The Winner (52 page)

The A.G. folded her arms across her chest and picked up this line of thought. “Even if we can build a case against him on all the other activities this person will know he has ‘leverage,’ to use Riggs’s term. And he’ll use the same threat Riggs used. Deal with him or he goes public. I can just see his defense lawyer salivating over that one.” She involuntarily shuddered.

“So what you’re saying is this thing can never go to trial,” Berman said. “What then?”

The A.G. ignored the question and instead asked Masters, “You think Riggs is playing straight with us?”

Masters shrugged. “He was one of the best at undercover operations. To do that you have to lie on a regular basis and appear not to be. Truth takes a backseat. Sometimes reality becomes blurred. And old habits die hard.”

“Meaning we can’t completely trust him,” the A.G. said.

Masters looked thoughtful for a moment. “No more than he can trust us.”

“Well,” the director said, “there’s the strong possibility that we won’t bring this guy in alive.” He looked around the room. “Right?”

They all nodded. Masters ventured, “If he’s half as dangerous as Riggs says he is, I’d shoot first and ask no questions later. Then maybe our problem goes away.”

“And what about Riggs and Tyler?” the A.G. asked.

Berman answered, “Well, if we’re going to go that route, you never know who might get caught in the crossfire. I mean none of us wants that to happen, of course,” he quickly added, “but like Riggs’s wife, you know, innocent people sometimes die.”

“Tyler is hardly innocent!” the director said angrily.

“That’s right,” Masters said. “And if Riggs is tying his allegiances to her instead of us, well then he has to accept the consequences. Whatever they may be.”

All of them looked at each other uneasily. Under normal circumstances, none of them would have been remotely contemplating any of this. They had dedicated their lives to apprehending criminals and then seeing them receive a fair trial before a court of law for their offenses. They’re now silently praying that justice wouldn’t happen this time, that instead several human beings would die before a judge or jury ever heard their case, was not sitting well with any of them. However, in this present case, they were all confronted with something much larger than merely hunting down a criminal. Here the truth was far more dangerous.

“Whatever the consequences may be,” the director quietly repeated.

W
alking down the street, Riggs looked at his watch. The clock housing was actually a sophisticated recording device; the tiny perforations in the leather strap were the speaker component. The day before, he had spent some time in a well-known “spy shop” four blocks from the FBI building. The technology had certainly gotten better over the years. At least his deal with the government was recorded somewhere other than in his memory. With operations like this, he shouldn’t put too much faith in anyone, no matter which side he was on.

Riggs knew that the government could never allow the truth to come out. In this case capturing the criminal alive was just as bad as not capturing him, maybe worse. And anyone who knew the truth was in serious jeopardy, and not just from Jackson. Riggs knew that the FBI would never intentionally gun down an innocent person. But he knew the FBI hardly regarded LuAnn as innocent. And since Riggs had thrown his support her way, he was automatically lumped with her as the enemy. If it got dicey toward the end, which Riggs knew it would, and if LuAnn were anywhere near Jackson, well, the FBI might not be real careful about who they were firing at. Riggs didn’t expect Jackson to go down quietly. He would take out as many agents as he could. Riggs had seen that in his eyes at the cottage. The man had no respect for human life. To him a person was merely a factor to be manipulated and eliminated if circumstances called for it. As an undercover agent, Riggs had dealt with people like that for years. People almost as dangerous as Jackson. Given those elements, the FBI would err on the side of killing the man rather than taking him alive; they wouldn’t risk the life of an agent in order to ensure that the man would stand trial. Riggs was well aware that the government had no incentive to bring Jackson to trial and every incentive not to. So Riggs’s job was to flush out Jackson and then the Feds could do what they wanted. If that was pumping the man full of lead, Riggs would be glad to help them do so. But he was going to keep LuAnn as far away from the man as humanly possible. She was not going to be caught in the crossfire. He had been through that once. History was not going to repeat itself.

Riggs didn’t bother to look behind him. He knew he was already under surveillance. Despite Masters’s assurances to the contrary, he would have immediately ordered a tail. Riggs would’ve done the same thing in his position. Now he had to beat the tail before meeting up with LuAnn. He smiled. Just like old times.

* * *

While Riggs had been dealing with the FBI, LuAnn had driven to another pay phone and dialed a certain phone number. It rang several times and LuAnn thought she would probably get the standard automated message. Then a voice answered. She could barely recognize it, the connection was so bad.

“Charlie?”

“LuAnn?”

“Where are you?”

“On the road. I can barely hear you. Hold on, I’m passing some power lines.”

In a moment, the connection was much clearer.

“That’s better,” LuAnn said.

“Hang on, there’s someone who wants to talk to you.”

“Mom?”

“Hello, baby.”

“Are you okay?”

“I’m fine, sweetie, I told you Mommy would be fine.”

“Uncle Charlie said you and Mr. Riggs saw each other.”

“That’s right. He’s helping me. With things.”

“I’m glad you’re not alone. I miss you.”

“I miss you too, Lisa, I can’t tell you how much.”

“Can we come home soon?”

Home? Where was home now?
“I think so, baby. Mommy’s working really hard on that right now.”

“I love you.”

“Oh, sweetie, I love you too.”

“Here’s Uncle Charlie.”

“Lisa?”

“Yes?”

“I mean to keep my promise to you. I’m going to tell you everything. The truth. Okay?”

The voice was small, a little scared. “All right, Mom.”

When Charlie came back on the phone, LuAnn told him to just listen. She filled him in on the latest events including Riggs’s plan and his real background.

Charlie could barely contain himself. “I’m pulling over at a rest stop in two minutes. Call me back.”

When LuAnn did so, Charlie’s tone was heated. “Are you crazy?”

“Where’s Lisa?”

“In the rest room.”

“Is it safe?”

“I’m right outside the door and the place is packed with families. Now answer my question.”

“No, I don’t think I’m crazy.”

“You let Riggs, an ex–FBI agent, walk into the Hoover Building and cut a deal for you. How in the hell do you know he’s not selling you down the river right now?”

“I trust him.”

“Trust him?” Charlie’s face turned crimson. “You barely know him. LuAnn, this is a big mistake, darling. A damned big one.”

“I don’t think so. Riggs is playing straight. I know he is. I’ve learned some things about him in the last few days.”

“Like he’s an experienced undercover agent who’s an expert at lying.”

LuAnn blinked for a second as these words sank in. A small seed of doubt suddenly grew, invading her confidence in Matthew Riggs.

“LuAnn, are you there?”

She gripped the phone hard. “Yes. Well, if he did sell me down the river, it won’t be long before I find out.”

“You’ve got to get out of there. You said you’ve got the car. Get the hell out of there.”

“Charlie, he saved my life. Jackson almost killed him while he was trying to help me.”

Charlie was silent for a minute. He was having an internal conflict and was highly uncomfortable with it. From everything LuAnn had just told him, Riggs probably was going to bat for her. Charlie thought he knew why: The man was in love with her. Was LuAnn in love with him? Why shouldn’t she be? And where did that leave him? The fact was, Charlie wanted Riggs to be lying. He wanted the man out of their lives. That thought was skewing his whole mental process. But Charlie did love LuAnn. And he loved Lisa too. He had always put his own interests behind theirs. And with that thought his inner conflict disappeared. “LuAnn, I’ll go with your instincts. Riggs is probably okay, now that I think about it. Just keep your eyes open, will you?”

“I will, Charlie. Where are you?”

“We headed through West Virginia, then into Kentucky, skirted the edge of Tennessee, and now we’re floating back toward Virginia.”

“I’ve gotta go now. I’ll call later today and fill you in.”

“I hope the rest of today isn’t as exciting as the last two were.”

“You and me both. Thanks, Charlie.”

“For what? I haven’t done anything.”

“Now who’s lying?”

“Take care of yourself.”

LuAnn hung up the phone. She would be meeting Riggs soon if everything went according to plan. As she walked back to the car, Charlie’s initial reaction came back to her. Could she trust Riggs? She slid into the front seat of the Honda. She had left it running because she had no keys and didn’t share Riggs’s skills at hot-wiring automobiles. She was about to put the car in gear when her hand stopped. This was no time for doubts, and yet she was suddenly overwhelmed with them. Her hand refused to move.

R
iggs walked slowly down Ninth Street, looking casually around, as if he had all the time in the world. A gust of freezing air hit him. He stopped, gingerly slipped off the sling, and put his injured arm in the sleeve of his overcoat, buttoning it all the way up. As the bitter wind continued to blow down the street, Riggs pulled up the collar of his overcoat, took a knit cap emblazoned with the Washington Redskins logo from his pocket, and pulled it tightly over his head so that only the lower part of his reddening face was visible. He entered a corner convenience store.

The two teams of agents that were following him, one on foot, the other in a gray Ford, swiftly moved into position. One team covered the front of the store, the other the rear. They knew Riggs was an experienced undercover agent and they weren’t taking any chances.

Riggs appeared carrying a newspaper under his arm, walked down the street, and hailed a taxi. The agents quickly climbed into the sedan, and it followed the taxi.

Moments after the sedan disappeared, the real Matt Riggs, wearing a dark felt cap, emerged from the store and walked quickly in the opposite direction. The key had been the brightly colored knit cap. His pursuers would have focused on the burgundy and gold colors like a ship’s beacon to pinpoint their man and would not notice the subtle differences in the overcoats, pants, and shoes. He had called in a favor last night from an old friend who had thought Riggs long dead. The FBI was now tailing that old friend to his job at a law firm near the White House. The man lived near the FBI building, so his being in the vicinity would not be difficult to explain. And a lot of Washingtonians wore Redskins knit caps this time of year. Finally, the FBI couldn’t possibly know of the long ago connection between the two men. The agents would question him briefly, realize their mistake, report back to Masters and the director, and get their heads handed to them for their morning troubles.

Riggs climbed in a cab and gave an address. The car sped off. He ran a hand through his hair. He was glad to get that one under his belt. He and LuAnn were a long way from being home free, but it felt good to know he still had it, at least in small doses. As the cab stopped at a red light, Riggs opened the newspaper he had purchased at the store.

Staring back at him from the front page were two photos. One person he knew, the other was a stranger to him. He quickly read the story and then looked at the pictures again. With a press badge dangling around his neck and a small notepad and pen peeking out from his shirt pocket, a sleepy-eyed Thomas Donovan looked like he had just climbed off a plane from covering some major news event on the other side of the world.

The woman in the photo next to his could not have struck a greater contrast to the reporter’s disheveled image. The dress was elegant, the hair and makeup obviously professionally done and thus impeccable, the background almost surreal in its abundant luxury: a charity event where the rich and famous caucused to raise money for the less fortunate. Roberta Reynolds had been a longtime participant in such events and the story said her brutal murder had robbed the Washington area’s charitable community of a great benefactor. Only one line of the story recounted the source of Reynold’s wealth: a sixty-five-million-dollar lottery win ten years earlier. She was apparently worth far more than that now. Or, at least, now her estate was.

She had been murdered—allegedly, the story reported, by one Thomas Donovan. He had been seen around the woman’s home. A message from Donovan requesting an interview was on the dead woman’s answering machine. Donovan’s prints had been found on a carafe of water and a glass in Reynolds’s home, which indicated the two had indeed met. And, finally, the pistol apparently used to slaughter Roberta Reynolds had been found in a wooded area about a mile from her home, along with her Mercedes, with Donovan’s prints all over both of them. The murdered woman had been discovered lying on her bed. Evidence indicated she had been bound and held for some period of time, so that the crime was obviously premeditated, the paper said. There was an APB out on Donovan and the police were confident they would soon apprehend him.

Riggs finished reading the story and slowly folded up the newspaper. He knew the police were completely wrong. Donovan hadn’t killed Reynolds. And it was highly likely that Donovan was dead as well. Riggs took a deep breath and thought about how he would break the news to LuAnn.

T
he burly man looked around at the other pricey homes in the Georgetown neighborhood. Fiftyish with pale skin and a neatly trimmed mustache, the man hitched up his pants, tucked his shirt in, and rang the bell next to the front door.