F Wilson - Deep as the Marrow

Bob wondered what was bugging him. He repeated the question.

“I can only guess,” Keane said slowly, as if choosing his words carefully. “The Cali cartel—and that pretty much means Emilio Rojas these days—has the most money, but the Mexican traffickers have the most Stateside contacts now. Could be Rojas working through the Mexicans, or the Mexicans acting on their own.”

Bob hid his annoyance. He’d hoped for a little more in-depth analysis from the assistant director of the DEA.

“What’s your best guess?”

“Best guess? I’d say Mexicans. Kidnapping is an art form in Colombia; they’d bring in their own people. But I can see the Mexicans hiring local talent. We keep tabs on Carillo, Garcia, Esparragosa, and the other big shots. I’ll run a check and see if any of them have been crossing the border lately.”

That was better. “Good. All right. We all know what we have to do. Don’t waste any time. This is top priority.” He wished he could tell them they only had till Tuesday, but only he and Razor knew that. “I say we meet back here at six p.m.—sooner if something breaks.”

As they began to rise. Bob said. “I know I don’t need to repeat what the President said when you all first got here, but I will anyway. Nothing said here goes beyond these walls. Doesn’t matter who asks, whether it’s the director of your agency or a senator or a cabinet member, you say nothing. Razor has signed an executive order to that effect, so you’re off the hook. It’s not that you don’t want to discuss it, you are forbidden to discuss it. And I want to know immediately the name of anyone who presses you about it.”

Dan Keane was the first out—seemed in a big hurry to leave—followed by Jim Lewis. Gerry Canney hung back, the cooler dangling in his hand.

“Thanks for calling me in, Bob. I appreciate the confidence.”

Bob smiled and thought of the close call they’d had with a certain Dr. Lathram a few years back. “Not the first time we’ve worked together on a plot against a president. Except you may never get a chance to talk about this one.”

Canney shrugged. “I’ll save it for my memoirs. But more than anything I want to get that little girl back alive.”

“Thinking of Martha?” Bob said.

“How can I not? Katie Vanduyne is only a couple of years younger.” He glanced down at the cooler. “I don’t know what I’d do if someone ever…” He shuddered.

“I know,” Bob said. His own boys were teenagers, but it seemed only yesterday that they’d been small and so much more vulnerable.

When Canney was gone, Bob sat down and began making notes and organizing his information. He couldn’t have a secretary in on this, so he had to do it himself.

Not a bad start. Dan Keane tracking from the drug lords toward Snake. Jim Lewis tracking from the anonymous remailer toward Snake. Gerry Canney tracking from Katie Vanduyne’s toe toward Snake.

Snake, my man, whoever you are, wherever you are, you’re the key. And you’re in deep shit. Because we’re going to find you. And when we find you, we squeeze you. We squeeze you like no one’s ever been squeezed before. We squeeze until you cough up who you’re working for. And then we find them and squeeze again. And pretty soon we get to the guy who started it all.

By Tuesday, please God.

9

After a quick stop at his office to pick up his briefcase, Dan Keane hurried along Sixth Street toward the Mall. The chances of his running into someone he knew downtown on a Saturday were slim to none, but he kept watch, kept glancing around, unable to escape the feeling that someone was following him.

Just paranoia, he knew. And well deserved. The plan was unraveling before his eyes. The weak link had always been Vanduyne, and he’d broken.

But not before dosing Winston with that antibiotic, thank God. That was all that mattered: taking Winston out.

And making sure nothing linked the plot to the drug cartels. Because if that was ever established, it would advance the decriminalization cause—precisely the opposite effect Dan wanted.

Dan was in the clear, at least. Nothing to link him to Vanduyne, the kidnappers, or Salinas. And to lessen the possibility of linking Salinas to the plot, the whole kidnap apparatus had to be immediately dismantled and its components scattered.

But what about the child? What happened to her?

He tried not to think about that little girl. Yes, she had a name, but he kept it far to the rear of his thoughts, kept telling himself she’d be all right, but already he knew she was anything but. Great God in heaven, what sort of monster can carve a toe off a child?

Dan knew exactly what kind. And this was simply further proof that these slimy bastards had to be eliminated—not by legalizing their filthy trade, but by hunting them down, rounding them up, locking them away from decent society and throwing away the key.

Dan knew his particular monster’s name. He was going to speak to him today. Now.

The little girl would be all right. But even if she weren’t— He couldn’t believe he was actually thinking this, but even if she weren’t all right, even if it worked out that she never made it back to her home, she was only one life. If she was the means that put an end to Winston and his decriminalization plans, her single life would be spent to save countless others.

Keep thinking about the big picture, he told himself. Don’t let the minutiae swallow you up. What was one little life weighed against the unraveling of the moral fiber of an entire nation?

One little life…

He spotted a phone near the Air and Space Museum and stepped up to it. He removed the battery-operated voice distorter from his briefcase and glanced around. No one nearby. He attached the mechanism to the mouthpiece, dropped a quarter in the slot, and dialed. He had no doubt Salinas was recording these calls, and doing his damnedest to trace them. Good luck. Dan used a different phone every time, and in the highly unlikely event that the tapes ever got to court, the distorter would confound any attempt at voiceprint analysis.

When someone on the other end answered, Dan said, “Put Salinas on.” The first few times he’d called there’d been some argument about calling him back. Dan had always refused. Those days were gone. Now when they heard his distorted voice, they put him right through.

“Yes?” he heard Salinas say. “Who’s calling?”

He pictured the fat slob sitting in a chair or on a sofa, his belly drooping between his spread thighs. When was the last time you saw your dick, pig? Dear God, he hated his type. That was why he’d joined DEA—to rid the earth of them.

But Salinas was no dummy. Dan had to hand him that. He, too, assumed the calls were being recorded, so he always played dumb. No one was going to entrap Carlos Salinas.

And so they began their verbal dance.

“You know damn well who it is,” Dan said.

“Sorry, I don’t recognize the voice. Must be a bad connection.”

“Right. The worst ever. Here’s what you need to know: The target is being admitted to the hospital later today.”

“That is too bad for Mr. Target, but I don’t believe I know him.”

“Maybe you know his doctor. Shortly after treating the target, the doctor confessed to his mistake. A number of agencies are involved in trying to unravel the matter.”

A long pause on the other end. Dan was sure this was the last thing Salinas wanted to hear.

“But Mr. Target is sick?”

“Not yet, but he expects to be. The doctor, obviously, is of no further use, therefore the apparatus you assembled to put pressure on him must be dismantled immediately, and his valuables returned to him.”

“Valuables?”

“Yes. The valuable thing you took from him.”