The Casey Collins Trilogy

3

3Something cold twisted in my stomach. “After me?” I said. My voice was pitched too high, my fear too plain. I breathed deeply, tried again. “They wouldn’t come here.”

“Can’t rule that out,” Harry said. “If Stefan Krajewski was the goal, we’ve got a different soccer game. One where you’re a player.”

The cold knot in my stomach was coming undone, twisting and undulating, sending bitter liquid up my throat. Harry was trying to scare me. He was succeeding. I sat back down. “You don’t know killing Stefan was their objective.”

Harry took the chair beside me. The light from the overhead fixture glinted off the metal frames of his glasses. “Right now, we don’t know much of anything. The FBI and half of Interpol are working on it. Until they identify the culprit, you’d be wise to lie low.”

“Lie low?” I made a disgusted noise. “Don’t you start in on me.”

“Somebody better,” he said. “You’re still not cleared to work anywhere overseas.”

I started to protest and he raised a hand to stop me.

“Canada doesn’t count,” he said. “You told me what Diplomatic Security said the last time they reviewed your clearance.” He squinted slightly, as if trying to make his words perfect before he threw them at me. “Assigning you to a European embassy would be like setting up a shooting gallery.”

“Billy Nu said that.” I swallowed. “He was a sharp guy. But he over-stated the case. I’d almost talked him out of it. All this time’s gone by and nobody’s bothered with me.”

“But if they took out Stefan . . .” He brushed the back of my hand with his fingertips.

His touch was like a warm breeze of solace. I felt my throat closing. Not here. I clutched the mug tighter, willed away my grief.

Harry kept watching me. “They know that you worked with Stefan in Warsaw. And then there’s the night you fled Poland. You, Stefan, the killer Abu Nidal sent after you—all three of you got on that ferryboat to Denmark. But the killer wasn’t on board when it docked on the other side of the Baltic. Some nasty people said they’d pay you both back. Maybe they’re getting started.”

“Right,” I said, staring at the muddy liquid in my cup.

His voice became earnest. “And then the stuff you did after Pan Am 103 exploded.” He paused, looked at me hard. He knew I wouldn’t deny that I’d done work good enough to call attention to myself. “Now this bombing. We keep finding parallels. Don’t you see how it could be meant as a threat directly against you?”

“You’re stretching,” I said.

“I don’t think so. You have to stay out of sight for a while, till we figure out what’s going on.” Then his tone sharpened. “What have you done so far?”

I didn’t answer.

His eyes went to my carry-on bag. A band of white tape crisscrossed the openings, unbroken since the pre-boarding search at Kastrup. The lettering spelled out AIRPORT SECURITY in royal blue. Harry glared at me. “What did you think you were doing?”

“I had to find out—”

“Why don’t you paint a bull’s-eye on your brain stem?”

The chromed legs of my chair rasped against the carpeting. I stood. “I don’t need this—”

“Calm down. This is your old pal Harry. I’m worried about you.”

I made a conciliatory gesture. “Guess I’ve gotten too much of that advice. ‘Lie low. Play it safe. Take it easy.’”

“You have to wait for the dust to settle—”

“Not dust. Body parts.”

He was standing, too. “Look, you can’t start acting crazy. I know he was important to you. But—”

“‘Important’?” I was at the door by then. “Stefan wasn’t important to me. I loved him.” I shoved my arms into my jacket sleeves and grabbed my bag. “Losing him is tearing me apart. If you don’t understand that, anything I do is going to look crazy to you.”

Harry was at the door. “Casey, I didn’t mean—”

“I appreciate your telling me as much as you did,” I said. “But don’t tell me how to handle this.”

He kept on as though he hadn’t heard me. “Go home. Get some sleep. Come and see me tomorrow. Let’s put together a plan.”

“Sure,” I called from the foyer. The tired look on his face told me he knew I didn’t mean it.

The frozen cement rang hollowly under my boots. Three cabs idled in the stand next to the Hyatt Hotel, their exhaust milky in the cold air, throbbing engines the only sound echoing off Rosslyn’s concrete high-rises. I got into the car at the head of the line. The black skin on the back of the driver’s shaved head glistened under the hotel security lights as he U-turned and headed downhill. Harry was right, I had enemies in Libya and in the Abu Nidal Organization. Good idea to be watchful. I was relieved I’d found one of the few cab drivers in northern Virginia who hadn’t been born in the Middle East.

The cracked vinyl of the rear seat was slippery as ice beneath me, the air stuffy with the smell of the exhaust. As we crossed Key Bridge, another inbound flight roared over us. The driver got off Rock Creek Parkway at the National Zoo exit and dropped me farther up Connecticut Avenue, in front of the brownstone where I owned the rear half of the second floor.

I paused outside my door, fumbling with my keys. There was nothing but lonely emptiness on the other side of that door. And two gaily wrapped packages, lying in ambush for me in the back of my closet. I jingled my key chain and regretted for the hundredth time that I’d never gotten another dog. No room ever felt empty when my Rhodesian Ridgeback was in it. Cecil had been only two when I was posted abroad for the first time. He’d accompanied me to San Salvador, gallantly accepting his new job in diplomatic protection. He’d prowled my walled yard every night, washed my face every morning, kept me safe as long as he could. He’d tried to stop the men who came over the wall, but got out only one piercing howl before they slit his throat. The State Department awarded me a fifteen-thousand-dollar salary bonus during my tour in San Salvador. There was a good reason for the extra compensation. I’d made a bad decision, taking Cecil to a danger-pay-post. I didn’t want another dog until I was living in a safe place.

I wasn’t there yet. But Stefan could have protected me and a dog. A few weeks past August, I’d dreamed up that scenario, goofily singing, “Stefan and me and puppy makes three.” The fleeting memory was like a cold draft, a chill reminder that I hadn’t yet totaled my losses. I shivered as I shoved the door open.

The first thing I saw was the red light blinking on my answering machine. Stefan!

I dropped my bag and rushed over to push the playback button. The cassette spindle hummed, rewinding. It spun on and on, as though the messages were infinite in length. I clicked on the table lamp and flipped open the plastic lid. The top spindles were empty, the left one endlessly rewinding nothing.

My incoming message cassette was missing.

I pressed the playback button again, but the eerie spinning continued. I grabbed the handset and the spindle’s motion ceased. I stared at the device. The LED readout showed the digit 3. Three messages of unknown length, from unknown person or persons, of great interest to an unknown intruder. I noticed gray finger smudges on the inside of the lid. I dropped the phone and held my hand palm-up under the pool of light. My fingers were coated with dust.

I switched on the overhead light. More evidence that I’d had visitors while I was away. Bookcases lined the walls of my living room. Mostly they held paperbacks and remainders, books of all sizes and shapes, shoved tight against the veneer backing, leaving a jagged edge of open shelf in front. Before I’d set out to meet the Father-Major, I’d carefully withdrawn and replaced a couple of volumes. I’d been gone only three days. The marks I’d intentionally left on the never-dusted shelves should have still been there. But all the exposed wood was powdered with dirt. Just like my telephone.

Someone had come looking for something. And my poor housekeeping had made his efforts too obvious. He’d covered his tracks with grit. I wondered why he’d gone to so much trouble to conceal his search—and then given himself away by removing the cassette. I didn’t stop to puzzle that one out. Someone was too interested in me.

In fifteen seconds I was closing my door from the other side. Nobody in the hallway. Good. And nothing unusual outdoors either. But I kept my eyes roving as I hurried down the block. Nobody was following me and I wouldn’t make it easy for anyone to pick up my trail. One more stop, and then no taxicab, no credit cards, no showing my ID to anyone.

Five minutes later I was in front of an ATM. The lights above it turned the skin on my hand greenish red. My hand shook on the first try and I nearly lost my card to a computer programmed for ultra-suspicion after midnight. I willed myself to stay calm and managed to extract five hundred dollars from my account. Then I made my way by public transportation to the southeast side of the District. I found a budget motel near the Anacostia River, registered under a false name and paid cash for a stingy room.

On Monday morning I walked the few blocks from that motel to an anonymous office building in Buzzard Point. At eight-thirty, I was looking across a desk at Mike Buchanan, his eyes watery from a winter cold. He blew his lumpy nose, jammed the handkerchief back into his pants pocket and waved me into the visitor’s chair.

“Some cold.” I sat down. “Taking anything for it?”

“You kidding? FBI agents don’t need drugs.” He sneezed and reached for the handkerchief again.

“Maybe the germs can’t tell you’re such a tough guy.”

He snorted. He knew he didn’t look the part. Too short, under six feet, with too much flesh hanging loose around his middle and under his chin. And no crew cut either—he wore his hair long, wavy and parted in the center.

But Mike was a veteran counterintelligence analyst in the FBI’s National Security Division and one of its top spy-chasers. We’d traded information before in situations involving the illegal export of US-made weapons—guns that linked the American traitors who smuggled them out to the foreign terrorists who paid big bucks upon receipt.

Mike put the handkerchief away and asked, “What’s up?”

“I thought you might be able to get some answers for me.”

The chair squealed as he tilted back. “What are the questions?”

“About the Global 500 bombing.”

“Out of my area,” he said.

“But your people are working on it?”

“Sure.” He jerked his head to indicate the wall in back of him. “Staff’s getting set up in there, all ready to convene the interagency task force, lay out everything we’ve got.”

I knew there was a major case room on the other side of the wall. A long, rectangular cave with a threadbare carpet and air permanently stained by nicotine. I said, “Maybe you’ve picked up info you could share with me.”

“You people have everything we’ve got.”

“Right,” I said, not bothering to dispute the tired falsehood. “I’ve been on leave. Figured I’d get a quicker fix on things, coming to you.”

“But you’re not officially part of the task force?”

“Not till I get an upgrade of my security clearance.”

Bushy eyebrows rose to the midpoint of Mike’s forehead. “I hear the head honcho in your shop handpicked you as the next candidate to fill State’s position. Think folks would hurry up your background check to please him.”

“You’d think that.” Mike was surprisingly knowledgeable about my job situation. Obviously well aware that I’d been waiting three months for the bureaucracy to unclog and spit out a clearance that should have been automatic.

He tilted back his chair once more and spoke with a casualness that seemed studied. “Course, your case is complex. You are involved with an old SB agent.”

In the five years I’d known Mike, he’d never mentioned Stefan. Why now? And why in a manner certain to annoy me? “A former agent of a former enemy,” I reminded him. “And even before we got a friendly government in Poland, Stefan defected to the West.”

“Sure. To the Danes.”

“They’re an ally.” I gestured at the wall behind him. “I’ve spent a lot of time in that room with you. You’ve never worried about how I handled sensitive information.”

“I admit, no one’s got a better handle on the issues than you do. No wonder the boss-man picked you for the task force.”

I said, “You’re not telling me anything.”

Mike shrugged. “You say you’re still not cleared—”

“Oh come on.” I clipped off the words, my irritation audible. “Nobody in the Department thinks I’m a security risk.”

The eyebrows seemed to rise higher. “The Bureau is less certain.”

I stood up slowly, trying not to let my anger get in my way. “If that’s how you feel, I won’t waste any more of your time.”

“Sit down,” Mike said. There was no invitation in his tone.

I stayed on my feet.

“Sit down.” This time spoken with all the authority inherited from J. Edgar Hoover.

“Why should I?” My voice cracked at the end and took the toughness out of my words. I’d seen Mike in pursuit of a traitor. He’d used that steely voice then, too.

“I’ve got a few questions for you,” he replied. “So you might as well sit down and see if we can straighten this thing out.”

“What thing?”

“Global Flight 500, for starters.”

I sat.

“What’s your interest in this?” he asked.

“I want to know who blew it up.”

“Yeah. Well, that’s the question of the hour, isn’t it? Everybody would like to know that. But you came all the way out here to extract the latest information from me. I’m curious why you’d choose to do that.”

There was a hook buried in that mild remark. I heard its barbed edge. Why are you searching outside normal channels for information you’re not supposed to have? Mike was treating me like a suspect. I didn’t need anyone reading me my rights to know I was better off remaining silent. I pressed my lips together and watched him.

Mike flipped open a manila folder. I recognized the passenger list for the downed flight.

He ran his finger down to the tenth name from the top. Then he asked, “Who’s Karsten Hansen?” The question was sharp.

Whatever wrongdoing Mike suspected me of, it had to involve Stefan. “Karsten Hansen?” I repeated warily. “Never heard of him.”

“No one else has heard of him either. His Danish passport had a number that hasn’t been issued yet. And no family member’s come forward to ask about him.”

My heartbeat was too fast and I wanted to gulp in air. But I knew better than to hazard guesses during what had taken on the rhythm of an official FBI investigation. “What’s that got to do with me?”

“Ticket agent at Heathrow thinks she remembers the fellow. Such a fine-sounding Danish name, but he didn’t have the looks to go with it. Dark hair instead of blond. Bony face instead of rounded. We showed her some pictures. She thought this Karsten Hansen looked an awful lot like your Polish friend.”

“A million Slavs look like him. Especially to a Brit handling a holiday crowd.”

“Maybe. But maybe you can tell us if Stefan Krajewski was on that plane.”

“I don’t make his travel arrangements.”

“But you were expecting him. We know you booked a room for two at the Highland Inn. We’re betting he was your date.”

The FBI had researched my holiday plans? Alarm sent a flush of heat across my cheeks. “You guys got nothing better to do than monitor my s*x life?”

“We keep track of foreign agents. And we do a better job than you seem to give us credit for. So tell me: Were you expecting the Pole?”

“Maybe you better tell me where these questions are going.”

He paused, studying me. When he spoke, he’d softened his tone, added a note of apology. “We start checking out something like this, you know that one thing we’re eager to learn is who else is checking things out.”

New tactic, I realized. Badgering me wasn’t working.

“As soon as you started searching for intell on the flight,” he continued mournfully, “your name turned up on our list.”

“Your terrorist suspect list? That’s ridiculous. Why didn’t you tell them to cross me off?”

“You know, that was my reaction. When one of the guys ran it by me, I said, ‘Nah, you don’t have to worry about Casey Collins.’”

“You weren’t convincing,” I said. “He tossed my house, didn’t he?”

Mike didn’t answer.

“It had to be you guys. Nobody else goes around running a Dustbuster in reverse.” They’d searched my condo. For sure they’d also intercepted my phone messages. If I stayed quiet, Mike might reveal something I didn’t know.

He retrieved his handkerchief, blew his nose, then continued. “My pal came back empty-handed. ‘See,’ I told him. ‘Nothing incriminating in her pad.’ Then this morning he shows me your itinerary for the past few days. ‘Odd,’ I admitted. ‘But I don’t see any link to Lockerbie Two.’ Fifteen minutes later you pop into my office asking questions about Global 500.”

“I must have missed something there. Counterterrorism is my job. Of course I’m interested in that explosion. Run it by me again, why the Bureau is bothered by that.”

“Maybe your interest isn’t job-related. Maybe it has more to do with the people you know off the job.”

“Come again?”

He held up a hand in a gesture intended to be soothing. “Let me tell you how it looks to my colleague. December twenty-first. You’re sitting in DC waiting for Krajewski. Then blam. Plane blows up. You go racing off to Denmark. Like maybe you want to ask your pal over there, does he know why someone blew away your boyfriend.”

“If Holger Sorensen knew anything about this, he’d tell you.”

“Would he, now? I’m not so sure of that. We’ve picked up a few facts lately, gave us a new slant on doings in that part of the world. The bodies won’t stay buried, if you catch my drift. Some funny business going on between that damn Father-Major and your Polish friend. That’s why you’re not on the task force, even though your boss raised a stink about the delay. Seems possible to us that anything you read could end up copied to the wrong people.”

“The wrong people? Holger Sorensen’s an ally, in case you’ve forgotten. You know he got six of our spooks out of Baghdad in 1990.”

“In 1990, sure—”

I cut him off. “Stefan did the fieldwork. He convinced some Poles working in Iraq to smuggle our guys into Turkey, right after Saddam invaded Kuwait.” I tapped my forefinger on the desk in front of Buchanan. “Holger doesn’t get his intelligence information from me. He’s cleared for Cosmic Top Secret or higher. He gets all his stuff through formal channels.”

Mike abandoned his soft approach. “You’re not that naive. But Holger Sorensen isn’t the main problem and you know it.”

I stood up. “If you want to talk to me, you’d better get a subpoena.”

“My colleague is with the judge right now. We should be ready to serve you by tonight. Might as well wait for us in your apartment. Save us the trouble of going back for an arrest warrant.”

“Arrest warrant? What’s the charge?”

“You figure it out.” He gave me a withering look. “Don’t try to leave the country. This time your passport won’t get you past the ticket counter.”

“I can’t believe I’m hearing this.”

“There’s only one reason why you went racing off to Denmark when loverboy didn’t show up. You think they know something about this bombing. If you’re smart, you’ll act like a loyal American. You’ll tell us where you got that idea.”

“But the attention—”

“Somebody blew up another planeload of people. It’s too damn bad if you don’t like the way we’re handling the investigation. You talk to us. Or you go to jail. Simple as that.”