They both understood and mostly accepted the good and the bad points about each other. The game of Jack and Jill was getting much tougher now for both of them. Every move was chancy and fraught with danger. They could be caught before the mission was completed. The hunters were all over the place.
One of the largest manhunts in history was under way. Not only in Washington, D.C., but everywhere around the world.
"I was just thinking about the game and how it's going, an honest evaluation. I was considering- a game inside our game," Sam finally said. "Something more sophisticated. Completely unexpected by our trackers."
Sara watched him detaching from his reverie, coming away from it, coming back to her.
"Yes, I could see that you were somewhere other than here on the beltway with me and all of these Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/ab*.html
commuters. That much was pretty obvious."
Sam grinned. "Sorry. You probably smelled the wood burning, too." He was incredibly self-effacing --
something else she enjoyed about him. He didn't seem to realize that he was something special; or if he did, he kept it to himself. God, it was so easy when they were together, so hard when they were apart.
Sara wondered how she had survived before she met Sam. The answer was, Basically, she hadn't. She had been alive, but she didn't have a life. Now, she did.
"You're concerned about the progress of the game from here on, the exact sequence," she said. "It's furrowed your brow. Poor dear Sam. What's your idea?"
He smiled and shook his head. He often told her how perceptive and intelligent she was. Not many men had ever said that to Sara Rosen -- practically none, in fact. Her intelligence scared most men. Even worse, she was verbal. So men usually needed to keep her down, to put her down constantly, to belittle anything she said that they we road ahead.
He could get like this sometimes; but then again, so could she.
Sara the worrier. Sara the drudge.
They both understood and mostly accepted the good and the bad points about each other. The game of Jack and Jill was getting much tougher now for both of them. Every move was chancy and fraught with danger. They could be caught before the mission was completed. The hunters were all over the place.
One of the largest manhunts in history was under way. Not only in Washington, D.C., but everywhere around the world.
"I was just thinking about the game and how it's going, an honest evaluation. I was considering- a game inside our game," Sam finally said. "Something more sophisticated. Completely unexpected by our trackers."
Sara watched him detaching from his reverie, coming away from it, coming back to her.
"Yes, I could see that you were somewhere other than here on the beltway with me and all of these commuters. That much was pretty obvious."
Sam grinned. "Sorry. You probably smelled the wood burning, too." He was incredibly self-effacing --
something else she enjoyed about him. He didn't seem to realize that he was something special; or if he did, he kept it to himself. God, it was so easy when they were together, so hard when they were apart.
Sara wondered how she had survived before she met Sam. The answer was, Basically, she hadn't. She had been alive, but she didn't have a life. Now, she did.
"You're concerned about the progress of the game from here on, the exact sequence," she said. "It's furrowed your brow. Poor dear Sam. What's your idea?"
He smiled and shook his head. He often told her how perceptive and intelligent she was. Not many men had ever said that to Sara Rosen -- practically none, in fact. Her intelligence scared most men. Even worse, she was verbal. So men usually needed to keep her down, to put her down constantly, to belittle anything she said that they weren't entirely one hundred percent comfortable with.
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Sam wasn't that way. He seemed to understand exactly what she needed. Is that part of the game, too?
she wondered. Part of his game?
"There's going to be tremendous heat from the police and FBI coming our way soon," he said, staring straight ahead at the gray ribbons of roadway. "What's gone before was nothing, Sara, absolutely nothing. The manhunt will increase exponentially from here on. They want to capture us badly. The FBI is assembling the best team possible, and make no mistake, it will be an impressive group. Sooner or later, they'll find something on us. It's inevitable that they will."
Sara nodded in agreement. Still, he had frightened her. "I know that. i'm ready for it; at least, think I am.
You have an idea how to deal with this blistering heat that's coming our way?"
"Yes, I think I do. It's something I've been thinking about for a while, but I believe I've solved it. Let me try this one out on you.
Tell me what you think."
See? He did want her opinions. Always. He was so different from the others.
He looked over at her, made eye contact. "It's so simple, really.
We need perfect alibis. I have an idea how to accomplish that. It involves a slight change in our game plan, but I think it's worth it."
She tried to keep the concern out of her voice. "What kind of change? You don't want to go after the target we already agreed on?"
"I want to change the next target, yes, but I want to change something else as well. I want to get someone else to do the next kill. That way, we'll both have airtight alibis. I think it's a powerful twist. I think it could be the clincher for us. If anyone is onto either of us, this will throw them off completely."
They were coming down Wisconsin Avenue and into Washington. The city looked like aJ. M. W. Turner painting, Sara decided. Hazy light, caught just right. "I like your thinking a lot.
It's a good plan. Who would you get?" she asked.
"I've already made a contact," Sam said. "I think I have the perfect person for this little twist. He thinks the way we do, believes in the cause. He happens to be right here in Washington."
A SECRET SERVICE AGENT named James McLean, one of Jay Grayer's lieutenants, walked me around the White House. More than a million visitors come here every year, but this was the show none of them got. This was the real deal.
Instead of the usual tour of Library, East, Blue, Green, and Red Rooms, I got to see the private family quarters on the second and third floors. I requested a viewing of the President's offices in the West Wing, as well as Vice President Mahoney's in the Executive Office Building.
As the two of us wandered through the impressive Center Hall, with its bright yellow color scheme, I half expected either "Ruffles and Flourishes" or "Hail to the Chief" to suddenly ring out.
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Agent McLean was filling me in on details about security at the White House. The grounds were covered by audio and pressure sensors, electronic eyes, and infrared. A SWAT team was on the roof at all times now. Helicopters were less than two and a half minutes away. Somehow, I wasn't comforted by the tight security
"What do you think of all this?" McLean asked as he led me into the Cabinet Room. It was dominated by serious-looking leather chairs, each bearing a brass plaque with the cabinet member's title. A very impressive place to visit.
"What I'm thinking is that every person working here has to be checked out," I said.
"They've all been checked, Alex."
"I know that. They haven't been checked by me, though.
We need to check them all over again. I'd like each of them run against an interest in poetry or literature, even college degrees in literature; any kind of filmmaking experience; painting, sculpting, any endeavor requiring creativity. I'd like to know what magazines they subscribe to. Also their charitable contributions."
If McLean had an opinion on all that, he kept it to himself.
"Anything else?" he asked.
We were looking out over the Rose Garden. I could see office buildings off in the distance, so I assumed they could see us. I didn't like that too much.
"Year, I'm afraid so," I went on. "While we're doing those background checks, we need to look at everyone in the crisis group.
You can start with me."
Agent James McLean stared at me for a long moment.
"You're shitting me, aren't you?" he finally spoke his mind.
I spoke my mind, too. "I shit you not. This is a murder investigation. This is how it's done."
The dragonslayer had come to the White House.
THE PHOTOJOURNALIST had chosen a conservative dark gray suit and a striped rep's tie for the sold-out performance of Miss Saigon at the Kennedy Center.
He had cut his grayish blond hair short; the ponytail was long gone. He no longer wore a diamond stud earring. It was doubtful whether anyone he knew would have recognized him. Just as it should be, as it had to be from now until the end of the game.
"Seems like old times," Kevin Hawkins sang softly as he crossed a parking lot facing USA Today headquarters across the river in Rosslyn.
"Keep those big presses running," he muttered under his breath. "Might have something for you later.
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Might just have a big, late-breaking story tonight at the Kennedy Center. Quien sabe?"
He was so glad to be back in Washington, where he'd lived at various times in the past. He was happy to be back in the game as well. The game of games, he couldn't help thinking, and believing it in his heart.
Code name: Jack and Jill. Intrigue just didn't get any better than this. It couldn't.
There were two essential parts to his psychological buildup as he approached the difficult evening ahead.
The first part was to make himself as cautious, as suspicious, as paranoid, as he possibly could. The second part, equally important, was to pump himself up with a full megadose of confidence so that he would succeed.
He could not fail. He would not fail, he told himself. His job was to murder someone -- often a well-known someone, sometimes in public view -- and not get caught.
In public view.
And not get caught.
So far, he had never been caught in the act.
He found it curious, though not particularly disturbing anymore, that he had little or no conscience, no guilt about the killings; and yet he could be perfectly normal in many other areas of his life. His sister, Eileen, for example, called him the "last believer" and the "last patriot." Her children thought he was the nicest, kindest Uncle Kevin imaginable. His parents back in Hudson adored him. He had plenty of nice, normal, close friends all around the globe. And yet here he was, ready for another cold-blooded kill.
Looking forward to it, actually. Craving it.
His adrenaline was pumping, but he felt less than nothing about the intended victim tonight. There were billions of people on the earth, far too many of them. What did one less human mean? Not a whole lot, any goddamn way you looked at it. If you took a logical view of the world.
At the same time, he was extremely cautious as he entered the glittery Kennedy Center, with its gleaming crystal chandeliers and Matisse tapestries. He glanced up at the chandeliers in the Grand Foyer. With their hundreds of different prisms and lamps, they probably weighed a ton apiece.
He was going to murder in public view, under the bright lights, under all these prisms and lamps.
And not get caught!
What an incredible magic trick. How good he was at this.
His seat had been purchased for him, the theater ticket left in a locker at Union Station. The seat was in the back of the orchestra.
It was almost underneath the "President's Box." Very nice.
Just about perfect. He purposely arrived just as the houselights dimmed.
He was actually surprised when the intermission came. So fast !
The time had really flown. The melodramatic stage play really moved along.
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He glanced at his wristwatch: 9:15. The intermission was right on schedule. The houselights came up and Hawkins idly observed that the crowd was highly enthused about the hit musical.
This was good news for him: genuine excitement, ebullience, lots of noisy Small talk filling the air. He slowly rose from his cushy seat. Now for the night real drama, he was thinking.
He entered the Grand Foyer with the huge chandeliers that resembled stalactites. The carpeting was a plush red sea beneath his feet. Up ahead was the proud bronze bust of John Kennedy.
Very fitting and appropriate.
Just so. Just right.
Jack and Jill would be the biggest thing since Kennedy, and that was more than thirty years ago. He was happy to be a part of it. Thrilled, actually. He felt honored.
For tonight performance, the part of Jack will be played by Kevin Hawkins.
Watch closely now, theater fans. This act will be unforgettable.
THE GRAND FOYER of the Kennedy Center was mobbed with uppity Washingtonian a*sholes.
Theater people, Jesus. It was mostly an older crowd -- season subscribers. Tables were set up sellingjunky T-shirts and high-priced programs. A woman with a gaudy red umbrella was guiding a tour of high school kids through the intermission crowd.
There was a very nasty and difficult trick to this killing, Kevin Hawkins knew.
He had to get unbelievably close to the victim, physically close, before he actually committed the murder.
That bothered him a lot, but there was no way around it. He had to get right on top of the target, and he could not fail at this part of the job.
The photojournalist was thinking about it as he successfully blended into the noisily buzzing theater crowd.
He eventually spotted Supreme Court Justice Thomas Henry, Franklin. Franklin was the youngest member of the current Court. He was an African-American. He looked haughty, which fitted his reputation around Washington. He was not a likable man. Not that it mattered.
Snapshot Kevin Hawkins took a mind photo of Thomas Henry Franklin.
On the justice's left arm was a twenty-three-year-old woman.
Snapshot. Snapshot.
Hawkins had done his homework on Charlotte Kinsey, too. He knew her name, of course. He knew that she was a second-year law student at Georgetown. He knew other dark secrets about Charlotte Kinsey and Justice Franklin as well. He had watched the two of them together in bed.
He took another moment to observe Thomas Franklin and the college girl as they talked in the Grand Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/ab*.html
Foyer. They were as animated and bubbly as any of the other couples there. Even more so. What great fun the theater could be!
He took several more mind photos. He would never forget the image of the two of them talking together like that. 5napshot. And that. Snapshot.
They laughed very naturally and spontaneously, and appeared to like each other's company Hawkins found himself frowning.
He had two nieces in Silver Spring. The thought of the young law student with this middle-aged phony irked the hell out of him!
The irony of his harsh judgment brought a sudden smile to his lips. The morality of a stone-cold killer --
how droll! How insane.
How very cool.
He watched the two of them move onto the large terrace off the lobby He followed several paces behind.
The Potomac stretched out before them and was black as night. A dinner-cruise boat from Alexandria --
the Dandy -- was floating by The sheer curtains between the lobby and terrace flapped dramatically in the crisp river wind. Kevin Hawkins carefully moved toward the Supreme Court justice and his beautiful date. He took more mind photos of the two of them.
He noted that Justice Franklin's white shirt was a size too small, grabbing at his neck. The yellow silk tie was too loud for his subdued gray suit. Charlotte Kinsey had a quick, sweet smile that was irresistible.
She had lovely rounded breasts. Her long black hair swirled in the river breeze.
He physically brushed against the two of them. Begot that close to Charlotte and Thomas. He actually touched the law student's long shiny hair. He could smell her perfume. Opium or Shalimar.
Snapshot.
He was right there. So close. He was practically on top of them, in every sense of the phrase.
His mind's eye continued to snap off photo after photo of the two of them. He would never forget any of this, not a single frame of the intimate murder scene.
He could see, hear, touch, smell; and yet he couldn't feel a thing.
Kevin Hawkins resisted all human impulses now. No pity No guilt. No shame. And no mercy The law student carried a leather bag on her left shoulder. It was slightly open, just a sliver, just enough. Ah, carefree, casual, careless youth.
The photojournalist was good with his hands. Still good. Still steady. Still very quick. Still one of the best.
He slid something into her bag. C'est ca. That was it! Success.
The first of the night.
Neither she nor Justice Franklin noticed the fleeting movement, or him, as he passed by in the crowd. He was the river breeze, the night, the light of the moon.
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He felt incredible exhilaration at that special moment. There was nothing in the world like this. The power in taking, stealing, another human life was like nothing else in the full palette of human experiences.
The hard part was over, he knew. The close work. Now the simple act of murder.
To murder in public view.
And not get caught.
His heart suddenly jumped, bucked horribly Something was going wrong. Very wrong. As wrong as could be. Wrong, wrong, wrong!
Jesus, Charlotte Kinsey was reaching into her bag.
Snapshot.
She'd found the note he'd left there -- the note from Jack and Jill!
Wrong, wrong, wrong!
Snapshot.
She was looking at it curiously, wondering what it was, wondering how it had gotten in her handbag.
She began to unfold the note, and he could feel his temples pounding horribly She had gotten the justice's attention. He glanced down at the note as well.
Nooooo! Jesus, nooo, he wanted to scream.
Kevin Hawkins operated on pure instinct. The purest. No time to second-guess himself now.
He moved forward very quickly and surely His Luger was out, dangling below his waist. The gun was concealed because of the closeness of the crowd, the forest of legs and arms, pleated trousers, fluffed dresses.
He raised and fired the Luger just once. Tricky angle, too. Far from ideal. He saw the sudden blossom of crimson red. The body jolted, then crumbled and fell to the marble floor.
A heartshot! Certainly a miracle, or close to it. God was on his side, no?
Snapshot!
Snapshot!
His heart almost couldn't take it. He wasn't used to this sudden improvising.
He thought about getting caught, after all of these years, and on such an unbelievably important job. He had a vision of total failure. He felt... he felt something.
He dropped the Luger into the jumble of legs, trousers, satin and taffeta gowns, high-heeled slippers, Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/ab*.html
highly polished dark cordovans.
"Was that a gunshot?" a woman shrieked. "Oh, God, Phillip.
Someone been shot."
He backed away from the spectacle as just about everyone else did. The Grand Foyer looked as if it were ablaze.
He was part of them, part of the fearful, bolting crowd. He had nothing to do with the terrifying disturbance, the murder, the loud gunshot.
His face was a convincing mask of shock and disbelief. God, he knew this look so well. He had seen it so many times before in his lifetime.
In another tense few moments, he was outside the Kennedy Center. He was heading toward New Hampshire Avenue at a steady pace. He was one with the crowd.
"Seems Like Old Times" raced through his head, playing much too fast, at double or triple speed. He remembered humming the tune on his walk in. And as the photojournalist knew, the old times were definitely the best.
The old times were coming back now, weren't they?
Jack and Jill had come to The Hill.
The game was so beautiful, so delicate and exquisite.
Now for the greatest shocker of them all.
AGENT JAY GRAYER called me at home from his car phone. I was in the middle of reading approximately two hundred background security checks done on White House personnel by the Secret Service uniformed division. The deputy director was speeding downtown to the Kennedy Center complex, doing ninety on the beltway. I could hear the siren blaring from his car.
"They struck again. Jesus, they made a hit at the Kennedy Center tonight. Right under our noses. It's another real bad acid trip, Alex. Just come." He definitely sounded out of control.
Just come.
"They hit during intermission of Miss Saigon. I'll meet you there, Alex. I'm seven to ten minutes away"
"Who was it this time?" I asked the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question. I almost didn't want to hear the answer. No, not almost.
I didn't want to hear the victim's name.
"That's part of the problem. This whole thing is nuts. It wasn't really anybody, Alex."
"What do you mean, 'it wasn't really anybody'? That doesn't make sense to me, Jay."
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"It was a law student from Georgetown University A young woman named Charlotte Kinsey. She was only twenty-three years old. They left one of their notes again. It's them for sure."
"I don't get it. I do not get this," I muttered over the phone.
"Goddamnit."
"Neither do I. The girl might have caught a bullet meant for somebody else. She was out with a Supreme Court justice, Alex.
Thomas Henry Franklin. Maybe the bullet was meant for him.
That would fit the celebrity pattern. Maybe they've finally made a mistake."
"I'm on my way," I told Jay GraTer. "I'll meet you inside the Kennedy Center."
Maybe they finally made a mistake.
I didn't think so.
IT WASN'TREALLYANYBODY, ALEX. How the hell could that be?
A twenty-three-year-old law student from Georgetown was dead. Christ. It didn't make sense to me, didn't track at all. It changed everything. It seemed to blow the pattern.
I drove from our home to the Kennedy Center in record time.
Jay Grayer wasn't the only one partly out of control. I stuck a flasher on the roof of my car and rode like hell on wheels.
The second half of Miss Saigon had been canceled. The murder had taken place less than an hour before, and there were still hundreds of onlookers at the crime scene.
I heard "Jack and Jill" mumbled several times as I made my way to the Grand Foyer. Fear was a tangible, almost physical, presence in the crowd. A lot of elements of the murder at the Kennedy Center were torturing me when I arrived at the crime scene at quarter past ten. There were some similarities with the other Jack and Jill killings. A rhyming note had been left. The job had been done coldly and professionally. A single shot.
But there were huge differences this time. They seemed to have destroyed their pattern.
Copycat killer? Maybe. But I didn't think so. Yet nothing could, or should, be dismissed. Not by me, and not by anyone else on the case.
The new twists nagged at me as I pushed my way through the curious, horrified, even dumbstruck, crowd on New Hampshire Avenue. The law student hadn't been a national figure. So why had she been killed? Jay Grayer had called her a nobody. Grayer said she wasn't the daughter of anybody famous, either. She had been out to the theater with Supreme Court Justice Thomas Henry Franklin, but that didn't seem to count as a celebrity stalk-and-kill.
Charlotte Kinsey hadhat would fit the celebrity pattern. Maybe they've finally made a mistake."
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"I'm on my way," I told Jay GraTer. "I'll meet you inside the Kennedy Center."
Maybe they finally made a mistake.
I didn't think so.
IT WASN'TREALLYANYBODY, ALEX. How the hell could that be?
A twenty-three-year-old law student from Georgetown was dead. Christ. It didn't make sense to me, didn't track at all. It changed everything. It seemed to blow the pattern.
I drove from our home to the Kennedy Center in record time.
Jay Grayer wasn't the only one partly out of control. I stuck a flasher on the roof of my car and rode like hell on wheels.
The second half of Miss Saigon had been canceled. The murder had taken place less than an hour before, and there were still hundreds of onlookers at the crime scene.
I heard "Jack and Jill" mumbled several times as I made my way to the Grand Foyer. Fear was a tangible, almost physical, presence in the crowd. A lot of elements of the murder at the Kennedy Center were torturing me when I arrived at the crime scene at quarter past ten. There were some similarities with the other Jack and Jill killings. A rhyming note had been left. The job had been done coldly and professionally. A single shot.
But there were huge differences this time. They seemed to have destroyed their pattern.
Copycat killer? Maybe. But I didn't think so. Yet nothing could, or should, be dismissed. Not by me, and not by anyone else on the case.
The new twists nagged at me as I pushed my way through the curious, horrified, even dumbstruck, crowd on New Hampshire Avenue. The law student hadn't been a national figure. So why had she been killed? Jay Grayer had called her a nobody. Grayer said she wasn't the daughter of anybody famous, either. She had been out to the theater with Supreme Court Justice Thomas Henry Franklin, but that didn't seem to count as a celebrity stalk-and-kill.
Charlotte Kinsey had been a nobody.
The killing just didn't fit the pattern. Jack and Jill had taken a huge risk committing the murder in such a public place. The other killings had been private affairs, safer and more controllable.
Shit, shit, shit. What were they up to now? Was this whole thing changing? Escalating? Why had they varied their pattern? Were the killers moving into another, more random phase?
Had I missed their original point? Had we all missed the real pattern they were creating? Or had they made a mistake at the Kennedy Center?
Maybe they finally made a mistake.
That was our best hope. It would show that they weren't invincible.
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Let this be a goddamn mistake! Please let it be their first.
Just the same, whoever it was made a clever escape.
The six-hundred-foot-long lobby had been emptied of all but police officials, the medical examiner's staff, and the morgue crew. I saw Agent Grayer and walked over to him. Jay looked as if he hadn't slept in weeks, as if he might never be able to sleep again.
"Alex, thanks for getting down here so quickly," the Secret Service agent said. I liked working with him so far. He was smart and usually even-tempered, with absolutely no bullshit about him. He had an old-fashioned dedication to his job, and especially to the President, both the office and the man.
"Anything worthwhile turn up yet?" I asked him. "Besides another corpse. The poem."
Grayer rolled his eyes toward the glittering chandeliers hanging above us. "Oh yeah. Definitely, Alex. We found out some more about the murdered student. Charlotte Kinsey was just starting her second year at Georgetown Law. She was bright as hell, apparently. Did her undergraduate at New- York University.
However, she only had average grades as a Hoya, so she didn't make law Review:"
"How does a law student fit into the pattern? Unless they were shooting at Justice Franklin and actually missed. I've been trying to make some connection on the way over. Nothing comes to mind. Except that maybe Jack and Jill are playing with us?"
Grayer nodded. "They're definitely playing with us. For one thing, your illicit sex theory is still intact. We know why Charlotte Kinsey didn't excel at Georgetown. She was spending quality time with some very important men here in town. Very pretty girl, as you'll see in a second. Shiny black hair down to her waist.
Great shape. Questionable morals. She'd have made a terrific attorney."
The two of us walked over to the dead woman's body. The law student was lying facing away from us.
Beside the body was a bag she had been carrying. I couldn't see the bullet hole, and Charlotte Kinsey didn't even appear to be hurt. She looked as if she'd just decided to take a nap on the floor of the terrace at the Kennedy Center. Her mouth was open slightly, as if she wanted one last breath of the river air.
"Go ahead, tell me now," I said to Jay Grayer. I knew that he had something more on the murder. "Who is she?"
"Oh, she's somebody, after alk The girl was President Byrnes's mistress," he said. "She was seeing the President, too. He skipped out of the White House and saw her the other night. That's why they killed her. Bingo, Alex. Right in our face."
My chest felt seriously constricted as I bent over the dead woman. Claustrophobia again. She was very pretty. Twenty-three years old. Prime of her life. One shot to the heart had ended that.
I read the note they had left in the law student's handbag.
Jack and Jill came to The Hill Your mistress had no clue, Sir.
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She was a pawn But now she's gone And soon we'll get to you, Sir.
The poetry seemed to be getting a little better. Certainly it was bolder. And so were Jack and Jill. God help us all, but especially President Thomas Byrnes.
And soon we'll get to you, Sir.
THE MORNING after the murder, I drove eight miles down to Langley, Virginia. I wanted to spend some time with Jeanne Sterling, the CIKs inspector general and the Agency's representative on the crisis team. Don Hamerman had made it clear to me that the Agency was involved because there was the possibility a foreign power might be behind Jack and Jill. Even if it were a long shot, it had to be checked. Somehow, I suspected there might be more to the involvement than just that. This was my chance to find out.
Supposedly, the Agency had a lead that was worth checking out. Since the Aldrich Ames scandal, and the resulting Intelligence Authorization Act, the CIA had to share information with the rest of us. It was now the law.
I remembered the inspector general very well from our first meeting at the White House. Jeanne Sterling had listened mostly, but when she spoke, she was highly articulate and spotlight-bright.
Don Hamerman told me she had been a professor of law at the University of Virginia years before joining the Agency Now her job was to help clean up the Agency from the inside. It sounded like an impossible task to me, certainly a daunting one.
Hamerman told me she had been put on the crisis team for one reason: she was the Agency's best mind.
Her office was on the seventh floor of the modern gray building that was the hub of CIA headquarters. I checked out the Agency's interior design: lots of extremely narrow halls, green-hued fluorescent lighting everywhere, cipher locks on most of the office doors. Here it was in all its glory: the CIA, the avenging angel of U.S. foreign policy.
Jeanne Sterling met me in the gray-carpeted hallway outside her office. "Dr. Cross, thank you for coming down here. Next time, I promise we'll do it up in Washington. I thought it best if we meet here. I think you'll understand by the time we're finished this morning."
"Actually, I enjoyed the drive down, needed the escape," I admitted to her. 'Half an hour by myself.
Cassandra Wilson on the tape deck. 'Blue Light 'Til Dawn." Not so bad."
"I think I know exactly what you mean. Trust me, though, this won't be a trip in search of the wild goose.
I have something interesting to discuss with you. The Agency was called in on this with good reason, Dr.
Cross. You'll see in a moment."
Jeanne Sterling was certainly far removed from the stereotypical CIA Brahmin of the fifties and sixties.
She spoke with a folksy, enthusiastic, mid-Southern accent, but she sat on the Agency's Directorate of Operations. She was considered crucial to the CIAs turnaround; indeed, its very survival.
We entered her large office, which had a commanding view of woods on two sides and a planted courtyard on another. We sat at a low-slung glass table covered with official-looking papers and books.
Photographs of her family were up on the walls.
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Cute kids, I couldn't help noticing. Nice-looking husband, tall and lean. She herself was tall, blond, but a little heavier than she ought to be. She had a friendly smile with a slight overbite, and just a hint of the farmer's daughter about her.
"Something important has come up," she said, "but before I get into it, I just heard that the gun used at the Kennedy Center wasn't the same one used for the previous murders. That raises a question or two; at least, in my mind it does. Could the Kennedy Center murder have been a copycat killing?"
"I don't think so," I said. "Not unless the copycat and Jack or Jill happen to have the same handwriting.
No, the latest rhyme was definitely from them. I also think it qualifies as a celebrity stalking."
"One more question," Jeanne Sterling said. "This one is completely off the beaten track, Alex. So bear with me. Our analysts have been searching, but we're not aware of any useful psychological study that's looked at professional assassins. I'm talking about studies on the contract killers used by the Army, the DEA, the Agency. Are you aware of anything? Even we don't have a comprehensive study on the subject."
I had a feeling we were easing into what Jeanne Sterling wanted to discuss. Maybe that was also why the head of in-terual affairs for the Agency was involved with the crisis team.
Contract killers for the Army and CIA. I knew that they existed and that a few lived in the area surrounding Washington. I also knew they were registered somewhere, but not with the D.C. police.
Perhaps for that reason they were sometimes referred to as "ghosts."
"There's not much written about homicide in any of the psych journals," I told Jeanne Sterling. 'A few years back, a professor I know at Georgetown ran an interesting search. He found several thousand references to suicide, but less than fifty homicide ref: rences in the journals he sampled. I've read a couple of student papers written at John Jay and Quantico. There isn't very much on assassins. Not that I'm aware of. I guess it's hard to get subjects to interview."
"I could get a subject for you to interview," Jeanne Sterling said. "I think it might be important to Jack and Jill."
"Where are you going with this?" I had a lot of questions for her suddenly. Familiar alarms were sounding inside my head.
A soft, pained look drifted across her face. She inhaled very slowly before she spoke again. "We've done extensive psychological testing on our lethal agents, Alex. So has the Army, I've been assured. I've even read some of the test reports myself."
My stomach continued to tighten. So did my neck and shoulders.
But I was definitely glad I'd taken the time to visit Langley.
"Since I've been in this job, about eleven months, I've had to open a number of dark, eerie closets here at Langley and !se-where.
I did over three hundred in-depth interviews on Aldrich Ames alone. You can imagine the cover-ups that we've had over the years. Well, you.probably can't. I couldn't have myself, and I was working here."
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I still wasn't sure where Jeanne Sterling was going with this.
She had my full attention, though.
"We think one of our former contract killers might be out of control. Actually, we're pretty sure of it, Alex. That's why the CIA is on the crisis team. We think one of ours might be Jack."