Noah Boyd - The Bricklayer

Involuntarily, Lasker shook his head at the ingenuity of the Pentad. Everything it did was carefully designed to defeat the FBI, especially its choice of victims. Not only were they high-profile individuals, their deaths instantly gaining national attention, but their murders took place in California, Utah, and Pittsburgh, implying that no one was safe anywhere. And maybe most important, each of the victims was known to have a conflicted history with the FBI, making the Bureau waste time either defending itself or planning circuitous avenues of investigation to avoid the appearance of any ‘further’ impropriety. With the public not knowing why the victims were really being murdered, the confusion continued as to who was actually killing the ‘enemies of the FBI,’ as the media were now referring to them.

Most puzzling was how difficult the Pentad made it to deliver the money. It almost seemed that they wanted the FBI to fail; in fact, that was exactly what one of the Bureau profilers theorized. ‘Their primary motive,’ he said, ‘is to disgrace the FBI. It is such an obsession with them that they consider murder nothing more than a necessary tool. They may not even want the money. Some people find self-validation in destroying institutions. They find power in destroying power. It’s being done every day through lawsuits. But legal channels wouldn’t produce the dramatic damage they feel they have a right to. And even though their methods would be considered by most as cowardly, they see themselves as great unsung heroes, defeating, in this case, an institution that the American people mistakenly see as heroic. The more times they can defeat it, the more heroic they are. And the more foolish we look. Do they want the money? Eventually they probably will. Greed is pretty dependable. But they’re not going to be in any hurry to get it as long as they’re beating us in these skirmishes. Waco and Ruby Ridge are apparently the justification of their actions. No one from the FBI was ever punished for those incidents, so they are taking retribution into their own hands. If Bertok did suddenly become a thief and take the money, they couldn’t have hoped for anything better. It proves their point that the FBI is really corrupt and can’t be trusted. And at some point they will reveal to the world that he took it. Again, to humiliate us. Not only do we have a dishonest agent, but we routinely cover up something like this. Which at the moment we are.’

Lasker knew that whoever was pulling the strings, whether it was the Pentad or Agent Bertok freelancing – or both – the effect was paralyzing the Bureau’s ability to go after them. That the FBI might be assassinating its enemies and blaming the killings on a fictitious group of terrorists was a ridiculous notion, but if the information about the Glock 22, the gun the Bureau had issued Bertok, became public, it might not seem so far-fetched.

At each of the crime scenes, a folded piece of paper with the same two words, ‘Rubaco Pentad,’ had been left on the victim’s chest. Since ‘pentad’ is defined as a group of five, the press felt safe in concluding that some sort of small domestic terrorism cell was committing the murders. And ‘Rubaco,’ they decided, was an amalgam of Ruby Ridge and Waco, two of the FBI’s most enduring black eyes, especially among the more radical antigovernment groups, most of which would list the FBI as first-strike targets.

Seeking to further sensationalize the case, the press drew a more abstract but marketable conclusion: that each of the three known victims, because of his or her individual history with the Bureau, could be considered an enemy of the FBI. However, the two assumptions collectively formed a paradox. If the Rubaco Pentad were committing murders to save the world from the FBI, then why was it killing individuals who shared the same beliefs?

Because of the monetary demand, Lasker had initially assumed it was just another extortion with a different coat of paint, and it had been handled as such. Terrorists who demanded money were simply extortionists no matter what kind of rhetoric accompanied their demands. But after they left the hundred-dollar bills lying around Dan West’s body, their long-range plans for the money suddenly seemed a more ominous possibility. If they were legitimate terrorists, there would be, as they had warned in their first demand letter, an irresistible irony to the idea of using secretly paid FBI money to commit mass murder, something for which the public would never forgive the Bureau.

Newly promoted deputy assistant director Kate Bannon had never been in the FBI director’s office before. While she and her boss waited for Bob Lasker’s return, she took the opportunity to survey the room more closely. The lack of pretension in the decor was surprising. She didn’t know what she had expected, but the offices of upper management she had seen usually looked more like small museums, lined with trophies, plaques, and photographs. Instead there were piles of documents littering the room, on tables and shelves, some of the taller ones leaning haphazardly. A few were starting to show a coat of dust, causing a dull mustiness that scratched at her nostrils. Only one photograph hung on the wall. It had apparently been taken during Lasker’s Senate confirmation hearing. Shot from behind the soon-to-be director, it focused on the face of a bald senator whose scalp glistened with sweat and who for some reason was shaking an angry finger at the nominee. She smiled, suspecting that it had been placed directly behind the director’s desk to remind everyone that whatever business had brought them there, he or she should remember that ultimately Lasker had to answer for what his agency did or failed to do.

The door opened and the director walked in. ‘You guys been waiting long?’ He fell unceremoniously into the chair behind his desk, grinding his eyes with the heels of his hands until he felt the tiny optic shocks that told him that was enough. He had gotten little sleep since the murders started, and the command performance at the White House had taken out of him what little was left.

Assistant Director Don Kaulcrick was sitting next to Kate. At fifty-three, he was the FBI’s senior assistant director. He was tall with a disjointed thinness to his limbs. His hair had not started to turn gray yet and would have made his face look younger if it weren’t for its being slightly lopsided, the right side of the jaw just noticeably larger than the left. It gave the appearance of a permanent sneer of skepticism, one that continually left subordinates trying to convince him of their sincerity, an advantage he had learned to exploit early in his career. But Kaulcrick noticed that Kate Bannon seemed immune to it, probably because very little intimidated her. So he did the only thing he could to combat her lack of regard for the privileges of rank; he handpicked her to be his assistant. That way he could personally rein in that freewheeling style that had caused her to rise through the ranks so quickly. ‘Not long, sir,’ he answered for both of them. ‘How’d it go?’

‘Don, I was summoned to the White House,’ Lasker said. ‘That’s like asking Marie Antoinette if the blade was nice and sharp. Kate, how are you?’

‘Just fine, sir.’

‘They’re not happy with us at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue. I was told to stop screwing around and just go ahead and solve this thing. Thank God they’ve taken the gloves off – now we can start the real investigation. What a mess.’ Kaulcrick and Kate glanced at each other furtively, trying to determine if he thought they were considered responsible. ‘Someone please give me some good news.’

After a few seconds, Kate said, ‘At the first three murder scenes, the killer or killers took the time to police up the casings. All we had were the slugs to identify the gun, but they got sloppy with this one last night. A forty-caliber cartridge was found near the body.’