Jeffery Deaver - The Kill Room

Sachs asked, “Who sent you the fake intel about Moreno, that he was planning the attack on American Petroleum Drilling and Refining?”

Metzger leaned back, eyes sweeping the ceiling. “I can’t tell you specifically. It’s classified. Only that they were intelligence assets in Latin America—ours and another U.S. security organization. Trusted assets.”

Rhyme suggested, “Could somebody have leaked bad intel to them and they sent it to you?”

The doubtful look faded. “Yes, somebody who knew how the intelligence community worked, somebody with contacts.” Metzger’s jaw trembled alarmingly again. How fast he switched from calm to enraged. It was unsettling. “But how do we find him?”

“I’ve been considering that,” Rhyme said. “And I think the key is the whistleblower, the person who leaked the STO.”

Metzger grimaced. “The traitor.”

“What have you been doing to find him?”

“Searching for him day and night,” the man said ruefully. “But no luck. We’ve cleared everybody here with access to the STO. My personal assistant had the last polygraph appointment. She has…” He hesitated. “…reason to be unhappy with the government. But she passed. There are still a few people in Washington we have to check out. Has to have come from there, we’re thinking. Maybe a military base.”

“Homestead?”

A pause. “I can’t say.”

Rhyme asked, “Who was in charge of the internal investigation?”

“My administrations director, Spencer Boston.” A pause, as he regarded Rhyme’s piercing gaze, then looked down briefly. “He’s not a suspect. How could he be? What does he have to gain? Besides, he passed the test.”

Sachs: “Who is he exactly? What’s his background?”

“Spencer’s former military, decorated, former CIA—mostly active in Central America. They called him the ‘regime change expert.’”

Sellitto looked at Rhyme. “Remember why Robert Moreno turned anti-American? The U.S. invasion of Panama. His best friend was killed.”

Rhyme didn’t respond but, his mind’s eye scanning the evidence charts, asked the NIOS director, “So this Boston would have training in beating polygraphs.”

“I suppose technically. But—“

“Does he drink tea? And use Splenda? Oh, and does he have a cheap blue suit that’s a shade lighter than tasteful?”

Metzger stared. After a moment: “He drinks herbal tea because of his ulcers—”

“Ah, stomach problems.” Rhyme glanced at Sachs. She nodded in return.

“With some kind of sweetener, never sugar.”

“And his suits?”

Metzger sighed. “He shops at Sears. And, yes, for some reason he likes this weird shade of blue. I never understood that.”

CHAPTER 86

NICE HOUSE,” RON PULASKI SAID.

“Is.” Sachs was looking around, a little distracted.

“So this is what? Glen Cove?”

“Or Oyster Bay. They kind of run together.”

The North Shore of Long Island was a patchwork of small communities, hillier and more tree-filled than the South. Sachs didn’t know the area well. She’d been here on a case involving a Chinese snakehead—a human trafficker—a few years ago. And before that she remembered a police pursuit along some of the winding roads. The chase hadn’t lasted long; sixteen-year-old Amelia had easily evaded the Nassau County police, after they’d broken up an illegal drag race near Garden City (she had won, beating a Dodge hands down).

“You nervous?” Pulaski asked.

“Yeah. Always before a take-down. Always.”

Amelia Sachs felt if you weren’t on edge at a time like that, something was wrong.

On the other hand, ever since the arrest was blessed by Lon Sellitto and, above him, Captain Myers, Sachs hadn’t once worried her flesh, picked at a nail or—this was odd—felt a throb from her hip or knee.

They were dressed quasi-tactically in body armor and black caps but wore just their sidearms.

They were now approaching Spencer Boston’s residence.

An hour ago Shreve Metzger and Rhyme had come up with a plan for the take-down. Metzger had told his Administrations Director Boston that there were going to be hearings about the Moreno STO screwup. He wanted to use a private residence to meet with the NIOS lawyers; could they use Boston’s house and could he send his family off for the day?

Boston had agreed and headed up here immediately.

As Sachs and Pulaski approached the large Colonial they paused, looking around the trim lawns, surrounding woods, molded shrubbery and gardens lovingly, almost compulsively, tended.

The young officer was breathing even more rapidly now.

You nervous?…

Sachs noted that he was absently rubbing a scar on his forehead. It was the legacy of a blow delivered by a perp on the first case they’d worked together, a few years ago. The head injury had been severe and he’d nearly given up policing altogether because of the incident—which would have devastated him; policing was a core part of his psyche and bound him closely to his twin brother, also a cop. But thanks largely to the encouragement and example of Lincoln Rhyme he’d gone through extensive rehab and decided to remain on the force.

But the injury had been bad and Sachs knew that the post-traumatic stress continued to snipe.

Can I handle it? Will I fold under pressure?

She knew the double-tap answers to those questions were, in staccato order, yes and no. She smiled. “Let’s go bust a bad guy.”

“Deal.”

They made their way quickly to the door, bracketing it, hands near but not touching their weapons.

She nodded.

Pulaski rapped. “NYPD. Open the door!”

Sounds from inside.

“What?” came the voice. “Who is that?”

The young officer persisted. “NYPD! Open the door or we’ll enter.”

Again from inside: “Jesus.”

A moment passed. Plenty long enough for Boston to grab a pistol. Though their calculations were that he would not do so.

The red wooden door opened and the distinguished, gray-haired man peered out through the screen. He absently stroked the most prominent crease in his dry, creased face.

“Let me see your hands, Mr. Boston.”

He lifted them, sighing. “That’s why Shreve called me. There’s no meeting, is there?”

Sachs and Pulaski pushed inside and she closed the door.

The man brushed a hand through his luxuriant hair then remembered he should be keeping them in view. He stepped back, making clear he was no threat.

“Are you alone?” she asked. “Your family?”

“I’m alone.”

Sachs did a fast sweep of the house while Pulaski stayed with the whistleblower.

When she returned Boston said, “What’s this all about?” He tried to be indignant but it wasn’t working. He knew why they were here.

“Leaking the STO to the DA’s Office. We checked flight records. You were on vacation in Maine on the eleventh of May but you flew back to New York in the morning. You went to the Java Hut with your iBook. Uploaded the scan of the kill order to the DA. And flew back that afternoon.” She added details about tracing the email, the tea and Splenda and the blue suit. Then: “Why? Why did you leak it?”

The man sat back on the couch. He slowly reached into his pocket, extracted and clumsily ripped open a pack of antacid tablets. He chewed them.

Reminiscent of her Advil.

Sachs sat across from him: Pulaski walked to the windows and looked out over the manicured lawn.

Boston was frowning. “If I’m going to be prosecuted it’ll be under the Espionage Act. That’s federal. You’re state. Why did you come?”

“There are state law implications,” she answered, intentionally vague. “Now tell me. Why’d you leak the STO kill order? Because you thought it was the moral thing to do, telling the world that your organization was killing U.S. citizens?”