Greg Iles - 24 Hours

“Condor,” she said softly. “Condor… condor.”

And then she had it.

“Oh my God,” she said, and a smile came to her face. “Condor” was Robert Redford’s code name in the film The Three Days of the Condor. And the line “Do you believe the condor is an endangered species?” had been spoken over the phone by Redford to Max von Sydow, who played the assassin in the movie. But the significance for Karen was that the line marked the turning point in the film, when Redford turned the tables on the men trying to find and kill him. That was Will’s message. He had somehow turned the tables on Hickey.

But how? What action could he have taken? Had he called the police? No. Not unless he had a way to keep Hickey thinking everything was still running according to plan. Tracing Huey’s phone seemed the most likely option, since Will had mentioned it before. But without Abby keeping the line open, how could it be traced? Maybe he’d gotten some information from Hickey’s wife. But why should she tell him anything? Had he threatened her? Bribed her? There was no way to know. She would have to do exactly what Will had told her to do. Trust him.

She hit DELETE and watched the message vanish, then looked at the clock on the study wall. She was going to have to wake Hickey to make his next check-in call. She didn’t want to do it. Letting him sleep was clearly the best strategy for her own safety. But if he failed to make even one call, Abby could die. And if Will did have someone trying to trace Huey’s cell phone, the man would have to actually switch the thing on and use it before he could be found.

Karen stood and began the long walk back to the bedroom.

Fifteen miles south of the Jennings house, Dr. James McDill and his wife sat on a leather couch in the office of the Special Agent-in-Charge of the Jackson field office of the FBI. His name was Frank Zwick, and McDill figured him for ex-Army, probably Intelligence or CID. A short, fit man in his late forties, Zwick spoke with the clipped cadence McDill remembered from certain officers in Vietnam. The SAC had been on and off the phone for the past half hour, talking to bank presidents, helicopter pilots, other SACs, and miscellaneous officials, constantly smoothing his too-black hair as he talked.

McDill’s identification of Cheryl Lynn Tilly at the Jackson police station had precipitated a storm of FBI activity. After Agent Chalmers phoned Zwick, the SAC had summoned the McDills back to the Federal Building along with eight field agents. Now they all stood or sat around his spacious office, listening to Zwick arrange the logistics of his campaign over the phone. McDill could only hear one side of the conversations, but he didn’t like the way the plan was shaping up. Suddenly, the phone clattered into its cradle and Zwick began addressing them.

“Here’s where we stand. One: the ransom. Every bank within thirty miles of Biloxi is set to report incoming wire transfers greater than twenty-five thousand dollars to this office. Two: tactical capability. We don’t have time to bring in a hostage rescue team from Quantico, so we’ll use our own special weapons team. Some of you are on it, and I know you’re more than capable of handling this operation. We’re also coordinating a weapons team out of the New Orleans field office, for anything required on the Gulf Coast. We’ve got more than enough surveillance gear on site here, and we’ll have twenty agents in this office by seven a.m., ready for action. We’ll have twenty more out of New Orleans for surveillance duty in Biloxi. Three: air support. We’ll have choppers both here and in Biloxi, ready for aerial surveillance and/or pursuit and assault.” Zwick made a steeple of his fingers and looked each of his agents in the eye. “Questions?”

No one had any. Or no one wanted to voice what might be viewed as dissent by his SAC. McDill had several questions, but just as he was about to voice one, Agent Chalmers said, “Sir? I wonder if we’re not jumping the gun a little on this.”

“How do you mean?” Zwick asked, looking none too pleased by the question.

“Dr. McDill identified Cheryl Lynn Tilly from the JPD mug books. But that doesn’t necessarily mean that the crime she took part in last year is actually being repeated this year. Does it?”

Zwick gave them a self-satisfied smile. He clearly knew something they didn’t, and he could scarcely contain his excitement. “Gentlemen, ten minutes ago, our resident agent in Gulfport showed a faxed photo of Cheryl Lynn Tilly to a bellboy in the Beau Rivage Hotel. That bellboy is positive he saw Tilly in the hotel yesterday afternoon.”

Every mouth in the room fell open.

“To quote Sir Arthur Conan Doyle-through the immortal voice of Sherlock Holmes-the game is afoot.”

In that moment McDill had a premonition of disaster. It wasn’t the quote itself. It was more the way Zwick had voiced it. And the context. At the core of all this frantic activity was a kidnapped child. A child who could die at any moment. And that took the situation about as far from a game as you could get.

“Our R.A. and that bellboy are reviewing the casino’s security tapes as we speak,” Zwick went on. “If they spot her, they’ll do a video capture and e-mail it up here for Dr. McDill to look at. Until then, we have to assume that McDill is right. There is a kidnapping-for-ransom taking place. The same crime has been executed five times previously by the same group, and probably within this jurisdiction.” Zwick laid his hands flat on the table. “Gentlemen, by tomorrow noon, those sons of bitches are going to be behind bars.”

McDill held up his hand.

“Yes, Doctor?”

He tried to choose his words carefully. “Sir, after hearing all these preparations, I’m starting to wonder if the central fact of all this is being given the priority it should.”

“What do you mean?”

“The kidnapped child. The hostage, as you call him. Or her. Somewhere not too far from here-if things are going as they did last year-a child is being held prisoner by a semiretarded man. That man is under instructions to kill the child if he doesn’t get a check-in call from the leader of his group every half hour. Given that, it’s difficult to see what you can accomplish with all this technology. Anything that alerts the leader to your presence could instantly result in the death of the child.”

Zwick gave McDill a patronizing smile. “Are you suggesting we do nothing at all, Doctor?”

“No. I’m simply speaking for those who can’t speak. Right this minute, a father a lot like me is probably sitting in a room in the Beau Rivage, sweating bullets over his child. He wants to pick up the phone and call you, but he knows he can’t. And he won’t. For good reason. I hope you can put yourself in that man’s place long enough to convince you to act with prudence.”

Zwicles smile faded. “Doctor, I fully understand the complexities of this operation. But I wonder if you do. Had you and your wife reported the kidnapping of your son last year, that father you’re talking about wouldn’t be sweating bullets in that hotel right now. And the man behind this kidnapping would be rotting in federal prison.”

Zwick looked as though he expected fireworks in response to this statement, but McDill simply sighed. “You may be right,” he conceded. “But my son is alive today, and I can live with my decision. I hope that by this time tomorrow, you can say the same about yours.”

The SAC’s face went red, but before he could vent his anger, Agent Chalmers stood and said, “Doctor, why don’t you come get some coffee with me?”

McDill took his wife’s hand and rose from the sofa, but he didn’t look away from Zwick as he walked to the door. He had looked away from too many officers in Vietnam, walked out of too many meetings without speaking his mind. At least tonight he would not have to feel the sickening regret he had felt then.