Mooney cursed silently. “Draw up the paperwork,” he told Padilla. Then he went to pick up the envelope containing the prisoner’s things and brought it back to the FBI agent. “I’m gonna find out what the hell this is all about.”
“I sincerely doubt that you will,” she said. “Come along, Mr. Morgan. We have a prisoner transport van waiting for you.”
CHAPTER 54
Boston, February 27
Morgan was escorted wordlessly by Diana Bloch and Bishop, posing as FBI agents, out into the yellow pool of the streetlights, where an actual light brown prisoner transport van was parked, with Diesel sitting at the wheel waiting for them. A gust of wind blew stray snowflakes in his face as he was led to the back of the van. They’d taken his coat, but he wasn’t cold, just numb. Bishop led him up into the van and made a show of chaining his wrists and ankles down. Bloch sat across from him in the back, and Bishop closed the two of them in. The wall between the back and the front seats was metal, and there were no openings to the outside, so that left only the interior fluorescent light to illuminate the inside. As soon as they heard the muffled sound of Bishop closing the passenger door up front, Bloch tossed Morgan the keys. He silently undid his cuffs as the van started moving, and let them fall to the floor.
“Took you all long enough,” he said, chuckling.
“You’re lucky we got you out at all, you bastard,” said Bishop over some kind of PA system. “After that stunt you pulled, I wouldn’t be surprised if they shipped you off to Gitmo. That was a hell of a thing you did back there.”
Bloch, who had sported her usual unyielding scowl, broke out in a smile. “You could have done a lot worse.”
“What about Jenny?” Morgan asked her.
“At home, and no worse for wear despite the shock,” said Bloch. “I made some calls and put a heavy protective detail on your house. They won’t be hitting you there again. We still haven’t located your daughter. . . .”
“She’s safe,” said Morgan. “I took care of it.”
“Good. I’ll let Shepard know. He’s looking into any potential new leads from this attack. If you could come to headquarters in the late morning, we can go over . . .”
“If it’s all right,” said Morgan, clutching his left arm, which was aching and bruised from the ordeal, “I’m going to go home.”
“Oh,” said Bloch. “Of course. Take the time that you need.”
“You do what you can,” said Morgan. “I just want to get home and be with my family.”
CHAPTER 55
Washington, D.C., March 8
“We’ve got a name,” said William Schroeder to an expectant situation room. “We’ve got a name for the bastard, and a picture to boot.”
A grainy surveillance photo appeared on the screen.
“We followed the lead of the lab in Turkey,” said Schroeder, giving a split-second thankful glance at Chapman. “The CIA traced all the heavy equipment—the HEPA filters and centrifuges and whatnot—through an elaborate paper trail. We traced the buyer to a Dutch dummy company. Ownership is broken up into a whole mess of holdings and investment groups, but we got the name on the checks. Edmund Charles. The name’s fake; there’s no record of this person existing. But the money is real, and he has to manage it somehow.”
A surveillance video played on the screen, showing a luxurious bank lobby with hardwood furniture and beautiful red carpets. A man walked in wearing a sharp navy-blue suit. He was tall, of average build, with a head of blond hair. He was greeted eagerly by a manager and escorted into a niche. The video froze.
“Now, this is an extremely slippery individual, so any and all efforts that we make at tracking him need to fly absolutely under the radar. This means we do nothing to tip our hand. We keep to electronic and remote surveillance as much as possible. Does everyone understand that?”
There was a murmur of assent.
“Good. Needless to say, gentlemen, none of this leaves this room.”
People stood up and began to scatter, slowly. Chapman walked up to Schroeder and pulled him aside.
“Listen, Bill, have you given any thought to the matter of what we’re going to do with him once we have him? I mean, that’s as big a question as how to get him, I think.”
“We’re going to do this the right way, Buck,” said Schroeder. “He’s going to be tried in a court of law.”
“You can’t be serious,” said Chapman. “You don’t think he’s working alone, do you?
“What do you suggest I do?” asked Schroeder pointedly.