image taken from one of the spy satellite digital photographs.” The TV screen displayed the new close up on the left, and a recent photograph of Monica on the right.
“It’s official,” she said. “The lady who was abducted at Amelia Island on Valentine’s Day has been positively identified as Monica Childers, wife of the nationally prominent surgeon Dr. Baxter Childers.”
Carol touched her ear piece and paused. “We take you now to the FBI field office in Jacksonville, Florida, where I’m told that FBI Spokesperson Courtney Armbrister is ready to begin her live press conference. Sources familiar with the story expect her to give further updates and reveal the kidnappers’ identities.”
On the phone, Callie said, “Darwin’s gonna shit!”
“Ya think?”
The TV screen showed a bunch of people milling around a large room at the FBI’s Jacksonville field office. It was clear the press conference would be delayed a few minutes, so Carol began a voice-over dialog to keep the viewers from switching channels to watch
Callie used the time to ask, “What were you saying earlier? About getting a tattoo on my ass?”
“I found an adorable one on the lower hip of your new body double.”
“You found a hooker who looks like me?”
“I resent the implication,” I said. “In any event, she’s close enough facially, and our people can do the rest.”
“A tattoo,” she said.
“And you’re also going to need a small red birthmark on your scalp.”
“No pubic piercings?” she said with great annoyance.
“I wish,” I said. I took a few seconds to conjure a mental image of Callie naked, but she was so far out of my league I couldn’t even fantasize it. “I’ll send you digitals when I get back to HQ,” I said.
Body doubles are disposable people we use to cover our tracks, or, in extreme circumstances, to fake our deaths if our covers get blown. We put a lot of time and effort into these people, monitoring and protecting them, often for years at a time, until something happens that requires us to place them into service.
Of course, our body doubles are totally clueless about their participation in our reindeer games of national security. If they knew about it, most civilians would disapprove of the practice, just as most disapproved of the army’s plan for wide-scale use of the ADS weapon. However, from my side of the fence, collateral damage is a fact of war, and civilian sacrifice a necessary evil. When managed judiciously, body doubles can buy us time to eliminate paper trails or change our appearance so we can get back to the business of killing terrorists.
Callie asked if Jenine was prettier than her—just the sort of crap you’d expect from a gorgeous woman. “Don’t be ridiculous,” I said. “Remember, she doesn’t have to look
“What sort of butter??y is it?” she asked. “Is it stupid looking? A tattoo is a permanent fixture, Donovan. It sounds creepy.”
“Think of it as a shrine to Jenine’s memory,” I said. “And try to show some respect, will you? She’s putting her life on the line for you.”
“Not knowingly,” Callie said. “Not willingly.”
“A technicality,” I said.
“If we ever terminate her,” Callie said, “I’m going to be stuck with a tattoo and birthmark that my next body double won’t have.”
I let that comment hang in the air unanswered, and soon we were back to exchanging theories about the Monica hit. I wasn’t ready to completely dismiss the terrorist angle, so Callie asked if it were possible Sal Bonadello was involved with terrorists. After all, he’s the one who gave Victor my cell phone number. I told her Sal was many things, all unsavory, but a terrorist sympathizer, no. I told Callie to keep watching the news and let me know if anything interesting developed.
“This isn’t interesting enough for you?” she asked.
CHAPTER 24
I was about to turn off the TV and take a shower when I got sidetracked by Courtney Armbrister’s live update on CNN.
FBI Special Agent Courtney Armbrister was a media dream. Playing to full advantage her shoulder-length auburn hair, perpetually pouting lips, and killer body, she managed to appear beguiling despite the seriousness of the occasion. Courtney sported the obligatory dark suit favored by the bureau, though hers was obviously tailored. Her jacket framed a white blouse that appeared more silk than cotton. Her eyes glared fiercely into the camera, and when she spoke, it was with such conviction you knew she had to be telling the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.
Although in this case, she was lying like hell through those perfect, dazzling teeth.
I knew the cover-up was in full swing when S. A. Armbrister informed the CNN audience that FBI computers had identified the kidnappers as former Soviet agents with confirmed ties to terrorist leaders. On the screen behind her, the bureau displayed phony names and doctored images of Callie and me. In these photos, I was younger, smaller, and had no facial scar. Callie had been aged at least ten years, and they’d done something to her nose and eyes she wasn’t going to like. They also displayed fake profiles obtained through “classified sources” to show they were on top of things. She said the bureau was sharing these photos and documents with the public so we could be part of the process. It was a total load of crap, but as far as the Joe and Mrs. Lunchbox crowd were concerned, any words coming from that face would seem credible.
“Until we have proof to the contrary,” Courtney said, “we have every reason to believe Monica Childers is alive and being held captive. So we’re asking for your help. We want you to be our eyes and ears on this one. If you see anything, if you hear anything, please, call our hotline. There is no clue too small when it comes to saving an innocent life.”
Almost brought a tear to my eye, she did.
