The Fix

  in the face of death.

  And he could think. And use his memory to try to catch some anomaly, some inconsistency that would point him in the right direction. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and listened to the rain falling.

  But his thoughts were actually not on the case. He was not thinking about Walter Dabney, or Anne Berkshire, or anything along those lines.

  Molly and Cassie.

  Daughter and wife.

  Dead nearly two years now. And as time passed it would be ten years, then twenty, then thirty, then…

  He could imagine the passage of time. He could imagine the lessening of grief, of loss. But he could not imagine that lessening happening to him. All he had to do was reach back into his perfect memory and there it would all be, the discovery of the bodies, in their full hellish glory, with not a single impression or observation subtracted from the equation or diminished by the passage of time.

  He opened his eyes and there she was.

  “I don’t like being followed,” he said crossly.

  Harper Brown sat down next to him.

  “I’m not too keen on having to follow you.”

  “So why do it?”

  “Protecting assets, Decker. And DIA considers you a prime one.”

  “I work for the FBI.”

  “For now you do. But there’s always tomorrow.” Before he could respond she said, “What were you thinking about just now?”

  “Nothing.”

  She laughed lightly. “As if.”

  “Why are you here?”

  “I already said.”

  “They could have sent a flunky to follow me. I see this as a waste of your time. You have bigger fish to fry.”

  She took something out of her coat pocket. It was a piece of laminated paper. “I finished reading the Russian communication.”

  “And?”

  “And I might have found something.”

  She handed him the laminated paper. “This is a translation.”

  Decker read through it. “It says someone named Ahha Seryyzamok was presented with an award for services rendered.”

  “Espionage services,” added Brown.

  “So who is this Ahha Seryyzamok?”

  “I think the answer lies in how the name translates to English.”

  “How?”

  “Ahha is Anna. She’d be called Anna in Russia too. Remember Anna Karenina? But the different alphabet, you know. I didn’t translate the name fully because I wanted to keep you in suspense.”

  He glared at her. “I’m in enough suspense as it is.”

  “Touché.”

  “And Seryyzamok?”

  “It means Greylock.”

  “Okay, Anna I get, but how does Greylock help?”

  “Greylock is a mountain in Massachusetts.”

  “Still not getting the connection.”

  “It’s the highest mountain…in the Berkshires.”

  Decker stared down at the paper.

  “Anne Berkshire.”

  CHAPTER

  41

  BOGART SAID, “WE confirmed that the résumé Berkshire submitted to the school was concocted. The database at Virginia Tech was compromised and her background was placed there, her degrees and such. Very professionally done.”

  “And the fingerprints used to do the background check?” asked Jamison. She and Decker sat next to Milligan at the WFO.

  “Someone apparently created a database profile for Berkshire, complete with prints showing no criminal background. And her references looked legit but were also faked.”

  “All that’s not easy to do,” said Milligan.

  “It might be if you have a foreign government behind you,” said Bogart.

  Milligan said, “Okay, based on what Brown found in that Russian communication, it seems that Berkshire was a Russian spy going way back. She came to this country perhaps in the eighties and started acting as a handler for some mole, maybe at DIA. Then she surfaced decades later, finally ending up in Reston with a multimillion-dollar condo and luxury car and being a substitute teacher and a hospice volunteer in her spare time.”

  “And dying at the hands of Walter Dabney, who also recently stole secrets to pay off his son-in-law’s gambling debts,” finished Jamison.

  Bogart said, “But do we really know that it was just recently?”

  “What do you mean?” asked Milligan.

  “What if Dabney was the mole way back when? Don’t forget he worked at the NSA before starting his own company. The stuff that was found in that storage unit didn’t say that Berkshire was a handler for a spy at DIA. Despite the DIA visitor’s badge the spying could have been at NSA. The timeline works because Dabney was there in the 1980s.”

  “But we couldn’t establish any connection between Dabney and Berkshire,” pointed out Milligan.

  “Well, if they were spies they would go to great pains to make sure there were no connections, or at least no obvious ones. And we’ve learned from Nancy Billings that Berkshire used the same phrase as Dabney did. ‘You think you know someone.’ That either shows a connection or it’s a hell of a coincidence.”

  “And remember,” said Jamison, “back then I doubt Anne Berkshire was using that name. She and Dabney could have had a connection, but while she was using a different name. Her current name might have been suggested to her by what we saw in that document. Anna Seryyzamok became Anne Berkshire.”

  Bogart sat back. “So how do we trace a connection between them from the 1980s if we have no idea what her name was back then?”

  “We would just have to do it from visual evidence. Show her picture to the folks from back then and see if they recognize her.”

  “People change a lot over the years,” noted Milligan. “I doubt we’ll be able to find anyone who recognizes her. And we don’t have a single picture of her from then.”

  Bogart said, “We can have our technical people reverse the aging process and show what she might have looked like as a younger person.”

  He paused and looked at Decker. “Amos, you’ve been unusually quiet. Do you have any thoughts on the matter?”

  “Why would she stop spying?”

  “What?” said Bogart.

  Decker held up the translated KGB communication. “She kept this. She was obviously proud of it. Along with the floppy disk and the doll, tools of her spycraft. She was clearly proud of what she did. So why give it up? We’ve assumed that she had a change of heart when she started teaching and volunteering. So why keep the stuff that is clearly associated with her past life in espionage?”

  Jamison said, “Are you suggesting that she might still have been a spy, right up until she was killed?”

  “I’m saying it’s possible, because we haven’t definitively ruled it out. And we haven’t ruled out that Dabney hasn’t been spying all these years either.”

  “Do you have any evidence that he has been?” asked Bogart.

  Before Decker could answer, Jamison said, “How about the fact that he was able, in a short period of time, to sell secrets for ten million dollars to enemies of this country in order to pay off his son-in-law’s gambling debts? Now, if he was honest and aboveboard, where did he find a buyer for that much money so quickly? One answer is he could have easily if he’d been spying all along and had knowledge of people willing to pay for secrets.”

  Milligan and Bogart exchanged a glance.

  “Damn,” said Milligan. “I never thought about it that way.”

  Decker gazed at Jamison. “That was a good insight, Alex.”

  She smiled and said modestly, “I have one occasionally.”

  “The devil is in the details, the small details,” added Bogart. “So do we go back to his days at the NSA and see what we can find out? And then move forward up until the present?”

  “I’m not sure I see another path,” said Decker.

  “We’ll need to get some more agents on this,” said Milligan. “Because that’s a lot of legwork and document review. A
nd the NSA is not known for their cooperation. And on top of that they’re definitely not going to be pleased that we’re alleging they might have had a spy in their ranks thirty-some years ago.”

  Jamison said, “How does this reconcile with what Agent Brown told us? She said Walter Dabney stole secrets from DIA and sold them to an enemy of this country. If he were spying all this time, from NSA up until today, are you saying that he was working with Anne Berkshire the whole time? And that the gambling debt spying was just a one-off? They paid him money to save his kid, as a favor for years of service? And if they did so, why kill Berkshire?”

  “Like we said before, to silence her if she was indeed his handler,” said Milligan. “He was trying to tie up loose ends before he killed himself. Berkshire may not have known that he was terminal with cancer.”

  Decker stirred. “But if they were working together, why pick a rendezvous spot on a public street next to the Hoover Building? Why make the murder public? He could have killed Berkshire in private. They could have met at some place like her farm cottage. If they were spy and handler, they probably met there regularly anyway. But by murdering her in public he ruined his reputation and brought horrendous attention to his family, who he seemed to genuinely care for. It just doesn’t make sense.”

  “None of it makes sense,” added Milligan wearily.

  “No, it makes perfect sense to someone,” said Decker. “We just have to reach that same level of awareness.”

  “Well, whatever we do, this is not going to be a quick fix,” said Bogart. “It might take years to unravel.”

  “It might,” said Decker. “Or it might not.”

  Bogart said, “I can get the ball rolling on the NSA piece. What are you going to do, Amos?”

  “We have yet to figure out Walter Dabney. I’m going to revisit that.”

  “How?” asked Bogart.

  “There’s only one way to do it. Talk to his family again.”

  “But we’ve already done that,” protested Milligan.

  “Not with the mind-set that he was a long-term spy.”

  “You’re not going to come out and accuse the man of being a spy to his family, are you?” said Bogart, looking alarmed. “That’s not a great recipe to get them to cooperate.”

  Decker rose. “I think I know how to phrase it.”

  CHAPTER

  42

  THE HOUSEKEEPER THEY had seen on a previous visit answered the door. She was in her sixties, with gray hair pulled back in a bun. She had on the same garb that Decker had seen her in before. Black slacks, a white smock, and black rubber-soled shoes. Whether she was required to wear this or not he wasn’t sure.

  “They’re not here,” she said in reply to Jamison’s query about the Dabneys.

  “Do you know when they’ll be back?” asked Jamison.

  “Oh, in about a half hour. They’re at the viewing service for Mr. Dabney. The funeral is tomorrow.” She shook her head sadly. “My God, what a damn shame. He was such a good man. Can’t believe what happened.”

  “And your name is?” asked Decker.

  “Cecilia. Cecilia Randall. But folks just call me Cissy.”

  “Cissy, do you think we could wait for them?” asked Decker. “It’s sort of important.”

  She looked hesitant but then opened the door farther, allowing them to pass. “I know you’re with the FBI, so I guess it’s okay. Can I get you a drink or anything?”

  Jamison began, “No, we—”

  Decker said, “I’d like a cup of coffee if that’s not too much trouble.”

  “No trouble a’tall. They have a Keurig. Just pop in a pod and there you go.”

  They followed her to the kitchen, where she pulled out a box of pods. “Full strength or decaf?” she said.

  “Real coffee, just black.”

  She busied herself with making the coffee while Decker watched her.

  “This is a beautiful kitchen,” said Jamison.

  “Yes, it is,” Cissy said proudly. “Mrs. Dabney’s renovated it twice since they’ve lived here. She’s got the eye for stuff like that.”

  “So you’ve worked for them a long time?” said Jamison, glancing at Decker.

  “Over thirty-five years. I diapered all four of them girls, I can tell you that. All right here in this house.”

  “Wow,” said Jamison. “That’s a long time.”

  “They’re a wonderful family.”

  Decker said, “So Mr. Dabney bought this place while he was still working at the NSA?”

  Cissy took a cup out of a cabinet and put it under the Keurig’s spout. “Don’t know about that. He never talked about work, least with me.”

  “It’s just that I know this area is expensive. I just assumed he bought this place after he started his own company and started making the big bucks.”

  “Again, I don’t know nothing about that. But I do know Mrs. Dabney had some money.”

  “Oh, she told you that?”

  “Not in so many words. But you could tell she came from money. The way she dressed and walked and talked. Mr. Dabney wasn’t always such a sharp dresser, and I remember he used to drive a really old car when they first got this place, but then he bought himself this yellow Porsche. Now that was a beautiful car.”

  “Porsche, nice,” said Jamison, throwing a glance at Decker. “So the Dabneys have had a nice life. Up until now,” she quickly added.

  The coffee cup filled, Cissy handed it to Decker before throwing the used pod away in a slide-out trash can. “Well, everybody’s got problems, and Mrs. Dabney’s no exception.”

  “So you mean before now?” asked Decker.

  “I mean way back.” She hesitated and then, in a lower voice, though no one was around, said, “She had two miscarriages and a stillborn baby. Little girl. It was awful.”

  “Oh my God!” exclaimed Jamison. “Was that before she had her four daughters?”

  “Stillborn was. That was before my time, but Mrs. Dabney talked to me about it once. The two miscarriages were in between Ms. Amanda and Ms. Natalie.” Cissy wiped up around the Keurig machine with a cloth. “But they have problems too.”

  “I noted Amanda’s arm, and Natalie’s toes,” said Decker.

  “Right, had those since birth. Plus they all got the asthma pretty bad. But they’re all smart, and Ms. Amanda and Ms. Natalie have kids.”

  “And the other girls?”

  Her voice dropped lower. “To tell the truth, I’ve heard Ms. Jules and Ms. Samantha got problems in that department. I mean having babies. Might be why they’re not married yet.”

  Jamison looked around. “Do you think Mrs. Dabney will stay here?”

  “Don’t know. Have to tell you I’m worried ’bout that. I’ve