I must have tripped an alarm somewhere.”
“Yes,” Dillon said quietly, “I think you did.”
Dillon, in spite of his life-is-but-a-game attitude, took mistakes made by his subordinates quite seriously.
“But what?” Claire said. “What could I have done that would have told anyone we were looking into Russo? Mostly all I’ve done is record searches, background checks on Hopper, the tomb guards, that sort of thing. I wonder if Hopper could have spotted the surveillance we have on him.” She was thinking about the agent she suspected might have a drinking problem-and kicking herself for not pulling him immediately off the detail.
“Possibly,” Dillon said. He paused before he added, “Claire, what was the name of that agent who died recently? That young woman?”
“What?” Claire said, confused for an instant by the question. “Her name was Alberta Merker. She had a heart attack.” Then Claire realized what Dillon was getting at. “The fingerprints? You think they caught on to us when I had that soldier fingerprinted?”
“Either that or when you accessed the fingerprint files. I believe you said the files were flagged.”
“Are you saying you think Alberta was killed by these guys?” Before Dillon could answer, Claire said, “I know she had a heart attack, Dillon. She was autopsied by one of the docs we use. And because she was an agent, I had them do a complete tox screen on her. She had a heart attack. She had a family history of heart problems.”
“I don’t know if she was murdered or not, Claire, but the fact that she took the man’s fingerprints and died soon afterward is probably not something we should assume to be a coincidence.”
“What does this have to do with Drexler?”
Normally Claire would have been able to answer that question without any help from Dillon, but he could tell she was having a hard time concentrating. She had just been told it was possible that one of her agents had been killed in the line of duty-and Claire had never lost an agent before. Dillon knew how devastating that could be, even for someone so seemingly cold-blooded.
“Well, this is what I think is going on,” Dillon said. “Whoever killed Russo knows somebody is investigating his death and they suspect it might be us, the NSA. Why they suspect this I don’t know, but they do. And so they sent in Drexler, and his job is most likely threefold: to confirm the NSA is aware of Russo; to determine exactly what we know; and, most important, to determine who at the NSA knows about Russo.”
“But what does this have to do with Alberta?”
“It may have nothing to do with Alberta. She may have simply had a heart attack. But what if they identified Alberta, questioned her, and then she had a heart attack?”
“Are you saying they tortured her, Dillon? If you are, I don’t buy it. Her autopsy didn’t show anything like that. And if they did torture her, she must not have told them anything.”
“I agree with your last conclusion,” Dillon said. “If she had told them anything, Mr. Drexler probably wouldn’t be here.”
What Dillon meant, but didn’t say, was that if Alberta had told anyone about the Russo intercept, Claire Whiting might have found herself strapped to a chair watching someone extract her long, polished fingernails.
“So what are you doing about Drexler?” Claire asked.
“I’m complying with his request, of course.”
“You’re what?”
“I’ve given him all the transmissions we intercepted in the D.C. area on the night in question-verbal, e-mail, and text. The legal intercepts, that is.” Dillon laughed. “Drexler had no idea how much information he was asking for. I’ve buried the poor fellow in electronic files and paper. Then, to make his job even harder, I’ve told him we’re behind schedule transcribing some of the conversations we’ve recorded-I didn’t tell him the computers do most of the transcribing-so he’s going to have to listen to hours of garbled, barely audible transmissions. It’ll take Mr. Drexler weeks to review everything I’ve given him.”
“I don’t get it, Dillon. Why would Drexler even think you’d give him an illegal intercept, whether it was related to Russo or any other case?”
“He may think he swooped down on us so fast that we wouldn’t have time to separate the legal from the illegal. But I suspect Mr. Drexler knows it’s unlikely that the Russo intercept is lying in the stacks of files I’ve given him. I think this is just his opening salvo, and what he’s doing is getting the lay of the land. He’s trying to figure out how we operate and who does what, and what he’s really looking for is the people who might have listened to a transmission of Russo being killed.”
“Then he’s wasting his time. He’ll never identify the techs who work for me by reviewing authorized wire taps and, if by some fluke he did, none of them would talk.”
“If Mr. Drexler asked them politely, I’m sure they wouldn’t, Claire. But how long do you think the redoubtable Gilbert would resist if somebody connected a car battery to his-uh-manly appendage?”
Claire reluctantly nodded her head in agreement. A couple of bitch slaps to the head, and Gilbert would give up his own mother.
“So what are we going to do?”
“I’ll keep an eye on Mr. Drexler,” Dillon said. “What you need to do, and quickly, is figure out why Russo was killed and who ordered the killing.”
“I know that!” Claire snapped. “What do you think I’ve been trying to do?”
“I also think you need to do a little research on Mr. Drexler. A friend of mine has given me reason to believe that there might be a skeleton or two lurking in his closet.”
“Okay,” Claire said, rising from her chair, anxious to be on her way.
“Oh, and one other thing,” Dillon said. “Your idea to use Mr. DeMarco? I think you should proceed with that.”
Claire Whiting wasn’t the type to pump her fist into the air and shout, “Yes!” She simply nodded her head but Dillon saw the gleam in her eyes. She made him think of a cat creeping up on an inattentive canary.
23
“This is Joseph DeMarco, Agent Hopper, and I wanted you to know that-”
“No, no!” Claire said. “You have the voice down, the New York accent and all, but the… the tone is wrong. He’s not so formal. He’s sort of laid back. And if he was pissed, it’d be more like: Hey, Hopper, this is DeMarco, and I just found out-Do you understand?”
“I guess,” the impersonator said. He could imitate almost anyone, including most females. At Christmas parties, after a couple of drinks, he’d do an impression of the president and his wife talking after sex that was so funny that even Claire laughed. At this point she didn’t know what she wanted him to tell Hopper but, when she did know, she wanted the impersonator to be ready.
“Go practice some more,” she said.
Claire needed to spook Hopper.
She needed to make him run, literally, to whoever was controlling him and the best way she could think to do that and keep the agency’s involvement secret was to use DeMarco. If she could get Hopper to meet his boss, that would be ideal. The other possibility was that Hopper would call his boss and his boss would decide to do something about DeMarco. They-whomever Hopper was working with-had already killed Russo and most likely the reporter, Hansen. They’d kill DeMarco, too, if they had to. So she would put people on DeMarco and when they tried to kill him or snatch him, she’d follow whoever was assigned-and try to protect DeMarco as best she could.
DeMarco. Again, records could only tell you so much, but the impression she had was: average guy, maybe below — average guy. He was a lawyer and had passed the Virginia bar, but had never practiced law. He was a GS-13-a rank that wasn’t all that impressive in D.C.-and had been one for a long time, meaning that his career had most likely stalled. He had an office in the subbasement of the Capitol-the location of his office another indicator that he wasn’t a power player-but he wasn’t on the staff of any member of the House or Senate. So she couldn’t figure out exactly what he did but finally decided it didn’t really matter. He was just some sort of low-level legal weenie stuck in a dead-end job.
As for his personal life, nothing leaped out at her. He’d been married once, divorced about six years ago, and
