Дэвид Балдаччи - Long Road to Mercy

Blum put a cup of hot tea down in front of her. “Peppermint. It’s good for anything that ails you.”

“You don’t get a buzz from peppermint.”

“It’s a different kind of buzz. Drink.”

Pine set down the ice pack, took a few sips from the cup, then opened her laptop and inserted the flash drive into the USB port.

She hit the requisite keys, and what was on the USB started to load on the screen. They both stared at the writing and blank box there.

“Shit,” exclaimed Pine. “Of course, it’s password protected.” She shook her head. “I got my ass kicked for this?”

“Can you figure out the password?”

“Maybe. If it’s something personal to Priest. But if it’s a random computer-generated password, you need a lot of computing power to break it.”

“Well, something will occur to us. Now, any idea who the two men at the house were?”

“No, but I have a way of checking.”

She took out her phone and dialed up the pictures she had taken of their weapons. “They don’t look like any pistols I’ve seen before. Hang on. I’m going to check this out online.”

Blum said warningly, “They already hacked us once. Can’t they track us through your computer?”

“They could if I weren’t using a variation of a VPN.”

“VPN?”

“Virtual Privacy Network. It’s like allowing your online footprint to be hidden in secure tunnels. The one I’m using is really top-grade. It allows me to use the Web virtually anonymously.”

Pine brought up a database of pistols. She scrolled down page by page, all the time glancing at the photos she’d taken. She stopped on one. “Damn.”

“What?”

“Hold on.”

Pine kept scrolling, and then stopped when she got to a photo that matched the other pistol. She looked up at Blum. “It’s no wonder I didn’t recognize them.”

“What do you mean?”

“One’s an MP-443 Grach. And the other’s a GSh-18.”

“Those surely aren’t American pistols. I’ve never heard of them.”

“No. They’re Russian . The Grach’s carried by the police, and the GSh by the military.”

Both women stared at each other for an uncomfortably long moment until Blum said matter-of-factly, “Well, of course the Russians are involved. They’re always the bad guys.”

“But why? And what does Moscow have to do with a dead mule in the Canyon?”

Neither one had an answer to that.

“You need to get some sleep, Agent Pine. You need to heal and rest. I have a strong feeling that you’ll need to be at your best.”

“I think we both will.”

Pine went to her bedroom and stripped off her clothes, because even the light, floppy sweats against her battered body hurt. She looked down at her oblique. There was a massive yellow-purplish bruise where the guy had walloped her. She felt along her leg to where he had applied the pressure with his finger to break her leg lock. Her limb was still tingling. He must have found a nerve there she didn’t even know she had.

She gingerly lay back in the bed with the ice pack still cemented to her face. In her other hand, she clutched her Glock.

She took several deep breaths, and the result was bruised ribs carping at her.

Pine closed her eyes and let her thoughts wander back to the two men in the house.

The two Russians .

And then there was the umbrella-wielding ass kicker.

He wanted her to go with him somewhere. He said he would explain things to her, the predicament she found herself in.

She wanted to know how he had come upon her. Had he been watching the house and seen her enter? Or seen her leave and followed?

That might be the likelier scenario, because she’d taken great care to ensure no one saw her going in.

Was he connected to the other two men? Somehow, she didn’t think so.

Then was he an adversary of theirs?

The Russians were clearly just muscle. The Asian seemed to be something more than that.

She put the bag of ice down, reached over, and plucked her shield off the nightstand.

She knew every facet of the embossed metal. After she’d been awarded it upon graduating from Quantico, she had held it all night, fingering it over and over, like she was reading Braille.

In some ways — no, maybe in the only way — the figure of Justitia represented all there was in the world to Pine. Justice. It wasn’t about the greater good. It was about what was right and wrong on an individual basis. Person by person. Because if you neglected the people, the idea of a greater good was a pipe dream created by those whose idea of the “greater good” almost always tended to favor themselves and people like them.

She crossed her arms over her chest. The shield in one, the Glock in the other.

Two critical components not only to her work, but also perhaps to her identity.

Without them, what was she?

The lost, bereaved little girl from Andersonville, Georgia?

She closed her eyes and, as she went to sleep, mouthed the same words she had for nearly thirty years:

I will never forget you, Mercy. Never.

It was still storming outside when Pine awoke early that evening. She rolled over and let out a groan as soon as all the aches and pains hit her.

She shuffled into the bathroom and took a steaming hot shower, letting the water sink into her soreness. She toweled off, dressed, and walked out into the kitchen, where Blum was sitting with Pine’s laptop and a cup of coffee in front of her.

“Your face looks a lot better,” noted Blum.

“Looks can be deceiving.”

“You want coffee? I just made a fresh pot.”

“I’m good.”

“Do you want something to eat?”

“I got it.”

Pine opened the fridge and grabbed some yogurt. She took a spoon from a drawer, sat down at the table, and started slowly spooning the yogurt into her mouth.

“That’s not a lot of nourishment,” said Blum.

“For someone who got kicked in the face with a sledgehammer made of flesh and bone, it’s just fine. I’m not up to chewing yet. Or hot beverages. The tea you gave me earlier did a number on the inside of my mouth.”

“Oh, right.”

Pine looked at the laptop screen. “Figured out the password?”

“Not even close. And without Bureau resources, how do we crack it?”

Pine set her yogurt and spoon down.

“Let’s put this into some context. I found the flash drive in a basketball. Along with an old football trophy. There were also some gym socks and a basketball jersey.” Pine paused and thought back. “On the jersey was printed ‘Catholic Church League.’”

“Catholic churches have basketball leagues?” said Blum.

“Apparently so.”

“What’s your friend’s Wi-Fi password?”

Pine said, “ Semper Primus .” When Blum glanced at her, she explained, “Latin for ‘Always First.’ It’s the Army motto.”

Blum went online and typed in a search for Catholic churches near Priest’s home.

“There’s the Basilica of St. Mary Catholic Church in Old Town Alexandria. It’s only a short walk from Priest’s house.”

Pine rose and grabbed her jacket off the back of the chair.

“Where are you going?”

“To church.”

“You want company?”

“No. You better stay here.”

“Since you’re going to a place of worship, I’ll say a prayer for you.”

“Can’t hurt,” said Pine over her shoulder.

The Basilica of St. Mary was the oldest Catholic church in Virginia. It was located on South Royal Street and its gray stone facade was gothic in appearance. Its stark front was softened somewhat by four sets of wooden double doors with brass kickplates.