John Miller - Inside Out

“I'd like one fully loaded,” Fifteen told the vendor, who had the good taste not to stare at his mutilated customer.

Fred couldn't think of anything to say. He had never been out in public with Fifteen before.

Fifteen took the hot dog, piled so high with chili and onions it looked to Fred as though it would be impossible even for a man whose mouth opened fully to eat without making a mess.

“Aren't you eating?” he asked Archer.

“Not at all.”

Fifteen made no move to pay for his meal, so Archer reached into his pocket, pulled out a ten, and gave it to the vendor.

“Keep the change,” Fifteen said.

Archer followed his benefactor to the stone steps where Fifteen sat, perching the hot dog on his lap. Archer sat down beside him, aware that people were staring at the odd couple.

“Did he tell you how he came to be inside that building?”

“No.”

“Did he tell you anything he saw while he was there?”

“Not a word.”

“I didn't think he would say anything. You'll let me know if he does?”

“Yeah, sure. But he told me that he knew somebody had gotten to me. The director wants me to-”

“I know what your director told you, Fred. Shapiro put the brakes on the interrogation with an offer your director's boss couldn't turn down.”

“Yeah.”

“Here you are, headed to New Orleans to do battle with that old crocodile Sam Manelli. Remember our deal?”

Archer remembered the favor Fifteen had asked in return for the Rook Island evidence that had all but solved the most important case of his career. The Russian connection, evidence on Nations, the search warrant leading to the instant picture of Dylan dead. This should have been over-but for Massey's interference, it would have been.

“This is divine providence, Fred. Sean Devlin can get you to him, so this deal is a very opportune one for you. You are about to get credit for solving the most important case of the decade and avenging all of those unfortunate deaths. This is where you take your step into the national spotlight, Fred. I so envy you.”

Archer's brain formed an image of him standing at the FBI podium staring out at an ocean of correspondents and knowing that untold millions would be hanging on his every word, memorizing his face as he spoke. He smothered a shit-eating grin with his hand.

“Two or three years here in New York, as assistant FBI director, heading the largest FBI office. Solving one high-profile case after the other until everybody in America is chatting you up. Book deals, movies based on your triumphs, Meet the Press…” He broke a piece of the wiener off and chewed it thoughtfully. “And then, when the time is right, FBI Director Fred T. Archer. That's our goal for you, Fred. That's going to be your future-if you do this right.”

Archer nodded.

Fifteen said, “I'll tell how you should proceed from here.”

Archer listened, taking the information in and filing it neatly in his mind.

“Once your team gets to New Orleans, things will be fluid and you'll be using an encrypted tactical radio channel. We'll be able to monitor your operation and advise you of minute-by-minute developments if we are to make sure this comes off without complications.”

Fifteen wiped chili from his scarred lips. “You will get full credit for taking Manelli down, and nobody will ever know you had help. You'll look brilliant.”

“I can't begin to tell you how much this means to me.”

“Don't bother trying, then.”

When a Lincoln Towncar pulled up to the curb, Fifteen stood. He turned to Archer and touched his hat's brim before climbing into the car and disappearing into morning traffic.

Charlotte, North Carolina

Hank hated using the computer instead of the encrypted phone because his typing was so slow, but Chief Marshal Shapiro was understandably wary about telephones now. The e-mail system they were using was routed through personal accounts on Yahoo! Shapiro told Hank it was the safest method there was, because unlike electronic transmissions, the NSA wasn't able to spot-check the millions of personal e-mails for matches.

Hank-Just spoke to W.M.-he's alive and well. Bring S. to Express Aviation Charlotte 1200 hours today-You will be escorting her to New Orleans for a day or two. Full explanation/written orders on plane. Take W.M. the copied set of the pages you faxed to me. Courier me the originals.

Hank was elated Winter was safe. He had made a copy of the pages Lieutenant Commander Reed sent Winter in order to preserve fingerprints on the originals so they could be matched later to a specific copier or printer. He kept an overnight bag in his car so he and Sean could make the noon flight easily. Now he needed to put Lydia at ease.

She answered on the first ring.

“Lydia, your boy is fine,” he told her. “It was like I thought. He got sidetracked and couldn't call.”

“Thank God. I've been going crazy. I can't believe he would act so irresponsibly. Actually I can.” Her tone was sharp. “Where is my son?”

“New Orleans.”

“New Orleans?”

“Lydia, is my wife still there?”

“Yes, she is.”

“Can you ask her to bring me a change of clothes for Winter and his gun rig?” Hank's wife, Millie, had been waiting with her for word on Winter since seven that morning.

“What was he thinking?” she said, her anger rising to the surface. “He had me worried to death. I don't know how much more of this I can take.”

“I'm sure he'll explain everything to you as soon as he can. Lydia, I need those things pronto.”

“I'll collect them.”

Hank's secretary buzzed him.

“I've got to go,” Hank said. He pressed the button, switching lines.

“Sir, Eddie says he's got your bullet.”

Hank strode through the bullpen, down the corridor past the booking room and the holding cell to the door marked EVIDENCE LAB.

Eddie Morgan ran the lab where evidence collected by the deputy marshals was packaged and shipped. He also ran the fingerprint table and the mug shot camera, and maintained their electronic equipment. He was short and overweight, balding, and had nervous, darting eyes. Sean's computer was open, and the technician was studying the electronic guts that he had spread out under a lighted magnifying glass on an adjustable armature.

“Get my bullet?”

Eddie held up a small plastic bag with a mushroomed bullet zip-locked inside it. “Stopped against the battery.”

“Forty-five?”

“Two-hundred-twenty grain, 45-caliber hollow point. The motherboard and the power supply are toast.”

“Ed, I want you to carry the gun and this bullet to the D.C. lab. I want the chain of this evidence unbroken, so you are to personally hand it over to the lab boys.”

“This is worth looking at.” With the eraser of his pencil, Eddie pointed to an object. “This little guy sure isn't a factory part. It was connected to the power supply.”

Eddie stood back to allow Hank to look through the glass. The small apparatus consisted of a gray plastic box the size of a folded matchbook and a disc no larger than a half dollar. There was nothing at all printed on the shell.

“What is it?”

“I've never seen anything like it.”

“Well, box it up, too, and then I want you to get on a plane. If there is no flight immediately, tell Eloise I said she's to lease you a fast one. I'll alert HQ you're on the way.”

“If you say so, Chief.”

“I just did.” Hank patted Eddie on the shoulder.

Sean showered in Hank's private bathroom. After drying off, she removed the store tags from the outfit she had selected to wear. Hank had sent a female deputy to shop for clothes from a list Sean had furnished covering the items she needed. At Hank's request Sean had made a list of styles, colors, and sizes. After she put on a gray turtleneck and khaki slacks, she turned her attention to the mirror. Her hair looked to her like a baby chicken's that had been rolled in oil-well mud and dried by a high-speed fan. She took the brush from the CVS bag and did her best to straighten it out. After being in spikes since she'd left Hoover's urban nonsense shop, it wasn't going to lie down without a fight.