Max Garcia leaned against a sideboard in the assistant special agent in charge's office, arms folded across his chest, eyeing the other two men in the room: Donahue, who sat in an overstuffed leather chair behind his desk; and Blackstone, seated on a matching leather sofa against the far wall.
The FBI agent was soft, a pencil pusher, totally out of his depth. He probably came up through financial crimes or public corruption, maybe the Civil Rights Division. Some type of assignment that carried little risk and required minimal physical action. Garcia doubted the man had set foot in the field in years.
Blackstone was a different sort. Physically tough and possessed of a certain air of command. Garcia knew the type, a hard charger, rigid, disciplined, self-styled super patriot. Blackstone's haircut said ex-Army, not jarhead, and his demeanor said company-grade officer, probably a captain. Got his ticket punched at the right schools and assignments. Probably a tour in the Rangers. Maybe some time with Special Forces. But he didn't quite have the cold steel look that was the trademark of Delta operators. Somehow his career had jumped the tracks or else he'd still be in the Army. Got in trouble or just been passed over for promotion. One pass was all it took. Officers either moved up or moved out.
Maybe Blackstone had a temper. Maybe he drank too much. Maybe he beat his wife. Or he got caught screwing somebody else's wife. Whatever happened that torpedoed his Army career, Blackstone had ended up working for one of several contract security firms the Agency kept on retainer and kept busy.
Of the two, Blackstone merited the closest scrutiny. His survival instincts and combat skills would be much more finely honed than Donahue's. And those skills would also make him much more useful than Donahue. The FBI man was pretty much dead weight.
"How did your agent get involved with Favreau?" Garcia asked Donahue.
The FBI supervisor stabbed a finger at Blackstone. "I already told him."
"Tell me," Garcia said.
Donahue let out a dramatic sigh before he answered. "Your alleged French terrorist called the after-hours number and asked to speak to the duty agent. The Comm Center forwarded the call to—"
"Tell me exactly how that works."
"How what works?"
"The thing you were just talking about," Garcia said. "The duty agent."
"I assume it works here pretty much the same way it works at your..."
"Don't assume anything," Garcia said. "It makes you look stupid. Just tell me how it works at the FBI."
Donahue opened his mouth, probably to protest, but he must have decided against it, Garcia thought, because after an awkward pause with his mouth hanging open, all he said was, "All right."
Garcia made an impatient wave for Donahue to continue.
"The Bureau is, of course, a twenty-four hour a day operation," Donahue said. "But generally our duty hours are Monday through Friday, eight to four-thirty. Nights and weekends we roll the phones over to the Communications Center at Bureau Headquarters. We have a duty agent during those hours to handle any calls that require an immediate response. All non-supervisory agents serve as duty agent on a rotational basis for a week at a time. This week was Special Agent Miller's turn. I believe it was his first time."
"First time as duty agent?"
"Yes," Donahue said. "He just completed his field training. New agents are exempt from duty-agent status while they have an FTA."
"What's an FTA?"
"Field training agent. For the first six months after they graduate from the Academy, new agents are assigned a senior agent as a mentor to guide their transition from the training environment at the Academy to real field work."
"And Favreau just happened to call in during Miller's first time as duty agent?" Garcia asked, not liking the sound of that at all. He had found during his long career that true coincidences were rare, and that even when two occurrences seemed truly coincidental, if you just dug deep enough you usually found out they weren't.
"We get dozens of after-hours calls a week," Donahue said. "Most of them are routine and the Comm Center can simply take a message."
"But sometimes they're not routine."
"Correct," Donahue said. "And when that's the case the Comm Center calls the duty agent."
"And this week that was Miller."
Donahue nodded.
"So what did Favreau want?" Garcia asked.
"He wouldn't say. But he insisted on speaking to the duty agent. So our communications people did what they were supposed to do and passed the information on to Agent Miller. When Miller called back, Mr. Favreau insisted on a face-to-face meeting."
"Is that unusual?"
"Generally speaking, yes, it is," Donahue said. "Bureau policy is that any after-hours meetings with callers must be attended by two agents. For security reasons."
"And Miller didn't follow that policy?"
"No, he did not," Donahue said. "Agent Miller met Mr. Favreau at a diner about six blocks from the White House. From what I understand, Miller was en route to meet some friends at a football game. To save time, he decided to violate Bureau policy and attend the meeting alone." Donahue pointed to Blackstone. "His men apparently had Mr. Favreau under surveillance and monitored the meeting. When they moved in to take the fugitive into custody, Miller reacted poorly. He's a young, inexperienced agent, but I think what happened was at least partially due to the extremely heavy-handed approach of Mr. Blackstone's agents. I honestly don't think Miller had any idea what was going on." Donahue paused, then said, "I think his involvement was random chance."
"Favreau is a meticulous planner," Garcia said. "Nothing he does is random. He has some connection to your agent."
"That's not possible."
"Who's the female?"
"Stacy Chapman," Donahue said. "One of our intelligence analysts. She and Miller seem to have a...thing."
"You keep up with office romances?"
"We don't condone relationships among employees, but we don't expressly forbid them either," Donahue said with a note of defensiveness in his tone. "Frontline supervisors are asked to monitor, on an unofficial basis, any fraternization among personnel. It's not written policy. More like a suggestion, for the good of the Bureau."
"It sounds exactly like J. Edgar Hoover policy."
"Director Hoover died when I was in eighth grade," Donahue said. "So I never had the pleasure of meeting him."
"I did," Garcia said. "Several times. And let me assure you, meeting J. Edgar was never a pleasure."
Donahue looked like he was about to get snippy, but he swallowed whatever response he was going to make.
"Where would Miller run if he got into trouble?" Garcia asked.
"I have no idea," Donahue said.
"His father is retired FBI, right?"
Donahue nodded.
"Where does he live?"
"Bethesda," Donahue said.
"Do you know him?"
"We play golf a couple times a year."
Garcia checked his watch. It was 6:30 a.m. "Let's pay him a visit."