When they arrived back at the scene, an ambulance and two squad cars were angled across the street. An officer was stringing up yellow crime scene tape while an emergency tech shook his head over Darkman. Several knots of onlookers gathered on the sidewalks, watching from a safe distance.
Two uniformed policemen and a plainclothes detective were taking statements. The detective questioned Patterson. A group of shop owners argued while waiting their turn. Pia approached the group.
“Don’t deny it, Douglas. You were helping them,” Louisa said. She raised a fist and began to charge at the fat pawnshop owner. “You useless piece of—”
Pia grabbed her arm and spun her around as the man flinched. “Hey, calm down. Everyone deserves a chance to explain himself.”
Pia turned to Douglas and waited.
He looked her up and down, curled his lip in disgust, and turned to Louisa. “What’re you doing sucking up to this white girl anyway? Just cause some bitch comes in from the burbs wanting to be the next Abe Lincoln doesn’t mean you gotta kiss her ass. We got problems we gotta solve for ourselves.”
“Oh really, Douglas? You’re Mister Big Shot now?” Louisa said. “What was your plan then?”
“I was working on it. I had some things going on the inside. Say, why you wanna let a white woman run you around? She’s just another one like them.”
“Fool, don’t you know who she is?”
“Hell yes. She’s that rich bitch from Potomac.” Douglas looked back and forth between Raissa and Louisa. “Don’t matter. She’ll just cause trouble, get it half done, we’ll never see her again. We’ll be stuck with the Syrians.”
“What have they been doing?” Pia asked.
Raissa told her about the extortion ring headed by Hamoud and his countrymen. After they’d kicked out the gangbangers and drug dealers, they demanded protection money. The police were always reluctant to come to Carver Langston. City resources went to Georgetown and Capitol Hill first and Carver Langston last. When the business owners complained about ever-increasing prices for protection, the Syrians stepped up the violence.
“Did today’s level of violence seem unusual?” Pia asked.
“Oh yeah,” Raissa said. “They were looking for trouble.”
Pia said, “How many of them are there?”
“I’ve counted thirty or more of them damned Arabs,” Douglas said.
The detective called for Pia Sabel next. She excused herself from the locals and gave her statement.
Halfway through, the detective stopped her. “Why did you jump them?”
“They were wearing trench coats.”
“What’re you, the fashion police?”
“The only reason someone wears an overcoat in hot weather is to hide something.”
“Every cop knows that. Where’d you learn it?”
“My dad started Sabel Security with Secret Service agents. They taught me how to read faces, clothing, and posture.”
The detective tapped his pen against his chin.
“When I was ten,” she explained, “an extortionist threatened to assassinate me if my father didn’t send him money. Dad didn’t like the threat, so he used the ransom money to start Sabel Security instead.”
The detective’s eyebrows rose. “Tough being rich, huh?”
She didn’t answer.
After a beat he said, “OK, so you saw a couple guys in trench coats. Why not call the police?”
“You know the Homeland Security campaign ‘If you see something, say something?’ I think it should be ‘If you see something, do something.’”
He eyed her for a moment. “Lots of ordinary civilians get killed thinking like that.”
“I’m no ordinary civilian.”
“Uh huh. You didn’t think they were shoplifting?”
“In a dry cleaner’s?”
He tapped his pen on his chin again and pursed his lips.
“That,” she said, “and long coats are used for hiding guns. Shoplifters would use something lighter.”
“Yeah, you do know your stuff.”
The detective went back to the timeline and had her tell him the story three times. He checked it against Raissa’s statement and cleared up details. Then he gave her a business card, turned her loose, and called up the next witness.
Patterson stepped to Pia. “We’re not done. You need to come with me—”
“Damn right, we’re not done. You have some explaining to do.”
“Wait. You don’t think I’m connected to this.”
She grabbed Patterson’s arm and dragged him to the back of a patrol car. Graycoat sat in the open door, handcuffed and shackled. She said, “What’s your name?”
He stared straight ahead.
She said, “The people who sent you failed to tell you anything about me. That little omission cost Omar his life. You don’t owe them anything.” She softened her tone. “So, what’s your name?”
He looked up at her and thought for a moment. He said, “You asked me what made an Olympian different. What is it?”
Pia recalled the question. “Reaction time. We have quicker reactions than other people. If you throw a punch, I’ll hit you first.”
He nodded, then looked at Patterson and frowned. He sighed and leaned forward and rubbed his damaged knee. “Hamdi Dakka.”
She leaned in, caught the man’s gaze, and pointed at Patterson. “Where was the last place you saw this man?”
Hamdi looked at Patterson again, and his face tightened. “No more. I’m through with Snare Drum.”
Patterson’s face moved back as if dodging a slap.
Pia said, “Where did you see him before, Mr. Dakka?”
“Beirut.”
“What were you doing at the time?”
“Applying for political asylum.”
Pia stood and pushed Patterson back five yards. He didn’t resist.
“I made a mistake,” she said. “Earlier I asked why you picked this neighborhood, but I answered for you. Lawyers call that leading the witness. So this time answer me—why did you set the meeting in Carver Langston?”
Patterson looked away, took a breath, then tried to meet her eyes but failed.
“Did you know?” she said. “Or did someone set you up?”
He started to answer; his head shifted a millimeter to the side indicating a negative. But he stopped himself.
“Ever wonder why I accepted the meeting with you?” Pia asked.
Patterson looked at her, curious.
“Normally I’d send a couple lawyers to a meeting like this,” she said. “But Agent Marty did the background on you and told me you were a decorated veteran. I believe in veterans, Patterson. Seven out of ten Sabel Security agents are veterans. I met with you because I thought you’d help me. So tell me who’s pulling your strings.”
“No one’s pulling my strings.”
“Either you’re in on it, or you were played.”
Patterson looked at the ground again.
“You figured it out,” Pia said, “when you recognized Dakka. They were here to kill me. We both know it.”
Patterson took a half step back. Pia stepped in.
“Look,” Patterson said, “I have no idea what you’re talking about. You have no reason to believe—”
“Why did you set the meeting in Carver Langston?”
“It was recommended to me.”
“By whom?”
He shook his head and turned away. “You should, uh, come to the State Department to answer charges in the death of Colonel—”
“We knocked out twelve of nineteen guards before we blew the wall. It was three in the morning. They didn’t know what hit them, and they started throwing grenades. The civilians, if you can call them that, scrambled. People were running everywhere, bombs going off, a real war zone. I found the boy we tracked from Mumbai. He was shivering with fear. He was nine years old, kidnapped, abused, and in the middle of a firefight. He needed someone to save him, take him back to his family.
“But the remaining guards were closing in on my position. We were separated because I don’t speak Hindi; I couldn’t tell him to stay with me. A tall man with a beard picked him up and carried him to the docks. They were loading speedboats with everything they could carry, including some of the children from the—what did you call it?—orphanage?”
“You saw him? Close enough to remember?” Patterson said.
“Yes, and I’m going to find that boy.”
“I meant the tall man.”
Pia stopped for a moment. “After what I just told you, that’s what you want to know?”
She stared at him and waited for an answer.
Patterson went pale, beads of sweat broke out on his forehead. After a moment he said, “You still have to answer for killing Colonel Nakdali.”
“Five speedboats and one seaplane got away. We mopped up, liberated twelve children, and hunted down Nakdali. We found him cowering in the jungle. At first light, we brought in the local tribal elders. They were so shocked they couldn’t decide if he should be flayed alive or boiled to death. They sent for elders from several other villages. I wouldn’t let them kill him, but I couldn’t stay there forever. I had to find the boy and the tall man. Nakdali was alive and in their hands when we left.”
“As I said before, tell it to the Sri Lankans.”
She asked, “What were your orders today?”
“To bring you in.”
“From a neighborhood where you turned loose a bunch of Syrian thugs with orders to kill me? Was that the price of their asylum?”
“The State Department isn’t the CIA, you know. We don’t kill people.”
“How do the clandestine services—the CIA, DCS, NSA—get around the globe then, Patterson? Which department do they rely on to move them from country to country?”
“You have no reason to believe … You’re just paranoid. Those men weren’t here to kill you.”
“Hamoud sent three guys to collect for a protection racket? And three more to kill their own? I’m no expert, but that sounds excessive.” She leaned into his personal space. “What did Dakka mean when he said he’s out of Snare Drum, Patterson?”
Patterson’s head snapped around to look at her, then turned away again.
“Whether you like it or not, you’re going to answer for Colonel Nakdali’s death. Whatever you’re implying—”
“I’m not implying. Every six minutes, a child is kidnapped in India. I was in Mumbai on business. I saw a child snatched off the street, the boy I found in Mullaitivu. The Mumbai police followed the trail to a ship that left for Sri Lanka. The police filed a complaint with the Sri Lankan embassy. The two governments disagreed on where the ship went and what cargo it carried—bureaucratic standoff. So I went there on my own. It took me three days to find him.”
Pia pushed Patterson back a step.
“I found him, just before I lost him again. He was in a closely guarded compound with a twelve-foot wall around the outside. In the middle was a bunkhouse for children ages six to twelve. There were ten cabanas on the beach. We crashed the party, but the guests fled before we could secure the compound. Who left that night, Patterson? Who got away? Where did they go?”
Patterson’s gaze broke off. He looked around at the crowd.
“Five miles north of Pulmoddai,” she said, “and ten miles south of Alampil, in the middle of nowhere, there’s a long stretch of white sand. Check the satellite maps if you don’t believe me.”
“Nothing for me to believe,” he said. “You should come in and answer the charges. Officially.”
“I’m going to find that boy first—and the tall man.” She pushed him again. “Just tell me, Patterson, who am I fighting? Nakdali’s allies? The Syrian mob? Or the State Department?”