R. Ellory - A Quiet Vendetta

‘Woodroffe… what the fuck are you gonna do?’ Hartmann was shouting. ‘Catherine Ducane wasn’t there… you understand what I’m saying? Catherine Ducane wasn’t in the fucking motel cabin!’

Woodroffe stopped suddenly and turned on his heel. ‘Go down to the street,’ he said. ‘Go down there and tell the Recovery Unit Chief to go after the transporter. Take the clothes and give them to Forensics, and show this to the chief.’ Woodroffe handed Hartmann a single sheet of paper. It was headed with the FBI symbol, and beneath it was typed a concise route plan that the transporter would be taking back to Virginia.

Hartmann turned and ran back down the stairs.

Woodroffe entered the room where the computer system had been established and found Lester Kubis sitting there staring at the screen.

‘What is it? What do they say?’

Kubis turned slowly and looked at Woodroffe over the rim of his glasses. ‘This,’ he said quietly, ‘you are not going to like.’

Hartmann reached the street and found the Recovery Unit Chief.

‘Take this,’ he said, thrusting the sheet of paper at him. ‘This is the route plan the transporter is taking. Go after them and get Schaeffer and Perez back here.’

The chief turned and started back to the vehicle at a run.

‘Wait!’ Hartmann called after him. ‘Where are the clothes you found?’

The chief indicated an agent standing on the sidewalk holding a plastic evidence bag containing a pair of jeans, some shoes and other items they had found in the motel cabin.

Hartmann raised his hand and the chief hurried back to his vehicle.

Hartmann took the clothes and went back into the Sonesta. He found someone from Criminal Forensics. ‘Take these,’ he said. ‘Get them to the County Coroner’s office. Get hold of the coroner, a guy called Michael Cipliano, and find the assistant ME, Jim Emerson. Take whoever the hell else you need and get these clothes processed. We need the results of anything you find back here as fast as it can be done. Tell them it’s for Ray Hartmann, okay?’

The agent nodded, and hurried away with the bag containing everything that remained of Catherine Ducane’s stay at the Shell Beach Motel.

Hartmann stood on the sidewalk trying to catch his breath. Woodroffe was up on the second floor, the Recovery Unit was hightailing it down the street after Schaeffer and Perez, and Hartmann shook his head and wondered what the fuck was going on.

He went back into the foyer of the hotel just as the first radio calls came in for the remaining Feds to leave for the Feraud property. Units had been assigned from New Orleans itself, also from Baton Rouge, Metairie and Hammond. Among the wave of agents that would make their way out to Feraud’s property were Robert Luckman and Frank Gabillard, men who had believed they’d seen the last of this thing a little more than two weeks before. Two units posted in Lafayette had been alerted, but they could not arrive for a further hour or more. It seemed that it was no more than a minute before the foyer of the Sonesta was cleared of people, and Ray Hartmann was left standing there, his heart thundering in his chest, his thoughts a whirlwind of confusion as he realized that everything they had organized was falling apart at the seams.

He watched people run from the building to waiting cars. He heard the cars leaving, listened as they vanished into silence, and then he turned and looked towards the stairwell. Woodroffe was up there with Lester Kubis. Hartmann snatched a radio unit from the main desk to receive any calls from the recovery guys, and started up the stairs to find them.

Woodroffe was standing in the hallway with a single sheet of paper in his hands. The expression on his face was of a man lost. Completely and utterly lost.

‘What?’ Hartmann asked. ‘What did Quantico say?’

Woodroffe looked up. ‘They were cover names,’ he said quietly.

‘What were? Cover names for what? What in fuck’s name are you talking about?’

‘Emilie Devereau and David Carlyle.’

Hartmann shook his head and frowned.

Woodroffe held out the piece of paper. ‘They were cover names assigned by the security office of the Governor of Louisiana… cover names for Catherine Ducane and Gerard McCahill.’

Hartmann took a step back. There was something he didn’t understand, something that didn’t make sense. He opened his mouth to speak and silence issued forth.

‘Victor Perez was in love with Catherine Ducane all along,’ Woodroffe said. ‘What did he say? The two families that could never be together? It was Ducane’s family… his daughter was in love with Ernesto Perez’s son, and Victor asked his father to kill Ducane-’

Hartmann snatched the piece of paper from Woodroffe. His mind was reeling. He couldn’t grasp how this had been done. It was Perez all along. Perez had played them all. He had turned himself in to the FBI. He had shared his life with them, and in doing so had given evidence about Feraud and Ducane right to the director of the FBI. And Hartmann, in his eagerness to find the girl, had walked right out to Feraud’s house with John Verlaine and inadvertently informed Feraud of Perez’s location and intention.

Hartmann took a step back. He felt as if the whole world had tilted on its axis.

Antoine Feraud – believing perhaps that Ducane would be questioned and would implicate him – had sent his son to kill Ducane, and now Feraud himself would be taken in by the FBI. Both of the people responsible for the murder of Angelina and Lucia Perez would be delivered their own justice, and Perez…

‘Call the Recovery Unit,’ Hartmann said, his voice short, desperate-sounding. ‘Call the Recovery Unit and find out what the fuck has happened to Perez.’

‘The daughter was in on it, wasn’t she?’ Woodroffe was saying. ‘Catherine Ducane was in on it all along, wasn’t she? Wasn’t she?’

Hartmann shook his head. ‘I don’t know what the fuck has happened here,’ he said. ‘Right now I want to know what the fuck they’ve done with Schaeffer. Who sent these people from Langley? What were their names?’

‘McCormack and Van-something or other-’

‘Van Buren,’ Hartmann said. He turned to Kubis. ‘Call Quantico and find out if they sent people down to take Perez to Virginia.’

Kubis frowned. ‘Did no-one check already? Did no-one check the requisition paperwork?’

Woodroffe turned and looked at Kubis. ‘You see how many agents we had down there?’ he snapped angrily. ‘Did you see how many people were in and out the front of this building? This is one almighty fuck-up, I’ll tell you that much for nothing. Someone’s gonna lose their fucking head over this-’

‘Well, let’s hope to God it isn’t Schaeffer,’ Hartmann said, and once again told Kubis to call Langley and find out the names of the agents sent down to collect Perez.

Within a minute he turned and shook his head. ‘They didn’t send anyone yet,’ he said quietly, and then once again turned away from Woodroffe and Hartmann as if he did not wish to be involved in this any further.

Hartmann looked at Woodroffe.

Woodroffe stared back blankly, and then: ‘Schaeffer’s dead, isn’t he?’

‘I’m going,’ Hartmann said. ‘I’m going after them.’

‘You ain’t leaving me here,’ Woodroffe replied, and turning to Kubis he said, ‘We’re going after the Recovery Unit… if there’s any word on anything call me on the radio, okay?’

Kubis nodded, didn’t say a word, and watched silently as Hartmann and Woodroffe left the room and started down the stairwell.

‘This is beyond comprehension,’ Woodroffe was saying, but even as he said it he knew it was not. They had all been captivated by Perez’s performance, and there was the girl, always the girl… the promise that if they listened they would find the girl and she would be alive, and within hours she would be returned to the care of her father.