his hands on her shoulders to hold her back.
“Have you thought this through? We work together, I’m eight years older.”
Maggie looked Keith in the eye. “Let’s get this on the table. I want you. Unless I’m a piss-poor detective, I’m sure you want me, too. If you’re not interested, tell me. There’ll be no hard feelings. So do you want to talk about the Redskins or politics, or do you want to make love?”
Keith only hesitated a second before taking Maggie in his arms. Years of built-up tension evaporated after one long and fantastic kiss. Then they were staggering into Maggie’s bedroom, shedding clothes along the way.
K eith had fantasized about making love to Maggie, but the real deal was better than anything he’d imagined. When they finally lay next to each other, all the ugliness of the night was forgotten. Keith found Maggie’s hand and squeezed.
“Not bad for an old man,” Maggie said softly.
Keith wished he could think of a witty comeback, but all he did was smile.
Part V
Chapter Thirty-five
Deputy Assistant Attorney General Terrence Crawford’s square jaw looked as though it had been created by a cartoonist who illustrated superhero comics. His adversaries likened his piercing blue eyes to laser beams, and his shaved head resembled the battering-ram noggins of professional wrestlers. When he wasn’t prosecuting terrorists and the heads of drug cartels, Crawford was training for marathons or in the weight room in the basement of the Department of Justice working on the body he’d been building since junior high.
After being educated at the finest prep schools, graduating with honors from Princeton, and making the Yale Law Review, Terrence Crawford had scandalized his parents by choosing government work over an associate position in Wall Street’s most prestigious law firm, where his father was a senior partner. Since his teens, Crawford had secretly fantasized about being a crime fighter like the superheroes he resembled, and he lived for the opportunity to send bad guys to prison.
When Jorge Marquez knocked on his doorjamb, Crawford was seated behind his desk, reading preliminary reports about the raid. Marquez was wearing a mismatched sports jacket and slacks he’d thrown on twenty-four hours ago, and he had not been home since to change. Marquez was a trial attorney in his fourth year at the DOJ. He’d worked his way up from a barrio in Los Angeles using scholarships to finance degrees from UCLA and its law school. Crawford used Marquez when he could because he respected his diligence and high IQ.
“What have you got for me?” Crawford asked.
“Scary shit, Terry. I ran Reynolds’s prints. His real name is Ron Tolliver, he’s originally from Ohio, and he’s dead.”
Crawford waited for Marquez’s explanation.
“Tolliver was in the Special Forces and was listed as MIA after an operation in Afghanistan. He’s been officially dead for several years. We have no idea where he’s been since he went AWOL. Best guess is Pakistan, because two of the detainees say he’s fluent in Urdu and the FedEx plot probably originated there.”
“What’s he say?”
“Nothing. He hasn’t said a single word since we arrested him. He’s totally mute, not even a yes or a no. If it wasn’t for fingerprints and the stuff we got out of the FedEx bombers, we’d have no idea who we’re dealing with.”
“Do we have a line on his parents, people who know him?”
“His folks live in Upton, Ohio. We have an agent on the way to interview them. From what I can tell, they’re well off. Dad served in Vietnam. He’s a dentist. The wife comes from money. We also discovered that Tolliver has been in trouble with the law.”
After Marquez told him about the rape allegations in Ohio, Crawford stood up and straightened his tie in a small mirror that hung next to the commendations and diplomas that covered his wall.
“Let’s see if I can loosen this traitor’s tongue,” he told Marquez before striding out of his office with the fierce countenance worn by vicious linebackers just before an all-out blitz.
C rawford opened the door to the interrogation room without knocking and studied Tolliver from the doorway. He was no longer wearing a hood, but his legs were manacled to the floor and his hands were cuffed. Crawford walked past Tolliver without a glance and sat down. He didn’t begin the interrogation right away but chose to stare across the table for a while, smiling when his prisoner broke eye contact.
The interview room was small and very hot. The only furniture was the uncomfortable metal chair in which Tolliver was seated, a comfortable upholstered chair Crawford was using, and a government-issue gunmetal desk that stood between the chairs. There was no two-way mirror, but closed-circuit cameras fastened to the wall just beneath the ceiling filmed everything that went on in the room, and hidden microphones recorded every word.
“Hello, Ron,” Crawford said, pausing to see if Tolliver would react. When he didn’t, Crawford smiled.
“Pretty good self-control. Then again, dead men don’t have physical reactions, and, according to our records, you’ve been dead for almost six years. We’re notifying your parents about your miraculous resurrection.”
When there was still no reaction, Crawford continued. “This will be one of those good news, bad news situations. Your folks will be happy to learn you’re not dead, but I’m guessing that they’ll puke when they learn that the fruit of their loins is a traitor who tried to top the body count of 9/11. I wonder how that will go over at the country club.”
Crawford leaned forward and let his eyes bore into Tolliver’s. “If you were my kid, you’d make me sick. You may think you’re a grade-A martyr, but to me you’re just another spoiled, self-centered rich kid. You didn’t even have the guts to try to commit suicide like those poor deluded morons you talked into killing themselves in the name of Allah.
“And we know about the rape. You must be quite a man to have to brutalize a girl before you can get laid. Well, you’ll soon experience the other side of that scenario. Some of the prison gangs are very patriotic, and they love traitors-and I mean that literally. So, realistically, your possible future scenarios are death row or a life of being cornholed. Personally, I hope you don’t get a death sentence.”
Crawford leaned back and watched Tolliver. Not a muscle in his face had twitched. Tolliver was definitely a tough guy.
“There is one way out of this mess, Ron-cooperation. The people who run you didn’t take any risks, did they? They’re safe and sound while you’re chained to the floor, facing a life in hell. There are no female virgins where you’re going, but I bet your handlers are getting laid as we speak. You’re a joke to them, Ron, a dumb-ass American wannabe super-Muslim. They’re probably pissed at you for failing, but I bet you made their day way back when you wandered into their psycho world. I bet they couldn’t believe their luck when they stumbled on an all- American boy deluded enough to buy the bullshit they were dealing out. You think…”
Suddenly, the door opened and an FBI agent walked in. He looked embarrassed.
“What the fuck is this, Leveque?” Crawford barked angrily.
“He has a court order,” the agent apologized.
“Who has a court order?” Crawford demanded.
The agent stepped aside, and a thickset man who was tall enough to look Crawford in the eye strode in.
“Bobby Schatz at your service, Terry,” he said.
“Fuck me,” Crawford replied.
Schatz was dressed in a hand-tailored navy blue pinstripe suit. A blue bow tie with white polka dots graced the collar of his white silk shirt, and the top of a folded red silk handkerchief extended upward from a pocket situated beneath the left lapel of his jacket. Schatz had straight, slicked-back hair so black that Crawford suspected
