8

“What I want to know is why this lunatic is still running around loose?”

Bob Decker looked up from his notes. Dan Keane of DEA was doing the asking; trim, silver haired, in his midfifties, his usually florid complexion had grown progressively paler since Bob began explaining why they were here. He sat between blond, handsome Gerry Canney of the FBI and balding, red-headed Jim Lewis from CIA.

“A number of reasons,” Bob said. “The primary one being that the President wants it that way. You heard it from the Man himself just a few minutes ago.” He was still amazed that he’d been able to assemble this mini task force so quickly. Wonderful what could be accomplished when you had the full authority of the Executive Office behind you.

The four of them were crammed into a corner office in W-16. Bob had drawn the shades, locked the door, and stationed two uniformed agents in the hall with orders not to let anyone within ten feet of the door.

He’d briefed his team on the situation, describing everything pretty much as it had gone down. He’d diverged from fact only when he’d told them that Razor had swallowed the pills, and that Vanduyne, overcome by guilt, had confessed. Since it had been too late to pump Razor’s stomach—Bob didn’t know if that was true but expected them to buy it—the President was admitting himself to Bethesda for observation.

Bob didn’t think it was necessary to con these men; he knew them all and would trust each of them with his life. But Razor wanted it this way, so that was how it was going to be.

“The other reasons,” Bob added, “are that Vanduyne is the link to whoever’s behind this. We need him out there, trading messages with these guys. And the third is that we’re trying to save a little girl’s life. Katie Vanduyne is Razor’s godchild and he wants the rest of her back alive and in one piece.” Bob viewed the last objective as of secondary importance; his primary concern was protecting Razor from any more attempts on his life.

“The rest of her?” Canney said.

Bob turned and put the cooler on the desk. “Yeah. The kidnappers sent her little toe to her father to convince him they meant business. It’s in here.”

Canney winced. The grimace emphasized the fine scars left after a car accident half a dozen years ago; Gerry survived, his wife didn’t. Bob knew he had a daughter somewhere around Katie Vanduyne’s age.

“Oh, God,” Keane whispered. He suddenly looked pale and sweaty. Bob knew he had grandchildren; probably imagining one of them in a similar situation. Only Jim Lewis seemed unaffected. But then, nothing seemed to affect Lewis.

“I’ll get this into the lab ASAP,” Canney said. “But what do I say about it? I’ve got to attribute it to a specific case.”

“I’ll have the case number before you leave. Razor’s talking to your director right now.”

“What do you need from my people?” Jim Lewis said.

“That anonymous remailer in the U.K.” Bob handed him a manila folder.

“These are printouts of all his e-mail to Vanduyne. You find that remailer, find out who ‘Snake’ is, and this case will be on the home stretch.”

“Snake?” Canney said. “Did you say Snake?”

“Sound familiar?”

“Yeah. I’ve heard that name before… connected to a couple of kidnappings… I think I heard of one where he sent a finger when things weren’t moving fast enough to suit him.”

“Got to be the same guy.” Bob clapped his hands and rubbed them together. This was great. The team hadn’t been together half an hour and already they were rolling.

“Okay. Pull your file on him and we’ll—”

“Sorry. No file. The information’s been tangential— you know, the kind of stuff you pick up when you’re looking for something else. We don’t know diddly about the guy except that he seems to specialize in snatching the kind of people who won’t holler for a cop.”

“So we’re dealing with an experienced team,” Bob said.

Not good news. It meant this guy Snake had probably perfected his technique before snatching the Vanduyne girl. He turned to Keane.

“We figure this has got to be drug related, Dan. Who’s most likely to be behind it?”

“Hmm?” Keane seemed mesmerized by the cooler.

Bob wondered what was bugging him. He repeated the question.

“I can only guess,” Keane said slowly, as if choosing his words carefully. “The Cali cartel—and that pretty much means Emilio Rojas these days—has the most money, but the Mexican traffickers have the most Stateside contacts now. Could be Rojas working through the Mexicans, or the Mexicans acting on their own.”

Bob hid his annoyance. He’d hoped for a little more in-depth analysis from the assistant director of the DEA.

“What’s your best guess?”

“Best guess? I’d say Mexicans. Kidnapping is an art form in Colombia; they’d bring in their own people. But I can see the Mexicans hiring local talent. We keep tabs on Carillo, Garcia, Esparragosa, and the other big shots. I’ll run a check and see if any of them have been crossing the border lately.”

That was better. “Good. All right. We all know what we have to do. Don’t waste any time. This is top priority.” He wished he could tell them they only had till Tuesday, but only he and Razor knew that. “I say we meet back here at six p.m.—sooner if something breaks.”

As they began to rise. Bob said. “I know I don’t need to repeat what the President said when you all first got here, but I will anyway. Nothing said here goes beyond these walls. Doesn’t matter who asks, whether it’s the director of your agency or a senator or a cabinet member, you say nothing. Razor has signed an executive order to that effect, so you’re off the hook. It’s not that you don’t want to discuss it, you are forbidden to discuss it. And I want to know immediately the name of anyone who presses you about it.”

Dan Keane was the first out—seemed in a big hurry to leave—followed by Jim Lewis. Gerry Canney hung back, the cooler dangling in his hand.

“Thanks for calling me in, Bob. I appreciate the confidence.”

Bob smiled and thought of the close call they’d had with a certain Dr. Lathram a few years back. “Not the first time we’ve worked together on a plot against a president. Except you may never get a chance to talk about this one.”

Canney shrugged. “I’ll save it for my memoirs. But more than anything I want to get that little girl back alive.”

“Thinking of Martha?” Bob said.

“How can I not? Katie Vanduyne is only a couple of years younger.” He glanced down at the cooler. “I don’t know what I’d do if someone ever…” He shuddered.

“I know,” Bob said. His own boys were teenagers, but it seemed only yesterday that they’d been small and so much more vulnerable.

When Canney was gone, Bob sat down and began making notes and organizing his information. He couldn’t have a secretary in on this, so he had to do it himself.

Not a bad start. Dan Keane tracking from the drug lords toward Snake. Jim Lewis tracking from the anonymous remailer toward Snake. Gerry Canney tracking from Katie Vanduyne’s toe toward Snake.

Snake, my man, whoever you are, wherever you are, you’re the key. And you’re in deep shit. Because we’re going to find you. And when we find you, we squeeze you. We squeeze you like no one’s ever been squeezed before. We squeeze until you cough up who you’re working for. And then we find them and squeeze again. And pretty soon we get to the guy who started it all.

By Tuesday, please God.