Nemesis

  “Keep in touch. Sherlock and I are going to interview George ‘Sparky’ Carroll’s wife. Then we’ll head back to Washington, see what Brakey Alcott has to say.”

  “We’d never be thinking about it like this except for the Athame murder weapon.”

  He was right, and Savich wondered who had such power to make two men kill and not remember doing it.

  26 FEDERAL PLAZA

  NEW YORK CITY

  Thursday morning

  Special Agent in Charge Milo Zachery faced the roomful of agents from an alphabet soup of agencies—FBI, Homeland Security, JFK security, NYPD, NSA, ATF. There was relentless pressure from every level—his bosses, national leaders, the press—but the urgency each of them felt came from knowing there could be other attacks, and soon. The president had spoken to the nation two hours after the attacks yesterday, and the vice president, obviously still shaken, spoke eloquently of what it was like to be at ground zero.

  Zachery told them to ignore all that, to make their own part in the investigation their entire focus until it was over. “Our nation is at risk, and we’re all on edge, at our airports and public spaces, and even in our own churches—and it will go on until we get it cleared up.” Zachery remembered 9/11, the shock, the outrage, the misdirected anger at anyone who looked Middle Eastern. This time there had been no deaths; this time both attacks had failed spectacularly. “We won this round, so maybe that’s why the usual groups aren’t lining up to take credit, but the threat remains real, people. It’s up to us to close this down. I know you’re sleep deprived already, I’m on hyperdrive myself from all the coffee flowing through my veins.” He paused. “Maybe that’s as it should be.” Zachery introduced some of the key people around the table, and turned things over to Kelly.

  Special Agent Kelly Giusti stepped to the head of the long conference table, loaded with open laptops, tablets, notebooks, coffee cups, soda cans, and trays of Danishes, now mostly crumbs. At least she didn’t feel like roadkill after a long hot shower on the sixteenth floor, but she felt fatigue nibbling at her again. She took another sip of coffee so strong she could taste it on her teeth. She felt her brain snap to and looked quickly around the table at the twenty-plus agents watching her. Many of them looked to be in the same shape she was, but it didn’t matter, they were focused and ready, running on adrenaline and anger at what the terrorists had tried to do at JFK and St. Patrick’s Cathedral.

  She clicked on the big wall screen to show them a dozen different photos of Nasim Conklin. “Your packets have all the information we have so far on Nasim Conklin—his background, his family. Let me say up front that he doesn’t fit any known profile of a terrorist. He’s a thirty-six-year-old dual French and British citizen, Syrian mother, British father. He recently relocated to London from Rouen, France, following the death of his father in London. His family is wealthy, his father the owner of a very successful chain of dry cleaners in England that Nasim is in the process of selling.

  “Conklin lives in a nice area, Notting Hill, in London. He has a wife and three children under the age of eight. He has a website as a freelance journalist and he’s written articles about the European economy that have appeared in Le Monde. He’s also a member of a think tank that consults with the French government on Middle Eastern issues. We don’t know much yet about the specifics of this.

  “So the question is why did a man like Nasim pull a grenade out of his pocket in the security line at JFK yesterday? Nasim and his mother are both Muslim, but Nasim has given every indication of being westernized. He’s married to a French Catholic woman. Nasim’s mother, though, worships regularly at the South London Mosque, a mosque that has been under MI5 surveillance for over a year. Their theory is that Nasim stuck his toe in the water there. If so, that’s where he could have come into contact with the people who set him up to be the goat in the JFK operation. MI5 suspects this mosque is a recruiting and fund-raising center for jihadists. It’s run by Imam Al-Hädi ibn Mirza, a charismatic fifty-eight-year-old firebrand fundamentalist. They say he could talk a lizard off a rock, he’s that persuasive. They suspect he skims off the top of the donations that pour in and takes in a good deal of unreported cash. You’ll see in the profile that he’s arrogantly outspoken and believes he’s above British law. As of now, despite their suspicions, the Brits don’t have enough proof to arrest him.”

  Kelly nodded to Agent Gray Wharton, a longtime agent, computer genius, and friend. He badly needed a shave, as did most male agents in the conference room, and a change of clothes.

  Gray cleared his throat. “MI5 should be able to ID Nasim on their surveillance video if he was ever at the mosque.

  “So here’s what we know. Nasim Conklin flew into JFK on Monday of this week, cleared customs. We see him pulling his single carry-on outside the terminal. A man we haven’t yet identified joined him and escorted him to a large black van. They got in and drove toward the airport exit. They were not spotted on any further webcams or traffic cams, so we haven’t been able to track him from there. So we have no idea where he stayed Monday or Tuesday night or who gave him the grenade he used at JFK on Wednesday. He had no cell phone on him, only his passport and two hundred dollars in cash. According to his passport, he left France once in the past three years to attend his father’s funeral in London. In other words, no terrorist training camps. We’re in the process of getting his cell phone and landline records in London.

  “His family flew into the U.S. on Tuesday to Boston’s Logan International, cleared customs, and walked out of the terminal, escorted by two unidentified men who were also on the plane. We see them being taken to a black SUV, the license plate muddied so no identification is possible. Both the men were wearing hats and sunglasses, making facial recognition impossible. We found two men on the flight who checked in with forged American passports. The passports are excellent forgeries, but the ID photos were altered. We believe they were the family’s handlers.

  “As Agent Giusti said, our working theory is that Nasim was indeed the goat. He was forced into the attempted suicide bombing at JFK to keep his family alive, and that his family was being held hostage by the terrorists. They may still be in the Boston area, since that’s where they landed. In your packets, you have photos of the Conklin family. Mrs. Conklin doesn’t look frightened, so she was probably told she would be joining her husband. She may have had no idea what her husband was being forced to do. It’s possible the family is no longer alive, I mean, Nasim did fail in his mission. Kelly?”

  Kelly nodded. “We need to verify that Nasim Conklin’s only motive was to protect his family. So far we haven’t found anything to indicate otherwise. The question then is: Why did they single Nasim out? We need to examine his phone records, talk to his contacts and acquaintances, check his e-mail and Internet activity, his financial history, learn more about his family life and religious beliefs.

  “And in the last few days: Where was he staying? Where did he get the grenade? Who did he speak to during the day and a half he was here in New York? What is the significance of the name—Bella—as it isn’t his wife’s name? Could it be the code name of their operation? Agent Valicky at the NSDA is checking the chatter on that. If we find out where he stayed, we might find his cell phone.

  “We need to follow Conklin’s path in the past six months, identify who he spoke to, who he met with. And we’ll check in to his mother’s activities as well. MI5 is all over much of this. Your packets spell out a specific focus for each of you.

  “Some of you will be working on the bombing at Saint Patrick’s. It’s obvious Saint Patrick’s was the real target and JFK the diversion. Unfortunately, we have less to go on there. We have feed from three webcams and two traffic cams that show a man we believe to be of Middle Eastern extraction carrying a backpack directly into Saint Patrick’s two hours before the bomb was found by Romeo Rodriguez. He’s wearing a cap and sunglasses. We haven’t identified him yet.??
? She turned on a video feed. “You’ll see here we have a small part of his jawline and nose, so there’s still a possibility facial recognition will help, if they can match these features to a known terrorist. There’s not much point releasing that partial to the public, though.

  “We’re looking for witnesses who may have seen him before he entered Saint Pat’s or when he came out. Also, if the bomber stayed around, there are hundreds of cell-phone videos, plus all the webcam footage we’re hoping will identify him.

  “We need to know if this plot is the brainchild of Al Qaeda, ISIS, or a smaller radical group. It appears to come out of London, so that’s our focus, particularly the South London Mosque and Imam Al-Hädi ibn Mirza, until we know for sure otherwise. Agent Drummond”—Kelly nodded to him, and Nicholas gave a little wave—“is our liaison with MI5. He’ll be updating your data packs periodically as we learn more about what’s going on in London.

  “You may have heard a brief discussion about the question of a lawyer for Mr. Conklin. The word has come down. There will be no lawyer for now. We have sole custody. We’ve decided to take him to a safe house for the benefit of all. The location is classified.” She paused, didn’t want to admit this, but she had to. Suck it up, Giusti. “Here it is. So far Conklin refuses to say anything. He keeps insisting he wants to speak to Agent Sherlock, the FBI agent who brought him down at JFK. However, we will continue working on him. I’m confident we’ll get him to open up.”

  “If he doesn’t, will Agent Sherlock be joining the operation?” Nicholas Drummond asked.

  How odd it was to hear a British accent coming out of an FBI agent’s mouth. Kelly said only, “We’ll see.”

  An agent from Homeland Security said, “We haven’t even discussed the possibility that the attack on Saint Patrick’s Cathedral could have been an attempt to assassinate the vice president of the United States. There were also a number of high-ranking state and federal politicians and businesspeople there.”

  SAC Milo Zachery rose. “A good point, Arlo. We have considered this possibility and have assembled a small group of agents to look into this. We want to cover all bases. Now, all of you know what to do. Communicate any questions or suggestions you have directly to Agent Giusti.” He looked at each face. “It’s feet-to-the-coals time, people. Good luck and thank you.”

  PLACKETT, VIRGINIA

  Thursday morning

  On the drive from Richmond to Plackett, Sherlock took a call from the medical examiner who’d just completed the autopsy on Deputy Kane Lewis. Straight up, the knife to the chest had killed him. Also of note: Deputy Lewis had been a longtime drinker, and his cirrhosis was getting serious. He’d had a blood alcohol content of .25, enough to render him nearly unconscious when he’d been stabbed. “I doubt he felt a thing when the knife went in, so that’s something. No need to let this get out in town, though. His family doesn’t need to know.”

  Families, particularly the wives, always knew, Sherlock thought. About other women, and certainly about too much booze.

  Savich said, “You know Sheriff Watson will find out about Lewis’s being drunk. At least he wasn’t on the job.

  “Sparky Carroll didn’t have anything in his system when he was murdered yesterday in the Rayburn Office Building. He had no defensive wounds, either. He knew his attacker, Walter Givens, but there were so many people in the hallway I doubt he saw him until it was too late.

  “Burt Hildebrand wasn’t a happy camper when Mr. Maitland turned over the Sparky Carroll investigation to us, but what with the Athame being the murder weapon and Walter Givens not remembering anything about it, I suspect he was also a little relieved.

  “He took the chaplain with him to break the news to Sparky Carroll’s young widow, Tammy, yesterday afternoon. He said it was tough, she was a mess. He couldn’t interview her because her mother and her two sisters wouldn’t let him. None of the three, however, could believe Walter Givens had done this. They’d known Walter forever, he was a sweetie, the mother’s words, he fixed their cars and charged them peanuts.

  “I think we’ll do better today,” Savich continued. “Tammy Carroll’s had some time to get herself together, to reflect on what it could mean that Walter Givens killed her husband with a witch’s ceremonial knife and has absolutely no memory of it.

  “I texted pictures of the Dual Dragon Athame to Professor Hornsby at GW. You know him, he’s the theoretical physicist who’s also a practicing Wiccan—a Wicca expert, I’ve been told.”

  “I met him once. He sort of stared at me, shook his head, didn’t say a word. He looks like Ichabod Crane.”

  Savich laughed, flipped on his blinker, and smoothly passed an eighteen-wheeler. “You probably terrified him. He’s not known for his social abilities. In any case, he called me right back, told me the Dual Dragon Athame is unusual. It’s not medieval, despite all the ancient-looking elaborate carving on the handle and the dragon heads with the ruby eyes, which, he assured me, were real. He believes it was forged no more than a hundred years ago, probably much less. It’s old enough, though, to be part of a generational collection belonging, most likely, to a Wiccan family. He was appalled when I told him it had been stabbed into a man’s heart.

  “He assured me that for Wiccans the Athame isn’t a weapon, isn’t even used to cut up herbs. It’s only used for ritual purposes. He laughed because he said he was clumsy and told me he made sure his knife blade was dull. He showed me photos of Athames. Most are very plain, black handle, unadorned, many made of stone, the key being to keep the material natural. Most have a four-inch blade. All Athames are straight, double-edged blades. The length of the blade of this Dual Dragon Athame is seven inches.

  “Hornsby told me a Wiccan’s Athame is his most important tool, that it’s tied intimately to its owner’s energy.”

  “What does that mean?” Sherlock asked. “It’s all symbolism?”

  “This is what I remember his saying. The Athame serves as a conductor of the wielder’s energy—that is, it directs his energy outward, like a beam of light. And supposedly controls it. What that means, I’m not sure.”

  “Did he say any particular Athame was considered more powerful than another?”

  “No, they’re all individual, they all draw their power or their energy from their owners.”

  Savich pulled off I-95 and onto the 123, and turned right at the Plackett exit some ten miles later. Soon they were on the main street of an old country town with a road sign boasting a population of 2,102. Many of the buildings were turn of the last century and looked a little shabby. But there was charm as well, and a central square with a hundred-year-old stone courthouse surrounded by maple trees. A small pond with a dozen ducks sat off to one side.

  The home of Sparky Carroll and his wife, Tammy, was in the middle of Pine Nut Street, a solidly middle-class residential neighborhood parallel to Main Street. Oaks and maples had thickened up nicely for late spring, the sky was blue, and a slight breeze stirred their hair as they walked up the flagstone driveway to the ranch-style home. It was perhaps ten years old, and well maintained, the grass freshly mowed, pansies planted in narrow beds in front of the house. Savich was glad to see there were no cars in the driveway. He’d called Mrs. Carroll, asking to speak to her alone.

  A perfect pocket Venus answered the door. She was barely five feet tall, curvy, with long straight brown hair and brown eyes red from weeping. She was painfully young. Savich and Sherlock showed her their creds, introduced themselves.

  “We are very sorry for your loss, Mrs. Carroll,” Savich said. “Thank you for seeing us. We really need your help.”

  Tammy didn’t say anything; it seemed her throat had been clogged with tears since she’d heard all the shouting and screams on her cell when Sparky had called her. She’d known, she’d known something terrible had happened. She turned away on her small feet and showed them into a long, narrow living room with windows acro
ss the front, the thick green draperies pulled tightly shut, shadowing the room.

  She waved a small white hand. “Please, sit down. May I get you something to drink?”

  “No, thank you,” Savich said. “We’re fine.” He walked over to her and gently took her small hands between his. “We will find out why Walter Givens killed Sparky, Mrs. Carroll.”

  Tammy blinked up at him. “But didn’t Walter tell you why?”

  “Walter has absolutely no memory of killing your husband. He has no idea why he even drove to Washington, why he even went to the Rayburn Office Building. When he came to, I guess you could say, he did remember that Sparky had told him he was making his big pitch to a congressman yesterday, but he couldn’t explain what he’d done. He was so horrified and scared because his memory of what happened is simply gone. We don’t think he’s lying. Please, sit down, Mrs. Carroll.”

  Tammy Carroll slid her tongue over her lips, nodded, and eased down on what was obviously her husband’s big TV chair. She scooted to the edge and sat stiff, her back board straight, like a schoolgirl, her hands on the knees of her jeans. “Call me Tammy. I’ve been thinking and thinking, but still, it doesn’t make any sense that anyone would stab Sparky, much less Walter, one of his best friends. And you said Walter doesn’t remember? You mean he blocked out what he did because he felt so bad about it after he—” She swallowed.

  Savich said, “All we know is that Walter doesn’t remember. Do you know of anything between them, a business dispute, a fight over something, jealousy, anything that might explain Walter stabbing your husband?”

  “No, no, nothing.” Tears brimmed over, snaked down her face. Sherlock leaned forward, her voice low and soothing. “Mrs. Carroll—Tammy—how long have you known Walter Givens?”

  Tammy swallowed her tears, drew herself up. “Walt and Sparky and I grew up together. I met them when I was in the fifth grade and they were in the eighth. Despite the age difference, despite the fact I was a little girl, we all became friends. We were together all through high school. Walt wanted me to go out with him in high school, but Sparky and I were already getting serious. But it didn’t matter. It didn’t break anything up, we were still friends, you know? That’s what doesn’t make any sense. Walt is—was—one of Sparky’s groomsmen at our wedding.” She paused, then raised tear-filled eyes to Savich. “That was four months ago. Four months. I’m only twenty and I’m a widow.” She lowered her face in her hands, her shoulders shaking. Sherlock walked to the big chair and sat on the wide leather arm. She pulled Tammy against her, rubbed her hands up and down her back. Tammy’s arms came up around Sherlock’s back. She pressed her face against Sherlock’s chest. “I’m so sorry,” Sherlock whispered against Tammy’s shiny hair. “So very sorry. We will find out what happened, I promise you. But you need to help us, Tammy. Can you do that?”