“I need him more.” She shakes her head. “That’s a boat wecan’t rock.”
Teller nods, as if he understands, but he doesn’t. Hedoesn’t know. Only a handful of agents, and the SAC, Irv Shiels, know what theyare doing.
“What is CT looking at him for?” Teller asks her. “Can youtell me that much?”
“I can’t. Sorry.”
It can’t be the first the time the gang in Counter-Terrorismrefused to talk shop.
“Then let us talk to the daughter. Jessica. She was there inSanibel.”
“Absolutely not,” McCoy says. “Off-limits.”
“Then his wife,” Teller requests. “Ex-wife. Allison.”
“No way,” she says firmly. “Can’t do it.”
Teller doesn’t respond to her comment but opens anotherfile. “Dillon had mentioned to someone in his office that he was grappling withan ‘ethical dilemma.’ He wouldn’t elaborate, but it seems obvious enough to us.He was thinking about turning in his client. He told this guy in his officethat he was talking to a lawyer.”
“Okay,” McCoy says, like she doesn’t get the point.
“Allison Pagone was not just his girlfriend,” Teller adds.“She was a lawyer. A former PD.”
“She was only a public defender for two years,” McCoy says.“She’s been writing books the last few years.”
“That’s two different reasons for Dillon to confide in her,Jane. Girlfriend or lawyer. Hey, look, if she has nothing to tell us, fine. Butlet’s ask her.”
“No one talks to Allison Pagone, Wayman. Or Mat. Or Jessica.I’m sorry, but there’s no give there. We’re watching them and they need tothink everything is perfectly normal.”
The prosecutor looks at the case agents, his fellow lawyers.
“Did Allison Pagone kill Sam Dillon?” he asks Jane.
McCoy laughs. “Guys, if there’s some way I can get some ofthis information for you, I’ll do it. Otherwise, please keep me posted on this,okay?” McCoy gets out of the chair. “And keep your hands off my suspects.”
ONE DAY EARLIER…
McCoy sets a steaming cup of coffee on her desk and dropsdown in her chair. She hasn’t had a weekend off this entire year, but no onehas told her to come in. This operation does not know weekends from weekdays.The bad guys don’t take days off, so neither will she.
Her office is nothing short of disastrous. She didn’tinherit the typical female gene for neatness or cleanliness. Stacks of paperline her floors, force her to walk an obstacle course just to reach her desk.She has received countless comments on this from her colleagues, and no, shedoesn’t prefer it this way, but it is what it is. Maybe they should have taughta course at Quantico on this.
She has made an exception, however, for this operation. Shehad a new set of cabinets brought in, devoted to the files on this case. It hashelped dramatically, being able to call up a file on a moment’s notice. She hashad her setbacks, falling into her typical practice of setting down a piece ofpaper somewhere and forgetting where, but she even planned for thatinevitability, making an extra copy of everything in her file and placing it somewhereelse-her master files.
Owen Harrick walks into her office, dressed informally-asweater and jeans-like McCoy. “Haroon sent this e- mail yesterday,” he says.
With the assistance of a warrant signed by a federalmagistrate, the FBI is monitoring Ram Haroon’s e-mail, not only the addressassigned to him by the university but also another address Haroon uses,
The e-mail that Harrick places on McCoy’s desk is onesentence:
Please inform MAB that communication will be sent early nextweek by mail.
She reads the initials-MAB-and feels a shudder, a knotseizing her stomach.
“Let’s watch the post office, then,” she says easily toHarrick, because she wants to show calm to her partner. He is undoubtedlyfeeling the pressure as well. Neither of them has ever worked on anythingnearly so consequential.
“He’s talking about Muhsin al-Bakhari, isn’t he?” Harrickasks.
“Who knows, Owen? Let’s just do our job.” McCoy takes apiece of paper and writes out a quick to-do list. They will put people at thepost offices around the state university. They will have to be ready, startingtomorrow, for a package that Ramadaran Ali Haroon will be sending to hispartners overseas.
ONE DAY EARLIER…
The Pakistani government attributed the bombing at BaluchistanUniversity to an aerial assault by the Soviet Union. The communist-controlledAfghan security service, the KHAD-Khedamat-i-Ettela’at-i-Daulati-had institutedcountless air and ground attacks in Pakistan since the country had become thefocal point for Afghan resistance to the Soviet invasion. The Afghan refugeeshad pooled in various parts of Pakistan, including the Baluchistan province.Ram Haroon had seen some of the AfghaniPathansin Quetta; they were generallyconfined to the refugee camps, but they were sometimes seen in the markets. Heremembers their bruised, creased faces, their defeated postures. People who hadlost their homes, sometimes their families, clinging to little more than lifeitself.
Ram’s mother, a university professor, and his four-year-oldsister accompanying her mother to class were two of the nineteen casualties ofthe attack. Ram recalls the moment that he heard the news in utter darkness,his eyes squeezed shut as he and his father sat on the floor of their home.
Mother was gone. Beni was gone.
It was the Americans, they said.
Ram listened to them only because he was looking for magichealing words, and it was only afterward that their words registered in anymeaningful way.
Three weeks passed. His mother and sister were buried. Ram’sfather did not work, could not work. Father would leave at night and not speakto his son about where he went. Ram saw a change in his father but attributedit to grief, when a part of him knew all along it was something else.
Five weeks after the death of his mother and sister, Ram’sfather moved Ram and himself from Baluchistan to Peshawar, ground zero in thearming of the mujahedin against the Soviet aggression. “We must put this behindus,” Ram’s father told him. Ram was hardly able to comprehend, still reelingfrom the loss of his mother and sister. Now Father wanted to leave the onlyhome he had known?
“Someday I will explain it to you,” Father promised.
Ram Haroon wipes the sweat from his face and focuses on hiscomputer in his student dormitory. He types in the name on the e-mail andthinks hard about the words to write.
Please inform MAB that communication will be sent early nextweek by mail.
Ram types in the web address-
Ram moves over to his small bed and cradles the photographsin his hand. “My time may be coming, too,” he
