who fed her the story, then I’ll pass that on to the CIA.”
He didn’t bother to add,
if Mahoney will let me
.
“All right,” Emma said. “How will you get the photo to me?”
“I’ll e-mail it. Neil e-mailed it to me, so I’ll forward it to you.”
“Okay,” Emma said. She paused, then added, “Joe, you better watch what you’re doing.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean a CIA agent has been killed and Jake LaFountaine and all the people who work for him take that very seriously. More seriously than you could possibly imagine, since you’ve never been in the intelligence business. So I don’t know exactly what your devious boss is having you do, but I’d suggest you not get cross-wired with LaFountaine, not over something as important as this.”
Chapter 15
The Metropolitan Correctional Center is in lower Manhattan, half a block from Foley Square, tucked in behind the U.S. Courthouse. It’s an unremarkable ten-story structure that looks like an apartment building whose architect had a penchant for long, narrow windows. A closer look at the windows reveals bars behind glass that has a somewhat yellowish tint. More obvious evidence of the building’s function is the concertina wire enclosing the balconies.
Emma took a slow walk around the facility noting the placement of security cameras. In the alley between the courthouse and the prison, she saw two television crews standing around smoking and drinking coffee. Also in the alley were two gleaming black limousines and standing next to the limos were four men in dark suits who had the attitude of bodyguards rather than chauffeurs. She wondered if some Madoff-like swindler was appearing in court that day.
She was dressed in casual clothes: jeans and a T-shirt. On her head was a long-billed baseball cap and covering her eyes and a good part of her face were oversized sunglasses. She didn’t want to be involved in this Sandra Whitmore mess and wished now that she had refused DeMarco’s request. One thing she was definitely not going to do was be identified as one of Whitmore’s visitors.
She approached the guard shack outside the facility. Keeping her head lowered so the camera behind the guard wouldn’t get a clearview of her face, she informed the guard she was a messenger hired by Whitmore’s lawyer to deliver a legal document she was required to place directly into Whitmore’s hands. She showed the guard a New York state driver’s license that identified her as Maxine Turner; the license was one of several she possessed from her days at the DIA, where she had sometimes needed alternate identities. She also showed the guard a corporate identification card that identified her as an employee of Elite Courier Services, a legitimate Manhattan messenger service. She had manufactured the ID that morning on Edith Baxter’s computer and had laminated it at a local Kinko’s. When the guard asked to see inside the envelope, Emma pulled out a six-page document she had downloaded from a Web site containing information in dense legal language about New York’s press-shield law. She didn’t show the guard the photograph that was also in the envelope. The guard directed her to a waiting room where she was patted down for weapons and contraband, then directed her to go through a metal detector, after which she was told that she would have to wait approximately forty-five minutes before she’d be allowed to see Whitmore.
Emma spent the time cursing DeMarco as she kept her face hidden by a magazine she found on one of the chairs in the room.
Sandra Whitmore sat across the table from Emma, sullen and suspicious. Her face was bloated, her eyes were puffy, and her hair was plastered to her skull as if it hadn’t been washed in days. She reeked of cigarette smoke. There was no reason for letting herself go like this, Emma thought. She wasn’t being held in a dungeon in Calcutta.
“Is that your source?” Emma asked, placing Dale Acosta’s
He didn’t bother to add,
if Mahoney will let me
.
“All right,” Emma said. “How will you get the photo to me?”
“I’ll e-mail it. Neil e-mailed it to me, so I’ll forward it to you.”
“Okay,” Emma said. She paused, then added, “Joe, you better watch what you’re doing.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean a CIA agent has been killed and Jake LaFountaine and all the people who work for him take that very seriously. More seriously than you could possibly imagine, since you’ve never been in the intelligence business. So I don’t know exactly what your devious boss is having you do, but I’d suggest you not get cross-wired with LaFountaine, not over something as important as this.”
Chapter 15
The Metropolitan Correctional Center is in lower Manhattan, half a block from Foley Square, tucked in behind the U.S. Courthouse. It’s an unremarkable ten-story structure that looks like an apartment building whose architect had a penchant for long, narrow windows. A closer look at the windows reveals bars behind glass that has a somewhat yellowish tint. More obvious evidence of the building’s function is the concertina wire enclosing the balconies.
Emma took a slow walk around the facility noting the placement of security cameras. In the alley between the courthouse and the prison, she saw two television crews standing around smoking and drinking coffee. Also in the alley were two gleaming black limousines and standing next to the limos were four men in dark suits who had the attitude of bodyguards rather than chauffeurs. She wondered if some Madoff-like swindler was appearing in court that day.
She was dressed in casual clothes: jeans and a T-shirt. On her head was a long-billed baseball cap and covering her eyes and a good part of her face were oversized sunglasses. She didn’t want to be involved in this Sandra Whitmore mess and wished now that she had refused DeMarco’s request. One thing she was definitely not going to do was be identified as one of Whitmore’s visitors.
She approached the guard shack outside the facility. Keeping her head lowered so the camera behind the guard wouldn’t get a clearview of her face, she informed the guard she was a messenger hired by Whitmore’s lawyer to deliver a legal document she was required to place directly into Whitmore’s hands. She showed the guard a New York state driver’s license that identified her as Maxine Turner; the license was one of several she possessed from her days at the DIA, where she had sometimes needed alternate identities. She also showed the guard a corporate identification card that identified her as an employee of Elite Courier Services, a legitimate Manhattan messenger service. She had manufactured the ID that morning on Edith Baxter’s computer and had laminated it at a local Kinko’s. When the guard asked to see inside the envelope, Emma pulled out a six-page document she had downloaded from a Web site containing information in dense legal language about New York’s press-shield law. She didn’t show the guard the photograph that was also in the envelope. The guard directed her to a waiting room where she was patted down for weapons and contraband, then directed her to go through a metal detector, after which she was told that she would have to wait approximately forty-five minutes before she’d be allowed to see Whitmore.
Emma spent the time cursing DeMarco as she kept her face hidden by a magazine she found on one of the chairs in the room.
Sandra Whitmore sat across the table from Emma, sullen and suspicious. Her face was bloated, her eyes were puffy, and her hair was plastered to her skull as if it hadn’t been washed in days. She reeked of cigarette smoke. There was no reason for letting herself go like this, Emma thought. She wasn’t being held in a dungeon in Calcutta.
“Is that your source?” Emma asked, placing Dale Acosta’s
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