Saving Faith

  "Nowhere near referring it to the U.S. attorney for indictment, if that's what you mean."

  "So Ken's dead and your chief and only witness is MIA. Tell me about Faith Lockhart."

  She glanced up sharply, being equally disturbed by his choice of words and the blunt tone he had used to say them.

  He stared back at her, his hazel eyes holding a definable measure of unfriendliness, Reynolds concluded. But right now, she knew, he was not supposed to be her friend. He represented Headquarters.

  "Is there something you want to tell me, Paul?"

  "Brooke, we've always shot straight with each other." He paused and tapped his fingers against the arm of the chair as though trying to communicate with her in Morse code. "I know Massey authorized some leeway for you last night, but they're all very concerned about you.

  You need to know that."

  "I know that in light of recent developments."

  "They were concerned before this. Recent developments have only heightened that level of concern."

  "Do they want me to just drop it? Christ, it could implicate people who have government buildings named after them."

  "It's a question of proof. Without Lockhart what do you have?"

  "It's there, Paul."

  "What names has she given you, other than Buchanan?"

  Reynolds looked momentarily flustered. The problem was Lockhart hadn't given them any names. Yet. She had been too smart for that. She was saving that for when her deal was completed.

  "Nothing specific yet. But we'll get it. Buchanan didn't do business with local school board members. And she told us some of his scheme.

  They work for him while in power, and when they leave office he lines up jobs for them with no real duties and mega-dollars in compensation and other perks. It's simple. Simply brilliant. The level of detail she's provided us could not be made up."

  "I'm not disputing her credibility. But again, can you prove your case? Right now?"

  "We're doing everything we can to prove it. I was going to ask her to wear a wire for us when all this happened, but you can't rush these things, you know that. If I pushed too hard, or lost her confidence, we'd end up with nothing."

  "Do you want my coldly reasoned analysis?" Fisher took her silence as assent. "You've got all these nameless but very powerful people, many of whom may have things lined up in the future or currently have nice post-public service careers. What's so unusual about that? It happens all the time. They get on the phone, have lunches, whisper in ears, call in some favors. That's America. So where are we?"

  "This is more than that, Paul. A lot more."

  "Are you saying you can trace the actual illegal activity, how the legislation was manipulated?"

  "Not exactly."

  ""Not exactly' is right. It's really like trying to prove a negative."

  Reynolds knew he was right on that point. How did you prove someone didn't do something? Many of the tools Buchanan's people would have used to further his agenda were probably tools every politician used, legitimately. They were talking motivation here. why somebody was doing something, not how they were doing it. The why was illegal, the how wasn't. Like a basketball player not trying his best because he'd been paid off.

  "Is Buchanan a director in these unknown firms where the former, unknown politicians get jobs? A stockholder? Did he put up the money?

  Does he have any ongoing business with any of them?"

  "You sound like a defense lawyer," she said hotly.

  "That's exactly my intent. Because those are the sort of questions you'll need answers for."

  "We have not been able to uncover evidence directly tying Buchanan to any of it."

  "Then what are you basing your conclusion on? What's your evidence that there is a connection at all?"

  Reynolds started to speak and then stopped. Her face flushed and in her agitation she broke in half the pencil she was holding.

  "Let me answer that for you," said Fisher. "Faith Lockhart, your missing witness."

  "We'll find her, Paul. And then were back in business."

  "And if you don't find her? What then?"

  "We'll find another way."

  "Can you determine the identities of the bribed officials independently?"

  Reynolds desperately wanted to say yes to that question, but she couldn't. Buchanan had been in Washington for decades. He'd probably had dealings with just about every politician and bureaucrat in the city. It would be impossible to narrow down the list without Lockhart.

  "Anything's possible," she said gamely.

  He shook his head. "Actually, it's not, Brooke."

  Reynolds erupted. "Buchanan and his cronies have broken the law.

  Doesn't that count for anything?"

  "In a court of law it counts for zero without proof," he shot back.

  She slammed her fist down on the desk. "I damn well refuse to believe that. Besides, the evidence is there; we just have to keep digging."

  "You see, that's the problem. It would be one thing if you could do it in complete secrecy. But an investigation of this magnitude, with the sort of important targets were talking about, can never remain completely secret. And now we have a homicide investigation to deal with as well."

  "Meaning there will be leaks," Reynolds said, wondering if Fisher suspected that those leaks might have already occurred.

  "Meaning that when you go after important people, you better be damn sure of your case before any leaks do occur. You can't target people like that unless you're loaded for bear. Right now, your gun's empty and I'm not sure where you go to reload. It pretty much says in the Bureau manual, you can't hunt down public officials based on rumor and innuendo."

  She looked at him coolly when he finished saying this. "Okay, Paul, would you like to tell me exactly what it is you want me to do?"

  "The Violent Crime Unit will keep you informed on its investigation.

  You have to find Lockhart. Since the two cases are inextricably connected, I suggest cooperation."

  "I can't tell them anything about our investigation."

  "I'm not asking you to. Just work with them to help clear Newman's murder. And find Lockhart."

  "And beyond that? If we can't find her? What happens to my investigation?"

  "I don't know, Brooke. The tea leaves are very hard to read right now."

  Reynolds stood and looked out the window. Thick, dark clouds had turned day almost into night. She could see both her reflection and Fisher's in the window. He never took his eyes off her, and she doubted if he was all that interested at the moment in how her backside and long legs looked in the black knee-length skirt and matching stockings she was wearing.

  As she stood there her ears picked up on a sound they usually didn't:

  the "white noise." At sensitive government facilities windows were potential outlets for valuable information, namely speech. To plug this leak, speakers were mounted at the windows in these facilities to filter out the sound of voices such that anyone lurking outside with the fanciest in surveillance equipment would end up with zip. The speakers accomplished this by emitting a sound akin to a small waterfall, hence the term "white noise." Reynolds, like most employees in such buildings, had tuned out the background noise; it was such a daily part of her life. Now she noticed it with stunning clarity. Was that a signal to her to notice other things as well? Things, people she saw every day and then thought no more of, accepting them for what they proclaimed to be? She turned to face Fisher.

  "Thanks for the vote of confidence, Paul."

  "Your career has been nothing short of spectacular. But the public sector is often like the private in one regard: It's the 'what have you done for me lately?" syndrome. I'm not going to sugarcoat this, Brooke. I've already started to hear the rumblings."

  She folded her arms across her chest. "I appreciate your complete bluntness," she said coldly. "If you'll excuse me, I'll see what I can do for you lately, Agent Fisher."

  As Fisher rose to leave,
he moved next to her, touching her lightly on the shoulder. Reynolds recoiled slightly from this, the bite of his words still smarting.

  "I've always supported you, and I will continue to support you, Brooke.

  Don't read this as though I'm throwing you to the wolves. I'm not. I respect the hell out of you. I just didn't want you to be blindsided on this. You don't deserve that. This messenger is friendly."

  "That's good to know, Paul," she said unenthusiastically.

  When he reached the door, he turned back. "We're handling the media relations from WFO. We've already had inquiries from the press. For now, an agent was killed during an undercover operation. No other details were provided, including his identity. That won't last long.

  And when the dam breaks, I'm not sure who can keep dry."

  As soon as the door closed behind him, a cold shudder hit Reynolds. She felt as though she were being suspended over a vat of boiling something. Was it her old paranoia kicking in? Or was it simply her reasoned judgment? She kicked her shoes off and paced her office, stepping over the paper land mines as she did so. She rocked on the balls of her feet, trying to guide the massive tension she was feeling throughout her body toward the floor. It didn't come close to working.

  CHAPTER 19

  THE RECENTLY RENAMED RONALD REAGAN Washington National Airport, which everyone in the area still simply called "National," was very busy this morning. It was loved for its convenience to the city and its numerous daily flights, and hated for its congestion, short runways and stomach-jolting tight turns to avoid restricted airspace. However, the airport's new sparkling terminal with its row of Jeffersonian-inspired domes and hulking, multi tiered parking garages with sky walks to the terminal were very welcome to the hassled air traveler.

  Lee and Faith entered the new terminal, where Lee eyed a police officer patrolling the corridor. They had left the car in one of the parking lots.

  Faith watched the policeman's movements too. She was wearing

  "eyeglasses" that Lee had given her. The lenses were ordinary glass, but they helped to further change her look. She touched Lee's arm.

  "Nervous?"

  "Always. It kind of gives me an edge. Makes up for a serious lack of formal schooling." He put their bags over his shoulder. "Let's grab a cup of coffee and let the line at the ticket counter die down a little, scope the place out." As they looked for a coffee shop, he asked, "Any idea of when we can get a flight out of here?"

  "We fly through Norfolk and then take a commuter to Pine Island, off the Outer Banks of North Carolina. Flights to Norfolk are pretty frequent. The commuter to Pine Island you have to call ahead and schedule. Once we get the Norfolk flight scheduled, I'll call down and arrange that. They only fly during daylight."