possibility of violence. ‘I – I don’t hate the FBI. Why won’t you tell me why you’re here?’ She stole a glance toward the door, measuring its distance and his range of fire from the chair.
He tipped the muzzle of the gun up at her. ‘Sit down on the bed.’
Paralyzed by his sureness, she realized she wouldn’t make it and did as instructed. Attempting a smile, she said, ‘Sure, whatever you say.’
He took a swallow of his coffee. ‘I’m here for the same reason that you did your little story – to make the FBI pay.’
‘If we want the same thing, do you really think a gun is necessary?’
‘Unfortunately, yes. I’m here to provide you with the means of really damaging the FBI.’
‘I don’t understand. How?’
‘I’m sure you believe in what you did. That it’s critical to the well-being of the country to expose the FBI. And this has to be done no matter the cost. That is what you believe, isn’t it?’
‘Sure, I guess.’
‘See, we want the same thing. Only you’re going to have to make the ultimate sacrifice for your – or should I say, our – cause.’
‘What, you think you’re going to kill me?’
‘Unless you can find some way to kill me. But since I’m the only one in the room with a gun, I seriously doubt that.’
Her eyes locked onto him as her head tilted appraisingly. ‘You’re from the FBI, aren’t you? You were sent here to intimidate me. That’s what this is really about.’
He took the last drink of his coffee, tipping it up to ensure it was empty. Then, balancing the gun on his right leg and without taking his eyes from her, he pried the lid off the cup and set both down on the table next to him. With the gun back in his hand, he glanced at her, then carefully readjusted the cup’s position on the table. ‘Not really. Women like you are too irrational to ever be intimidated.’
‘Women like me. You mean a bitch.’ She threw her head back and laughed as though trying to embarrass him with his inability to show emotion. ‘This is Hollywood, moron. Without the bitches in the middle of everything, this town’s major export would be fat-free yogurt. From someone like you, “bitch” is the ultimate compliment.’
‘In that case, you’re the queen.’
‘Damn right.’
Again his face mimicked laughter without a sound. Glancing once more at the cup, he rotated the automatic slightly until the ejection port was exactly where he wanted it. ‘Personally, I would have chosen a different epitaph, but who am I to argue with royalty?’
He fired once, striking her in the middle of the upper lip. She fell back dead as the ejected casing from the automatic arced through the air and into the cardboard cup. He walked over to the body and placed a blue piece of paper on her chest. On it was written ‘Rubaco Pentad.’ From his pocket he took a plastic bag containing a Q-tip and dabbed it in the blood that was trickling from her wound. Careful not to let it touch his skin, he resealed the bag.
He went back to the table, dropped the bagged swab into the paper cup, and pushed the lid back onto it. After looking around for any other trace evidence that might have been accidentally cast off, he slid the gun into its holster under his wind breaker and walked out.
The FBI was about to pay the rubaco pentad one million dollars. At least that’s what the group was supposed to think. Agent Dan West was being guided electronically to a location in Portsmouth, New Hampshire. Heading east, he crossed a wooden bridge, watching the river disappear into a turn that he knew had to be close to the ocean. Dusk and a warm summer breeze added to the serenity of the small seacoast town, making it an even more unlikely place to be the final twist in such a complicated and vicious crime.
For the first time since he’d left Afghanistan, a burning knot of fear was growing in West’s stomach, something that had not happened in his three years with the FBI, all of which had been spent on a white-collar-crime squad in Boston. It had been mind-numbing work. He had tried to tell his bosses that because he was a former Navy SEAL, he needed something more confrontational than endless columns of numbers that never seemed to add up to the same total twice.
He checked the coordinates on the handheld GPS receiver – they now matched those given in the demand letter. He pulled into a small parking lot and got out of the Bureau car, a ponderous Crown Victoria chosen for its obviousness. A brief chill shuddered along his limbs as he stretched nervously. An unlit sign above the single-story building identified it. ‘It is the Kittery Point Yacht Club,’ he whispered into the microphone taped to his chest, confirming his location. Fearing the Pentad might be watching the drop site, the FBI had conducted only a satellite reconnaissance of the coordinates, revealing the yacht club as the likely destination.
‘Copy,’ answered one of the dozen surveillance agents who had been following him at a discreet distance since he left the federal building in Boston.
West ran his tongue across his lips. The taste of salt air reminded him of his navy training, and that no matter what lay ahead, he was capable of handling it. His job was to drop the money and get out. The agents following him would deal with whoever tried to pick it up. The canvas bag he pulled out of the backseat was carefully weighted and shaped to give the impression it contained the full amount in hundred-dollar bills, but it contained only a thousand dollars, enough to make the crime a felony once delivered and retrieved.
Although the Rubaco Pentad appeared to be a politically driven domestic terrorism group, its demand for a million dollars was still technically extortion. And extortion, he had been taught during new-agents training, is simply a crime of intimidation at an anonymous distance. The victim has to be scared enough by the criminal’s threat to do two things without question: part with the cash, and not contact the authorities. Each party has its own advantages. The extortionist has anonymity, while all law enforcement has to do is never lose contact with the money. Most cases wind up a draw: the criminal doesn’t get the money, and law enforcement is unable to identify him. The would-be extortionist keeps from going to jail, and the Bureau justifies, in part, its budget requests. When the occasional arrest is made, it’s because the extortionist thought he had come up with an original, foolproof gimmick to retrieve the money. ‘That’s all there is to extortion,’ the instructor had declared. ‘There are no variations. The Bureau’s been around for a century and no one has been able to figure out a way to do it differently.’
But the Rubaco Pentad changed everything. After murdering a former Hollywood reporter a month earlier, it had demanded one million dollars to prevent the next killing. What was different about the Pentad’s crime, other than the before-the-fact violence, was that the demand was made directly to the director of the FBI. In extortion or kidnapping drops, the Bureau always had at least some degree of surprise on its side, but the Pentad had taken that advantage away, leaving the agency unsure what to do next. The FBI was being told not only to come up with the money, but also to deliver it. Evidently the group felt its plan was so flawless that it could afford to humiliate the Bureau and still get away with the money.
The clear New Hampshire sky was full of stars; a halfmoon hung distantly in the northeast. West looked around for some indication of what he was supposed
