Ferguson got in back with Weaver, and the driver quickly moved through the side streets onto the Interstate and west. They cleared the suburban sprawl. Trees pushed down near the shoulder, some budding, some with those tiny first leaves, their green still vibrant, electric, alive, not yet diffused through a range of experience. Pretty in a generic way, but life knew how to knock the pretty off.

“Nature’s first green is gold,” Weaver said. “You ready any poetry, Fergie?”

“When it comes to slaughter, well you’ll do your work on water and you’ll lick the bloomin’ boots of him that’s got it,” Ferguson said.

“Kipling? Not much in vogue these days. White man’s burden and all.”

“Some other one I remember, guy trying to get into this girl’s pants, telling her worms will have at her if she waits too long. Something about time’s winged chariot drawing near.”

“Marvell,” said Weaver. “To His Coy Mistress.”

“Thing is, I’ve been hearing that chariot myself. Fisher’s driving it. I take it the Judge called you.”

H Dickens Reynolds had been a Brigadier General, a Federal Appeals court judge, and then, for seven years, the Deputy Director of Operations at the CIA. Now, at eighty-one, he was a country gentleman, graciously ensconced on one hundred and fifty well-coiffed acres of horse land in the Virginia countryside. He was also as close to an official liaison as InterGov had with the sanctioned intelligence community.

“Little pissed about you calling the Judge, Fergie, gotta tell you,” said Weaver. “End running me like that. You know we gotta keep our shit in house.”

“Had my say last night. I have to hear from the umpire on this one if I’m gonna keep playing ball. I understand this is the big leagues, and I understand we play hardball, and I understand every so often somebody pulls one into the stands. Just feel like we’re playing the whole game in the bleachers all of a sudden.”

“OK, Fergie. We go back. Anybody’s earned a free shot at me, it’s you. Judge’ll sort this out. Fair enough?”

“Leave it with him,” said Ferguson.

An hour later, Weaver’s driver guided the Jag down a long drive flanked by freshly painted three-rail fences beyond which chestnut horses gamboled on a flawless pasture in the slanting morning light. He parked in front of a portico big enough to hold Bill Clinton’s libido.

Weaver followed protocol with the butler who answered the door. The butler was six-two, weighed about two-twenty, wore a 9mm Beretta in a shoulder holster under his suit coat, and knew a half dozen ways to kill a man without taking it out. And he had friends in the house. Weaver and Ferguson followed him into the study off the entry hall.

Reynolds looked good for eighty-one. He looked about average for sixty-five. He was still wearing a plaid Pendleton robe over black pajamas.

Weaver pulled up when he saw Chen sitting in a chair flanking the desk where Reynolds sat. “What is this, an intervention?”

“Perhaps the best possible characterization of this, Colonel,” said the Judge. “After I talked with Ferguson last night, I became increasingly concerned about the direction of this operation. About the entire unit, actually. I called Chen and asked that she come out early this morning to debrief me, which corroborated and even exacerbated my concerns. Let’s review, shall we?

“Fisher’s family was killed in January. Your PsyOps people saw no cause for concern. Then he disappeared. There was the Wisconsin shooting. Three days ago, your research team captured data regarding a shooting in Chicago. Your systems guy put together a profile on likely credit purchases, and you tracked Fisher to downstate Illinois. Clearly, this was an ambush. It was not subtle. Reports I’ve gotten have six dead. Police recovered two scoped 16s with extended mags and a Barrett, none of which had been fired, all from your guys. Got a cop car that looks like it got hit with an antitank weapon. What’s wrong? You guys didn’t have time to call in air support? Maybe some armor? Christ sake, Weaver, it looks like the Israelis were chasing Arafat through the place.”

“I was the guy on the ground, sir,” said Ferguson. “It’s my bad.”

“Not your choice, Fergie. Bad rolls up hill. Weaver made the call. That’s his bad. And Weaver’s my boy, so we’ve got some guys at Langley who figure it’s my bad. OK, the good news. Chen did some prophylactics, just in case things went south, set up your team to look like druggies. Locals are buying it for now because there’s nothing else on the shelf, but they are asking themselves why somebody was killing druggies on a hill behind a gas station, and why the druggies were going up there armed to the gills. I trust you’ve got somebody making sure this doesn’t track back?”

“I’m on that, sir,” said Chen.

“OK. The locals have already called the Feds in and we can get some rhythm with the Feds, so we can probably pull enough strings to keep this from biting us on the ass. But changes need to be made. Weaver, I’ll be very direct. You’re out. This in no way diminishes your previous service and is not meant to be a reflection on your character. It’s just become apparent that you’ve become too inured to the ramifications of your unit’s actions. I blame myself to a large degree. We’ve been too free with the extra-legal latitude. Difficult to ask anyone to work in that kind of gray area that long without losing their bearings.”

“I understand,” said Weaver, his voice level, his face a mask.

“I know this is difficult, and I assure you’ll be taken care of. Your service record has been adjusted so that you qualify for the maximum possible pension, military and also foreign service. Full access to health care, all of that. Anything else you need, please do call.”

Weaver nodded. “Am I dismissed?”

“Yes, Colonel. Please do not challenge this. You have had your time. Just fade away.”

Weaver turned and left the room. After a moment, Ferguson saw the Jaguar winding down the drive.

Reynolds got up and walked over to a sideboard on the right wall, poured a cup of coffee from a silver pot there. “You two want anything, coffee?” Chen and Ferguson declined. Reynolds settled back behind the desk. Then, “Ferguson, I want you to take over InterGov.”

“Are you sure that’s the right move, Judge? I’ve been a field guy all my life.”

“And you haven’t lost your conscience doing it. Weaver was an ops guy when he took over, too. And you’ve got help. Chen, you OK with this?”

“Yes, sir.”

“OK. Final point, but this is vital. We need Fisher in a bag ASAP. Any idea where he’s heading?”

“I’d guess Chicago, sir,” said Ferguson. “Last killing was there. Fisher grew up there. Evidently Zeke did a few things there, late Sixties, early Seventies. Trying to get some detail on that, but it seems to have been on-loan stuff to the Hurleys. Some kind of tie with them and with Paddy Wang, of course.”

“Damn Chinaman’s older than I am, far as anyone can tell. He still active?”

“Very.”

“You talk to him on this yet?”

“No. But that’s up on my list. The more I thought about this last night, the more I think it’s Chicago. That Door County shooting, that one was a red herring. Fisher threw it out there to set up this line. Bet he GPS’d the church in Chicago, then started looking for one due north and one due south. He knew we’d pick up on that. So he takes out the dairy farmer up north, then gets his one free shot in Chicago. He knows how we operate, knows we’ll be looking for him, and knows we’re thin on troops. Figures he culls the herd some, we need time to regroup, and he can get back to whatever the hell he’s up to. He’s got some kind of agenda. I bet he takes down somebody else in Chicago soon.”

“Get going, get on the ground in Chicago. And try to keep the body count down.”

CHAPTER 32 – CHICAGO