars's bulk as if sneaking into a peep show.

“Is the tracker ready?” Dumars barked to Perkins, the youngest of the agents, who looked like he still belonged on a college campus. No one bothered with his name, instead simply calling him Freshman.

“It's up and running,” Freshman answered. He moved the cursor across a complicated screen. A colorful global map with the longitude and latitude lines covering the earth's sphere slowly rotated until North America was centered in the monitor. A few more clicks of the mouse and the zoom brought the United States into sharp focus.

“This is going to take some time,” Walsh said. She sat in the middle. “It's an 800 number.” The number combinations spun on the monitor. A couple of minutes later, all ten digits had locked into place.

“Call it,” Dumars ordered.

The dial tone erupted over the speakerphone and everyone waited out the ringer. The recording for the One-Stop Pharmacy came on, prompting them to make their choices.

“He's moving, sir,” Freshman said. Everyone shifted their attention to the rotating map. A blinking red light represented the signal source.

“Where is he?” Dumars asked.

Freshman typed in a string of numbers and the map rotated to the East Coast. Seconds later, the state of New York filled the screen.

“He's in Manhattan,” Freshman said. “But he's moving.” The red light slowly moved across the screen.

“Give me a direction,” Dumars demanded. His nostrils flared and thick veins popped out of his bulging neck. He looked like a bull ready to charge.

“Southwest.”

“Is he still connected?”

“Yup,” Walsh answered.

Dumars turned to an agent in the back of the truck. “Call over and put the damn choppers on standby.”

“Both of them?” the agent asked.

“Damn right. We'll run his ass down from the air. Let NYPD know we have a make on him and get them moving on ground support. He's not getting away from me this time.”

“He's moving really fast, sir,” Freshman reported. He typed a series of commands and waited for the computer to respond. “At least forty miles per hour. And he's not making any stops. He must be in a car.”

The woman's recorded voice from the pharmacy continued to prompt them for their selection.

“Cut that goddamn thing off,” Dumars yelled. “How long has he been connected, Walsh?”

“Seven minutes,” she said, her long fingers expertly working the keys. “We need him at least for another three before we get the permanent lock.”

The new intelligence division of the FBI had developed a state-of-the-art wireless tracking system like no other in the world. With the quiet cooperation of the phone companies and device manufacturers, they had come up with a program that allowed them to track a cell phone location even after the call had been disconnected. Using a special cellular wavelength, once the satellite locks on to the phone long enough, it then opens a wireless tracking connection by sending small bursts of signals to a chip embedded in the phone. The chip returns a signal that allows the global positioning software to track the phone's location within five city blocks. The satellite could only establish a location lock after the connection has been live for at least ten minutes. They kept their eyes glued to the clock.

“Uh-oh,” Freshman mumbled. “The signal has some diffraction. Something is making it spread. Some kind of interference.” He punched in a series of numbers that changed the color and map rotation. “I can't say for sure, but the pattern looks like it might be water.”

“What the hell is he doing?” Dumars thought aloud. “He has to know we're on to him. And why is he traveling south?”

“Ten minutes confirmed,” Walsh said. “Satellite has the lock. He's ours.”

“Stay on him,” Dumars said. He ripped the headphones off and threw them to the table. “I'm going in the air.”

Dumars and two other agents bolted from the back of the truck and jumped into an unmarked sedan. They switched on the sirens and flashed the lights in the grill. The choppers were on the East Side helipad. If traffic wasn't too bad, they'd be there in fifteen minutes.

48

H
igh winds and poor visibility kept Dumars and the other agents grounded for another hour before they got the clearance to take to the sky. They stayed in constant communication with the command center back in the truck and learned that Sterling's call lasted for almost half an hour before the line was disconnected. Freshman had tracked the phone from Newark to Trenton, then when the phone went dead, the satellite located the signal in the northern suburbs of Philadelphia. Police departments from New York City all the way down the East Coast were put on alert. A fugitive agent might be on his way through their jurisdiction and their help would certainly be needed.

Dumars and the other agents peered down from the chopper, following an electronic computer grid they carried on board and the wave of flashing cruisers snaking through the streets below. Unsure how long the chase would continue, they ordered two more helicopters to be refueled and waiting in Philadelphia. Then the transmission from one of the ground cars came across the radio. Bledsoe was on board an Amtrak train heading south. There might be enough time to surround the train in Philadelphia, but the station was busy and extra manpower would be needed for better crowd control. Dumars thought quickly and ordered everyone to step down. He gave the orders to run the train through the Philadelphia station without stopping, then alerted the team in Wilmington to begin making the necessary preparations to apprehend Bledsoe once the train pulled to a stop. The Wilmington station was smaller, in a more remote area, and much easier to blockade. Equally important, it would give Dumars enough time to get into position and be the one to snap on the handcuffs.

Another cell phone rang and one of the agents announced the director.

“We've locked in on him, sir,” Dumars said. He rounded the edge in his voice.

“Where is he?”

“On a southbound Amtrak train in Philly. We'll be apprehending him at the Wilmington stop.”

“How much support do you have from the locals?”

“Everyone's on board. City, state, and transit in all jurisdictions have been coordinated. They know what we're dealing with.”

“We need him,” the director growled. “Alive. This is not the time for heroes or egos to get in the way of the mission. Remember, he's still one of our own.”

“And what if he resists?”

“Do whatever it takes to stop him, but keep him alive and protect the other passengers. We don't need this to blow up in our faces.”

There was a long pause.

“Do I make myself clear, Dumars?”

“As a bell.”

Dumars looked at the chaos below. An army of flashing lights raced down both lanes of the highway, keeping pace with the speeding train. It was already turning into a spectacle. Drivers of parked cars stood outside their vehicles, pointing at the train and the blur of whirling cruisers. Less than half a mile away, a local news chopper buzzed in a holding pattern. The ground command center continued to inform Dumars of the satellite readings. A look of intense satisfaction flattened some of the deep lines in Dumars's hardened scowl. He knew the cameras would raise the stakes and he was prepared. Every major network would report the capture on the evening news, and the morning papers across the country would carry it as a front-page headline. If that didn't make him a household name, the trial certainly would.

As the train steadily made its way toward Wilmington, Dumars picked up a pair of binoculars and looked into the distance. He could make out parts of the terminal building through the trees, ablaze in a sea of flashing lights. As he had expected and hoped, several news vans were parked alongside the tracks, their satellite poles reaching into the sky. He placed a call to the Wilmington police chief and explained in excruciating detail how he wanted the capture to proceed. Everyone was to move on his command, with the safety of the innocent passengers receiving the highest priority. He would allow one television camera and one still photographer on the train, but they were only to film on his signal.

Dumars ran a stiff hand through his salt-and-pepper hair until it fell back into a helmet. He'd been waiting a long time for this moment, a chance to nail Bledsoe and at the same time give his own career a much needed boost. Several field directorships would become available next year because of early retirements, and this high-profile capture might be exactly what he needed to get his name bumped up the list of potential successors.

The train slowed as it entered the perimeter of the station's wooded property. Uniformed officers, many with their guns drawn, lined the tracks in a two-hundred-yard, elbow-to-elbow show of force that impressed even Dumars. The pilot landed the chopper in an area that had been cleared in the parking lot. The conductor had been extensively briefed on the plan. All the doors were to be kept locked until Dumars and the other agents appeared at the door of the first car, where they would enter the train and work their way car by car until Bledsoe had been located. Freshman called in again and confirmed that the signal had stopped and the satellite tracking matched the coordinates of the station. Bledsoe was definitely on the train.

The two photographers had already been selected and stood ready to join Dumars and his team of agents. A tall, gangly man in ripped jeans and a stained T-shirt already had his camera slung over his shoulder. Next to him, a young, petite woman with eager bright blue eyes and golden-blond hair stuffed several rolls of film into her fanny pack and waited patiently for instructions.

“He's armed and dangerous,” Dumars said to the gathering. The sense of urgency in his voice seemed rehearsed. “I want two lead agents, myself, then two trailers.” He pointed at the photojournalists. “You two on last. For your own safety. And don't roll any film till I give you the go-ahead. Is everyone clear?” His words were met with a chorus of “yups” and head nods. Dumars pulled out his own gun and plodded his way through the empty station as stranded passengers stood behind police barricades, pointing and yapping into cell phones. Moments later the team was on the platform swarming with barking dogs and a rainbow of uniforms. They made their way to the first car and radioed for the door to be opened.

The leads boarded first—two young, athletic agents who looked like they spent way too much time curling dumbbells. Dumars followed with the trailers behind him, then the photographers. Many of the passengers were standing in the aisle trying to exit the train, confused and scared. The agents calmly asked everyone to remain seated and quiet as they methodically carried out their search. A group of nuns had their heads bowed in prayer, gripping their rosary beads and making the sign of the cross. The beating sounds of footsteps could be heard walking along the roof as the officers outside staked their positions.

They searched each car, under the seats, behind the luggage compartments, but no sign of Sterling. Dumars called Freshman.

“Are you still getting his signal?” Dumars asked.

“It's still strong and not moving.”

They searched the café car and the small outside standing areas between the cars. Dumars took out the electronic grid, pulled out the antenna, and called the command center. “Position us,” he demanded.

Seconds later the response was clear. “You're less than thirty feet away.”

“He's in the rear car,” Dumars radioed to the team outside. “We're going to enter the car now. Remember, no one fires unless I give the command.”

They entered the last car slowly, their guns drawn. Four passengers returned fearful stares: a woman with a small child, an old man sitting by himself, and a young woman wearing a college sweatshirt. The lead agents motioned for them to stand and walk toward the door, which they did quietly and slowly with the trailing agents escorting them to the adjacent car. When the car was empty, the team moved slowly down the aisle calling Sterling's name, offering him a peaceful resolution. No response. They walked the entire length of the car and stopped at the rest room. Dumars gave the photographers the signal before the lead agents tapped on the door. When it went unanswered, they tested the handle and discovered it was unlocked. On Dumars's count they stood back and kicked the door wide open. Nothing.

Dumars pulled out the electronic grid and called command. “Position us!” he barked.

“Can't you see him? You're only two feet away.”

Dumars snapped shut the phone and walked to the paper-towel dispenser. He punched the lid with the side of his fist and watched as it flipped open.

He stood there for a brief moment, then clawed at the paper towels until he uncovered a sleeve of newspaper that had been taped to the back wall of the dispenser. The camera's flash popped just as Dumars unwrapped his grand capture—the cell phone of Special Agent Sterling Bledsoe.

S
terling pulled the silver Lexus SC 430 convertible into the parking lot of the Mountaineers Motel on Route 10A in Lebanon, just fifteen minutes from the Dartmouth campus. He knew that the hard evidence needed to nail Mortimer and his accomplices was somewhere in these mountains. His instincts told him that he had probably seen it a hundred times earlier in the investigation, but had simply overlooked it. Though it was risky, he needed to be back where it all happened, breathing the air and taking another look at the crime scene. With the Mustang burned out in an abandoned lot in New Jersey and his Carrera sitting somewhere in an FBI garage, Reverend Briggs had once again come to the rescue. His oldest daughter was off on spring break, and he had let Sterling borrow her car.

Sterling kept the baseball cap he had bought pulled over his eyes and registered with the old woman behind the counter. She wore a hearing aid in each ear and her glasses were thick enough to be bulletproof. The chances of her recognizing him and sounding an alarm were between none and none. He requested lodging in the back of the short strip of rooms, telling her he needed as much quiet as possible for all the reading he had to do. She offered him a pair of foam earplugs, which he politely declined, but he asked her to make sure no one disturbed him until the morning.

Sterling parked around the back, completely out of view from the road. He quickly unloaded all of the papers and his two guns into the room. After a shower and a couple of granola bars he had snatched from the lobby vending machine, he went to work. First came a phone call to Special Agent Mickey Strahan in surveillance.

“Talk to me,” Strahan said when he picked up. That's how he always answered his phone. He was probably sitting at his desk in Quantico. He always had his cell phone nearby, hoping the next call would be an invitation to a round of golf.

“Stray, it's me,” Sterling said. “You alone?”

“No, there are lots of papers around my desk.”

Sterling got the message. “I need you to get outside where no one can hear you.”

“Hold on,” Stray said. “Let me run out to the car. I think I left that box of papers in my trunk.”

Sterling heard a chair scraping against tile, footsteps, and then a series of doors open and close. The sound of rustling wind came through the receiver and he knew Strahan had made it outside.

“What the hell are you doing, Doc?” Strahan was the only one at the Bureau who called him that. Strahan reasoned that anyone who had put up with the school bullshit long enough to earn a Ph.D. at the very least deserved to be called by his proper title. Even if he worked as an agent.

“I need your help in a big way.”

“You need more than my help,” Strahan said. “From what I'm hearing, Murph is gonna fry your ass if the New York boys don't kill you first. What the hell kind of mess have you gotten yourself into now?”

“It's all bullshit,” Sterling said. “I don't know what kind of lies you've heard, but I'm clean. Somebody's setting me up.”

There was only silence on the other end.

“What the hell, Stray!” Sterling yelled into the phone. “Don't leave me hanging out here like this. They've gotten to you, too?”

“Easy, Doc. Of course I don't believe you did this. At least most of it. But shooting at Dumars is gonna take a lot of explaining to the people upstairs.”

Sterling sighed. His temples were vibrating. He searched his bag for the bottle of Tylenol Extra Strength. “Okay, that was true, but not what people are probably making it out to be. If I wanted to kill Dumars, I could've. He was fifty yards away from me. He was coming after me and I needed some time. So I fired at a car window across the street to stall him. That's it. Anything else you've heard is total bullshit. The body count is climbing. Only three dead right now because the fourth person survived. I need your help. I wouldn't get you involved in something like this, Stray, if I wasn't so sure I was being set up by some powerful people.”

“I don't know what I can do,” Stray said. “It's not like giving you a goddamn mulligan on the first tee or letting you take a drop without a stroke penalty. We're talking some serious shit. They're piling a list of charges on you a mile long. The only thing they haven't done is put you on
America's Most Wanted
.”

“None of those charges will wash if I can get a little more time to piece this together. What I need from you isn't complicated and won't take much of your time.”

“What is it?”

“Phone records. I think whoever's behind this might've left a phone trail.”

Stray blew out a long breath and Sterling knew he was torn. Stray was one of those fiercely loyal types—he'd dive in front of a bullet for a friend without thinking twice. He was an ex–college football player who would have been a star in the NFL had he not blown out both knees and ripped a disk in his back. Instead of tossing around quarterbacks and slamming helmets, he spent most of his days slumming in surveillance. But like most ex-jocks who once thought golf was for pansies, he was now in love with the manicured fairways where he could take out his aggression on the tiny white balls that at times reduced his raucous laughter to frustrated whimpers.

“I don't know, Doc,” he said. “Maybe you should come clean with the boys upstairs and lay out what you have. If they get to you before you get to them, who knows what will happen in the field?”