She swallowed. “Thank you, Randall.”
“Soccer fields off Plano Parkway. Noon. Come alone. If I get a sense that you’ve brought company, I’m smoke.”
“Ben Forsberg. Is he all right?”
“Ben is okay.” Then she heard regret tinge Pilgrim’s words. “So you know—Ben is entirely innocent. He did not hire Nicky Lynch. I used his identity without his knowledge. But Hector’s tried to kill Ben multiple times in the past two days, so Ben’s shy right now. One more thing for you.”
“Yes?”
“I don’t have details, but if you’ve got any hot leads about a threat in New Orleans, take it seriously. That’s my Boy Scout moment.”
“New Orleans.”
“Yes.”
“Okay. Randall?”
“Yes?”
“I want to help you come in. I don’t want you or Ben hurt.”
“Words are cheap. See you at noon.” He hung up.
Well. Pilgrim’s offer could be genuine or it could be a trap. Protocol demanded that she inform her superior.
She hesitated. She was not by nature a rule-bender. But . . . she knew Pritchard. Pritchard would demand backup for Vochek and the immediate capture of Pilgrim. They would have an actual rogue CIA agent—tied to an actual dirty dog group—in their custody. Of course she might talk him into surrendering, but capture would guarantee he would be in their grasp.
And New Orleans—what did that mean? She had no idea if a threat had been identified against the city. It was a lead she couldn’t keep to herself, it would be grossly irresponsible. Decision made. She called Pritchard and explained the conversation.
“I’ll contact the New Orleans office, see if they have a hot situation working,” Pritchard said. “Of course it will be a bit difficult to attribute this warning to a man who’s been presumed dead for a decade. Are you willing to meet with him alone?” Pritchard asked.
“Yes.”
“I’m not willing to risk it. If he won’t surrender to you, then I want him followed.”
“He’ll spot a tail.”
“Not our people. I’m calling Secret Service in Dallas.”
“Not their jurisdiction.”
“Ah. But he said he stole Ben Forsberg’s good name. Identity theft and financial fraud are under Secret Service’s purview.”
“Please. Let me handle this. Alone.”
“We already lost Kidwell. We have no idea of what this man is capable of.”
“And the things he said about Sam Hector?”
The long silence returned. “I want to see the evidence that he has.”
“Should we put working with Hector on hold?”
“On this man’s word? Please.” On the phone, Vochek could hear the tap of Pritchard’s nail against the desk. “Evidence, Joanna. Let’s find the meat on the bone first.”
32
Teach broke at ten-thirty Saturday morning. She gave them the name of the street and the apartment number—she had known about them for years, shortly after Pilgrim got the property under a false name, and let him think she knew nothing.
Jackie cleaned off the knife—not too much blood, the cuts had been shallow and strategic—and patted her on the cheek. “Lovely help you’ve given us. You’ve saved that girl a bad few hours. Now she can die an old lady.”
Hector gave her a cloth to sponge her face, her mouth, her legs. She trembled and he wondered if it was more from rage than fear.
“Let’s go. She’s coming with us,” Hector said.
“Us?” Jackie asked.
“You and me. We’re taking Pilgrim out.”
“I can handle it. Without help.” Jackie felt reinvigorated from the night; he’d gotten Teach to talk, a necessary job done right. His father would have been proud of him.
“I need to get back into the field.”
“I thought you just supervised.”
“Every manager should get his hands dirty now and then,” Hector said.
“Why bring Teach with us? Lock her up here.”
“I have a lot of guards here, and I don’t want to leave her behind. Where she might be discovered by my people.” A pause.
“Sure,” Jackie said with a nod and a half smile.
“I’ll pull the car up close to the house. Get her ready. I just need to get one thing before we go. In case Ben is there.”
Ben tapped the keys on Pilgrim’s laptop. He wrote a detailed report of every contract he’d helped Sam Hector win. As far as he knew, nothing in the deals was illegal—but certainly, elements of the contracts might raise watchdog eyebrows, in terms of timing, lack of competition, or inexact wording that might favor Hector more than other vendors. Most businesses in the real world hoped to make a profit; Hector Global worked a guaranteed profit, sometimes up to 15 percent, into every deal with the government. Charges that cost the company eighteen dollars were billed to the government at eighty. A number of contracts had been virtually no-bid; Hector’s only invited competitors were firms that were too small actually to do the work, rendering the competition moot. There had been delays in services rendered, with no delay in payment.