The reporter picked up the phone on the first ring. “Mark Sheppard,” he sang, coming off a bit too eager. The DCI wondered if the journalist had already cleared space on his desk for his Pulitzer.
Any reporter worth his salt would have a recording device hooked up to his phone, so in addition to making sure his call was untraceable, James Vaile employed a new piece of technology that would render any recording inaudible when played back. He also used a modulator to disguise his voice. One could never be too careful, and what’s more, the computerized voice carried with it an added gravitas that often had a very unsettling affect on the receiving party. “Mr. Sheppard, we need to talk,” he said.
There was a pause as the reporter fiddled around for his record button, and then he said, “Who am I speaking with?”
“Who I am is not as important as what I have to say.”
“How do I know you’re for real then?”
“You called the White House press office for comment on a story you want to run,” said Vaile via the deep, computerized voice.
“And from what I’m hearing,” said Sheppard, “I’m going to guess that you’ve called to scare me into burying it.”
“I’ve called to give you a chance to do the right thing.”
“Really? What would that be?”
“There are serious national security issues at play here, which you don’t understand.”
“So as a patriotic American, I should kill the article, right? Forget it. I don’t buy it.”
Vaile decided to give the man one more chance. “Mr. Sheppard, the people of Charleston needed closure on that bus hijacking and closure was provided.”
The reporter stifled a laugh. “So the U. S. government is now in the business of making crime victims and their families feel better? Tens of thousands of crimes go unsolved every year. What makes this one so special?”
“This was a particularly heinous crime against children-” began Vaile before he was interrupted.
“That had national security implications,” said Sheppard as his mind put it all together. “Jesus Christ, this wasn’t some lone nut job. It was a terrorist act.”
Chapter 82
“And you expect me to sit on this?” asked Sheppard.
“Yes,” replied Vaile. “Your story would be devastating to the public trust.”
This time, the reporter couldn’t stifle his laugh. “Well, maybe you should have thought of that before you dreamed this whole thing up.”
The DCI was quickly coming to the end of his patience. Before he could say anything, though, Sheppard asked, “Are you going to arrange an accident for me the way you did with Frank Aposhian and Sally Rutherford?”
“For the record, Mr. Sheppard, their deaths were an accident. The U. S. government is not in the business of murdering its own citizens.”
“Then I have nothing to worry about, do I?”
“That depends on if you’re going to cooperate or not.”
The reporter had received so many threats over the years that he didn’t spook that easily. “Really? And if I don’t?”
“Your story is tentatively entitled ‘Invasion of the Body Snatchers’-” began Vaile.
“How the hell do you know that?”
“Shut up and listen,” ordered the DCI. “You have it in a password-protected file. The password is Romero. Open it.”
Sheppard did as he was told. Inside, he saw that a subfolder named candy cane had been added. Instinctively, he clicked on it and was greeted by a page of images in thumbnail. He maximized one at random and his breathing stopped.
“You fucking assholes,” said the reporter as he realized what they were planning on doing to him. “It’ll never work.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure,” said Vaile. “Guilty or not, the stigma of pedophilia is almost impossible to scrub away.”
“Good thing I recorded this conversation, then,” crowed Sheppard.
Vaile laughed. “I suggest you try to play it back first before you stake your career and the rest of your life on it.”
His shockproof bullshit detector was telling him his caller wasn’t playing games. “You make me ashamed to be an American,” said Sheppard.
“Don’t you dare wrap yourself in the flag now,” chided the DCI. “You had your chance. We are at war and wars involve secrets. This is about doing the right thing for your country and you passed on it. In spite of that fact, I’m going to give you one more chance.”
“What’s to stop me from deleting them?” asked Sheppard, sounding determined to remain faithful to his journalistic integrity, but already losing his resolve.
“You can’t delete these images. Even if you could, there are more on both your laptop and desktop at home. We also have several convicted pedophiles who are willing to testify to numerous unsavory proclivities of yours. It’s a hole so deep you’ll never climb out of it.
“The newspaper will be the first to distance itself from you. Your body snatcher story will never see the light of day. You’ll be absolutely discredited. Next, your friends will disappear and even your family will start to fade away. And then there are all those children you so nobly mentored. You think anything you ever said or taught them will matter after they all figure out the only reason you were there was to get in their pants? Probably not, but that won’t be the end of your problems.
“A conviction on the child porn discovered on your computers and in your house will be a slam dunk. You’ll go to prison, and as you’re a crime reporter, I don’t need to tell you what they do to guys in your situation. Once the rumors get around that you’re a pedophile who pled to lesser charges of possession of child porn for a reduced sentence, if you’re not killed in the first couple of days, they’ll make your life such hell that you’ll wish you were dead.”
Sheppard had sat through the entire diatribe stunned. They had him. It was disgusting, but there was absolutely nothing he could do. His mind raced for answers, but he knew his only option was capitulation. Finally, he asked, “What do you want me to do?”
Vaile instructed him to gather any and all of the materials he’d assembled in putting together his story, including his notes, photographs, and tape recordings, and bring them in a small duffel bag to an abandoned warehouse just outside D. C.
Three hours later, the DCI contacted the president and shared with him the good news. After digging a bit deeper, the reporter from the Baltimore Sun had discovered that his sources were not as reliable as he had originally thought. Subsequently, he had decided not to pursue his story.
Jack Rutledge was relieved to hear it. That was one problem down. Now, they needed to refocus all of their resources on stopping Harvath.
Chapter 83
ANGRA DOS REIS, BRAZIL
Even in the limited moonlight, Harvath’s small boat appeared more to hover than float atop the amazingly clear water.
He slipped the anchor quietly beneath the surface and slowly played out the rope. When the boat was secure, he gave his gear one last check and slipped over the side.
Harvath swam with the confidence of a man who’d spent all of his life near an ocean. His strong, sure strokes propelled him forward through the warm waters of Angra dos Reis Bay.
With a set of night vision goggles and a specially illuminated compass, he navigated his way through the darkness toward the private island known as Algodão.
On the leeward side, he low-crawled out of the water and unclipped from around his waist the rope that he’d used to pull a small dry bag behind him.
From the bag, Harvath removed the 9mm Beretta pistol that he had sent to himself via FedEx priority international shipping.
Harvath checked the weapon and then set it aside as he removed a change of clothes and got dressed. He pulled out a flashlight, his Benchmade Auto Axis folding knife, some Flexicuffs, and a few other items and shoved them into his pockets. He buried his swim gear near a large rock on the beach and checked the remaining contents of his dry bag.