Читать книгу The Double Eagle - James Twining - Страница 9

FBI Headquarters, Washington DC18th July – 7:00am

She knew what would happen as the door opened and the dark shape came through it. She fought to stop herself, but it was no use. It never was. She raised the gun in front of her in a classic Weaver stance. Her stronger left arm was slightly flexed, pushing the gun away from her. Her supporting arm was bent and pulling the weapon in to create a properly braced grip, her feet apart with her weak-sided right foot slightly forward.

She fired three shots right in the kill zone – a perfect equilateral triangle. He was dead before he hit the floor, his white shirt billowing red like a bottle of ink spilt onto blotting paper. It was then, as the light hit his face – only then, that she saw what she had done.

Jennifer Browne woke with a jump, peeled her cheek, sticky with sweat, off the desk’s laminate surface and fumbled for the clock. Blinking hard, her eyes adjusting to the glare of the overhead neon, she checked the time. Seven am. Shit. Another all-nighter.

She stretched and flexed her neck, her back clicking into place. Yawning, she reached down and pulled out the bottom desk drawer, felt inside and took out a cellophane-wrapped white blouse identical to the one she was wearing. It was resting on two others. Placing it on her desk, she began to unbutton the one she had on, her fingers stiff as she worked the buttons. Eventually, when it was undone, she stood up and slipped it off, dropping it into the open drawer which she then nudged shut with her foot.

She was strikingly beautiful in that effortless, double-take way that some women are. Five feet nine, smooth brown skin, slender yet curving where it counted, rounded cheeks and curly black hair that just kissed her bare shoulders. She wore no jewellery – never had – apart from the Tiffany’s twisted heart necklace that her sister had given her on her 18th birthday that nestled in the smooth curve of her breasts.

As she buttoned the blouse and tucked it into the waistband of her black trouser suit, she looked around at the windowless painted breeze block walls that encircled her and smiled, the dimples creasing into her soft brown cheeks. Even though it was small, she had still not quite got used to having her own office. Her own space. Her own air. After only three months back in DC, the novelty had certainly not worn off yet. Not by a long way. Not after three years down in the Atlanta field office, afraid to breathe out too far in case the cubicle walls collapsed. She was glad to be back; this time she was planning on staying.

There was a knock at the open door and Jennifer’s thoughts were interrupted. She looked up reproachfully but relaxed her frown when she saw that it was Phil Tucker, her Section Chief, right on time. He’d told her yesterday that he wanted her in early, that he needed to talk to her. Wouldn’t say why though.

‘Hey there,’ she called.

‘You okay?’ He walked up to the desk and squinted down at her through frameless glasses in concern, his double chin flattening over the top of his tie. ‘Another late night?’

‘Is it that obvious?’ Jennifer self-consciously smoothed down her hair and rubbed the sleep out of the corners of her eyes.

‘Nope.’ He smiled. ‘Security told me you hadn’t gone home… Just so you know, I appreciate it.’

That was Tucker all over. He wasn’t one of these bosses who just expected people to stay late and then never noticed when they did. He kept track of his team and made sure they knew it. She liked that. It made her feel like she was part of something again, not just an embarrassment that had to be explained away.

‘No problem.’

He scratched his copper-coloured beard, then the top of his head, his scalp pink and raw where the hair was thinning.

‘By the way, I spoke to Flynt, and the Treasury boys are going to handle everything from here on in on the Hammon case. They were very grateful for your help. He says he owes you one. Good job.’

‘Thanks.’ She gave an awkward shrug, never having been good at accepting compliments and changed the subject. ‘So what’s all this about? Why the early start? Some Congressman lose his dog?’

Tucker levered himself into a chair, his hips grazing its moulded plastic arms.

‘Something came up yesterday. I volunteered you.’ He grinned. ‘Hope you don’t mind.’

She laughed.

‘Would it make a difference if I did?’

‘Nope! Anyway, you won’t want to. It’s a good opportunity. Chance to get back on the inside track.’ He paused and looked suddenly serious. ‘A second chance, maybe.’ His eyes dipped to the floor.

‘You still trying to earn me my redemption?’ With her dream still fresh in her thoughts, something bitter rose to the back of her mouth and made her swallow hard.

‘No. You’re doing that all on your own. But you and I both know that it’s hard to change people’s minds.’

‘I’m not looking for any hand-outs, Phil. I can make my own way back.’ Her eyes shone with a fierce pride. Tucker nodded slowly.

‘I know. But everyone needs a break once in a while, even you. And I wouldn’t have suggested you if I didn’t think you’d earned it. Anyway, I told him to swing by here about now, so it’s too late to back out.’

He checked his watch, shook his wrist, held it to his ear and then checked it again.

‘Is that the right time?’ he asked, pointing at Jennifer’s desk clock. She ignored the question.

‘Told who to swing by here?’

There was a knock at the open door before he could answer and a man walked in. Tucker leapt up.

‘Jennifer – meet Bob Corbett; Bob – meet Jennifer Browne.’ All three of them stood motionless for a few seconds and Tucker’s eyes flicked anxiously to Jennifer’s, as if he was worried she might do or say the wrong thing.

They shook hands. Tucker breathed a sigh of relief.

‘Here, take my seat.’ Tucker pointed eagerly at his chair before perching unsteadily on the edge of Jennifer’s desk. Corbett sat down. ‘Bob heads up the Major Theft and Transportation Crimes Unit here.’

‘We were introduced in the elevator once,’ Jennifer nodded with a curious smile. From the times she’d seen him around the building, she knew that Corbett always looked immaculate, from his smoothly shaved chin to his polished black shoes, thin laces neatly tied in a double knot. But now she immediately noticed that something was different. The knot on his woven silk tie was much smaller than usual, as if he had loosened it and then re-tightened it several times. As if he was worried.

Corbett frowned and looked at her quizzically before nodding slowly in sudden recollection.

‘Sure. I remember. Hi.’ He spoke in short, sharp bursts and there was something in the precise urgency of his machine-gunned words that suggested a military background. They shook hands again.

Corbett often passed for a man ten years younger than his forty-five years, although the deepening creases around his eyes and mouth suggested that time was at last beginning to catch up with him. Next to Tucker certainly, he looked fit and healthy although that was possibly an unfair comparison. There was something streamlined about him, from his slicked back steel-grey hair to the rounded contours of his chin and cheekbones that gave him the chromed elegance of one of those 1930s Art-Deco locomotives that look like they are powering along at two hundred miles an hour even when they are standing still. Above the sharp angle of his nose, the cold light of his close-set grey eyes suggested a very clever and very determined man. He reminded her, in a strange way, of her father. Hard but fair.

‘You know, Bob’s got the best clean-up rate in the Bureau?’ Tucker continued. ‘What is it now? Only five unsolved cases in twenty-five years? That’s outstanding work.’ He shook his head, as if he couldn’t quite come to terms with it.

‘Actually, Phil, it’s two. And I haven’t given up on them yet.’ Corbett smiled, but Jennifer could tell he wasn’t joking. He didn’t look like the sort of man who did.

‘Bob needs someone to work on a new case for him. I suggested you.’

Jennifer shrugged awkwardly, her face suddenly hot as two pairs of eyes focused in on her.

‘Thank you, sir. I’ll do my best. What’s the case?’

Corbett slid a large manila envelope towards her and motioned with a wave that she should open it. Warily, Jennifer lifted the tab and pulled out a series of black-and-white photos.

‘The man in that photo is Father Gianluca Ranieri.’

She studied the picture carefully, taking in the man’s contorted face and the large gash in his chest.

‘They found him in Paris yesterday. River cops fished him out the Seine. As you can see, he didn’t drown.’

Jennifer flicked through the rest of the photos, her mind focused. Close-ups of Ranieri’s face and the knife wound flashed past her large hazel eyes. A quick scan through the translated autopsy report at the back confirmed what Corbett had just told her – stabbed and then presumably thrown in the river. A single blow through the xiphisternum, aimed up towards the left shoulder blade, had caused a massive, almost instant heart attack.

As she read, she flashed a quick look at Corbett. He was studying her office with a faint smile. She knew that some of her colleagues found it strange that she kept the stark green concrete walls bare. Truth was, she found the lack of clutter helped her keep her mind clear.

‘Any thoughts?’ Corbett asked, his eyes snapping back round to meet hers.

‘Judging from the injury, it looks like a professional job. Some sort of hit.’

‘Agreed.’ Corbett nodded, his eyes narrowing slightly as if he was re-appraising Jennifer in the light of her quick diagnosis.

‘And it was public. The body dumped where they knew it would be quickly found.’

‘Meaning?’

‘That they’re not worried about getting caught. Or that maybe they wanted to send someone a message.’

Corbett nodded his agreement.

‘Perhaps both. Best guess is that he was killed round about midnight on the sixteenth of July, give or take three or four hours either way.’ He got up and padded noiselessly over to the filing cabinet, Jennifer noticing now that he seemingly kept his pockets empty of change and keys or anything else that might give away his position, like a cat who had had the bell on its collar removed so that it might be better able to stalk its unsuspecting prey. She continued to leaf through the file.

‘From what we know, Ranieri trained as a Catholic priest and then worked at the Vatican Institute for Religious Works.’

Jennifer looked up in surprise.

‘The Vatican Bank?’

‘As it’s also known, yes.’ Corbett raised his eyebrows, clearly impressed now. ‘He was there for about ten years before going missing about three years ago, along with a couple of million dollars from one of their Cayman Island accounts.’

Jennifer swivelled her chair round towards him, her forehead wrinkled in anticipation. She sensed that he was building up to something. Tucker, meanwhile, sat enthralled with his arms crossed and resting on his belly, his mouth slack and half open. Corbett ran his finger along the top of the filing cabinet as if checking for dust. She knew there wouldn’t be any. Not in her office.

‘He must have spent all the cash though, because he turned up in Paris last year. The French say he set himself up as a low-level fence. Nothing big. A painting here, a necklace there, but he was making a living; a good living, judging from the size of him.’

All three of them laughed and the tingle that Jennifer had felt slowly building inside her chest vanished like steam rising into warm air. Corbett moved back round to the chair and sat down again, Jennifer just getting a glimpse of the top of his shoes where over the years the constant rubbing of his suit trousers had buffed the leather to a slightly deeper shade of black than the rest of them.

‘I don’t get it.’ Jennifer replaced the file on the desk and sat back in her chair, confused. ‘Sounds to me like he got whacked by someone he ripped off. Or maybe he had some sort of deal go sour. Either way, it’s got nothing to do with us.’

Corbett locked eyes with her and the tingle reappeared and instantly sublimated into a cold, hard knot in the pit of her stomach.

‘Our angle, Agent Browne – and you won’t find this in the autopsy report – is that when they opened him up, they found something in his stomach. Something he’d swallowed just before he died. Something he clearly didn’t want his killers to find.’

Corbett reached into his pocket and, leaning forward, slid something sealed inside a small clear plastic bag across the desk towards her. Against the desk’s veneered expanse an eagle soared proudly, its majestic flight etched in solid gold.

It was a coin.