A black Suburban was waiting twenty yards from the Gulfstream. A driver in marine TDUs sat up front, and he hustled us onto nearby I-95. The camo’d soldier informed us that we’d be at Quantico in twenty minutes.
The director of the FBI doesn’t regularly work at the training campus, which is located in northwest Virginia. His office, as well as that of the deputy director, is at FBI headquarters in D.C., on Pennsylvania Avenue, between Ninth and Tenth. The fact that Banning and Poulton were in Virginia might be a sign that a media firestorm was underway in D.C., making Quantico a more productive place to regroup. It could also mean a task force was forming, like Frank suggested.
Frank was scanning his phone for news.
“Last night’s story was about how Ross Tignon escaped us seven years ago, only to get caught by this guy,” he said. “This morning, it’s Fisher in bags. How he got his due after being paroled five years early.”
I noted the themes. Punishment. Retribution.
“The press have a picture of Fisher in bags?” I asked.
“One bag,” he said. “The heart.”
The Suburban exited at Russell Road, and the driver showed our IDs at the guard gate. We took the winding road onto campus, over to J. Edgar Hoover Road, and from there to the main building at 57 Bureau Parkway.
I followed Frank out of the Suburban and into the structure ahead of us. I had spent my rookie year at this location, but Frank had worked in this building for four years and knew it better.
As we crossed the lobby, I counted six black scuff marks on the floor. We got into the elevator, and I hit the button.
But as we started up, Frank hit the emergency stop, and the elevator bumped to a halt.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
Frank faced the line of buttons but didn’t immediately speak.
“I need to explain something,” he said. Again, hesitating. “It’s, uh—”
“Frank,” I said, knowing where this was going. “I’m not going to say something stupid that jeopardizes your career or—”
“It’s not that,” he said.
The elevator chirped a warning sound, and he turned to face me. “I don’t know how this will go with Poulton.”
“He doesn’t like you?” I said. “Us?”
Frank was normally so smooth, but he was struggling.
“There was this conference in D.C. The last spring I was stationed here. A party at the end of the week. Layla was at her mom’s, so I went alone.”
The right side of Frank’s mouth turned up. “Poulton’s wife was there, and he was off schmoozing. Working the room. The wife and I got a shot together. Then another.”
“You slept with his wife?”
“Of course not,” Frank said. “But there was a moment.” He hesitated. “Poulton had told her he was headed back to the office. He came to say goodbye, and we were at the bar again. I walked away, to give them some space. His wife had slid her hotel room key under my cell phone. I picked it up, thinking it was my own. Then checked my pocket.”
“Poulton put two and two together?”
“And thought I initiated it. Said as much before he dragged her out of there. A month later, my boss retired, and they re-org’d the profiling group. My career stalled until I came up with the concept for PAR.”
So Frank was damaged goods, just like the rest of us.
A voice came through the elevator’s speaker. “Is everything all right?”
Frank pulled at the emergency button, and the elevator lurched upward. “Sorry,” he said into the speaker. “I hit that button by accident.”
“Ten-four,” the voice said back.
“So would you have?” I asked.
“Would I have what?”
“Gone with her if Poulton hadn’t come over?”
“Nothing happened.”
Frank tightened his tie, and I knew I was not going to get an answer. But it addressed a question that I had been curious about.
Two things united all of us at PAR. One was Frank’s pitch for a unit comprised of agents with an intellectual bent toward solving puzzles. The second was the political mistakes we’d made. Me with Saul. Shooter and that target range. Cassie and some incident with a superior in Denver.
At lunches when Frank was not around, Shooter and Cassie had speculated about the boss’s misstep. Now I knew.
The doors to the elevator opened, and we got out. As we did, a vibration buzzed in my pocket. I grabbed my phone and stared at a message from Cassie.
“You got an answer for us?” Frank asked.
“What?”
“A name?” he said.
I clicked the phone off and shook my head.
In an outer office, Frank introduced me to a woman named Olivia, who told us Banning and Poulton were finishing up another meeting. She buzzed us into a room that overlooked Administration Way.
A wooden coffee table sat in the center. It was made from a thick slab of Texas black gum tree, the side of the wood three inches thick and etched with a series of shapes. Circles mostly, with crosshairs atop them, followed by a series of consonants. Atop the table were three neat stacks of paper, facing down.
The balance of the room was a seating area. I counted three parallel lines made by a vacuum cleaner and stepped carefully between the nearest two.
From a door at the far side, two men came in, neither of whom I had met. They were midconversation, and I could tell the subject was a school shooting that had occurred three days ago.
“Frank.” The older man put out his hand. “It’s been a minute.”
Director Banning was white and stocky, in his late sixties. He was muscular with a thick head of nuclear white hair. He sported a blue suit with an American flag pinned to the coat lapel.
“This is Gardner Camden.” Frank motioned at me.
“Your work precedes you, Camden,” he said, shaking my hand.
He dropped into the nicest chair in the room. His chair, you could tell.
“Craig,” Frank said to the man behind Banning. This was Deputy Director Poulton, the man who would soon take over the agency. The one whose wife apparently had a penchant for shots.
Poulton was younger than Banning by fifteen years, with a tall frame and dark hair spiked slightly with gel. He had sharp, craggy features and wore a charcoal suit with a burgundy tie.
“Gardner Camden.” I put out my hand.
“We know some of the same people,” Poulton said. “I came up in the Miami office. A few years before you.”
Miami. So he knew my story.
The four of us took our places in the seating area, and I began walking through the highlights of the Tignon, Fisher, and Lazarian murders. The men listened, neither of them saying a word about a task force. Or whether PAR would be pulled from the case.
“How certain are you that the threat’s from within, Agent Camden?” Poulton asked when I finished.
Was he looking for a percentage?
“I don’t pursue low probability outcomes,” I said.
Poulton smiled at Frank, then glanced back at me.
“The only way the perp could have known to call me at the Dallas office is if he was law enforcement,” I said.
“So he’s a cop?” Poulton said.
“He also had access to our victim’s FBI files,” Frank added. “Knew the movements of our agents in LA.”
“You’re saying he’s a fed?” Poulton said. “Anyone? Me? You?” He fixed me with his gaze. Was he trying to inflame the situation? “Is your list anyone on our payroll, Agent Camden?”
“My list narrowed to two names this morning,” I said. “One is a rookie in our group, Richie Brancato. Who is the newest member of PAR. But he did not check out Lazarian’s files or know about—”
“No way,” Banning said. “I’ve met that kid. The Academy. When he asked to go to PAR.”
The director remembered meeting Richie? I had been number 2 in my class and never met the director. But perhaps times had changed.
“That just leaves one other name,” I said. “One I found out five minutes ago.”
Frank swiveled his head in my direction.
“This individual accessed FBI records on Tignon, Lazarian, and Fisher,” I continued.
“Gardner?” Frank said.
“This person also knew the whereabouts of Agents O’Riley and Nguyen at the safe house in LA where Ronald Lazarian was held.”
“Well, out with it, son,” Banning said. “Who is it already?”
I turned to face Director Banning. “It’s you,” I said.