Inspector General’s office of your decision, and added my own Memorandum to the Record detailing Eric’s survival. I’m sure there will be quite an extensive investigation, Carrie. Of how you managed to cover up this sordid mess for so long.”
“You know I knew nothing about it! Dare—”
Dare was dead, and any truth she might have believed had died with her. The only other person who understood how Eric had been used—how Caroline had been deceived—was Cuddy Wilmot. And he was easy enough to destroy.
“Under the circumstances,” Scottie said dryly, “I cannot possibly allow you access to classified information. Your clearances are completely compromised.”
“You wouldn’t dare do this.” Somehow she managed to keep her voice level. “I know enough to end your career, Scottie. Enough to ruin everything you’ve worked for.”
“But it would be simply your word against mine. And I’ll make very sure your word is dirt.” Scottie reached for his phone. “I’ll call the SPOs now. They’ll escort you to your car.”
“You realize you’re prejudicing this entire investigation? That Eric is the only possible lead we’ve got to the 30 April cell in D.C.? You need Eric, Scottie. He’s the one person who can save your ass.”
He gazed at her pityingly. “You don’t really think he’d bother, Caroline, after all we’ve been through? Having burned my bridges with Eric, as it were, I had no choice but to burn him .”
“Scottie,” she lashed out, “people are dying out there. Innocent people. They’re dying because of you . The evil you’ve done for your own amusement. You owe it to Eric—to everybody in this institution—to try to put things right. To find this killer before he does further damage.”
A buzzer sounded at the entrance to the vault; Scottie rose briskly from Caroline’s desk. “I have no intention of supporting this investigation. I want it to spin out as long as possible, Carrie. I want the Bureau to make their usual hash of it and I want the media to come calling. While the bodies fall and the nation screams in panic, our jobs are the most secure they’re ever likely to be. The President will be forced to admit just how much he needs us.”
“Good God,” Cuddy said blankly. “You don’t mean that, Scottie. You’ve spent your life—”
Their chief reached for a cardboard box sitting at his feet. It held a jumble of items: a cup full of pens, a framed photograph of William Webster shaking Caroline’s hand; an award for merit she’d earned five years ago. He handed the box to Cuddy.
“That’ll be the SPOs buzzing. Walk Caroline to the car, will you, Wilmot? And decide on the way whether you want to leave with her. It’s a decision you shouldn’t make lightly.”
Chapter 17
ARLINGTON, 2:33 A.M.
Daniel had crept from his own bedroom in the black heart of night often enough to know that the quality of silence in a sleeping house is different from an empty one. There were the times he’d lain awake and the times he’d wanted to be sure that Dolf was blissful and unaware in his own small room; times later, when Dolf was in the ground, that he’d sprawled on the boy’s sterile bed and cursed Bekah for washing the sheets. He craved the scent of his son like another man craved drink or sex, and sometimes he huddled in the boy’s closet, just to breathe in the elusive memory of him. It took Daniel only three seconds in Caroline Carmichael’s pitch-black room to know she wasn’t there.
As the realization came, he was passing in front of her full-length mirror, and the sudden unexpected reflection of his own shoulder, his head beneath the tight wool cap, startled him so much that he swung around and smashed at the figure staring back at him. The hard metal haft of his M16 slammed straight through the plasterboard wall and the mirror shivered into a hundred pieces, glancing off his face like the most vicious of kisses. He stood panting, engulfed by
“You know I knew nothing about it! Dare—”
Dare was dead, and any truth she might have believed had died with her. The only other person who understood how Eric had been used—how Caroline had been deceived—was Cuddy Wilmot. And he was easy enough to destroy.
“Under the circumstances,” Scottie said dryly, “I cannot possibly allow you access to classified information. Your clearances are completely compromised.”
“You wouldn’t dare do this.” Somehow she managed to keep her voice level. “I know enough to end your career, Scottie. Enough to ruin everything you’ve worked for.”
“But it would be simply your word against mine. And I’ll make very sure your word is dirt.” Scottie reached for his phone. “I’ll call the SPOs now. They’ll escort you to your car.”
“You realize you’re prejudicing this entire investigation? That Eric is the only possible lead we’ve got to the 30 April cell in D.C.? You need Eric, Scottie. He’s the one person who can save your ass.”
He gazed at her pityingly. “You don’t really think he’d bother, Caroline, after all we’ve been through? Having burned my bridges with Eric, as it were, I had no choice but to burn him .”
“Scottie,” she lashed out, “people are dying out there. Innocent people. They’re dying because of you . The evil you’ve done for your own amusement. You owe it to Eric—to everybody in this institution—to try to put things right. To find this killer before he does further damage.”
A buzzer sounded at the entrance to the vault; Scottie rose briskly from Caroline’s desk. “I have no intention of supporting this investigation. I want it to spin out as long as possible, Carrie. I want the Bureau to make their usual hash of it and I want the media to come calling. While the bodies fall and the nation screams in panic, our jobs are the most secure they’re ever likely to be. The President will be forced to admit just how much he needs us.”
“Good God,” Cuddy said blankly. “You don’t mean that, Scottie. You’ve spent your life—”
Their chief reached for a cardboard box sitting at his feet. It held a jumble of items: a cup full of pens, a framed photograph of William Webster shaking Caroline’s hand; an award for merit she’d earned five years ago. He handed the box to Cuddy.
“That’ll be the SPOs buzzing. Walk Caroline to the car, will you, Wilmot? And decide on the way whether you want to leave with her. It’s a decision you shouldn’t make lightly.”
Chapter 17
ARLINGTON, 2:33 A.M.
Daniel had crept from his own bedroom in the black heart of night often enough to know that the quality of silence in a sleeping house is different from an empty one. There were the times he’d lain awake and the times he’d wanted to be sure that Dolf was blissful and unaware in his own small room; times later, when Dolf was in the ground, that he’d sprawled on the boy’s sterile bed and cursed Bekah for washing the sheets. He craved the scent of his son like another man craved drink or sex, and sometimes he huddled in the boy’s closet, just to breathe in the elusive memory of him. It took Daniel only three seconds in Caroline Carmichael’s pitch-black room to know she wasn’t there.
As the realization came, he was passing in front of her full-length mirror, and the sudden unexpected reflection of his own shoulder, his head beneath the tight wool cap, startled him so much that he swung around and smashed at the figure staring back at him. The hard metal haft of his M16 slammed straight through the plasterboard wall and the mirror shivered into a hundred pieces, glancing off his face like the most vicious of kisses. He stood panting, engulfed by
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