Robert Bidinotto - Hunter

“ What? ”

“Yep. He risked his neck a dozen ways to run the story down. The trail led to a Russkie in Islamabad, one of the money guys. Being Malone, he didn’t play nice with Ivan. He snatched the guy from his digs, dragged him off somewhere, and tortured the bastard. He got Ivan to sing like Josh Groban. Malone got names, dates, details of the shipments, contents, and transactions. The guy told him that the Kremlin wanted to bleed us dry by arming and financing the Taliban. That Putin himself considered it to be payback for when Reagan backed the jihadists against the Red Army, back in the Eighties.”

“Malone got actual proof of this?”

Garrett nodded. “Taped confession and some damning paperwork. He managed to deliver it to our station chief before he went back into the field.”

“But that’s-”

“-political dynamite,” he finished. “As Malone would soon discover. When the Russians missed their man, they followed the same trail of informants backwards, to Malone. They convinced one of the informants to tell Malone there was a meeting planned between Russian embassy personnel and some top Taliban. They knew he’d want to witness and record it. Malone took along a SOG guy for backup. But when they got to the place, all that was waiting inside was an IED.”

“God!”

“Only because he was so careful opening the door did he survive at all. He stood to the side, but the blast still blew the door right back into him, smashing his face. He took a few pieces of shrapnel, too. The SOG guy was out covering the alley, so he was okay. He picked up Malone and drove him out of there. We got Special Forces medics to stabilize him and we flew him to Germany, then back here to Walter Reed.”

She tried to process it all. “Russia-backing the Taliban! Grant, why is this is the first time I’m hearing about this?”

His face was drawn into bitter creases. “Because after risking his life to get that explosive information, Matt Malone was betrayed once again. This time, by his own commander-in-chief. While Dr. Copeland was piecing his face back together, just a few miles south, our dear president decided that it would be far better for his future relationship with Putin to sweep the whole thing under the rug.”

“Do you mean to tell me that American troops are dying over there, thanks to the Russians-but nobody’s doing a damned thing about it?”

“If you’re angry, imagine how Malone felt when he found out.”

Once again, she looked at the photo on the coffee table. “How could they do that to him?”

“Can you see now why he would’ve been angry enough to blow Muller’s brains out?”

*

She sat in her office, hunched over a few sheets of paper and a man’s photo.

The papers were notes she’d been scribbling since the meeting with Garrett and Kessler ended an hour earlier. The photo was the one of Matt Malone.

She kept going back to the photo. Maybe if she could come to understand him better, she might be able to find him. Though now that they knew what they were up against, it seemed almost hopeless. Clearly, he was a genius in the clandestine arts. Probably a genius, period.

She tried to imagine the intensity of the idealism that could compel someone to such extremes. For she had no doubt, based on what they had said, that Matt Malone was a passionate idealist. A man so idealistic that he could lay down his life for his principles. Or, if necessary, kill for them.

It caused her to wonder about the depth of her own principles, and what she would or wouldn’t do in their name. What is the boundary line between a man of principle and a fanatic? Between a person moved to violence by a passion for justice, and a person motivated to violence by blood-lust and nihilism? Surely there was a difference, not in degree but in kind, between someone like Matt Malone and a typical terrorist. A moral difference. He seemed a reluctant warrior, someone for whom violence had become a last resort, not a preferred alternative.

She tried to put herself in his shoes, tried to fathom the sheer depths of his loneliness and isolation. She thought of his life history, of its promise, of what he could have become. Of what he should have become. He was a man of enormous talent, courage, and integrity. The sort of man who, in a just world, would be making headlines with his deeds.

What a tragic waste.

She heard the faint tone of her cell phone and dug it out of her purse. Frowned when she saw who it was.

“Yes, Detective Cronin,” she answered.

He chuckled. “I wonder how many heavy breathers have been put out of business by Caller ID?”

“Better living through technology. What’s up?”

“We haven’t talked for a while. Just wondered if anything new had developed?”

“Not really. He contacted me again. We’re going to get together this weekend.”

“Well, that’s something, at least. We lost track of him a couple of weeks ago. I don’t know how; we had his place staked out pretty well. Anyway, I called his editor at the Inquirer, and he said that Mr. Hunter told him he was off researching another crime piece.”

“No doubt. I wonder what new surprises he has in store for us?”

“You sound a bit negative. I thought you liked what he is writing.”

“Oh. Well, yes. I guess I’m just a bit tired.”

“Don’t lose your idealism, Ms. Woods. I like that about you. And, truth be told, I like your boyfriend’s idealism, too.”

“So do I,” she said. She glanced at Malone’s photo. Another idealist. She smiled to herself. I can’t seem to escape them.

“Well, as long as I have you on the line,” he continued, “I might as well bring you up to speed on the investigation. Don’t spread this around, but we have a blood sample of one of the shooters.”

It perked her interest. “Really. That’s great news. How did that happen?”

“We didn’t let it out to the press. But remember that Navarro killing a couple weeks ago? The guy owned a Doberman. It bit the shooter before he killed it and Navarro. We got the shooter’s blood sample off the dog. It had to be his blood, because it didn’t match Navarro’s. It’s our first real break, because when we eventually get a shooter suspect, we can check for a DNA match or maybe scars from dog bites.”

“That’s at least some progress.”

“The longer they do this, the more chances they take, the more mistakes they make, and the more clues they leave behind. And the people around them start to notice things, too. All the sneaking around.”

“It’s a shame you don’t have more than the blood to go on, so far.”

“Not much. Just that and the symbolic names.”

“Symbolic names?”

“Oh. Sorry. That hasn’t gotten out, either. The vigilante team has been using symbolic aliases.”

“I still don’t get what you mean.”

“You know, names like ‘Lex Talionis’ and ‘Edmond Dantes.’ Lex Talionis, that’s Latin for ‘eye for an eye.’ Old Testament justice, you see. They used that in Hyattsville, when a-”

Something froze inside her. “Did you say Edmond Dantes?”

“Yeah. One of our guys looked it up. That’s the hero in a classic revenge novel, Count of Monte Cristo. That guy was also a vigilante. So the way we-”

“Billy Joe Stoddard,” she mumbled.

“Excuse me?”

The walls seemed to be spinning.

Suddenly, things began to crash together.

Malone assassinates Muller, out of revenge.

And leaves behind the name of a fictional avenger as his signature.

The vigilantes assassinate criminals, also for revenge.

And leave behind the name of fictional avengers.

Matt Malone is a vigilante?

“Ms. Woods?”

She stared in shock at the photo on her desk.