Дэвид Балдаччи - Walk the Wire

“Or why she was here?” said Decker.

“Precisely.”

“There’s an old man at that nursing home named Brad Daniels who worked at the London Air Station decades ago. Irene, under the name Mary Rice, worked as a physical therapist and met Daniels that way.”

“We actually knew about her job at the nursing home,” said Blue Man. “We paid for PT training for her. I think she continually changed occupations just to make us do things for her. Provide her education and money.”

“She must have hated you all very much,” pointed out Jamison.

“No doubt she did, as I would have if the positions were reversed. But this elderly gentleman, Daniels? Explain, please.”

Decker said, “We talked to him. He clammed up when we asked him about the work he’d done here. Said it was classified.”

“And when Decker told him that Mary Rice had been murdered, he lost it. Screamed at us to get out.”

“You think he told her something? That’s why she came here?” This comment came from Robie.

Decker and Jamison both nodded. “That’s right,” she said.

“And perhaps he feels guilt for what happened to her,” said Blue Man. “Which might have caused his anger.”

Decker looked at Blue Man. “What do you know about the Douglas S. George Defense Complex?”

“The Air Force, in theory, runs it. But it is odd.”

“What is?” asked Jamison.

“There’s a similar facility on the other side of North Dakota. The one here was constructed in the fifties, the other one in the sixties. The latter only operated for a very short time before being decommissioned; its original mission had fallen into disfavor and its price tag became too costly. But it still tracks the skies with its PARCS radar array.”

“Just like the one here?” said Jamison.

“Yes.”

“So they’re redundant?” noted Decker.

“Exactly.”

“In addition to the ambulances and the men Robie saw being wheeled away, we talked to a farmer who lives right next to the facility.” Decker went on to explain what Robert White had seen that night.

“That is quite disturbing,” said Blue Man.

“But maybe enlightening, too?” suggested Decker.

“Illuminating, at the very least,” replied Blue Man. “Robie?”

“Yes, sir?”

“We’ll need to check that out. Now.”

“Right.” Robie left.

Blue Man looked back at Decker. “This is obviously far more than a murder investigation.”

“I’m just a cop doing his job.”

“I have no doubt that you will do your job, Mr. Decker. And your country needs you to.”

“If this sucker is that critical, why don’t you call in the big boys?”

Blue Man looked at him with calm resignation. “The problem is, Mr. Decker, I strongly suspect they’re already here.”

Decker and Jamison drove back to London. When they got there they passed by a sleek six-story apartment building that looked fairly new.

“Isn’t that Hugh Dawson?” said Jamison.

The man was climbing out of a late-model black Range Rover.

“Yeah, it is.”

“He’s out late.”

They watched as Dawson looked furtively around and then strode through the front door and into the building.

“Pull over,” said Decker.

Jamison parked at the curb and they got out.

Jamison followed Decker into the building. There was a concierge desk, and they heard elevator doors closing as they approached it.

A young woman was at the desk, dressed in a trim dark blue uniform with a name tag that read SARAH. She said, “May I help you?”

Decker and Jamison approached the desk. Decker said, “Sarah, we work for Mr. Dawson. We know he was scheduled to be here. I think we might have just missed him.” He patted his jacket pocket. “We have some papers he needed. He forgot them and called us to bring them to him.

“You did just miss him. He’s already gone up in the elevator. I can take them up.”

Decker frowned and shook his head. “I’m sure you’re perfectly reliable. But Mr. Dawson is very particular. And these documents are confidential. If he knew I gave them to an unauthorized person I’d be out of a job.”

The woman looked at Jamison.

“He’s not kidding,” said Jamison.

“Well, all right, I guess it’s okay. He went up to number five-oh-three.”

“Right. That’s—” He looked helplessly at Jamison. “Crap, I forgot the guy’s name.” He glanced apologetically at the concierge. “Mr. Dawson does so many deals. It’s hard to keep them all straight.”

She smiled and said, “It’s Mr. McClellan’s apartment.”

“Exactly. I knew that’s who it had to be. Good old Stuart McClellan. Well, thanks.”

They got on the elevator and took it up to the fifth floor.

“Dawson is meeting secretly with McClellan?” said Jamison.

“Not so secret if the concierge knows about it,” replied Decker.

“What do you think is going on?”

“Those binders he had on his desk? He told us he was working on some big deal. Maybe that deal is with McClellan.”

“But I thought they didn’t get along.”

“Lots of people who don’t get along still do deals together.”

“You think this has something to do with our investigation?”

“It’s possible. People have been killed and abducted. Walt Southern was blackmailed. Parker was hired by Hugh Dawson. He and McClellan are the two wealthiest men around. It wouldn’t be the first time murder has been tied to money.”

They got off the elevator and walked down to number 503, where Decker knocked on the door.

They could hear footsteps coming and the door opened.

Stuart McClellan’s tie was unknotted and the buttons of his vest were undone. He had on a pair of reading glasses that were perched halfway down his nose. He looked up at them in confusion.

“What the hell are you doing here? How did you even get up here?”

Before Decker could say anything Jamison stepped forward. “We’re federal agents investigating a murder. Do you really think a concierge is going to keep us at bay?”

Decker glanced at Jamison with admiration. Next, he peered over McClellan’s head when he heard movement in the room. “We understand that you’re not alone.”

“What business is that of yours?” snarled McClellan.

“Can we come in?”

“No!” barked McClellan.

Jamison said, “Fine, we’ll keep eyes on the place until we get a warrant issued.”

“On what grounds?” snapped McClellan.

“On the grounds that you’re harboring a witness who we need to speak to right now. Did you hear that, Mr. Dawson?” Jamison added in a raised voice.

Dawson came around a corner and stood behind McClellan. He looked both pissed off and weary at the same time.

“What do you need to speak to me about?” he said.

“Do you want to do this out in the hallway?” said Decker. “I would have thought you’d want some privacy.”

McClellan glanced at Dawson, who shrugged.

The apartment was spacious and luxuriously furnished. Decker had noted, as they came down the hall, that they’d passed number 509 and had not seen another door until they came to 503. So McClellan had apparently cobbled together several units into one.

He looked around and said, “Nice place.”

“Why are you here?” demanded McClellan. “We’re busy.”

“With what?” asked Decker.

“That is none of your business,” retorted McClellan. “Federal agents or not,” he added, looking spitefully at Jamison.

Decker eyed Dawson. “He was at your hotel that night. You’re working on this big deal, you said. You told us that McClellan finally has his business model right, which means maybe no more booms and busts for him. And you’ve been acquiring property on the cheap. Now you’re meeting secretly?”