The End Game (17 page)

27

By the time I first became aware of a semblance of daylight around me, I had no idea where I was or what time of day it was. All I knew was that I was shivering. A lot.

I had the vague, disturbing conviction that I was in the cellar of El Brujo’s hacienda in Mexico, where I’d been held and force-fed a drug that was meant to extinguish my soul for all of eternity. That was quickly dismissed in favor of our house in Mamaroneck and then for my old bachelor pad in the city. My mind—struggling for handholds on a sheer climb—finally settled on a West Hollywood hotel room in which I’d spent two weeks the summer I turned nineteen. I’d taken a Greyhound to Los Angeles and, within a few hours of arriving, I’d been struck down by a flu that was so virulent that I’d had to find myself a bed and spent all the money I’d saved for three months in California on two weeks in the Econo Lodge on Vine. I barely ate for a week and couldn’t move for almost ten days. A pretty young Mexican maid named Rosita had taken pity on the poor sick guy from Chicago, checking on me at the beginning and end of every shift to ensure I was still alive and bringing me bottles of water and left-behind pizza slices. When my fever finally broke, I was so exhausted that I’d had to spend another three days in the hotel recuperating. Finally feeling well enough to venture out, I’d summoned up the courage to ask Rosita to dinner. She’d smiled kindly and told me she was engaged, though still waiting for her betrothed to save up for the ring she’d chosen.

I’d had enough dollars left to catch a Metro bus to the Greyhound terminal, from where I took the first bus back east.

My mother never asked what had happened and I’d never shared it with her. Instead, I got a summer job as a clerk at the Forty-second Precinct of the Chicago Police Department before moving to Indiana to begin my law studies at Notre Dame.

As I lay there between sleep and waking, feeling nineteen but knowing I’d traveled a very long way from who I was back then, it struck me that even though I rarely thought of that connection, those three months on Addison were probably instrumental in my later decision to apply to the Bureau. There was something about the camaraderie and sense of moral purpose at the precinct that was deeply satisfying, the idea that not only could you intend to make a difference—however small—but that you actually could make society a better and safer place.

As the Bureau came into my head, so did everything else. Clarity gradually seeped back into my mind and my surroundings fell into focus. I wasn’t at the hacienda or chewing on leftover pizza. I was curled up on myself in the car I’d stolen, wrapped up in Lendowski’s parka and using his suit as a makeshift blanket, and I realized that the shivering was simply from the cold, which was reaching me with little resistance since I’d smashed one of the car’s windows. I rubbed my arms as I tilted myself up, slowly, hesitantly, my eyes stinging, my fingertips buzzing with a mild electrical current, my head pounding like someone had pimped out my skull with a subwoofer.

I’d never taken psychedelics like LSD or any hard drugs for that matter, so I didn’t know if I was experiencing a normal comedown. If it was, I couldn’t imagine how people actually got a kick from doing these kinds of psychoactive drugs. The endless, mind-numbing all-nighters we’d pulled last week outside Daland’s place were suddenly a fond, idyllic memory by comparison.

I stepped out of the Caprice and looked around. I realized I was in the East Village, on Third Street, close to its intersection with Avenue C. I needed to get something hot inside me, ideally something loaded with caffeine. I pulled up the collar on Lendowski’s parka, then remembered it said FBI on its front breast pocket and across its back, so I quickly shrugged it off, turned it inside out, and pulled it back on. A couple of minutes later, I was basking in the warmth of a small coffee shop, my hands toasting on a big mug of heaven. Each sip seemed to jump-start a bundle of neurons in my frazzled brain, and once the egg platter started working its magic, I was starting to think maybe I’d got away with this. My body seemed to have ducked any permanent damage from the drug, though it would take years before I’d know for sure if my mind was as lucky. For now, at least, I was a reasonably sentient being once again. Which wasn’t ideal, given that the events of last night, and the bigger picture, came galloping back. I think I might have preferred to stay in wonderland.

I needed to get in touch with Tess, let her know I was OK. I also needed her to help me with a couple of things, but I had to figure out how to contact her safely. I was sure the Bureau would have a Stingray van parked outside the house, and besides not wanting to be caught, I didn’t want to get her into trouble. I thought about it while I worked on a second mug of coffee, then came up with what I thought was a halfway decent plan. I’d need to buy myself a cheap phone and a couple of prepaid SIM cards.

To say my options were narrow would be a gross understatement, but while I was still out and alive, I figured I had an advantage. I already knew more about Corrigan than made him comfortable and there was a good chance that thanks to Kurt or Kirby or my elusive deep throat, I might have some information I was as yet unaware of—information he didn’t want me to have. I thought of Kurt and how all his paranoid fieldcraft suddenly seemed not quite so crazy. In fact, along with my unwillingness to share any details with Tess, it had probably saved his—and Gigi’s—life.

On the other hand, I wondered if it had all cost Nick his life. The thought hit me like a black hole of sadness, consuming me from the inside. I raised my mug slightly and gave my dead buddy a silent toast.

“I’m sorry,” I said under my breath.

As I set the mug down and stared into its murkiness, one thing was clear. There was no way I was going to prove that I was innocent. Not without signed confessions from the perpetrators. My only course of action was to find the man pulling the strings and secure evidence that I’d been framed.

I nodded to myself, slowly. Nothing had changed when it came to the big picture. It was still brutally simple.

I had to find Corrigan.

Sandman ground over the curious text message as he stared at himself in the mirror while he shaved.

He’d spent the night at a hotel, thinking he would take the time to recharge. He’d been on the go ever since the whole affair had gone into overdrive: flying up to Boston to take care of the doc, then back to the city to pick up Reilly’s trail at Times Square, following him down to DC and on to Kirby’s, then the altercation at the CIA analyst’s house after which he’d lost Reilly. He’d spent a sleepless night staking out the agent’s home, only to then discover the agent had turned up in FBI custody. Shortly after, however, he’d had to take care of the agent’s partner but failed to retrieve the laptop. He’d welcomed the night’s break to have a shower, a decent meal, and a hard think about what his next move would be, knowing Reilly was locked away in federal custody and beyond his reach.

And then the encrypted message had come in, informing him Reilly had escaped.

Kudos, he thought. Impressive move, all the more since Sandman still didn’t know how Reilly had managed to pull it off. The information he’d received was still sketchy—Reilly had somehow faked being sick convincingly enough to be taken to a hospital.

Sandman wondered if Reilly had had inside help. He’d need to look into it, find out who had been escorting him at the time of his escape. Perhaps that thread might lead back to Reilly now that he was in the wind—if the thread that had popped up on his screen in the form of a cryptic text message didn’t pan out, a text message that had been sent to Tess Chaykin’s iPhone and snagged by the Stingray van that was now parked near Reilly and Chaykin’s house.

The FBI had been using Stingray technology for years. The system, which mimics a cell phone tower, was fitted inside an unmarked van and was able to pinpoint the exact location of all mobile devices within its range and intercept all conversations and data coming in and out of any targeted phone. The Bureau didn’t need a wire tapping warrant to deploy Stingray; instead, they used it under the authority of “pen register” orders—otherwise known as “tap and trace” orders—which were very easily granted by the courts since they only required “probable cause” under the Fourth Amendment. These orders were only supposed to allow investigators to collect metadata such as a list of the numbers communicating with a suspect’s phone. The fact that Stingray could also eavesdrop on conversations and read message traffic was an innocent, but fortunate, bonus.

The SMS had come in from a throwaway and the SIM was no longer in use. It didn’t have a history to mine, either. It had come to life for less than a minute, just enough time to type in Chaykin’s phone number, add in the short message, and hit send. The SIM would be under heavy watch, but it was pretty evident to Sandman that it would never be used again.

The meaning of the message, on the other hand, was far from evident.

I’M OUT AND OK. NEED U TO BRING SURV PACK. TONIGHT @ MONASTERY

Sandman was intrigued.

Surely Reilly had to know Chaykin’s phone would be under watch, her SMS messages monitored? And asking her to bring him his “survival pack” would risk getting her picked up and charged—assuming they could prove that she knew the message came from him and that she actually met up with him.

The question was: what did Reilly mean? Where was he telling Tess Chaykin to come meet him?

The FBI team watching the house was still working on figuring it out, but so far they didn’t have a conclusive answer. It was too vague and could refer to too many places. It wasn’t a priority for them anyway. All they’d need to do was follow Chaykin when she left the house. She’d lead them straight to Reilly.

Sandman intended to be there when the meet took place. Reilly needed to be silenced before he could be taken into custody. If necessary, he knew he could get assistance from the FBI agent his employers had on their payroll, but he preferred to do it alone. Reliability was never an issue when he was operating solo.

He stared at the words on his screen, trying to divine their hidden message. He went over everything he knew about Reilly and Tess. Then he went wider. He looked at the file he had been given about those close to him, starting with Aparo—and an unexpected association flew off the screen at him. Something that, to him, seemed like the obvious solution.

Sandman nodded with satisfaction. It would be dark soon. He needed to make a move if he was going to get there before Reilly.

28

Mamaroneck, New York

Skulking by the window of her bedroom, Tess peeked out at the sleepy, tree-lined street as the early darkness of winter settled in. She could see the unmarked sedan parked outside the house, across and slightly down the street, and knew Annie Deutsch and her partner were in it. She could also just about make out the Comcast van one house further away and knew it was the Stingray monitoring vehicle they often used in these situations—which was why she was intrigued by the text message that she’d received.

Much earlier that day, as she was leaving Federal Plaza, she had already been wondering about where and when she would meet Reilly. She knew that, if all went well, he would make contact soon after he was out. He’d want her to know he was OK and that the capsules had done their job. She also figured he would need her help. His reckless text message had seemed out of character until Kim had come into her bedroom with a curious question and it all fell into place.

She turned away from the window and edged over to the bed, on which sat Kim’s denim backpack, the one she’d personalized with small pyramid-shaped studs. She had packed it with Reilly’s jeans and Timberland low boots, a pair of thick socks, underwear, a winter shirt, a small vanity case she’d been given on an overseas flight that included a shaving kit and toothbrush, and the stash of cash—two thousand dollars’ worth—they kept in the gun safe for an emergency. She’d also put in Reilly’s personal handgun, a Glock 19, and a box of rounds.

She glanced at her watch. It was time to get ready.

She could hear a blissfully oblivious Alex laughing to the antics of
Despicable Me 2
—still his default movie—with his grandmother downstairs in the living room, and guessed that Kim was probably sulking in her bedroom, gorging herself on an endless stream of Snapchat messages and Instagram likes while preparing herself for the aborted fun night out at the movies with her boyfriend Giorgio and, probably far more distressing, the imminent, if temporary, loss of her prized phone.

It had been hard to convince Kim to help her, but she couldn’t see any other way around it. She needed to leave the house undetected, and she needed transportation that wouldn’t raise suspicion. Kim and Giorgio had arranged to go out to a movie, and it had presented Tess with an opportunity she couldn’t pass up.

She hadn’t yet told her mom or Alex about Reilly’s predicament—not about his capture, nor his escape. She decided she’d wait to see how tonight played out before doing so. Kim, on the other hand, now knew something was seriously wrong. When she’d come in to Tess’s bedroom to tell her about the weird message she’d received, Tess had closed the door behind her and led her into the bathroom. Talking low out of paranoia regarding long-range listening devices, she’d whispered her instructions to her daughter. Once she’d thought up the rest of her plan, she’d then told Kim about it, but hadn’t said any more than what she needed to say to get her daughter to play ball. It hadn’t been easy. The repeated hushed protests about missing out on her date were hard to put down. Eventually, though, Kim had grudgingly agreed.

Presently, Tess had to get into gear.

She went downstairs and announced that she was going to run a bath and get some “me time”, all while avoiding her mother’s dubious, probing look. She said she’d make herself a bowl of granola afterwards and left her mom to sort out dinner for just herself and Alex, since Kim was about to head out to a movie and, most likely, a pizza, with her boyfriend. Tess then headed back upstairs and began setting the scene.

She filled the bath, leaving the door open so the sound of the running water percolated downstairs. While it was running, she hastily put on Kim’s oversized tan parka, her signature beanie, snow boots and thick polka-dotted scarf, then she checked herself in the mirror. It was odd to see herself dressed like that, though there was nothing shocking about it. It was hardly an embarrassing MuDAL moment—yet another of the hip acronyms Kim had taught her with a roll of the eyes, Mutton Dressed As Lamb. Not in that garb. Had this been summer, things might have been different, but she was too covered up for the cold to feel even a tinge of a Peter Pan Syndrome moment—another one of Kim’s useful lessons.

Once she was done, she switched on the speaker system by her bed and selected a calming Coldplay playlist on her iPod. She then turned off the bedroom lights, dimmed the lights in the bathroom, and, after checking the front of the house for any signs of life from the window, she waited.

Right on cue, Giorgio’s old Jeep pulled into up outside.

She grabbed the backpack and stepped into the hallway, where she called out to Kim.

“Honey, G’s here.”

“OK,” came Kim’s halfhearted attempt at an enthusiastic reply.

“I know it’s Saturday night, but don’t be back too late,” Tess said out loud as she took the stairs down to the front hall. A wall shielded her from the couch and the TV, and she tensed up for a second as she reached the door, hoping her mom didn’t get up or come out of the kitchen to say goodbye to her granddaughter. She was clear as she stepped outside, the hood of Kim’s parka pulled over her beanie.

She did her best to imitate Kim’s teen gait as she made her way down the path to Giorgio’s waiting car. Without glancing back toward the FBI sedan or the van further away, she climbed into the car.

Giorgio’s face went all wide with surprise. “Mrs. Chaykin?”

“Just drive, Giorgio.”

“But—”

Tess shot him a firm look and pointed ahead. “Drive, will you? I’ll explain later.”

Giorgio put the Wrangler into gear and pulled away from the house. Tess hazarded a discreet glance back, although given the darkness and the steam obscuring the rear windshield, there was little chance the agents staking out the house were going to recognize her.

She allowed herself a small smile. It had worked. No one was following. She nodded to herself, pleased at how she’d been inspired by both Reilly’s recounting of Daland’s arrest and the fact that she still had the physique to pull this off. It helped that Kim was now less than an inch shorter than her own five foot seven.

She stared ahead, heart pounding at the thought of being able to feel Reilly’s arms around her again shortly.

From the unmarked sedan down the street, Lendowski watched Tess Chaykin’s daughter climb into the Jeep and head off.

Deutsch had already run the plates while the car idled outside the house. The information had matched the data coming back from Stingray, telling them the car was the girl’s boyfriend’s.

“Dad’s on the run and wanted for murder and she’s going out on a date,” he said with disdain. “Kids today. Christ.”

“Maybe she doesn’t know,” Deutsch said.

Lendowski just let out a sarcastic shrug for an answer.

His target was still inside the house. As he kept his gaze fixed on it, he wondered if Reilly would really be stupid enough to try meeting with Tess. You didn’t need to be Sherlock Holmes to know about the astonishing number of fugitives who were caught simply because they made contact with family members.

His BlackBerry vibrated. He glanced at the screen’s caller ID. He glanced at Deutsch and gestured back at the van with his thumb as he picked up. “What’s up?”

“Something’s off. We think she’s on the move.”

Lendowski didn’t get it. Why the hell would they be tracking the girl’s phone? “I know, I just saw her leave.”

“Chaykin?”

“No, numbnuts. The daughter.”

The Stingray operator in the van clarified. “Not the daughter, doofus. Chaykin herself.”

“Negative. I’ve got eyes on the house. Chaykin’s still at home. That was the daughter.”

“Then how do you explain the stream of Facebook and Instagram messages flying back and forth from her laptop?”

Her laptop? “What about her phone?”

“It’s powered down. We can’t track it.”

Which didn’t make sense. Why would the girl switch off her phone? What teenager did that—ever?

Lendowski scowled as he realized what had happened. The bitches were playing him.

“Hang on.” He turned to Deutsch. “Something’s wrong.” He thought fast. “Check the house, see if Chaykin’s still inside. I’m going after the boyfriend’s car.”

Deutsch didn’t argue. “Damn it,” she muttered as she hurried out.

She’s barely slammed the door shut as Lendowski was already powering away from the curb.

Sandman was sitting in the darkness of Aparo’s apartment when his encrypted phone vibrated with an incoming text message.

It read:

CHAYKIN’S ON THE MOVE

He deleted it, then settled back into the uncomfortable armchair that faced the front door. As he checked the silenced handgun in his lap, he ran through his plan once more, making sure there were no wrinkles.

The location Reilly had chosen to meet his woman was going to be a boon. After all, Sandman mused, what better place for an agent to commit suicide than the apartment of his recently deceased partner? A death for which, in his delusional, troubled state of mind, he could conceivably blame himself.