Vanish (16 page)

glow of her cigarette, and how elegantly she flicks off ash.

“Want a puff?” she asks, offering it to me.

“I don’t smoke.”

“Heh. It’s not good for you anyway,” she says and takes another drag. “Not good for me

either, but I’m not going to waste them.”

“Where did you get it?”

“The boat. Took a whole pack of them, and no one noticed.”

“You stole them?”

She laughs. “I steal a lot of things. How do you think I got the key? The Mother thinks she lost

it, the dumb cow.” Olena takes another puff, and her face briefly glows orange. “It’s what I

used to do in Moscow. I was good at it. If you speak English, they’ll let you into any hotel

where you can turn a few tricks. Pick a few pockets.” She blew out a lung full of smoke.

“That’s why I can’t go home. They know me there.”

“Don’t you want to?”

She shrugs and taps off an ash. “There’s nothing there for me. That’s why I left.”

I stare up at the sky. The stars are like angry pinpricks of light. “There’s nothing here, either. I

didn’t know it would be like this.”

“You’re thinking of running, aren’t you, Mila?”

“Aren’t you?”

“And what would you go home to? You think your family wants you back? After they find out

what you’ve been doing here?”

“There’s only my grandmother.”

“And what would you do in Kryvicy, if all your dreams were to come true? Would you be rich,

marry a nice man?”

“I have no dreams,” I whisper.

“It’s better that way.” Olena gives a bitter laugh. “Then you can’t be disappointed.”

“But anything, anywhere, is better than here.”

“You think so?” She looks at me. “I knew a girl who ran. We were at a party, like the one

tonight. At Mr. Desmond’s house. She climbed out a window and got away. Which was just

the first of her problems.”

“Why?”

“What do you eat out there? Where do you live? If you have no papers, there is no way to

survive but to turn tricks, and you might as well do it here. So she finally went to the police,

and you know what happened? They deported her, back to Belarus.” Olena blew out a cloud of

smoke and looked at me. “Don’t ever trust the police. They’re not your friends.”

“But she got away. She went home.”

“You know what happens if you run away and make it back home? They’ll find you there.

They find your family, too. And when they do, you’re all better off dead.” Olena stubbed out

her cigarette. “Here it may be hell. But at least they don’t skin you alive, the way they did to

her.”

I am shaking, and not from the cold. I’m thinking of Anja again. Always, I think of poor Anja,

who tried to run. I wonder if her body still lies in the desert. If her flesh has rotted away.

“Then there’s no choice,” I whisper. “There’s no choice at all.”

“Sure there is. You play along with them. Fuck a few men every day, give them what they

want. In a few months, a year, the Mother gets her next shipment of girls, and you’re just used

merchandise. That’s when they let you go. That’s when you’re free. But if you try to run first,

then they have to make an example of you.” She looks at me. I am startled when she suddenly

reaches out and touches my face, her hand lingering on my cheek. Her fingers trail heat across

my skin. “Stay alive, Mila,” she says. “This won’t last forever.”

Even by the lofty standards of Beacon Hill, the house was impressive, the largest on a street of

distinguished residences which had housed generations of Boston Brahmins. It was Gabriel’s

first visit to this home, and under different circumstances, he might have paused on the

cobblestoned walkway to admire, in the fading daylight, the carved lintels and the decorative

ironwork and the fanciful brass knocker on the front door. Today, though, his mind was not on

architecture, and he did not linger on the sidewalk, but hurried up the steps and rang the

doorbell.

It was answered by a young woman wearing tortoiseshell glasses and a look of cool

assessment. The latest keeper of the gate, he thought. He hadn’t met this particular assistant

before, but she fit the mold for a typical Conway hire: brainy, efficient—probably Harvard.

Conway’s eggheads
they were called on the Hill, the cadre of young men and women known

for their brilliance as well as their absolute loyalty to the senator.

“I’m Gabriel Dean,” he said. “Senator Conway’s expecting me.”

“They’re waiting for you in his office, Agent Dean.”

They?

“Follow me.” She turned and led him briskly up the hallway, her low and unfashionably

practical heels clicking across dark oak as they passed a series of portraits on the wall: a stern

patriarch posed at his writing desk. A man garbed in the powdered wig and black robes of a

judge. A third, standing before a draped curtain of green velvet. In this hallway, Conway’s

distinguished lineage was comfortably on display, a lineage that he purposefully avoided

flaunting in his townhouse in Georgetown, where blue blood was a political liability.

The woman discreetly knocked at a door, then poked her head into the room. “Agent Dean is

here.”

“Thank you, Jillian.”

Gabriel stepped into the room, and the door closed quietly behind him. At once the senator

stepped out from behind a massive cherrywood desk to greet him. Though already in his

sixties, the silver-haired Conway still moved with the power and agility of a marine, and when

they shook hands, it was the robust greeting between men who have both known combat, and

respect each other for it.

“How are you holding up?” Conway asked quietly.

It was the gentlest of queries, and it brought an unexpected flash of tears to Gabriel’s eyes. He

cleared his throat. “The truth is,” he admitted, “I’m trying hard not to lose it.”

“I understand she went into the hospital this morning.”

“The baby was actually due last week. Her water broke this morning, and . . .” He paused,

flushing. The conversation of old soldiers seldom strayed into the intimate details of their

wives’ anatomy.

“So we’ve got to get her out of there. As soon as possible.”

“Yes, sir.”
Not just soon. Alive.
“I’m hoping you can tell me what’s really going on here.

Because Boston PD has no idea.”

“You’ve done me enough favors over the years, Agent Dean. I’ll do whatever it takes, I

promise.” He turned, gesturing toward the intimate grouping of furniture that faced a massive

brick fireplace. “Maybe Mr. Silver here can help.”

For the first time, Gabriel focused on the man who’d sat so silently in the leather armchair that

he might easily have been overlooked. The man stood, and Gabriel saw that he was

uncommonly tall, with receding dark hair and mild eyes that peered through professorial

spectacles.

“I don’t believe you two have met,” said Conway. “This is David Silver, Deputy Director of

National Intelligence. He just flew up from Washington.”

This is a surprise, thought Gabriel as he shook David Silver’s hand. The Director of National

Intelligence was a lofty Cabinet-level post with authority over every intelligence agency in the

country, from the Federal Bureau of Investigation to Defense Intelligence to the Central

Intelligence Agency. And David Silver was the DNI’s second in command.

“As soon as we got word of the situation,” said Silver, “Director Wynne asked me to fly up

here. The White House doesn’t think this is your usual sort of hostage crisis.”

“Whatever
usual
means these days,” added Conway.

“We already have a direct line to the police commissioner’s office,” said Silver. “We’re keeping

close tabs on Boston PD’s investigation. But Senator Conway tells me you have additional

information that could affect how we approach this.”

Conway pointed toward the couch. “Let’s all sit down. We have a lot to talk about.”

“You said you don’t believe this is your standard hostage crisis,” said Gabriel as he settled

onto the couch. “I don’t either. And not just because my wife is involved.”

“What strikes you as different?”

“Aside from the fact the first hostage taker was female? That she had an armed compatriot who

walked in to join her? Aside from the fact she broadcast what seemed to be an activation code?”

“All the things that got Director Wynne concerned,” said Silver. “Plus, there’s an additional

detail that worries us. I have to admit, I didn’t pick up on the significance myself when I first

heard the recording.”

“Which recording?”

“The call she made to that radio station. We asked a Defense linguist to analyze her speech. Her

grammar was perfect—almost too perfect. No contractions, no slang. The woman is clearly not

American, but foreign born.”

“The Boston PD negotiator made the same conclusion.”

“Now this is the part that worries us. If you listen carefully to what she said—in particular, to

that phrase she used, ‘the die is cast’—you can hear the accent. It’s definitely there. Russian

maybe, or Ukrainian, or some other Eastern European language. It’s impossible to distinguish

her precise origins, but the accent is Slavic.”

“That’s what’s got the White House worried,” said Conway.

Gabriel frowned. “They’re thinking terrorism?”

“Specifically, Chechen,” said Silver. “We don’t know who this woman is, or how she got into

the country. We know that Chechens often use female compatriots in their attacks. In the

Moscow theater siege, several women were wired with explosives. Then there were those two

jetliners that went down in southern Russia a few years ago, after taking off from Moscow. We

believe both were brought down by female passengers wearing bombs. The point is, these

particular terrorists routinely use women in their attacks. That’s what our director of National

Intelligence is most afraid of. That we’re dealing with people who have no real interest in

negotiation. They may be fully prepared to die, and spectacularly.”

“Chechnya’s quarrel is with Moscow. Not us.”

“The war on terror is global. This is precisely why the DNI’s office was created—to make sure

9/11 never happens again. Our job is to make all our intelligence agencies work together, and

not at cross purposes, the way they sometimes did. No more rivalries, no more spy versus spy.

We’re all in this together. And we all agree that Boston Harbor’s a tempting target for

terrorists. They could go after fuel depots or a tanker. One motorboat loaded with explosives

could cause a catastrophe.” He paused. “That female hostage taker was found in the water,

wasn’t she?”

Conway said: “You look dubious, Agent Dean. What’s bothering you?”

“We’re talking about a woman who was forced into this situation by accident. You’re aware

she was brought to the morgue as a drowning victim? Admitted to the hospital after she woke

up?”

“Yes,” said Silver. “It’s a bizarre story.”

“She was a lone woman—”

“She’s no longer alone. She now has a partner.”

“This hardly sounds like a planned terrorist operation.”

“We’re not saying this hostage taking was planned. The timing was forced on them. Maybe it

started as an accident. Maybe she fell overboard while being smuggled into the country. Woke

up in the hospital, realized she was going to be questioned by authorities, and she panicked.

She could be one arm of the octopus, part of a much larger operation. An operation that’s now

been prematurely exposed.”

“Joseph Roke isn’t Russian, he’s American.”

“Yes, we know a bit about Mr. Roke from his service record,” said Silver.

“He’s hardly your typical Chechen sympathizer.”

“Did you know that Mr. Roke had explosives training in the army?”

“So have a lot of other soldiers who didn’t wind up as terrorists.”

“Mr. Roke also has a history of antisocial behavior. Disciplinary problems. Are you aware of

that?”

“I know he was given a dishonorable discharge.”

“For striking an officer, Agent Dean. For repeatedly disobeying orders. There was even some

question about a serious emotional disorder. One army psychiatrist considered a diagnosis of

paranoid schizophrenia.”

“Was he treated for that?”

“Roke refused any and all medications. After he left the army, he essentially went into

seclusion. We’re talking about a guy just like the Unabomber, who withdrew from society and

nursed oddball grudges. With Roke, it was all about government conspiracies, delusions of

persecution. This is a very bitter man who believes his government has misused him. He’s

written so many letters to the FBI about his theories that they have a special file on him.” Silver

reached for a folder on the coffee table and handed it to Gabriel. “A sample of his writing. It’s a

letter he sent to them in June, 2004.”

Gabriel opened the folder and read the letter.

. . . I’ve provided you with case after case of documented heart attacks that were secretly

induced by PRC-25 mixed with burning tobacco. The combination, as our Defense

Department well knows, results in a deadly nerve gas. Scores of veterans have been murdered

this way, so the Veterans Administration can save millions of dollars in health care costs. Is

there no one at the FBI who cares?

“That’s just one of dozens of nutty letters he wrote to the Bureau, to his Congressmen, to

newspapers and TV stations. The
Washington Post
got so much of his paranoid crap, they just