“This is our guy,” Kinney said aloud to himself.

“I don’t doubt it,” Kerry Smith said from the stairs. “You ever seen anything this clean?”

“No, and neither has anybody else.”

“Quite a workshop he had, too,” Smith said, looking around.

“What have you got?” Kinney asked.

“You’re not going to like it,” the young agent replied.

“Tell me anyway.”

“There was no file on Teddy Kay among those that the CIA sent over.”

“That’s not possible, unless the Agency is holding out on us.”

“I’ve spent the last two hours on the phone with a guy in personnel over there, Harold Broward, and he swears that the Agency has no record of anybody named Fay ever having worked there.”

The two men stood silently, while Kinney tried to work this out.

“Not that Teddy Fay never worked there,” Kinney said finally, “but that they have no record of his ever having worked there?”

“That’s what Broward said.”

Kinney walked over to a wall and pointed at a receptacle. “That’s for a fast Internet connection,” he said. “Let’s suppose that our Teddy was as good at computers as he was at everything else.”

“Okay, I’ll buy that.”

“Is it possible that, while doing his job, he could have obtained the passwords necessary to erase all record of himself from the CIA’s computers?”

“Well,” said Smith, “let’s say that if he knew what he was doing and had the time, it’s not impossible.”

“Did you run a credit report?”

“I ran all three major reporting agencies. He lived in this house for thirty years, had one employer for all that time, a CIA front business, which, according to Broward, has no record of him, either. He paid off his mortgage ten years ago, had one bank account, one brokerage account, and three credit cards, all canceled by his executor upon his death.”

“His death?”

“That’s what the credit reports said. Same for his bank account, driver’s license, and Social Security account. Officially, Teddy Fay no longer exists.”

“Who was his executor?”

“The law firm of Schwartz and Schwartz, which doesn’t exist, either. The proceeds of his estate were placed in the nonexistent firm’s trust account, which was closed shortly after the funds were wire-transferred to a Cayman Islands bank, a little over a month ago.”

“In short, Teddy Fay took a deep breath and disappeared up his own ass.”

“That’s about the size of it,” Smith agreed. “And if he indeed worked at Technical Services at the CIA, then he had all the tools at hand to create a new identity-or multiple identities-for himself before he retired and disappeared.”

“You know what this says to me?” Kinney asked.

“What?”

“He intends to get away with it.”

“With all these killings? You think he expects to just walk away?”

“That’s exactly what I think. He’s not some fanatic who wants to kill a lot of people, then commit suicide by police. He’s completely rational, if not exactly sane. He’s a planner-methodical and meticulous-and he expects to walk. Otherwise why would he have cashed in and vanished?”

“This is scary,” Smith said.

“It’s worse than that. It’s depressing. Here’s what I want you to do: I want you to go and see Mrs. Coulter again, then assemble all the people on her Christmas card list who knew Fay at the Agency. Put them in my conference room. If we don’t have access to any official record of Fay, then we’ll have to rely on people who knew him.“

“Will do.”

“Get them there this afternoon, if at all possible, and send transport for anybody who needs a ride.” He took out his cell phone. “Now I’ve got to call the president.”

41

Kate got back to the family quarters at the White House a little after seven. Will was sitting in the living room watching CNN. She headed for the bar.

“Not so fast,” Will said, switching off the TV. “You’re still on duty.”

“I am? Until when?”

“Until I tell you some things. Have a seat.”

Kate sat down next to him on the sofa and kissed him.

“No kissing the commander-in-chief,” Will said.

“All right,” she replied, folding her hands in her lap. “No sexual harassment until the workday is over. Get to it. I want a drink.”

“Kinney at the FBI called this afternoon. He thinks they’ve found the killer. Well, not found him, exactly, but identified him.”

“Who is he?”

“It's bad news.”

Kate’s face fell. “Not one of mine.”

“Yes, but fortunately, he retired before you took charge.”

“Who is he?”

“His name is Theodore Fay.”

“Doesn’t ring a bell with me.”

“He was in Technical Services, so as an analyst, you probably wouldn’t have had contact with him.”

But Ed Rawls might have, she thought. As much as she hated learning that the killer was ex-CIA, she was relieved that she wasn’t going to have to deal with Rawls to find out who he was. “Is the evidence against him strong?”

“Well, that’s the problem. There isn’t any evidence just yet.”

“Then how do we know Fay is the guy?”

“First, he has all the qualifications-the skills to make the bombs and poisons. That’s apparently what he did at the Agency. Second, he’s faked his death, cashed in everything he owns, except his house, which hasn’t sold yet, and sent the proceeds out of the country. It seems likely that he would have created one or more new identities for himself before he left the Agency.”

“But how is the FBI going to connect him directly to the killings?”

“I don’t know. Maybe their lab will find something in one of the crime scenes that will connect him. Or a witness will turn up, somebody who can put him at a scene.”

“And what do you want me to do?”

“This evening-right now, in fact-Kinney is assembling some retired Agency people who knew Fay. He wanted to do it earlier, but none of them would talk to the FBI without Agency approval. I want you to call Kinney’s office, speak to the group on speaker-phone, and tell them to cooperate fully.” He handed her a sheet of paper. “This is a list of their names.”

“Okay, I can do that right away.”

“Then I want you to let the FBI talk to anybody in Technical Services who can help them catch Fay.”

“Where?”

“At the Agency, where they work.”

“You want me to let FBI agents into Technical Services? My people down there would rather meet with Osama bin Laden and his boys and show them around the shop.”

“Kate, this is not about interservice rivalry, this is about catching a murderer who is an embarrassment to the CIA and to this administration. Tomorrow morning at ten o’clock, two FBI agents are going to present themselves at Langley, and I want them to talk directly to anybody they need to talk to who can help them find him.”

“They don’t have to see the labs and the shops, do they?”

“They are to see anybody and anything that will help them.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s it until they need something else. And there will be something else. When they catch this guy there’ll be a trial, and an appropriate person in Technical Services is going to have to testify about how he made the Vandervelt bomb and the Calhoun poison and about any other skills or devices he has employed to murder people, and when that happens, I don’t want any crap from the Agency about revealing its secrets.”

“You’re really a barrel of fun, you know that?”

“You’re talking to your commander-in-chief. Watch it”

“Yes, sir.”

“That’s better. Now, are we perfectly clear on what you have to do?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then go do it, and then you can have a drink.”

Kate went meekly to the phone and made the calls. When she came back, there was a gleaming vodka martini waiting for her on the coffee table.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he said, kissing her.

“Hey, Will,” she said. “How was your day?”