John Miller - Inside Out

“What about me?” Sean asked.

“You will be going on to D.C., Mrs. Devlin.”

“I'd prefer to stay with Deputy Massey.”

“We'll make whatever arrangements we feel are appropriate. You'll be informed as those decisions are formalized.”

“You just said that you're in charge,” Sean said coldly. “As next of kin, I should be able to visit the place where my husband died. If you can't okay that, please ask for permission. I'd like a chance to speak to the head of the marshals. Perhaps I have no choice but to be passed around between marshals and the FBI, but I will not be led about by a ring in my nose without protest.”

“We wouldn't dream of having you think of us as bullies, Mrs. Devlin,” Archer responded, perhaps not wanting to look like a tyrant in front of such a beautiful woman. “I'd be happy to allow you to accompany the deputy here to Virginia and hand you over to the marshals. You have thirty minutes, if you'd like to freshen up. We've moved your things to the cook's quarters.”

As he packed, Winter could hear Sean running water in Jet's bathroom. As he exited his bedroom he saw that Jet's door was standing open. Sean didn't see him when she placed Martinez's suitcase outside and closed the door. Bureau technicians had used yellow evidence tape to seal the battered Samsonite case, making it look like a gift.

Due to their tight cylindrical cabins, Lear jets were often referred to as executive mailing tubes. Winter and Sean belted themselves into the bench seat in the rear. Archer and Finch were in the foremost seats, across the narrow aisle from each other. Sean's briefcase fit edgewise in the space between her and Winter on the sofalike, forward-facing bench. Winter had stowed their bags in the cargo section behind them.

Winter didn't want to think about Greg. He wanted his mind to stop replaying the images of the night before-Martinez, the flight across the island, the UNSUBs-but he had no choice. He listed in his head what he knew about the UNSUBs. They were as cold-blooded as men get. They'd been trained by the military, probably Special Forces. People didn't learn high-altitude, low-opening jumps from watching television. They had access to the latest weaponry. Two operations, like the simultaneous assaults at Cherry Point and Rook Island, didn't just happen. The killers didn't fly by the seats of their pants, improvising, and they didn't luck into anything. They had known Devlin was being kept on Rook Island. The killers had to have had an inside source for the intelligence their mission required. Winter thought Archer's assessment, that the assassins who landed on Rook were there as insurance in case Dylan's travel plans were changed at the last minute, was probably correct.

Winter stared out the window at the ground passing below, unseeing. His inner theater replayed the last few seconds he and Greg had been together like it was on a video loop.

Ward Field, Virginia

As the Lear embarked on its descent, Winter peered out and saw the derelict red-and-white-checkerboard-painted water tank that signified a military airfield. He stared down expecting to see the skeletal remains of a jet, but what he saw was the twisted steel of what had been a massive hangar and an enormous amount of activity on the ground below.

The grassy tarmac on the side of the runway was choked with small jets, a cargo plane, and two helicopters. Police cruisers, trucks, emergency vehicles, and cars were scattered around the blackened hangar ruins. Long black water hoses snaked from a trio of fire trucks.

Their pilot parked near a Gulfstream and cut the engines, and the copilot opened the clamshell door so Archer and Finch could exit. Winter spotted a group of men striding toward the Lear wearing jackets that identified them as either US marshals or FBI agents. One of them was United States Chief Marshal Richard Shapiro.

Archer spoke to Shapiro for a few seconds, then led Finch and the other FBI agents toward two canopy tents. Folding tables, with laptop computers and radios, had been arranged in a horseshoe to define the command post. In the adjacent tent, evidence bags covered several tables. Technicians were photographing the contents of each bag before handing it over to other techs for labeling and cataloging. A mobile chiller unit to handle human remains was located behind the evidence tent.

Winter stepped down and stood in the grass outside the door. Shapiro looked fatigued and concerned. He shook Winter's hand briskly. “Outstanding job on the island, Winter. This is all so…”

Shapiro's silence was as heavy with grief as a wail. He cleared his throat and looked past Winter. “Please, Mrs. Devlin. If you'll stay inside the plane for a few minutes. We have a lot to discuss and we will talk soon, you and I. First I need to have a few words in private with Deputy Marshal Massey.”

“Sure,” Sean said noncommitally. She disappeared back into the cabin.

Two deputies took up positions on either side of the door as though she might try to escape.

“Terrible about Deputy Martinez,” Shapiro said. “And this.”

“What happened?”

Shapiro took a deep breath. “The jet was inside the hangar when it blew up. There's very little left in the way of evidence.”

“Do you know how they were killed?”

“They found a skull fragment with an entry wound, probably. 45 caliber. The hijackers murdered the pilots at Cherry Point using manual strangulation. Wearing the pilots' uniforms, they overcame our team after they were inside the plane. Ground personnel saw the men get into the craft but they didn't notice anything unusual. The jet taxied and took off normally. As it climbed out, it rose to ten thousand feet, then plunged below radar and obviously turned west.”

Winter was staring at the evidence tent while Shapiro spoke. He saw Archer and Finch inside the tent where technicians were pointing out evidence bags. Archer had clearly taken charge.

“I can only imagine how difficult this has to be for you.” Shapiro paused. “I know how close you were to Inspector Nations.”

Winter nodded, too full of emotion to speak.

“The FBI suspects someone in WITSEC provided inside intelligence. This is an FBI investigation, and we're here at their pleasure and are being excluded from participation. Tell me what happened last night,” Shapiro said. “The broad strokes.”

Winter told Shapiro the story, ending with the UNSUB who knew his name. Shapiro listened without interrupting, then shifted so his back was to the FBI's tents.

“I've ordered the WITSEC director to open an internal investigation to examine everything, including the various methods of communication we utilized and whether any of the transmissions could have been intercepted. I don't believe there is a leak from within WITSEC. We assumed that there are so many flags, triggers, and hidden traps that it's impossible. For decades we've tried to imagine every way a thing like this could be accomplished and we constantly design, refine, and implement counter measures. Only a handful of men had access to enough of the information to furnish the necessary intelligence, and, believe me, we monitor all of them closely. The fact that one of the assailants knew your name means, either he somehow recognized you, or somebody within the service sold us out.”

Winter nodded slowly. He hoped it was the latter, because the former was too terrible to contemplate.

Later, while Shapiro was in the Lear with Sean, Winter wandered over to the evidence tent. He listened to the sound of the refrigeration compressor atop the chiller unit as he stood outside the tent and studied the bags littering one of the tables.

He found himself staring at an open case, which held a badge and a scorched ID picture of Dixon beside it. Archer's voice interrupted his thoughts. “Deputy Massey, can you match some of this with individuals for us?”