“HAD TO be a letdown,” Johnson said after a moment.
She looked at him.
“There you are, working months—years, really—tracking these people. And then suddenly Bishop’s dead.”
She thought about that—had it been a letdown? Had she been so driven by ego that this unexpected turn of events troubled her in that way? Yes, actually. She remembered listening to those giddy field agents—we’re getting drunk tonight—and the deflation that followed. The sudden emptiness. And then …
“And then there was Watertown,” she said heavily.
Vale sucked on her nicotine, released a cloud. “Sounds to me like you did everything right, though.”
“Maybe,” Rachel said. “But just because you do something right doesn’t guarantee that anything’s going to turn out right.”
“No matter how it turned out,” said Johnson, “the fact is that, after the night of July 8, the Massive Brigade was no longer a threat to American security.”
Vale agreed. “It always sucks to see how the sausage is made, but people just keep ordering sausage.”
Rachel looked at them both, thinking that it was easy to talk about the pros and cons of unnecessary deaths when you weren’t present for them. It was like a flat-footed twenty-year-old joining a war rally, or a male politician expounding on abortion legislation. She hadn’t been there either, though. She’d been on the other side of a soybean field, watching two monitors that lit up a foul-smelling barn. She’d seen the silent approach, soft footsteps up to the doors and windows, the placing of small charges, the 3-2-1 countdown, and then chaos.
And then that sheriff. She said, “Donegal made it clear that Owen was responsible for what had happened.”
Johnson exhaled, long and hard. “And you believed Sheriff Donegal?”
“Why would he lie?”
“I don’t know, Rachel. Why would anyone lie? But they do. Every day, and in every way. People lie. It’s what makes our jobs so goddam hard.”
Rachel leaned back, rubbing her leg—it was screaming. “Look, I’m not proud of what I did. But Owen’s little unauthorized pep talk killed nine people. I’m not sorry I did it, and I never will be. I’m only sorry that it made him into a victim, and that as a result he’s got himself a new office and now lords it over good agents like yourself.”
Vale reached over and paused the recording. “Don’t worry. I can erase that last bit.”
“Don’t,” she said. “If he ever listens to this, then I want him to know exactly what I think of his sorry ass.”
That earned a lengthy silence and, eventually, a grin from Vale, who started recording again. “There were two survivors, yes?”
“A girl from Portland, Oregon, and OSWALD.”
“OSWALD,” said Johnson. “Now, his debrief we do have. How much time did you get with him, before…”
“Not long. Twenty minutes, maybe, before I was shipped back home. All I had left was my story, which I wrote on the flight back.”
She could have said more, but neither of her interrogators cared about the fury she’d felt as she banged at the keyboard, making very clear how Owen Jakes had, with malice, undermined her operation. No, that wasn’t their mission. Blame was beyond their purview. Just the facts, ma’am.
“How long,” Vale asked, “before you were shot?”
Instinctively, she rubbed her leg again. “Ten days. I was on leave, waiting for my hearing. And, yes, I’d been drinking.”
“Alone?” asked Johnson.
“Alone,” she admitted. “What’s frustrating is that I’d had too much; my vision was bad. I was on the sidewalk, heading home. Late. Empty street. Then a man appeared at the next corner. Had I been sober, I would’ve realized what was happening. But I didn’t.” She took a deep breath, feeling that spot in her thigh, remembering the blinding pain. “He just stood there, as if he were waiting for me. Or waiting until he could ID me. I stopped. Then he fired once—a .357 caliber—and disappeared.”
“Did you ID him?” Johnson asked.
“I gave a description—Caucasian, forties, a little gray—but it wasn’t enough for a match. And whoever he was, he knew how to avoid street cameras.”
“It’s still an open case,” Vale pointed out.
“Half open,” Rachel said, and when they looked confused she shrugged. “Come on. Paulson put me in the press release—my name was out there. For anyone who worshipped the martyrs Bishop and Mittag, I was the devil. You should’ve seen the threats on my Facebook page before I closed it down.” Neither seemed impressed by what she was saying, so she spelled it out for them. “We’ll probably never know who shot me, but we damned well know that he was a follower of the Massive Brigade.”
“Yes,” Johnson said, agreeing finally. Vale nodded as well.
What Rachel didn’t tell them, and wouldn’t—it wasn’t their business—was that she’d felt no fear when she was shot, just confusion. The only time she felt actual fear was the next evening, when she woke in the hospital, after the operation, to find Gregg sitting in a chair, eyes on her. She even jerked, wanting to get away from those hands of his, but her leg was in no shape to help her escape. It was in the paper, he said by way of explanation, and when he nodded at the bouquet of lilies he’d brought—Mackenzie’s idea—and leaned in close to kiss her forehead she thought she might vomit. It had been a very long time since she’d been able to trust kindness from Gregg Wills, because she knew how quickly it could turn to acid.
“You know,” she said, wanting to purge any thoughts of her ex, “getting shot probably helped me. It was harder for them to can an agent who’d just taken one for the team.”
That earned her more silence; then Johnson checked his watch. Rachel checked her own—it was nearly four thirty. They’d spent the entire day in this miserable little room. “Are we done?” she asked.
Again, these two emissaries from DC conferred with a glance. “Almost,” said Vale. Johnson reached down and finally lifted the briefcase that had been next to his feet all day. Popped it open, took out a manila folder, and passed it to her. Vale said, “Given the sensitivity of the investigation, and the way public opinion is so volatile right now, it would be really helpful if you signed this.”
Rachel opened the folder and found three pages, stapled. There was her name and address, and below it a series of paragraphs and subsections that led to a final page with space for her signature. She read the opening lines, verifying what she had suspected from the moment he pulled out the folder. “It’s a nondisclosure agreement.”
“Yes,” said Vale.
She furrowed her brow. “This isn’t necessary. Everything I’ve done for the Bureau is classified. And I already told you, I’m not speaking to the press.”
“Then just consider it a lawyerly formality,” Vale suggested.
Rachel returned to the contract, reaching a section called “Penalties.” It said, among other things, that if she were to speak to anyone—not just the press, but anyone—about events related to the investigation and apprehension of the Massive Brigade, not only would she be prosecuted with life in prison and forfeit her government pension, but she would automatically relinquish her United States passport. She looked up at them. “Have you read this?”
“Of course,” said Johnson.
She pushed it back across the table. “I’m not signing.”
“Rachel,” said Vale, a pleading note to her voice. “We believe that you have no plans to approach anyone, but, hey, we’re all adults here. You have well-documented anger issues, and you blame Owen Jakes for what happened in Watertown. You’ve said it yourself. Put those two together, and when the report comes out next week and you read it and get angry about something you don’t agree with … what will you do?”
“Why don’t you show me the report now, so I can tell you?”
Vale leaned back, and Johnson leaned forward. “We’re not joking around. Do you think the report is going to describe the Watertown raid the way you just did? People’s jobs depend on the story—and it’s true, by the way—that the occupants had guns and explosives. You throw a wrench in that? Good people lose their careers, and assholes in the streets will start smashing private property.”
Rachel stood up, and her leg, immobile for so long, tingled and barked in pain. She really didn’t want to listen to this. “You two seem like decent agents, and you probably believe a lot of what you’re saying. But, no. Take those pages back to Jakes and tell him to smoke them, okay?”
Vale shook her head. “Don’t be stupid, Rachel…”
“Have a nice flight home,” she said, and limped past them to the door. She opened it, stepped through, and once the door closed behind her she grimaced and rubbed her thigh. Christ, but it hurt. Then she looked up to see Paula, Chuck, and Henry staring at her from their desks. Awkward smiles. She hobbled over to her desk and grabbed her things. Henry hovered around her. “Everything cool?”
“Tell Max I’ve gone home, will you?”
He turned to look back to where Lyle Johnson and Sarah Vale were exiting the interview room. Johnson was on his cell. As Rachel turned to leave, Vale looked in her direction and, sadly, smiled. The poor woman looked like she was about to cry.