Hank's glare was icy, his facial muscles tense. “See where the FBI's Organized Crime section was copied on this? Both Director Shapiro and the FBI are naturally curious about this call. I have to admit I'm wondering about it myself.” He slammed the transcript facedown on the table.
Strangely, somewhere beneath the fear, she felt relieved that he finally knew. But it didn't alter anything except perhaps to reinforce his opinion that she hadn't been honest with him in his office. She had been as truthful as she could afford to be. “You want to know what, exactly?” she said calmly.
“We are going to New Orleans because the FBI is going to swap Winter for you.” His tone was suffused with disgust.
Being delivered to the FBI was an unpleasant surprise.
“As part of the deal between Shapiro and the FBI, he has expressly ordered me not to interrogate you. I suppose the FBI wants to do that themselves. I reckon they don't want us to know what you are going to tell them, which I doubt you would tell me anyway.”
“Okay, so you can't interrogate me. What would you want to know if you could?”
“I'd start by asking how you, someone I honestly believed was as innocent as the driven snow, would know to call a phone number that's listed to whoever this Palma Hamajama is, to speak to this thug Russo about Sam Manelli and what are obviously the attempts on your life. How do I know you aren't lying about what happened in Richmond?”
“That's all true. Everything I've told you is true.”
“Why didn't you level with me? That means you have lied, if only by omission. You are a threat to Manelli, aren't you?”
“The truth is I'm not a threat to him-he's a threat to me.”
“Obviously Manelli thinks you are. And, had I just been interrogating you, you would not have answered my question truthfully.”
“I'm not responsible for what Sam Manelli believes. I do want you to believe me, because I am a total innocent in this. I swear to you-that's the truth.”
Hank glanced down at the papers, then back up. “I don't want you to be blindsided by what is going on. Monday morning I showed Winter evidence the FBI had compiled on the assaults. They had proof that Greg Nations sold Manelli the location of the safe house and the time Dylan was being moved.”
“You think that Greg could have done that?”
“Somebody inside WITSEC gave the operation up to Manelli. Shapiro says the FBI was planning to make the case that Winter was in on it with Greg-still can if they want to.”
“I don't understand. How can they say that?” she asked, genuinely confused.
Hank reached into his bag and took out a bottle of water. He offered it to Sean and, when she declined, opened it and drank half of it. “Shapiro's letter says that Winter's home phone records show that he called Cherry Point and then Norfolk Navy Base yesterday. There's no way to know what he discussed. Those calls were followed by an incoming call from a cell phone registered to the shore patrol at Norfolk. Last night, after seven P.M., there was a call from that same cell phone to Winter's cellular. Shapiro thinks that one was Reed giving him the information that we got by FedEx this morning. Worse still, Reed was shot last night while he was driving his car, a few minutes after his call to Winter. He crashed. Military cops found a dart from a gun in his neck. Witness saw a car chasing his.
“Around ten last night, a man showed up at Winter's house and took him away in a car. Winter told his mother it was official business and that he'd be back in two hours. Lydia called me at six this morning because he hadn't returned, so I called Shapiro.”
“Was that man working for Manelli? Did he take Winter to New Orleans?”
“The FBI found Winter in the basement of a building that blew up in New York early this morning. They took Winter to New Orleans because that's where your friend Mr. Manelli is. The FBI has a large-scale operation in motion, built around you.”
“Around me?”
“The FBI assumes you can get them Manelli, so that is why Shapiro could make a deal to exchange you for Winter. They intended to hang Winter for being in a building filled with explosives and weapons and who knows what. They say the place was being used by the Russian bunch that assaulted Rook Island and wiped out your husband's detail.”
She let that sink in. “I'll do anything I can for Winter. But I can't tell the FBI anything about Sam that will help them.”
“That's between the two of you. This transcript makes it clear to them that you can get close to Manelli, and that's what they're going to insist you do. The A.G. has to make sure Manelli pays for all those dead people. You help him and your problems can vanish.”
She laughed, feeling trapped and desperate. “If I get anywhere near Sam Manelli, or Johnny Russo, I'm dead.”
“I doubt the FBI can afford to let anything happen to you.”
“Do you honestly believe the FBI can protect me from Sam Manelli-in New Orleans? Look at the protection Dylan had.”
Hank shrugged. “Nobody can force you to do anything, but if you help the FBI get Manelli, the attorney general will clear you of the federal and state charges. He gave Shapiro his word on it. If you don't, I expect you'll be prosecuted for Richmond at the very least.”
“Won't the ballistic evidence clear me?”
“Ballistic evidence is open to interpretation and the FBI's experts can testify pretty convincingly. They control the investigation, the media spin, witnesses, the evidence. If Winter is right about fabricated evidence on Greg, there's no telling what they can pin on you. Looks like you're going to have to select from a shortlist of nightmares.”
“They're liars,” she said, feeling overwhelmed and lost.
“World's full of liars.” Hank winked at her. “But I don't entirely believe you're one of them. I figure you're as honest as your circumstances allow you to be.”
All in all, Sean thought that was a fair assessment.
87
New Orleans, Louisiana
The Windsor Court on Gravier Street sat within rock-throwing distance from the city's new downtown casino. The hotel was built in the 1980s, intended to be the finest in America. Fred Archer was probably the first person to encamp an FBI army in the 3,000-square-foot, four-thousand-dollar-a-night penthouse suite, but the staff could easily assume the group was the entourage and security for a reclusive movie or rock star.
While the FBI agents went about checking their equipment cases and making telephone calls on encryption units, Winter sat on a couch below a pastoral oil painting of a sleeping child nestled in the curve of the body of a furry dog, which was keeping vigil. The painting was a perfect metaphor for WITSEC. He wore a fresh T-shirt in contrast to his filthy jeans.
At two-thirty P.M. Special Agent Finch led Hank and Sean into the living room. Trammel seized Winter's hand and slapped him hard on the shoulder. “Hey, Hoss,” Hank said.
“Hank. It's good to see you.” A few hours earlier he had been sure that his life was over.
Sean smiled when Winter turned his eyes to her. “Like my hair? I did it with a sand wedge.”
“It looks fine, Sean,” he said, meaning it.
“Let's get this show on the road,” Archer's voice interrupted as he strode into the room. “Take him and go,” Archer ordered Hank. “We have a lot of work to do.”
“Let's get going. I'll buy you both lunch at Galatoire's.”
Archer folded his arms. “Sean Devlin, you're under arrest for the murders of two United States marshals and interstate flight to avoid prosecution.”
Winter bristled. “You know that's total bullshit, Archer. She didn't kill anybody.”
