David Baldacci - The Innocent

The number on the ID was known as a “blue” call. It came right from the top of his agency. Robie had never gotten one of those before. But he had memorized the number. He would have to answer it. But that didn’t mean he had to be particularly cooperative.

He clicked the phone key and said, “You can’t trace this call. You know that.”

“We need to meet,” the man said.

It wasn’t his handler. Robie knew it wouldn’t be. Blue calls did not come from handlers in the field.

“I had a meeting last night. I don’t think I can survive another.”

“There will be no repercussions for you.”

Robie said nothing. He let his silence convey the absurdity of this statement.

“Your handler was wrong.”

“Good to know. I still didn’t complete the assignment.”

“The intel was also wrong.”

Robie said nothing. He had an idea where this might be going and wasn’t sure he wanted to go there.

“The intel was wrong,” said the man again. “What happened was unfortunate.”

“Unfortunate? The woman was supposed to die. She was also an American citizen.”

Now it was the other man’s turn to say nothing.

“IG’s Office,” said Robie. “I was told she was part of a terrorist cell.”

“What you were told is irrelevant. Your job is to execute the order.”

“Even if it’s wrong?”

“If it’s wrong, it’s not your job to deal with it. It’s mine.”

“And who the hell are you?”

“You know this is a blue call. It’s above your handler. Well above. Let’s leave it at that until we can meet.”

Robie watched as Julie came back around from the restroom and went inside to return the key.

“Why was she targeted?”

“Listen, Robie, the decision on you can be changed. Is that what you want?”

“I doubt it matters what I want.”

“Actually it does. We don’t want to lose you. We consider you a valuable asset.”

“Thanks. Where’s my handler?”

“Reassigned.”

“You mean he’s dead too?”

“We don’t play those games, Robie. You know that.”

“I apparently don’t know a damn thing.”

“Things are what they are.”

“Keep telling yourself that. You might start believing it.”

“We’re in damage control, Robie. We need to work together on this.”

“I’m not feeling real good about working with you guys ever again.”

“But you need to move beyond that. In fact, it’s imperative that you do.”

“Let’s move on to this. Did you send someone to kill me last night? Guy with a rifle in an alley? Has my shoe prints on his face? Might still be lying unconscious, in fact, in an alley.”

“He was not one of ours. I can promise you that. Give me the exact location and we’ll check it out.”

Robie didn’t believe him, but it didn’t really matter. He told the guy where it had happened and left it at that.

“What do you want from me? More missions? I’m not in the mood. Next, you might have me taking out a Boy Scout.”

“There’s an investigation going on in connection with the death of Jane Wind.”

“Yeah, I guess there is.”

“FBI is heading it up.”

“I guess they are.”

“We want you to act as an agency interface with the Bureau.”

As many scenarios as Robie had thought through, that had not been one of them.

“You can’t be serious.”

Silence.

“I’m not going anywhere near this.”

“We need you to be the liaison. And we need you to play it the way we want you to. That is essential.”

“Why would we need a liaison to this case in the first place?”

“Because Jane Wind was working for us.”

The meeting place and time was arranged and Robie slowly put away his phone. He looked through the gap in the hedge as the cab rolled into the gas station parking lot. Julie came out of the station with a pack of cigarettes and a bottle of juice.

She has ID showing she’s eighteen.

She climbed into the cab and it immediately drove off.

Robie set off and took up a tracking position roughly fifty yards back in traffic.

He was not concerned about losing her. He had slipped a digestible biotransmitter into her scrambled eggs. It would be good for twenty-four hours and then it would wash out of her system. His tracking monitor was strapped to his wrist. He looked down at it and fell back even more. No sense letting her know she had a tail if he didn’t have to risk it. She had already proven that she possessed better than average observation skills. She might be young, but she was not to be underestimated.

The cab turned onto Interstate 66 and headed east toward D.C.

Traffic was heavy at this hour. The morning commute into D.C. from the west was routinely abysmal. You rode in with the sun in your eyes and you rode out the same way in the evening along with thousands of other pissed-off commuters.

Being on the Honda allowed Robie to be more nimble than in a car, and he was able to keep within sight of the cab. It rode 66 in, crossed the Roosevelt Bridge, and hung a right at the fork, which took it over to Independence Avenue. They quickly moved from the touristy monument area of D.C. to less beautiful parts of the capital.

The cab stopped at an intersection where a number of old duplexes were located. She got out, but must have told the cab to wait. She walked down the street and the cab followed slowly. She stopped at one duplex, took out her small camera, and clicked some pictures of it. She took pictures of the surrounding area, then climbed back in the cab and it sped off.

Robie made note of the address of the duplex and took up his tail once more.

About ten minutes later Robie realized where she was headed, and part of him couldn’t believe it. The other part of him could understand it, though.

She was heading back to the location of the bus explosion.

The cab had to let her out a couple of blocks from her destination because roads were closed off by police barricades. Robie looked around and saw cops and Feds everywhere. This blast had taken everyone by surprise. Robie could imagine lots of Tums were being dropped into federal mouths all over town.

He parked his bike, slipped off his helmet, and took up his pursuit on foot. She was a full block ahead of him. She never once looked back. That made him suspicious, but he kept on. She turned and he turned. She turned again, and so did he. They were now on the same street where the bus had ceased to be. One block over the street was closed to pedestrians as well. The police didn’t want people traipsing through their evidence beds. Robie could see what was left of the bus, even though the police were in the process of erecting large metal frames with curtains on them to shield this sight from the public.

Robie looked at the spot where he had landed after the blast occurred. He still had no idea where his gun was. That was troubling. He looked up higher, at the corners of buildings. Were there surveillance cameras posted here? Perhaps on some of the traffic lights. He looked for ATM machines, which had cameras built in. There was a bank across the street. It would not have recorded him and Julie getting off the bus, because it was positioned on the wrong side of the street for that. Right now no one knew that they were the sole survivors of the explosion.

He spied a woman in her late thirties wearing an FBI windbreaker and FBI ball cap. Dark hair, pretty face. She was about five-six and slender, with the narrow hips and the fanned shoulders of an athlete. She had one-inch Bureau work shoes on, black pants, and latex gloves. Her badge and gun rode on her belt.

Robie saw both special agents and uniformed cops talking to her. He noted their air of deference when addressing her. She might be the special agent in charge of this thing. He pulled back into the shadow of a doorway and continued watching, first the FBI agent, and then Julie. Finally Julie turned and walked down the street away from the bus’s remains. Robie waited a few moments and then followed.