Читать книгу The Double Eagle - James Twining - Страница 23

FBI Headquarters, Washington DC

22nd July – 2:07pm

The desk fan was on its highest setting. The vibrations had caused it to skip across the conference table’s slippery surface until it was balancing against the thin rim of metal that ran around its edge and threatening to throw itself over the side.

‘Okay – let’s just go through them one more time,’ Jennifer suggested, slurping the dregs of her now warm and flat coke. She dropped the empty cup into the overflowing trash can that sat on the floor between them. Special Agent Paul Viggiano raised his dark eyebrows wearily.

‘What for? We’ve been through every single guy like a hundred times. Cross-checked them with the CIA and the NCIC databases. Been through their bank records. Checked their wives, their parents, even their kids for Chrissake. There’s nothing here. They’re all clean.’

Jennifer got up and moved around the conference table, the overhead halogens reflecting here and there in the polished walnut.

‘Because we’re not leaving here till we find something,’ she said firmly, her eyes flicking between the piles of paper and files and boxes that had been strewn along the table’s length, the rubble of her two day investigation so far.

Viggiano stood up, a trim, muscular figure, his dark hair slicked back, his chin covered in a seemingly permanent five o’clock shadow. Shaking his head angrily, he tucked his white shirt back into his dark blue suit trousers – shiny fabric with a faint red thread running through it – as he spoke.

‘You know what? This whole thing stinks. It’s a goddamned mess.’ He slammed his fist down in front of him, the fan wobbling unsteadily before finally toppling off and plunging helplessly to the floor, the flex trailing behind it like a bungee rope that had been tied too long.

Jennifer had to agree. The whole thing was a mess. She knew that Corbett had fought to control the number of people in the loop over the last two days, but cases like this wouldn’t stay quiet for long. It was too good an opportunity for a fundraiser, a chance to put the boot in on some of the other departments and agencies and grab a bigger slice of the Federal budget in the process. It was the sort of story Washington lived and prayed for.

‘Yeah, it’s a mess, but it’s our mess,’ she retorted. ‘So you’re just going to have to deal with it.’

She replaced the fan on the table while Viggiano shook his head again and loosened his military-looking tie a little more. Jennifer knew that he was finding this harder going than she was. He was about ten years older than her and two years ago she’d worked on a case for him for a few months. He’d even made a clumsy pass in a bar that she’d brushed off as politely as she could. Now she was in charge and it clearly hurt, although his feelings were the last thing on her mind. She’d worked too hard for this opportunity to let Paul Viggiano screw it up for her. And although she hated to admit it to herself, she’d had to put up with so much crap over the last few years, it actually felt good to be on the other end for a change.

‘Look, I’ve been there, okay. I’ve seen the place,’ she continued, her voice hard and urgent. ‘We’re not talking about Macy’s here. You don’t just walk in and help yourself. Whoever did this had detailed knowledge of the vault’s layout and security systems. Very detailed.’

Viggiano snorted.

‘Big deal. Everything’s for sale at the right price. If someone wanted the plans for Fort Knox they could have got them. Money talks.’ Viggiano rubbed his thumb and forefinger together and held it up to Jennifer’s face with a thin smile.

‘You think they keep the details down at the local planning department? Layout, alarm systems, access codes?’ Jennifer asked sarcastically. ‘Everything about that place is classified. Jesus, they probably incinerate the grass clippings. It’s wrapped tight. I’m telling you, someone on the inside must have been involved. So we’re going to go through all of them again. Now.’

‘Fine. Whatever.’ Viggiano ran his hand through his thick quiff of dark hair in frustration and picked up the file where he’d thrown it down on the table earlier. ‘Where do you want to start?’ His eyes flashed at her, brimming with resentment.

‘Right at the beginning. With how many people have had access or actually been into the vault in the last twelve months. If we need to go back further we will, but let’s focus there first.’ Viggiano muttered under his breath as he counted the numbers again, consulting various sheets of paper that he picked up from in front of him.

‘Like I said before. Forty-seven people.’

‘Plus me. That makes forty-eight.’

‘What, you think I’m an idiot? You’re in the forty-seven,’ he said, his chin jutting in indignation.

‘I am? How do you work that out?’ Jennifer flicked through her hieroglyphic notes, adding numbers in her head.

‘Twenty-five guards from the Mint Police, fifteen military personnel, five Treasury officials and two Federal agents, one of which was you. Not that many people get down there.’ Viggiano held up the sheet of paper on which he’d done his sums and waved it in the air as if to prove his point.

‘That’s strange. Rigby told me there were twenty-six guards. That’s why I made it forty-eight,’ said Jennifer, her smooth brown forehead momentarily creased by a slight frown.

‘Who?’

‘Rigby. The Officer in Charge, remember?’ she said impatiently, although the corners of her mouth twitched at the memory of Sheppard’s pink trousers and Rigby’s ashen face.

‘Well according to the Treasury, it’s twenty-five. I got all the names here.’ He held up several sheets of paper by their corners between his thumb and forefinger. ‘They faxed them over this morning.’

‘Let me see those,’ she demanded. Viggiano shrugged and passed them over to Jennifer who scanned through the names carefully. She paused on the final sheet and then frowning, held it up to the light.

‘What?’ Viggiano’s tone was immediately defensive. Jennifer didn’t say anything but just gripped the sheet between her thumb and forefinger and rubbed them together. A second sheet peeled away from the first with a faint sucking noise. Viggiano went white.

‘Like I said, twenty-six guards,’ Jennifer said quietly, inspecting the single name at the top of the newly revealed sheet with a grim look on her face.

‘I don’t understand,’ Viggiano spluttered.

‘I guess the ink must have stuck them together.’ She knew that if their roles had been reversed, Viggiano would have come down on her hard for that sort of oversight, but that wasn’t her style. They both knew he had screwed up and as far as she was concerned that was that. There was certainly no point in rubbing his nose in it. What was important was seeing whether this new piece of information led them somewhere.

‘Tony Short.’ She read from the piece of paper, ‘DOB 18 March 1965. Deceased.’

‘Deceased? So he’s irrelevant,’ said Viggiano with relief.

‘He had access to the vault.’

‘But he’s dead.’

‘Only just.’ She laid the sheet on the table and pushed it over to Viggiano so he could read what it said for himself. ‘Four days ago.’

‘A coincidence.’ Viggiano sounded like he was trying to convince himself as well as her.

‘Maybe. But he’s the only one we haven’t checked out. What do we know about him?’ Viggiano turned to the laptop to his left and typed in the name. A file flashed up a few seconds later.

‘Ex NYPD. Medal of Honour. Transferred to the Mint Police five years ago. Married with kids. Usual boy scout shit. It’s all here. Deceased*.’ He looked up. ‘What’s the asterisk for?’

‘Suicide,’ Jennifer replied. ‘The asterisk means suicide.’