Chapter Four
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Raines had been called back to D.C. against his wishes which did nothing to improve his grumpy mood as Pearce supplied rapid-fire answers to his rapid-fire questions.
Rumor was he was up for deputy director, so she needed to be at the top of her game. She learned he'd read the debriefs and reports on the flight from London, which meant she was glad she'd created the visual history in the ultra secure conference room as a tool to understand the extent of the conspiracy past and present.
"This damned situation is going to be the death of me," he muttered as he followed her into the room and paused to look at the wall of information she'd assembled: Photos of crimes investigated, agent activity reports, individual photos and a visual root system linking Anson to Vaughn, Management and the network of burned agents they coerced into working for them, most willingly, except for two images, off to one side, of those who'd resisted being burned, and attempted to fight from within: Victor Stecker-Epps and Michael Westen. If there were others, they were unknown to Pearce.
"Where's Westen?"
"Waiting in the next room."
"Get him in here," Raines ordered. Pearce left to retrieve Michael.
When the door opened, Raines came forward, hand outstretched. "So we didn't get them all."
"No, sir."
"Got your report here with all the questions you asked but no one answered nine months ago. Have you made sense of this yet, Pearce?" he wondered.
"Not yet. We just located that report two days ago after we became aware it existed."
"Well, if I knew about it, why didn't you?" he demanded.
"I'm a case officer, sir. I wasn't involved with that investigation, I only investigated the death of the agent who was."
"We both know you've been involved since Max died."
"Yes, sir," Pearce replied.
"And then that plane blew up. You did that, didn't you, Westen?"
"I depressed a detonator so an asset wouldn't be killed, but I didn't plant the C4," Michael said clearly.
"Yeah, and it wasn't your girlfriend, either. By the way, where is she now?" Raines wondered, glancing at Pearce.
"Still incarcerated," she said.
"She's been cleared, did I understand that?"
"Yes, the new crime lab reports show two different versions of T4 used, one on the upper level, the other on the ground floor where the guards were killed."
"Then let her go. We're agreed with the FBI on her version of the upper level bombing? And the Brits' assessment of the attempted theft?"
"Yes."
Raines removed his jacket and took the chair at the head of the conference table. "If Glenanne hadn't started the ball rolling on this, God knows what other messes we'd be dealing with now. Make that call, Pearce, and then rejoin us. And order breakfast while you're at it. I'm still in another time zone."
He indicated to Michael to take a seat to his right. "Now, Westen, let's discuss why it was your girlfriend instead of you who got us to this point in time."
Raines gaze narrowed as he focused on the bruise on Michael's chin.
For a moment the only coherent thought thrumming through Michael was the idea that Fiona would be released and he wouldn't be there to see her, but he quickly tamped down that emotional response and replied like a responsible, if suspended, operative.
"I've had a long history of being set up or blamed for something I didn't do. That started more than five years ago. You heard Pearce-she just got the report I wrote a couple of weeks after we finished in Caracas, a report no one was interested in at the time I handed it in. I was told I was paranoid, seeing ghosts where there were none. Now we know one ghost's name."
"So, let's talk about the things you've been blamed for that you actually did."
"Yes, sir."
Raines squinted, as if he remembered something. "Stay here. I need to speak with Pearce for a moment."
Michael watched as Raines left the room and blew out a breath of air. "This ought to be fun. Or not."
He turned and looked back to the wall of data Pearce had assembled. He'd seen it yesterday, and when he passed by Victor's photo and his put hand on it, as he had with Max's photo, as if in friendship. Pearce asked if he'd known Victor.
"Yes. He kept blowing chances to kill me, so we talked. They killed his family, Pearce. His wife, his son. When he figured that out, he tried to take the organization down from the inside, and didn't really give a damn who he hurt, but . . . "
Michael stopped and held his breath and was again challenged by conflicting emotions of remorse and gratitude. Remorse that it had been a gun in his hand that ultimately ended Victor's life. Gratitude that Victor's blunt appraisal of their situation allowed him to continue the war with Management.
Unaware of his thoughts, Pearce interpreted what she saw as his response. "You wish it had ended differently."
"Yes," he'd said, closing his eyes briefly. "Yes."
The newest photo Pearce had added to the board was that of Rebecca Lang, whose body had been recovered near Port Saint Lucie, north of Miami. She had been shot in the head, her body dumped in a rail yard. She was still dressed in the gear she wore the day the Reed operation came to its explosive end.
Raines came back into the room, a cup of coffee in his hand. "Okay, Westen. Let's begin."
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It was sometime after 7 p.m. when Raines declared he'd had enough. He had one more person he wanted to talk to before he made his decision on how they would proceed.
"I'm tired and I want to go home," Raines said, "so we'll pick this up in the morning. Be here at 8."
"Need a ride to the hotel?" Pearce asked Michael.
"Yeah, thanks. And Fiona, has she been released now?"
Pearce smiled. "Yes. She's a free woman, a valued CIA asset."
"Not sure she'll agree to being an asset."
"Too late. That's the language we used with the FBI initially and it'll be part of the record."
"Okay."
Fifteen minutes later, Michael walked into his hotel, opened his cell phone and called his mother who reported that Fiona was not there. She seemed astounded to learn that she'd been released.
He called Sam, but the call dropped when the elevator doors closed. He redialed at the same time he slipped the keycard into his room door. "No, brother. No one called. Not a word. Are you sure?"
"Yeah," Michael said. "I was there when Raines told Pearce to have her released. She had to go somewhere or call someone."
"We'll go find her," Sam said.
An hour later, Sam called back. Michael had been pacing the floor in his room, restless and agitated by the length of time that had passed.
"She left with someone from the CIA. That's all we know. Jesse pulled that rabbit out of the hat. We checked the loft, too, and Mike . . . somebody's been there. It's like they've been living there since you and Fi left. The fridge is full of Chinese food boxes and a bunch of other crap."
"You're kidding."
"Wish I was. We'll run a surveillance and see what we come up with . . . and you might want to call Pearce and find out . . ."
"Yeah, thanks."
As quickly as he ended the call from Sam, he dialed Pearce. She didn't answer.
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The loudspeaker announcing that the store would close in 15 minutes blared at the same time her phone rang. Dani Pearce picked it up and recognized Michael's number then let it go to voicemail. She wasn't going to lie to him. This was easier.
She knew exactly what he would ask, and she also knew she couldn't tell him what he wanted to know.
But she could take care of her for him.
"I'm ready," Fiona said, as she left the fitting room with necessities and clothing appropriate for a meeting in an office setting. Pearce had located an empty shopping cart and held it for her while she was trying on clothing. Fortunately, the store had a large selection of petite sizes.
"Next?" she wondered then saw what she would want had she been incarcerated for eight weeks. They stopped at the cosmetics display and Fiona zeroed in on the shampoo and conditioner and then grabbed a small promotional essentials kit with lotion, mineral foundation, brushes, mascara and lipstick.
The discount retailer offered everything from high end luxury clothing and shoes to furniture and house wares at vastly reduced prices. When Pearce met Fiona's plane, she realized they needed to make a 30 minute stop. The dress she'd worn when she turned herself into the FBI had been returned to her along with her purse and sandals, all of which was perfect for 85 degree weather in Miami but inadequate to deal with winter in Virginia. The agent accompanying her on the flight had given her a lightweight jacket with a CIA logo, also functional, but it would hardly keep her warm.
Pearce knew tomorrow would be difficult enough for her, although she was certain Fiona Glenanne could hold her own no matter how she was dressed. This was a small kindness she could extend, woman to woman, at her expense.
She'd already warned her what would be in store for her tomorrow, and told her that she would be seeing Michael, but that there would be no personal time for them. Fiona nodded with understanding. And worry.
"I have a guest room in my condo my mother stays in sometimes, and I need to keep you with me until . . ."
Fiona touched her arm. "I understand that part of this is your job, and this isn't. Thank you."
Pearce smiled. "You're welcome. Coats or shoes next?"
Fiona grinned. "Shoes."
"That would be my choice, too."
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Michael had spent several troubled hours the previous evening wondering about Fiona's whereabouts when it suddenly struck him that Pearce was probably not returning his calls for a reason.
Fiona was in Washington.
It was the thought that he slept with and greeted him when he awoke. Fiona was somewhere here, near.
The question was . . .why?
It seemed like something Raines would do. Did he want to watch the worms wiggle on the end of the hook? If not, what would be the point of bringing her here?
He tightened his tie, and was shrugging into his suit jacket when someone knocked on the hotel room door. The peephole to the hallway revealed two familiar CIA faces. "We're your ride to headquarters."
He grabbed his coat. "I planned to walk."
"Not today."
Twenty minutes later, he stood waiting between his escorts outside an interrogation room he'd spent too much time in over the past few weeks.
When the door opened, Pearce stepped out. Behind her, Fiona.
Michael's eyes met hers and held on as she walked, silently, behind Pearce with a somber expression on her face. When she passed him, she reached out for his hand and for a time much too brief, they grasped each other's hands, soft flesh to rough flesh, warmth to heat, and held each other, before the woman walking behind Fiona said "move along."
Fiona let her hand slide from his and continued walking, but turned to watch Michael until they turned at a corner and disappeared from his sight.
"Your turn," one of his escorts said, gesturing for him to enter the interrogation room.
And there was the answer to Michael's questions. Raines stood next to a polygraph machine and an examiner.
"What?" Michael said. "You didn't believe me? Us?"
"The problem," Raines said, "with spies, is that you need to be such skillful liars to do your job well, that when it comes to finding the truth, you need a little help. This is only for the most talented. Sit down, Michael."
He knew the drill and removed his jacket and took a seat while the examiner attached the monitoring equipment to his chest, his arm, his fingers.
"Blood pressure, heart rate, EDR response, do you think this is really going to tell you something I haven't already?"
Raines glanced down at the screen that illuminated the three distinct lines once the examiner turned it on.
He smiled. "It already has. You are currently in a high state of agitation."
"Gee whiz," Michael responded sarcastically. "That's a surprise."