The silence stretched between them like a wire drawn tight. The only noise was the distant ripple of highway traffic and the drone of cicadas in the trees. “You told me you trusted me before I dug that bullet out. Prove it.”
Pilgrim cleared his throat. “The group I’m with does the dirty work that is necessary at times to identify and neutralize threats and protect the country.”
“Dirty work.”
“The activities the other agencies are legally blocked from doing.”
“You do the jobs no one can take credit for or be blamed for.”
Pilgrim blinked. “Excellent description.”
“Where’s your budget hidden—FBI? CIA?”
Pilgrim looked at him with a bit more respect. “Only Teach knows for sure, but I think the budget’s hidden inside the CIA, cobbled together from miscellaneous funding. We’re a back corner. A forgotten room.” He paused. “It’s called the Cellar.”
“And you routinely hijack other people’s identities.”
“No. At least never before. A little shit named Barker created my legends—my identities—when I’m on a job. Normally he spun them out of thin air, invented a name, a history, a financial background. He gave me your identity; I had no idea you really existed. He also betrayed me and Teach; he worked with her kidnappers. Which means his boss—whoever that is—gave him your name to use.” He paused. “I didn’t know you were real.”
“But why me?”
“I’d say whoever Barker worked for hates your guts.”
“No one hates me.”
“Or you’re a huge threat to someone. You just don’t know it.”
Ben rubbed his forehead. “What was your job where you needed my name?”
“To investigate Adam Reynolds.” He took another long sip of the Chianti. “Over the past few weeks, every alias or false identity used by myself or one of my Cellar colleagues was being tracked. Credit checks were run against the fake names, inquiries were being made, our aliases brought to the attention of police in New York, London, Atlanta, other cities. When we’re done with a job we walk away from the aliases—but we keep an eye on them for a while after the job is done, in case someone tries to track us through the false identities.”
“Adam Reynolds tracked you.”
“He was a software designer, so he had to be using technology to find and discover our activities. But we have no idea how he did it.”
“And you dragged my name in.”
“We needed to find out why he was after us and who funded him. Teach got an old CIA contact to tell Adam Reynolds a contractor consultant named Ben Forsberg might be able to help him land funding for a start-up software company, to build products based on his ideas. But I thought Ben Forsberg was just an identity Barker made up along with a history.”
“Barker bought the cell phones in my name. Opened the credit accounts. Rented the office space.” Ben shook his head. “Sparta Consulting, that’s what he used as a cover.”
“Sparta’s a front company for the Cellar, a way to camouflage our financial dealings.” Pilgrim coughed, winced at the pain. “I got three meetings with Adam and I told him I represented a bunch of government contractors interested in backing his software ideas. I could help him set up his own company, fund the work, share the profits. Of course all I wanted to do was find out how he’d found us and who’d paid him to hunt us down.”
“You wrote the business proposal, with my name on it, that Kidwell and Vochek found in his office,” Ben said. Nausea clawed into his guts.
“I wanted to learn how he found our aliases, see who his business contacts were, find who funded his search for the Cellar.”
“So why did he get killed?”
“He knew this afternoon that I wasn’t Ben Forsberg. I tried to make him understand I could protect him, but he told me he’d called Homeland. But I don’t think he worked for Homeland in trying to find the Cellar.”
“Why?”
“Homeland Security doesn’t hire Arab gunmen to kidnap people. They’re not into assassination. And they have no reason to frame you.”
“So his boss is who?”
“No idea. And if his boss knew Adam was bolting . . . clearly he didn’t want Adam talking about his search for us.”
“And the Cellar is the threat to national security he described to Kidwell?”
“Clearly he viewed us as a threat.”
Ben got up from the bed, walked to the window. “So Nicky Lynch killed him and you killed Lynch. You put my business card in Lynch’s pocket.” The rage swelled in his chest, held its breath, and then was gone; replaced by a exhausting realization of how bad his situation was. He couldn’t afford the distraction of anger. He shivered as he stood by the window, even though the room was warm.