Brimstone (Pendergast #5)(66)
“At a basic level.”
“The mathematics of vibrations, resonance, and dampening. It has to be perfectly aerodynamic while having a surface that’s black to radar. This missile can’t have any curves, hardness, or smoothness—those would cause reflection or turbulence you could see on the Doppler—and yet it has to be aerodynamic. If anyone can rise to the technical challenge, BAI can.”
“Is this file for me?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
The agent looked at Pendergast for the first time, and his mask of expressionlessness fell away. What Pendergast saw was the face of a very, very tired man. “It’s the same old story. The CIA is subject to partisan political pressure. Bullard has friends in Washington. I was told to deep-six the Bullard investigation. After all, he’s raised millions for the reelection campaigns of a half dozen key senators and congressmen, as well as the president. Why, we’re asked, is the CIA harassing a fine, upstanding citizen when there are so many foreign terrorists out there? You know the refrain.”
Pendergast simply nodded.
“But screw it, this bastard is selling America down the river. He’s a traitor, just like those good old American companies that sell dual-use technology to Iran and Syria. If Bullard gets away with this, the U.S. will have laid out a hundred billion dollars developing an antimissile system that will be obsolete on deployment. And if that happens, it’s the CIA that’s going to get hammered. The administration will experience sudden and complete amnesia as to how they deliberately shut down our investigation. The Congress is going to demand an official inquiry on the so-called intelligence failure. We’ll be everyone’s whipping boy.”
“Something we at the FBI know a little about.”
“I spent eighteen months investigating Bullard, and I’ll be goddamned if I’m going to let it go. I’m a patriotic American. I want you to nail Bullard. I don’t want a nuclear missile to take out New York because some American businessman paid off a few congressmen.”
Pendergast put the folder to one side. “Why me?”
“I’ve heard you’re pretty good, even if you are FBI.” The man allowed himself a cynical smile. “And I liked the way you dragged Bullard down to headquarters like a common criminal. That took guts. You really pissed some people off. Big time.”
“Regrettable. But I fear it is not the first time.”
“You better watch your ass.”
“I shall.”
“You won’t find any smoking guns in the file; Bullard’s covered his tracks well. You’ve got your work cut out.”
He started the engine, flicked on the headlights, pulled through the turnaround, and headed back up to the traffic droning southward into lower Manhattan. He said nothing else until turning off the highway at 145th Street, the skyscrapers of Midtown like glowing crystals in the distance.
“You never heard of me, I never heard of you, and this conversation never took place. That file has been cleaned of intelligence markers, so even if it gets back to the CIA, no one will know where it came from.”
“Won’t they suspect you, anyway? It was your case.”
“You worry about your ass, I’ll worry about mine.”
He left Pendergast a few blocks north of his house. As Pendergast was exiting the car, the man leaned toward him and spoke once again. “Agent Pendergast?”
Pendergast turned back.
“If you can’t nail the bastard, kill him.”
{ 32 }
The man calling himself Vasquez looked carefully around the little space where he would be spending the next several days of his life. A few minutes earlier he had tensed, preparing for an unexpected opportunity, when the door of the porte-cochère opened across the way. A quick check through the scope confirmed the target was leaving. However, another man had been with him. Vasquez had laid aside the rifle and made a note in his log: 22:31.04. The two men walked to a car parked a few yards down the street, an unmarked law enforcement Chevy, obviously a government model.
As the car had pulled away, there’d been a brief flash of white in the doorway of the porte-cochère; Vasquez saw the retreating figure of a man in a tuxedo, shutting the door again. Butler, from the look of it. But who heard of a butler in this part of town?
Vasquez refused to allow himself any regret. Finishing a job so prematurely just never happened. Besides, it always paid to be overly cautious. Putting his notebook away, he went back to preparing his kill nest. The abandoned room of the old welfare hotel was a wreck. There were used needles and condoms piled in a corner; a torn mattress on the floor with a dark stain in its middle, as if somebody had died on it. As his hooded light moved around the room, cockroaches fled in panic, their greasy brown backs flashing dully, countless legs rustling like leaves. But Vasquez was used to such things, and he was well pleased with his accommodations. He had, in fact, rarely seen a setup quite so ideal. He replaced the small piece of plywood from the boarded-up room’s lone window and went back to his preparations.
Yes, this would do perfectly. The window faced north, looking out over the great dark bulk of the ruined mansion at 891 Riverside Drive. It was a crazy place for the target to live, but each to his own. Three stories down and across 137th Street was the porte-cochère, its semicircular driveway running under a brick and marble arch. He could just see the edge of the door the target used for ingress and egress: the one he had just come out of. So far he had used no other door—but then, Vasquez had been watching for only twelve hours.