Because of what he had learned since the Rook Island massacre, Winter wasn't about to trust the FBI. He had sat at an interrogation table in a room at FBI headquarters since being rescued three hours earlier. Two agents had taken turns sitting with him, asking him the same questions over and over. He was a veteran of interrogations from the other side of the table, and he couldn't answer any of their questions without opening up more lines of questioning that he couldn't afford.
He couldn't say how he came to be in the basement of the destroyed building without telling them that he had been kidnapped by cutouts posing as FBI agents. He couldn't tell them any of what Fifteen had told him. Nor could he tell them what he had witnessed on the upper floors of the bombed building. He couldn't tell them the killers on Rook Island and at Ward Field were more cutouts controlled by a CIA-connected man named Herman Hoffman, who was hooked directly to CIA satellite feeds. And, equally important, there was nothing he could say to these people that would help Sean Devlin, if she was still alive, which seemed doubtful based on the fact that they had located her. His best chance to accomplish anything was to tell Richard Shapiro everything he knew and let the director decide how to proceed.
When Fred Archer entered the room, the agent sitting across the table from Winter stood up and left, closing the door behind him.
“Hello, Fred,” Winter said.
“Every time I turn around, I run into you, and its always under unpleasant circumstances.”
“I want to talk to my director,” Winter said.
“You think I care what you want?” he carped.
“It's a matter of life and death.”
“What isn't with you?”
“Sean Devlin is in danger.”
“First tell me how you came to be in a bomb factory-a building used to house killers working for the Russian Mafia.”
“I'm not sure that's the case.”
“Don't try and tell me you didn't know that. We know you were in on this with Gregory Nations.”
“I wasn't.”
“Why were you meeting with them, then? How are you the sole survivor? Don't tell me you were their captive, because you had a gun on you when you were found. Were you trying to destroy the evidence linking you and Nations to them and got caught by the bomb you set? How is it you ended up in the basement? Did you come down after setting the charges, to find the door locked?”
Winter's temper flared as he realized that Fred was trying to counter any possible explanation he might have. “Sean Devlin's life depends on me talking to Richard Shapiro. Is that good enough?”
“Mrs. Devlin's stock isn't worth much with the United States Marshals Service these days.”
“How's that?”
“In Richmond last night, your ‘damsel in distress' killed two of your fugitive recovery deputies. She also killed the witnesses; an old clerk, a cabdriver who'd been carrying her around on errands since she arrived there, and an innocent woman who was caught in the crossfire. Every cop in America is searching for her. Her life is in danger only if she resists arrest.”
“Meaning?”
“She's about as good at killing as her husband was. Despite her innocent act, she was in up to her eyeballs with Dylan Devlin.”
Archer took a piece of paper from his pocket, unfolded it, and tossed it on the table. It was an FBI flyer showing a sketch that resembled Sean as she had appeared in the surveillance picture Winter saw in Hoffman's building. Winter wondered how Archer would respond to a little bit of the truth.
“Looks like a photograph of her I found in that building, which was taken of her in Richmond coming out of the Hotel Grand.”
Winter saw Archer's eyes shift their focus.
“Does the Hotel Grand mean anything to you?” Winter asked.
“What would that picture prove?”
“It would prove that people located her in Richmond and sent a photograph of her here to the people who were in that building. If somebody was killed in Richmond, whoever took that picture was responsible, not Sean Devlin.”
“But you don't have the picture, do you?”
“No.”
“Then there's no proof of what you say, is there? You're grasping at straws, Massey. We've got you by the balls, and no fantasy can save you.”
“Something's been bothering me, Archer. At first I figured you just wanted to close this investigation down fast and that was why you were framing Greg Nations.”
“Framing?” Archer laughed.
“But it's more than that. They got to you, didn't they?”
“Who's they?” Despite his protest, Archer's face reddened.
“We both know who they are.”
Archer leaned in close. His breath was stale, his eyes angry. “You should have stayed out of this. I have more than enough evidence to hang you. You're going to be spending your twilight years looking through steel bars, you murdering prick.”
Archer's cell phone buzzed and he put it to his ear. “Archer.” He straightened. “Yes, sir? I'm with him now.” He sat on the edge of the interrogation table and stared down at Winter as he listened. “When?” He frowned. “Yes, sir. Absolutely.”
His expression soured as he pocketed the cell phone. “We're leaving here in a few minutes,” he told Winter.
“Am I under arrest?”
“Not yet.”
“So can I make a phone call?”
Archer set his phone down in front of Winter and left the room. Winter looked over at the mirror set in the opposite wall, imagining Archer behind it, glaring in at him. Winter dialed USMS headquarters, gave his name to the operator, and asked to be connected to Chief Marshal Shapiro.
“I'm glad you're okay,” Shapiro told him.
“Sir, it's urgent that I talk to you ASAP,” Winter said. “Sean Devlin is in imminent danger. I-”
Shapiro interrupted, “She's safe, under our care. Chief Deputy Trammel will meet you in New Orleans this afternoon and explain everything. We'll talk as soon after that as possible.”
Archer returned as soon as the conversation was over. Winter handed the phone back to him. “If you have the pull, I could use a shower, and some clean clothes would be great.”
Archer left the room again, and Winter stretched his aching arms. He had no idea what was going on, but short of being skinned alive, it would be preferable to what he had been through over the past two days. He looked at himself in the wall mirror and smiled at the stranger whose dust-white hair made him look like a much older version of himself.
He was sorely relieved that Sean was okay and wished he knew the story on Richmond. The very idea that she could kill two fugitive recovery professionals and innocent people was ridiculous. How he was so sure of this, he didn't understand. He only knew that what he had seen in her eyes, made him believe, unequivocally, in her innocence.
When his phone rang, Fred Archer was in a borrowed office just down the hall from where Massey was taking a shower. He was poring over the reports coming in from the search of the ruins of the bombed building. “Archer,” Fred answered.
“Fred, there's a hot dog stand downstairs out front. Go there now.”
The hot dog stand was where Fifteen said it would be. As Fred approached it, the smell of cooking sausages made his stomach churn. As he stood there he was aware of someone standing beside him and turned to find Fifteen wearing a trench coat, a wide-brimmed fedora, and sunglasses.
“I'd like one fully loaded,” Fifteen told the vendor, who had the good taste not to stare at his mutilated
