“And screw interagency cooperation, too, I guess.”
“Not my call, Pete.”
“I expect this crap from NSA, even CIA. Not you guys.”
“We gotta run, Pete. I appreciate it.”
Storino nods once, deliberately, squinting his eyes. “I sawyou on the tube. Couple weeks back. It was you, wasn’t it?”
“My ten minutes,” McCoy admits.
“Allison Pagone. The writer. Killed that guy.”
“She wasn’t convicted, but-”
“She ate a bullet before it could happen,” Storinointerrupts. “I made you for Public Corruption. That whole thing was aboutbribes, right? State lawmakers on the take.”
“Something like that.”
“Something like that,” Storino mimics. “So today I’m makingyou for CT.”
The counterterrorism squad, he means.
“What’s the murder of a political guy got to do with thisHaroon guy?”
“Hey, I go where they tell me. My day to catch flags.”
Storino isn’t convinced. “Look, Agent McCoy-”
“Call me Jane.”
“-you want to give me the Heisman, give me the Heisman. Dome a favor, though, don’t blow smoke up my ass.”
McCoy sighs. “Again, Pete, thank you, and I’m sorry aboutthis. I’m just a working gal here.”
“You think this guy killed Allison Pagone,” he says. “Youthink she didn’t take her own life.”
“Pete-”
“I’ve got a Pakistani national with a flag walking throughmy airport, I’ve got someone from Homeland in D.C. telling me to do whateveryou say, and I don’t know shit about it.”
“I owe you one,” McCoy says. “Okay? No joke. Any time.” Shelooks at her watch. “He’s going to miss his flight.”
“Yeah, I’d hate to see that happen.”
McCoy pivots and stands in front of Storino. She jams afinger into his chest. “Youdefinitely would hate to see that happen, AgentStorino. Are we clear?”
Storino looks hard at McCoy, then at her partner. Slowly, asmile creeps along his face. “Always nice to see you all from the Bureau,” hesays.
“Pleasure’s been all mine.” McCoy turns and walks down thehallway. “Prick,” she mumbles out of earshot. “I don’t have enough shit to dealwith?”
“Janey, the mouth.” Harrick chuckles.
The agents leave the airport and begin their trip back tothe federal building downtown, where the Special Agent in Charge is eagerlyawaiting a report. Jane closes her eyes a moment as the escort drives them backto their car. She has seen death and tried hard to deny responsibility. It doesno good to grieve excessively. You mourn the dead but keep fighting to preventmore death. That is what she has been doing, what has propelled her forward.And her job-this op-is not yet done, but it is close. Very close. She’ll sleepwell tonight for the first time in months. She’ll make up for all those nightsin May when she paced her small bedroom, thinking everything through, worryingabout the number of hurdles that could have clipped her foot.
Does Mr. Ramadaran Ali Haroon have any idea what is about tohappen?
Today is the first day of June, the unofficial beginning ofsummer. It was a hectic February, a chaotic March, an incredibly tense April.And May, the month that just ended, was possibly the hardest thirty-one days ofher life.
But it’s almost over. They will make their arrests soon, andher part in this operation will be completed. She can’t worry about things shecan’t control. She can only do her part.
Sam Dillon’s death started it. Allison Pagone’s death endedit.
She shakes her head in resignation, still unable to believehow this began.
SIXTEEN DAYS EARLIER…
The crowd is small, which is surprising in a way. The familywanted a small service; it is a tribute to their planning that only tworeporters managed to figure out the time and place. The family’s success ineluding the media is probably due to their decision to forgo a church service.The media probably had its eye on the church Allison Pagone had attended herentire life. They would have no way of knowing which cemetery had been chosenfor her burial.
It’s a nice place. Three acres of beautiful land, manicuredlawn, well-kept plots. A new two-story granite mausoleum is secluded in a shadyarea to the northwest. A nicer place than Jane McCoy expects to end up in whenher ticket is punched, on her government salary.
From her position in the driver’s seat of the limousine,McCoy looks through the one-way tinted windows at her surroundings. First, forthe exits. Technically, there is only one. A road that leads from the maingate, snakes through the cemetery, and leads back out.
It’s a beautiful day for a service, if there is such athing, owing primarily to the sun. One of those days when it’s hard to keepyour eyes open. You won’t hear complaints anywhere across the city, though,after the permanent gray sky that prevailed from January through April. Withthe blinding rays and the temperature close to sixty, people are dressedoptimistically, praying that today is a harbinger and not a tease.
It reminds McCoy of the first time she approached hermother’s grave after her memorial service. She was thirteen then, hardly ableto comprehend the loss, offended at the strong sunlight cast over theheadstone, as if someone, somewhere, were trying to make the world beautiful ona day that was anything but.
The limousine is parked on the narrow road only about tenyards from the service. Jane McCoy cracks her window and listens to the pastor.
“Allison Pagone.” The minister stops on the words. Janeassumes that the reverend has known Allison over the years.
“Allison Pagone was a woman of substance. A woman of faith.”The reverend, an older, pudgy man with a thin beard, looks up at the sky amoment, then collects himself. “Do we judge a woman based on the last year ofher life, or on the first thirty-seven? Do we remember only the mistakes shemade in a difficult moment, or do we recall all the giving and sacrifice andlove she provided for her family and friends? Can we forgive?”
That’s a good question. Forgiveness is not something inwhich an agent of the FBI specializes. Her job is apprehension, sometimesprevention; she is never asked for, and never offers, absolution. She finds theconcept overwhelming. She never liked her classes in philosophy-the study ofquestions that can’t be answered-or religion- the study of answers that can’t bequestioned. She preferred her undergrad classes on criminal justice.This isright. This is wrong. And she never understood how one moment of repentancecan absolve years of sin. One expression of regret erasing countless misdeeds?It’s just not how she’s wired.
“I hate these places.” A voice through her earpiece; it’sOwen Harrick, who is driving the hearse parked in front of the limousine.
Jane McCoy looks over at the service. Allison Pagone’sex-husband, Mateo Pagone, and their twenty-year-old daughter, Jessica Pagone,are the only ones seated. Allison’s parents are deceased and she was an onlychild, so the family is small. The rest of the tiny crowd is mostly neighbors,some friends from the church, someone from the publishing house in New York.That woman from the publishing house is probably mourning the most. AllisonPagone was a best-selling novelist.
McCoy looks at the ex-husband, Mat Pagone, again. He is in awell-tailored black suit with a silver tie. He is staring straight ahead inconcentration. His right hand is locked in the hands of his daughter, Jessica,who is also staring forward with red, numb eyes.
