The Hunted (23 page)

“He’s all right. Just doing his job. I talked to him a little bit on the way to school.” They entered the stairwell and began descending the steps.

“So where is he? I thought he’s supposed to be your shadow,” Holly said, enunciating the word
shadow
with a spooky intonation.

Melissa shook her head. “I don’t know. Probably out front, waiting for me to come out of class. He knows I’ve got econ next, so it’s not like a secret where I’m headed.”

“I’ll see you after class at J Street,” Holly said, pushing through the doors leading to the second floor.

Melissa was descending the steps of the building when she noticed a middle-aged man dressed in a sweater and jeans approaching her.

“Miss Knox!” he called out with an arm raised, as if he were waving to her.

She stopped walking and clutched her schoolbooks in front of her chest. “Yes...”

“I’m Special Agent Luger,” the man said as he displayed his credentials. “I need you to come with me, please.”

Melissa hesitated. “Where’s Agent Stanfield?”

“He was just called away to the Washington Field Office, a problem with one of his cases. Our special agent-in-charge sent me to relieve him. But on the way here I was informed that a security issue has arisen and he wants me to take you to a secure location immediately.”

“What kind of security issue?”

“It has to do with the letter Director Knox—your father—received. He did tell you about the letter, didn’t he?”

Melissa’s eyes darted around the campus in front of her. “Yeah, he told me about the letter. But that’s why Agent Stanfield—”

“Miss Knox, I don’t mean to argue with you, but it’s extremely important we get off this campus immediately. I’ll explain in more detail once we get in the car, where it’s safer.” Luger rubbernecked his head around H Street, then took her by an arm and led her off toward 21st Street. “Car’s this way.”

Jonathan Waller stifled a big yawn as he pulled into the parking garage at headquarters. He had just received a call in which he was ordered to report immediately to Director Knox’s office.

“I’m already on my way. I’ll be there in less than five minutes,” he said. He could tell by the strained tone of Liz Evanston’s voice that something was wrong.

When he walked into the director’s suite, Scott Haviland was on the phone, Knox was pacing in front of the window, and Special Agent-in-Charge Lindsey was scribbling notes on a pad.

“No, let’s divert Calahan to this as well. I need some answers.”

Waller’s stomach rumbled, but he could tell by the tension on everyone’s face that he was not going to be eating anytime soon.

“Took you long enough,” Lindsey said to Waller. “We’ve got some bad shit going down.”

“I brought Agent Payne to the doctor for a follow-up exam. I left him there—”

“Stanfield hasn’t reported in,” Knox said. “I haven’t heard from Melissa, and according to her professor, she didn’t show up for her economics class. And my daughter does not cut classes.”

The room suddenly seemed blazing hot, the air thin. Waller had broken out into a cold sweat as he sat down hard in the chair next to Haviland. “What about Stanfield’s car?”

“I’ve got UPD scouring the lot, but it’s a huge lot. A dozen agents are on their way over now.”

“Make that fourteen,” Haviland said, cupping the phone. He turned to face Lindsey. “And another dozen are on their way, but they’re being diverted and it’ll take time—”

“Lock down the goddamn city,” Knox said. “All exit routes. Coordinate with Homeland Security. And call in HRT. Have them mobilize immediately. Plainclothes. I want them scouring that campus. Shut down the damn university if you have to. This is my daughter!”

Harper Payne was driven back to the Academy by a senior level assistant Waller had called on his way to the meeting with Knox. His thigh was healing well, the doctor informed him, and adjustments were made in his pain and vertigo medications. As for his memory problems, it would require additional workup before any kind of prognosis could be rendered. For now, he was told, the operative word was patience.

“Patience,” Payne growled as he walked toward his dorm room. In contrast with the Academy’s glass-walled hallways that connected all of the separate buildings on the campus, the West Dormitory’s corridor was institutional modern: acoustic-tile ceilings, stark white walls, and industrial carpet.

He walked into his room, sat down on the edge of the twin bed, and looked out the large window at the lush greenery that surrounded the building. It might not be home, but it was certainly a pleasant environment. Then again, he couldn’t remember
what
home was like. He stood up and began to pace.

A knock at the door interrupted his unease. He grabbed for the knob. Waller was standing there, holding an overstuffed three-ring binder.

“It’s hard to be patient when you can’t even remember who your own mother is, Jon.”

Waller arched his eyebrows. “I don’t see the connection, but I’m not going to argue with you.”

“Do you know who my mother was, Jon?”

Waller walked into the small dorm room and sat down on the bed. “I think she passed away about ten years ago. Some kind of car accident. Your dad went a couple of years after that.”

Payne nodded. “Was I on good terms with them?”

Waller shrugged. “I think so. I don’t remember you complaining about them.” He set the large binder on the bed beside him. “How did your appointment go with the doc?”

“Peachy. Thigh’s better, brain’s not.”

“If it makes you feel any better, Knox is arranging an exam with a neurologist.”

Payne grunted. “Doctors know how to prescribe drugs, but other than that, they don’t know shit.”

“I know this has been tough on you, Harp, but you’ll come through it. We’re here to help.”

“Then you think you can get me access to the Internet for a few minutes?”

“The Academy is its own self-contained network. We’re linked to every field office and resident agency, but we’re not connected to anything outside the Bureau. Security issue, to prevent hacking. The Internet’s not secure.”

“I sent out an e-mail to someone I think I used to know. I’m hoping she’ll be able to jog my memory.”

“I’ll talk to my SAC, see what I can do. Maybe I can get clearance to bring in my laptop from home. Just keep it under wraps.” Waller checked his watch, then stifled a yawn. “Meantime, we’ve got to get down to business. What do you want to start with, Policy and Procedure or Foreign Counterintelligence?”

Payne regarded Waller for a moment. “Sure you’re up to it? You look beat.”

“Knox’s daughter and one of the agents assigned to her are missing. We think Scarponi’s behind it.”

“So he cranks the heat on you, and you in turn have to make sure I perform.”

“Something like that.”

“I can do this, Jon. I’m feeling more comfortable with this stuff every day. I’m beginning to understand why I became an agent in the first place.”

“You were one of the great ones.”

“And will be again. I’d like to stay on with the Bureau.”

Waller chuckled. “C’mon, Harp, you know that’s not possible. It’s not safe. Look what this asshole is doing to the director. He doesn’t think anyone can touch him. That makes for an extremely dangerous adversary.”

“It means he’ll be careless and make mistakes. That’s when we close in on him. We won’t need me to make the old charges stick, because we’ll have a shitload of new ones.”

“A guy like this doesn’t make mistakes.”

“He did when he took me under his wing.”

“We got lucky. Trust me, it won’t happen again.”

“So give me a new identity and make my face over again. I’ll gain some weight, dye my hair, grow a beard, and wear colored contacts. Assign me abroad. But don’t shut me out.”

Waller sighed. “I know you mean well, but I just don’t think Knox will go for it.” He opened the binder he had brought with him. “Meantime, we’ve got a job to do. Let’s start with Counterintelligence.”

“I’m serious about this, Jon.”

“One day at a time, buddy. First we get through this trial. Then I’ll talk with Knox, see what I can do. Who knows—if we’re successful, you may be able to write your own ticket.”

Douglas Knox spent the night at home pacing his study, an array of telephones lined up along the credenza: the white one provided a direct link to the White House; yellow was a secure line to Homeland Security; blue, the CIA; red rang through directly to headquarters. A corded phone, now rigged with electronic devices sprouting wires, served as his standard residential line. Although the number was unlisted, the Bureau had connected recording and listening devices to it in the event a ransom call came through.

But Knox knew better. The abductor did not want money. As he saw it, this was about power and leverage, and there were two scenarios. In the first, Melissa would be returned unharmed, with her successful abduction serving as a strong message as to what would happen if Knox chose not to cooperate: if she could be taken once, she could be taken again. But Knox knew she would not be returned alive the second time.

The other scenario was one Knox did not want to consider. For if she did not return alive, an unofficial all-out war would be declared on the responsible party. He knew it was Anthony Scarponi. But lacking proof Scarponi was behind the abduction made such an aggressive stance dicey. If the press grabbed hold of it, the FBI would be taken to task for heavy-handed tactics, the failed lessons of Ruby Ridge and Waco dredged up all over again. One thing the Bureau did not need was another bruise to its reputation.

However, for the past few hours Knox had not been concerned with public perception. At the moment, he was both an ordinary citizen whose daughter had been kidnapped as well as director of the most powerful law enforcement entity in the world.

Sylvia Knox’s eyes were dark and bloodshot. She sat in a corner chair, dabbing at her tears and staring vacantly at the wall in front of her, occasionally glancing over at her husband, whose rigid face and demeanor only partially conveyed his concern. Once, he had walked over to her, placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder, and then walked away to resume pacing.

In addition to Knox’s security detail, three Hostage Rescue Team agents were in the room, taking turns sitting, standing, reading magazines, and taking short breaks to smoke cigarettes on the porch.

Just as Knox had sat down to rest his legs after a continuous hour of pacing, a call came over the radio clipped to the HRT squad leader’s uniform.

“Repeat? Over.”

“We have Melissa Knox. She’ll be at the front door in fifteen seconds, sir.”

Sylvia’s whimper of delight pierced the sudden silence of the room.

The squad leader looked to Knox, whose eyebrows had arched downward toward his nose. “Give me that,” Knox said as he grabbed the radio. “Was anyone with her? Over.”

“No, sir. She said she was dropped off a few blocks away and ran home. Over.”

“Shit,” Knox said, handing the man back his radio. “If she saw any of them, I want an identification tech with a laptop here within the hour.”

Melissa was embraced and kissed by her mother and father, ate a container of yogurt, and then agreed to be debriefed by the HRT agents.

“And you only saw one of them,” Knox said.

Melissa nodded. “Just that one agent—I mean, man. He told me to lie down on the backseat so no one would see me. I asked him what was wrong, and he said he couldn’t discuss it, that it was very sensitive. Then after a while he got a call and he said he was taking me to a safe house. He gave me a blindfold to put on and said I wasn’t allowed to know where we were going because the CIA uses it, too.”

“How long did it take to get to the safe house?” one of the HRT agents asked.

Melissa shrugged. “I don’t know, we drove around for like an hour or two. After he got that call, it was like, maybe twenty minutes before we got there.”

“Did you hear any unusual noises? Bells, horns, jackhammers, trucks—”

“Maybe some trucks, big ones, you know, like tractor trailers.”

“Anything else?”

“It didn’t really seem like I was in a house. It smelled more like a cheap motel.”

Knox exchanged glances with the agent. “What makes you think it was a cheap motel?”

“It smelled like Lysol. And immediately after walking in, there was a really soft bed. I think I smelled cigarette smoke, you know, kind of like in the drapes or something. It was gross.”

“Then what happened?” Knox asked.

“He got another call.”

“Did you hear him mention any names? Did he talk about anything in particular?”

Melissa thought for a moment, then shook her head. “Not that I can remember.”

“What happened after he got that call?” the agent asked.

“That’s when we left. He said it was time to go, that everything was secure.”

“How long was the ride back home?”

“I don’t know.”

“What do you mean, you’ve got to give us some kind of an idea,” Knox blurted, his frustration evident. “Ten minutes, an hour, two hours—”

“I said I don’t know, Dad,” Melissa said just as firmly. “I fell asleep. When I woke up, he was stopping the car and telling me I was a few blocks from home and that I should run. I thought he was kidding.”

There was a knock at the door, and one of the HRT agents walked out of the room to answer it. A few seconds later, an identification technician walked into the kitchen, followed by a handful of relief agents for the security detail and the head of the HRT. Agents Waller and Haviland brought up the rear, shirts creased, ties removed, and collars splayed open.

“Take ten minutes to get up to speed,” Knox said to the HRT assistant special agent-in-charge. “Then I want you to assemble a fresh team. I want some of them on my house, some with my wife and daughter should either leave the house tomorrow.”

“Yes, sir,” the man said, turning toward the door.

“Waller, Haviland, come into my study for a moment.” They followed Knox in and watched as he closed both doors. “We’ve got us a situation here, one that requires you two to be privy to highly sensitive information.” Knox looked at each of the men, reading their faces. After a brief pause, he continued, “How much background did Lindsey give you on Scarponi’s release?”