Michael Davidson - In the Shadow of Mordor

“Dammit, Krystal, I wouldn’t call you if it weren’t important.” He paused for a beat before adding, “I have information pertinent to what you’re working on, and it’s pretty urgent.”

“Can you come to my office?”

“I don’t think that would be a good idea. Listen, just meet me. I’ll tell you what I know, and then it’ll be up to you to take the next step.”

“Sorry, Bob, it’ll have to wait.”

She was startled when Strachey raised his voice. “Murphy, drop your goddamned bullheadedness and get your Irish ass to the bar at the Mayflower at twelve noon. I’ll be waiting for you. And I assure you that if you don’t come, you’ll regret it.”

He closed the connection.

What the fuck? Who had put the wind up his ass? He had never spoken to her that way before. Murphy decided she’d better make the meeting at the Mayflower, although it would take her a solid hour or more to fight her way into DC and find a place to park. She decided to call Ferguson over at the FBI.

“Nothing has come in from Quantico yet, has it?” she asked, already knowing the answer.

“Only that they’ve identified the explosive as C-3, pretty common stuff, but it’s more confirmation that we’re dealing with terrorists. The lab is working 24/7. At best, we might learn something more late today.”

“I’ll be in town this afternoon,” she said, “Can I stop by the Hoover Building to catch up?”

He agreed, and she headed for the parking lot and commandeered a heavy police cruiser for the drive downtown.

The few people who had ventured onto the roads were driving like demented Italian taxi drivers, and there was no place to park on streets piled high with plowed snow. Therefore, by the time she made it to the Mayflower after leaving the cruiser in a public garage and trudging four blocks through slush and falling snow, Murphy was in a black mood.

She found her friend sitting in the venerable hotel bar nursing a martini. Just shy of fifty, Strachey retained a rugged athleticism. His fashionably cut brown hair was just beginning to show some gray, and he was dressed impeccably in a dark blue suit, the standard uniform of the well-heeled “K” Street lobbyist.

He raised his glass to her. “Want one? You look like you need it.”

She shrugged out of her Arlington Police parka and took a stool next to him. “A little early in the day, isn’t it, Bob?”

His lips twisted into a wry smile. “It’s after six o’clock somewhere. Can I buy you lunch?”

“That would be small repayment for making me come here, but I’ll take you up on it.”

They ordered sandwiches from the barman and headed to banquette along the wall in the back.

“I don’t have time for small talk, Bob. What’s this big deal you couldn’t tell me on the phone?” Recalling his earlier outburst, she added, “And it better be good.”

Strachey lowered his head in appropriate contrition. “Sorry about that, Krystal, but old habits die hard. I received a call this morning from an old friend.

Krystal allowed her impatience to show. “What’s has this got to do with what I’m working on now?”

“I’m coming to that. It’s about the Russians. I think I have a lead to the person who made those anonymous calls to the news services. If everything my friend told me is true, there is a definite Russian connection to your case, and probably a lot more.”

That got her attention. “That doesn’t make any sense.”

“It wouldn’t be the first time they’ve killed people outside of Russia. Remember Litvinenko.”

“Yes, but this was mass murder, random violence. I don’t see a Russian connection.”

“Technically, the Litvinenko assassination was a Russian nuclear attack on British soil. That didn’t make much sense either. I think they’ve gone completely off their nut in the Lubyanka. My friend isn’t prone to fantasy or exaggeration. You need to talk to him.”

Despite her doubts, Krystal was all too aware that every lead, however tenuous, had to be followed.

“When can I see your friend?” she asked.

“It’ll take some doing. He’s a long way from Washington, and there’s the snow to contend with. But now that I have your attention, let me tell you the whole story.”

Their sandwiches forgotten, Krystal listened in fascinated silence to the tale of a Russian girl and a gun battle at an isolated cabin in the Shenandoah Valley. When he was finished, she said, “That’s simply unbelievable.”

“Yeah, I know, but the old guy isn’t a nutcase. His name is only whispered in the halls of Langley. You need to find a way to get to him and the girl before anything else happens.”

She was still dubious, but Strachey was as serious as a heart attack. She said, “The Bureau has the lead on this case. I’ll have to bring them in.”

Strachey made a sour face. Old habits die hard, and his generation of Agency officers had not enjoyed particularly good relations with the feebies. “The feds might not have enough imagination to take this seriously.”

“No choice. And I know someone who will listen. But I’m surprised you didn’t go straight to the Agency with this.”

“Hells bells, Krystal, the way they’re running that place now I doubt they’d know what to do any more than the feebies. And if even half of the story is true, this is nothing you want spread over half of Washington, and Langley leaks like a sieve.”

“I’ll do what I can.”

Krystal called Nick Ferguson from her car. She told him she would be at the Hoover Building in fifteen minutes.

She knew Ferguson would hate the idea, but the potential involvement of the Russians meant that Executive Assistant Director Enoch Whitehall should be brought into the case. She trusted Whitehall.

Ferguson met her in the lobby. “What’s up? Do you have something solid?”

“Erm, maybe. But you might not like what I want to do with it.”

Ferguson’s winter pallor went a bit whiter at the mention of Whitehall’s name.

“This is something he will have to decide,” she concluded

“Nobody just walks in on Enoch Whitehall,” he said. “It’ll take hours even to get a request through to him. And you’re supposed to be working for me and the JTTF, remember.”

“That’s not exactly correct. I’m in charge of liaison with the FBI on behalf of the Arlington County Police. That means I get to decide what part of the FBI I talk to.”

That’s right, she thought, vintage Krystal Murphy, adept at making enemies. She was almost sorry for Ferguson. The Special Agent was staring at her with a mixture of anger and astonishment.

She grabbed her cell phone from her belt and scrolled for a number Whitehall had given her a long time ago. She hoped it was still viable.

Ferguson continued to stare as the wise-ass Arlington cop spoke her name into the phone, listened for a moment, mentioned Ferguson’s name, nodded and ended the call. She flashed what might have been a triumphant smile and said, “We have an appointment on the third floor. Follow me.”

A short elevator ride and a walk down a corridor via a route with which Murphy appeared familiar, brought them to a door with a brass plaque bearing the name of Enoch Whitehall, Executive Assistant Director for Counterintelligence.

Ferguson numbly followed Murphy through the door. This was a sacrosanct precinct that he had never before entered. The office belonged to a legend at the Bureau, a man about whom much was whispered, but few had seen. And now this local cop was leading him to meet the man behind the legend.

They entered an anteroom presided over by a dragon in the form of a woman of indeterminate age, and undeniable hostility that hinted at hidden super powers. She eyed them suspiciously from behind an enormous desk. Krystal knew that the woman’s name was Jeanne. The hostility subsided when she recognized Krystal. But she lifted an eyebrow at Ferguson.