“That’s the stupidest looking jail I’ve ever seen,” Boxers said, nailing Jonathan’s thoughts.
“Here’s to thin walls and lax security,” Jonathan quipped.
Despite their FBI cover, they parked in the pay lot, just like everybody else. Boxers seemed annoyed as Jonathan waited for him to fish through his pockets for three quarters to feed the meter. “The hell am I paying for?” Boxers grumped. “You’re the bajillionaire.”
Jonathan said nothing. As the man who signed Boxers’ paychecks, his heart did not bleed for the big guy. He also knew that he’d see these six bits on Boxers’ expense report.
“Any questions on the plan?” Jonathan asked as they closed to within fifty yards of the target.
“Not a one,” Boxers replied. His role was anything but complicated. He was to walk around the facility to identify the strengths and weaknesses of its physical security, and to plot the most effective escape route. Lethal force was not an option in this first phase, but if the therapeutic application of high explosives proved to be necessary, that would be Boxers’ responsibility as well.
“Are you with us, Mother Hen?” Jonathan asked, seemingly to the air.
The voice in their earbuds responded with crystal clarity. “Always.” The voice belonged to Venice Alexander (Ven-EE-chay, and don’t screw it up), the woman who kept Jonathan’s life afloat administratively, and whose special gift was to make the electrons of cyberspace dance to music of her choosing. She had left countless IT and security managers around the world wondering how their “unbreakable” databases had in fact been broken.
Venice continued, “I’ve got the entire camera grid on my screens, and I’ve been recording for nearly an hour. As soon as you step through the front door, I’ll be able to wave hello.”
Approaching the main entrance, Boxers held back to remain outside the viewing perimeter of the exterior cameras. “Good luck, Boss,” he said. “And nice nose.” He split off and began his stroll around the perimeter.
Jonathan gave a wry smile. His disguise was a good one, filling his cheeks and expanding his nose to the point where facial recognition software would be stymied; but it wasn’t the kind of thing he normally used. As close as they were to their own backyard, this mission required him to take extraordinary precautions. He’d even donned contact lenses to turn his normally blue eyes brown.
He pulled open the right-hand panel of the double glass doors and stepped into a public reception area that had the feel of a seventies-era ski lodge. Rough-finished beige bricks dominated the walls, arranged edgewise in horizontal courses that rose from the brown tiled floor to the acoustic tiled ceiling.
The admissions officer-it was the only title Jonathan could think of for the guy-sat at the long end of the rectangular room, and as his guest entered, his expression showed annoyance. “Visiting hours are over,” the officer announced.
“Of course they are,” Jonathan said. As he reached into his pocket for his occasionally legitimate Bureau credentials, he got the sense that the desk officer had been expecting him. “Agent Harris, FBI.”
“Just what I need,” the officer said.
“Care to guess who I’m here to see?”
The officer twitched a shoulder. “Only federal rap we got is Jimmy Henry. Kidnapping and attempted murder.”
“That’s the one,” Jonathan said. He was close enough now to see his tag: DIANE. He hoped it was his last name, not his first.
The officer followed his gaze. “If you’re gonna make a crack, get it over with now,” he said. “That way, I don’t have to get out of my chair.”
“My name’s Leon,” Jonathan lied. “With a name like that, you don’t make fun of others.”
Male bonding. A beautiful thing.
“Go to the door,” Diane said, pointing with his forehead to a heavy steel security door. “I’ll buzz you in.”
Jonathan walked the path he already recognized from Venice’s research. Just two hours ago, he’d been watching this very space from their offices in Fisherman’s Cove. The first door led to a security air lock dominated by a chest-high counter. In a different context, it would have looked like a bar.
“Can’t help but think you’re wasting your time,” Diane said as he entered the air lock from a door on the other side of the counter. He reached underneath and produced a long rectangular box. “I need your firearm and any other weapons. Jimmy Henry lawyered up first thing. Ben Johnson’s representing him. You know him?”
“Never heard of him,” Jonathan said. He drew a fifteen-shot 9-millimeter Glock from its holster on his belt, dropped out the magazine, and locked open the slide before placing the weapon and its ammo in the box. He noted the wall-mounted cameras near the ceiling, but saw no metal detectors.
“Well, Ben’s good at what he does. After he told that kid to keep his mouth shut, that’s exactly what he’s been doin’.”
“Hmm,” Jonathan said. “Can I speak with him now?”
“You sure you want to? Nothin’ he says can be used in court after he’s lawyered up.”
“Then I’ll just have to be careful what I ask, won’t I?” Jonathan mimicked the condescending tone he’d heard from dozens of federal agents over the years.
Diane raised a section of the deck and opened a door underneath to let Jonathan pass through. On the far side, he faced another heavy steel door. Diane plucked a phone from the wall and dialed an extension: 4272, Jonathan noted, though he didn’t know how the number could possibly help him.
“Hey Chase, this is Bill. I’m letting an FBI agent in. He wants to talk to the Henry kid.” A pause. “What, you think I don’t have a clock up here? I didn’t call him; he just showed up. Yeah, well, aren’t they all?”
He hung up the phone and then pushed and held a button under the counter. The lock buzzed, and Jonathan pulled the door open to reveal the fluorescent hell of the cell block. As he stepped across the threshold, he could feel the years of institutionalized fear and misery exuding from the reinforced concrete walls. Whether they were built by the Commonwealth of Virginia or by Saddam Hussein, pervasive misery was the common denominator of all prisons.
Another guard stood just a few feet away. His name tag read BATTLES. “You’re up late,” he said. “I thought you Fibbies only worked the day shift.”
Jonathan shunned the small talk. “I need to speak to Jimmy Henry,” he said. “Do you have an interrogation room?” It was a question to which he already knew the answer.
Battles’s demeanor darkened with the seriousness of the visitor’s tone. He pointed to a secured lockdown about a quarter of the way down the center aisle of the cell block.
“I’d appreciate you bringing him to me,” Jonathan said, and he started down the hall.
Battles trotted to catch up. “What’s the urgency?” he asked. “You guys usually call ahead.”
Jonathan ignored his question and walked to the door. “I want the recording devices turned off in the room while he’s with me.”
Battles pulled short. “That’s not how we do things.”
“Tonight’s different. Now how about we get done what needs to be done?”
Battles didn’t like this. It showed on his face. But he nonetheless unlocked the door and let Jonathan enter. “Sit here, and I’ll bring him to you.”
As Jonathan stepped inside, the door closed behind him, and the guard locked it. As if reading his mind-as she often did-Venice spoke in his ear: “Don’t worry about them recording you. I have their soundtrack control on my screen. Even if they leave everything on, I’ll be able to zero out all sound once Henry arrives.”
Knowing that she could see him, he acknowledged her with a subtle nod. Jonathan helped himself to the one bolted-down metal chair that was not equipped with a ring to secure prisoners’ shackles.
Battles made Jonathan cool his heels for ten minutes or more. Jonathan noted the video camera high in the corner, and despite his makeup did his best to avoid looking at it.
The lock turned, and Battles escorted Jimmy Henry into the room. The nineteen-year-old prisoner stood around six feet and appeared beneath the orange jumpsuit to possess the build of someone who worked hard during the day. His dark brown hair was a sleep-twisted mess, and his eyes seemed sunken into his skull. Clearly pissed at being rousted from his bed, he knew better than to voice his objection.
“Sit down,” Battles said, pointing to the available chair.
Jimmy gave a sullen nod and shuffled his slippered, shackled feet over to the chair and sat. With arms pinioned to the waist belt of his shackle rig, he settled himself carefully. When you can’t catch yourself in a fall, you become supremely aware of how fragile your nose and teeth are. Once the kid was settled in, Battles attached the chain to the chair.
