were plenty of CDs around, mostly light jazz. On the wall were a few pictures of her family back in California.
He found Sapphire sitting in the hallway to his right, head cocked, staring, tail twitching and curious. She seemed to recognize him, and as he went farther into the apartment, she followed and got her ears scratched. Hall turned down the air conditioner as low as it would go. Maggie used a spare bedroom as her office, and Hall went to her desk, sat down, called up the word processing program on her computer, and wrote his confession, printing it out on the laserjet printer and folding it neatly into an envelope, which he licked and sealed. Again, he did not care about leaving fingerprints or DNA samples. The more the better.
Then he went into the main bedroom. The queen-sized bed had not been made that morning, as if Maggie had been in a hurry. A few articles of clothing and a towel were in a pile outside the bathroom door. Jim Hall stripped off his own clothes and laid them neatly over a chair because this job was going to be messy. It was getting colder in the apartment by the time he adjusted the bedspread and settled in for a nap before she got home. Everything he needed was in the kitchen. Before he fell asleep, he felt Sapphire jump onto the bed and fold into a ball behind his knees, purring.
MAGGIE BREEZED IN THROUGH the front door just a few minutes before eight, locked it, and stood still for a moment, shivering as the chill hit her. From his position beside the kitchen door, Jim Hall saw her plainly: medium height, with a good figure and a face constantly refreshed by makeup. Her hair was dark brown and cut long, swept back over her shoulders.
Sapphire was on the couch, awake and still, the eyes locked on Maggie, who smiled when she saw the cat. “Hey, girl. Cold in here,” she said and walked straight over to the digital thermostat on the wall. She leaned close to read it, and Hall materialized silently behind her, swinging the twelve-inch cast-iron frying pan down hard. It slammed just above her ear, and he drove a shoulder into her spine, smashing her into the wall, breaking her nose on the stiff plastic housing of the thermostat. She collapsed with a whimpering moan, her head feeling like it was exploding.
Hall did not want to really hurt Maggie; he just needed her dead. He smashed her head twice more with the heavy pan and, on the final blow, heard her skull crack. She was totally unconscious, dying from the brain and spinal injuries, and he knelt beside her for a moment to catch his breath. Not long-he had to get to work while the heart was still pumping; it was important. A lot of blood would spew out to help make the scene as gruesome as possible for investigators.
Standing up and taking three strides back to the breakfast bar in the kitchen, he silently put the heavy, bloodstained frying pan into the sink and lifted a long, sharp cutting knife from a wooden stand on the counter.
Then he worked methodically, pulling multiple deep wounds across major arteries. The thick purple blood fountained out and splashed the walls as well as the floor and his body. Slashing and disfiguring facial cuts were necessary, too, and he also sliced off the eyelids. Those enchanting brown eyes were staring up at the ceiling, seeing nothing. Changing to a cleaver, he chopped off her little finger. With a dishcloth dunked in her blood, he wrote on one of the white walls, following with a huge exclamation point: CIA SPY!
When the work was done, he went to the bathroom, closed the door, and took a scalding hot shower because he had been working out there naked except for an oversized gray sweatshirt he had found in her closet. The steam wrapped him comfortably, and he soaped and washed carefully, particularly under the nails and in every bodily crevice, shampooing twice.
Jim Hall dressed quickly. The frigid air-conditioning was to keep her body chilled and prevent quick decay, but
32
WASHINGTON, D.C.
WHITE HOUSE CHIEF OF Staff Bobby Patterson felt like he was juggling live hand grenades. Everything involved in the mess in Pakistan seemed to trail right back to his desk. President Russell, his friend of many years, had just chewed him out and threatened to fire him for using poor judgment and overstepping his authority. “Put a lid on this thing, Bobby,” the president had ordered.
Patterson summoned a Town Car to go out to the CIA and talk it over with Director Bart Geneen, whom he counted as an ally in the political battle. On the way there, Patterson remained silent, ignoring the monuments and lines of trees beyond the tinted windows as he considered options and political risks. If he did not exert strong control, things could spin even further out of hand, and that would mean his job. The black car wound smoothly off the Beltway and into the woods outside Langley, and once he was through the extraordinary security apparatus at the front gate, a sense of privacy and secrecy seemed to drift upon him like a silent blanket of snow. It felt good. The car proceeded along a shaded lane, past the parking lots and right up to the front entrance of shining glass and polished marble. He was met by an escort who gave him a VIP visitor’s clip-on tag, then led the way through the inner courtyard. Patterson, lost in his own puzzles, ignored the statue to the code-breakers of World War II, the famed Kryptos sculptured fountain that contained its own enigmatic 865-character cipher. The two men entered the holiest of holy places for secrecy; imbedded along one wall was a galaxy of bright stars, each representing a fallen operative. The stars bore no names, for the anonymity of the agents lived on beyond their lives, truly unsung heroes. If one’s name became known, enemy intelligence services would pounce on everyone who ever had anything to do with the exposed agent. These men and women carried their secrets beyond their graves.
Patterson’s confidence grew with every step. With all of the professionals on this big campus and the billions of dollars of support, he felt fresh wind pushing his sails. He had given the job to the right people. All things would be set right. His decision to let the CIA be the lead dog in investigating the devastating terrorist attack in Pakistan was a good one. The Agency could not afford to fail any more than Patterson.
Then, instead of going to the office of Director Geneen, the escort veered into a basement conference room, a drab place in which pastel colors did nothing to dispel its blandness.
“I hope you brought along your thinking cap, Mr. Patterson. We have a few problems.”
Bobby Patterson closed his eyes and sighed.
“Unavailable.” Langdon’s response was curt and to the point. “Our principals should not be directly involved with this so they can maintain deniability. That’s why you and I are relegated to this room in the basement, a couple of high-level flunkies doing the devil’s deeds, far out of sight.”
Not meeting with the director came as a direct slap in the face for Patterson.
“Do you remember our shooter who was killed in the Pakistan strike? Jim Hall?”
Patterson did. “FBI identified the corpse, right?”
“No. They never actually saw the body. They worked from a print from a severed finger and DNA from bloodstains, all supplied by the Pakis, and came up with the positive identity.”
“Well? He’s dead. So what?”
“He’s not dead, and he’s gone rogue.” Patterson worked a panel of buttons, and a viewing screen unrolled from a hidden reel in the ceiling, the room lights dimmed, and a series of PowerPoint slides began. The butchered body of a woman in a pool of blood. The words CIA SPY! scrawled on a white wall above her.
