“So why didn’t they hire him?”
“They’re not saying. That one’s too high up for me. But when I begged for a hint, my buddy over there said they thought the application was sour.”
“They thought he was trying to infiltrate? On his own, or as a hired gun?”
“Does it matter?”
“We should run him outside the system — see if he-”
“Whattya think I’ve been doing for the last hour?”
Lowell forced another grin, gripping the armrests of his leather chair and fighting to keep himself from standing. They’d worked together long enough that William knew what the grip meant. “Just tell me what you found,” Lowell insisted.
“I ran it through a few of our foreign connections… and according to their system, the prints belong to someone named Martin Janos, a.k.a. Janos Szasz, a.k.a…”
“Robert Franklin,” Lowell said.
“And Bingo was his name-o. One and the same.”
“So why’d they have his prints over there?”
“Oh, boss-man, that’s the cherry on top. He used to work at Five.”
“What’re you talking about?”
“Martin Janos — or whatever his real name is — he used to be MI-5. Britain’s Secret Intelligence Service.”
Lowell closed his eyes, trying to remember Janos’s voice. If he was British, the accent was long gone. Or well hidden.
“When he joined, he was barely a kid — just out of college,” William added. “Apparently, he had a sister who was killed in a car bomb. That got him sufficiently riled up. They brought him in as a straight recruit.”
“So no military background?”
“If there is, they’re not saying.”
“He couldn’t have been too high on the totem pole.”
“Just an analyst in the Forward Planning Directorate. Sounds to me like he was staring at a computer, stapling lots of papers together. Whatever it was, he spent two years there, then was fired.”
“Any reason why?”
“Insubordination, surprise surprise. They put him on a job; he refused to do it. When one of his superiors got in his face about it, the argument got a little heated, at which point young Janos picked up a nearby stapler and started beating him with it.”
“Wound a little tight, isn’t he?”
“The smartest ones always are,” William said. “Though it sounds to me like he was a powder keg to begin with. Once he leaves, he goes out on his own, finds some work for the highest bidder…”
“Now he’s back in business,” Lowell agrees.
“Certainly a possibility,” William said as his voice trailed off.
“What?” Lowell asked.
“Nothing — it’s just… after Her Majesty’s Service, Janos is gone for almost five years, reappears one day over here, applies to the FBI under a new ID, gets rejected for trying to infiltrate, then steps back into the abyss, never to be heard from again — that is, until a few days ago, when he apparently uses all his hard-trained skills to… uh… to smash the side window on your car.”
Letting the silence take hold, William stared hard at his boss. Lowell stared right back. The phone on his desk started to ring. Lowell didn’t pick it up. And the longer he studied his assistant, the more he realized this wasn’t an argument. It was an offer.
“Sir, if there’s anything you need me to-”
“I appreciate it, William. I truly do. But before I get you knee-deep in this, let’s just see what else we can find.”
“But I can-”
“Believe me, you’re invaluable to the case, William — I won’t forget it. Now let’s just keep hunting.”
“Absolutely, sir,” William said with a grin. “That’s what I’m working on right now.”
“Any leads worth talking about?”
“Just one,” William said, pointing down to the folder, where a fax from the Financial Crimes Enforcement Network poked out from the top. “I ran all of Janos’s identities through the guys at FinCEN. They came up with an offshore account that bounces back through Antigua.”
“I thought we couldn’t get to those…”
“Yeah, well, since 9-11, some countries have been a little more cooperative than others — especially when you say you’re calling from the Attorney General’s office.”
Now Lowell was the one who was grinning.
“According to them, the account has four million dollars’ worth of transfers from something called the Wendell Group. So far, all we know is, it’s a shelf company with a fake board of directors.”
“Think you can trace ownership?”
“That’s the goal,” William said. “It’ll take some peeking in the right places, but I’ve seen these guys work before… If I gave them your last name, they’d find the twelve-dollar savings account your mom opened for you when you were six.”
“Then we’re in good hands?”
“Let me put it like this, sir — you can go get coffee and some McDonaldland Cookies. By the time you come back, we’ll have Wendell — or whoever they are — sitting in your lap.”
“I still appreciate what you’re doing,” Lowell said, holding his glance tight on his assistant. “I owe you for this.”
“You don’t owe me a Canadian penny,” William said. “It all goes back to what you taught me on day one: Don’t fuck with the Justice Department.”
64
“This is it?” Viv asks, craning her neck skyward and stepping out of the cab in downtown Arlington, Virginia. “I was expecting a huge science compound.”
Dead ahead, a twelve-story modern office building towers over us as hundreds of commuters pour out of the nearby Ballston Metro Station and scurry past the surrounding coffee shops and trendy eateries that are about as edgy as suburbia gets. The building is no bigger than the others around it, but the three words carved into the salmon-colored stone facade immediately make it stand out from everything else:
Approaching the front entrance, I pull open one of the heavy glass doors and check the street one last time. If Janos were here, he wouldn’t let us get inside — but that doesn’t mean he’s not close.
“Morning, dear — how can I help you today?” a woman wearing a lime green sweater set asks from behind a round reception desk. On our right, there’s a squatty black security guard whose eyes linger on us a few seconds too long.
“Yeah… we’re here to see Doctor Minsky,” I say, trying to stay focused on the receptionist. “We have an appointment. Congressman Cordell…” I add, using the name of Matthew’s boss.
“Good,” the woman says as if she’s actually happy for us. “Photo IDs, please?”
Viv shoots me a look. We’ve been trying to avoid using our real names.
“No worries, Teri, they’re with me,” a peppy female voice interrupts.
Back by the elevators, a tall woman in a designer suit waves at us like we’re old friends.
“Marilyn Freitas — from the director’s office,” she announces, pumping my hand and smiling with a game show grin. The ID badge around her neck tells me why:
