Hawk had never liked FBI headquarters much. Something about the long, polished corridors and closed doors, and so many improbably fit and unsmiling people gliding silently and efficiently about their business made him think of some futuristic society where all the people had become machines. He wasn’t sure why that was so; most of the FBI agents he was personally acquainted with were okay people.
Devore met him at the security station. “I thought it would be simplest to meet here,” he said by way of a greeting as Hawk pinned an ID tag to the front of his shirt. “We will have the results of the fingerprint analysis directly from IAFIS the moment they are available,” he said, referring to the FBI’s extensive fingerprint data bank.
“Fritz delivered the sample okay, then. I assume,” Hawk drawled. It hadn’t made him happy, letting that tube of toothpaste out of his sight.
“Approximately one hour ago.” Devore looked at his watch. “Meanwhile, they are expecting us upstairs-come.” His wheelchair hummed softly as he led the way across the foyer to the bank of elevators.
Andreas Devore was Belgian, a large-boned, gaunt man with shaggy hair, an aristocratic nose and a long, rather cruel mouth women found attractive. Before the helicopter crash that had broken his back and mottled his skin with burn scars, he’d been one of Interpol’s best field agents. Now he headed ATDI-the Antiterrorism Division’s Washington bureau-and acted as chief liaison between ATDI and DECCA-the FBI’s Development of Espionage, Counterintelligence and Counterterrorism Awareness. But Hawk had no doubt that Andreas Devore still knew more about how to play the game than any man alive. He’d learned a lot from him. Especially patience.
The DECCA coordinator was waiting for them in the doorway to his office. He ushered them across the hall into a carpeted meeting room furnished with a large polished table and a dozen or so comfortable chairs. On the other side of the room, windows looked down on the old Ford’s Theater, but Hawk wasn’t interested in the view. One of the four chairs drawn up to the table was already occupied by a young man wearing a mediumgray suit and starched white shirt, and a maroon tie with silver stripes. His eyes were black as bullet holes, and he had the nose and bearing of an Arab prince.
“Our field agent on the case,” the DECCA coordinator said, beginning the introductions.
“We’ve met.” Hawk managed to keep his face impassive as he leaned across the table to shake Aaron Campbell’s hand.
“Well,” said the coordinator briskly as he took the chair at the head of the table, “let’s not waste any more time. Just to recap, so we know we’ve all got the same information up to this point.” He picked up the file in front of him, set it down again and laced his fingers together on top of it as he gave everyone at the table his eyes in turn.
“On March fifteenth, our agents in Kuwait received a, uh, communication purporting to be from Jarek Singh, who, as you know, was an Indian computer expert reported missing and presumed kidnapped from his home in Cairo at the end of the Gulf War.”
Devore said, “Ours came to our bureau in Ankara.”
“They were apparently identical. We know Scotland Yard, the CIA and the Israelis each got one, too. We don’t know how many others. In the. uh, communication-” which Hawk knew had come via computer, in the mysterious and incomprehensible manner fully understood only by hackers and wizards “-Mr. Singh claims to have been kidnapped by agents of Saddam Hussein and forced to design and program the security system for an elaborate secret facility built as a hideaway for Hussein’s stockpile of chemical and biological weapons. Most of which, as you know, did not turn up during our inspections after the war. We know they existed. Where are they now? Mr. Singh claims to know exactly where, as well as how to circumvent the facility’s security system, and has offered this information to the highest bidder. Unfortunately-” he paused as Devore coughed and shifted in his seat “-we have reason to believe this offer was also made to some very undesirable and dangerous bidders.”
“Khadafy, for one,” said Devore.
The coordinator nodded. “For one. North Korea and China, almost certainly. Others we can only guess at.” He looked unspeakably glum.
“In all fairness to Singh,” Campbell remarked, speaking for the first time, “he must have known he was a marked man. It would have taken a lot of money to put himself and his family out of Saddam’s reach.”
“He expected Saddam to pay him off,” said Devore, “with the promise that, if he didn’t, or if anything happened to him in the meantime, the information would go elsewhere.”
“Something like that. We can’t know precisely what Singh had in mind. We know he delivered only enough with his offer to demonstrate the probable accuracy and authenticity of what he had. The rest is inaccessible except with a key, which is what he was offering for sale. It was a clever enough plan.”
“Except,” muttered Hawk, “Singh wound up dead anyway.”
Once again the coordinator nodded. “His body turned up in an alley not far from his home in Cairo on March seventeenth. Estimates are he’d been dead at least three days. So apparently, Saddam’s agents caught up with Singh before his communication reached Baghdad.”
“And so,” Devore said dryly, “begins the treasure hunt.”
“Some treasure,” said Hawk,
“A treasure map, certainly. The map to enough chemical and biological agents to wipe out the entire population of the globe several times over. And unlike conventional weapons, almost impossible to detect by existing security systems. A vial the size of a cigarette, a few drops of a deadly virus in the water supply of a major city…”
The coordinator took a breath and went on, “It’s absolutely imperative that Jarek Singh’s key doesn’t fall into the wrong hands. We searched Singh’s house immediately, of course; it had been ransacked before we got there.” His eyes flicked to Devore and settled appraisingly on Hawk.
Hawk said nothing. Devore sat forward in his wheelchair, leaning one forearm on the table as he quietly said, “We also found it so. However, our agent-” he indicated Hawk with a nod “-observed a faint marking on one wall, which suggested a painting had hung there-a mark that did not fit any painting in the house. It seemed reasonable to assume that whoever had broken into the place had taken it, but when asked about it, Mrs. Singh said her husband had suddenly shown up the day before the communications from him began arriving-”
“That would be the day we assume he was killed,” said Campbell.
“Right According to Singh’s wife, he was very excited about something, and in a great hurry. She thought he seemed frightened, as well. Anyway, he packed up this particular painting and told her to mail it, then pack her things and go stay with her mother in Giza until she heard from him. He gave her the address of an antiques dealer in Marseilles-”
“Loizeau,” the coordinator offered, although everyone there knew the name.
Devore nodded. “Then Mr. Singh left again and that was the last his wife saw of him. She did as he’d told her and went off to her mother’s, stayed there until she learned of her husband’s death, when she returned to find her house a shambles.” He raised his eyebrows at Hawk. “Would you like to take it from here?”
Hawk didn’t say anything for a moment. He’d rather not have been there at all, if the truth were told. He hated meetings like this, always had. In his opinion, they were a waste of time. He knew where he needed to be, which was out there tracking down those other paintings. Most of which, it appeared, according to the records of the auction house, were in a town called Cooper’s Mill, North Carolina.
Sprawled in his chair, idly spinning a pencil on the polished tabletop, he looked across at Campbell and said casually, “You know, something else Mrs. Singh couldn’t seem to find was the shipping receipt from when she mailed that painting. She said she came straight back home to pack, and left it on top of the dresser in the bedroom. You guys take it?”
Campbell and the coordinator looked at each other. Campbell said quietly, “We found out about Loizeau’s having the painting the same way you did. Mrs. Singh told us.”
“So,” said Hawk, sitting up straight, “that means whoever trashed Singh’s place probably found it, went straight to Loizeau’s. got the information about the auction from him and then killed him. I’d be curious to know,” he added, looking across at Campbell, “how you guys found out about that auction.”
There was another uncomfortable silence; rival law enforcement agencies never enjoyed revealing their sources and methods. This time it was the coordinator who said, without expression, “We had immediately placed Loizeau’s shop under electronic surveillance.”
“Ah,” said Hawk, smiling slightly. Phone tap, of course.
“I’d like to ask you that same question,” said Campbell, his eyes glittering. “Loizeau was dead when you got there?”
