Page 160 of The Grave Artist
Jake frowned. “Well, Selina, you don’t need to betoosad about it. Shedidshoot you, after all.”
She waved the comment away. “Oh, I’m not upset abouther. I’m pissed for you, Carm. I’m sure you wanted a chance to interrogate the crap out of her.”
Jake had to smile.
Then Williamson turned to his employees. “You might be interested to know that Reynolds was recalled to Washington. He’ll be in the penalty box for a while. He got it partly right. Yes, there was an encrypted message from Brock’s house to the Russian embassy. A burner phone.”
Jake immediately arrived at the only logical conclusion. “But it wasAllisonwho called them.”
Sanchez put a hand on her hip. “Shit.Shewas the Russian agent.”
“Part of a sleeper cell,” Williamson confirmed. “Anthony Brock knew nothing about it. In fact, she’d latched on to him for intel. He was low-level GAO when they met but was in the process of getting a top-secret clearance, which takes about six to nine months.”
“So Allison was positioning herself for future access,” Sanchez said, “and she worked with Sergei Ivanov?”
Williamson chuckled. “Nowthat’sthe funny part. Not ha-ha funny. But weird. Ivanov was a CIA asset. It took years for the Agency to cultivate him.”
“Hell,” muttered Sanchez. “Reynolds blew his cover.”
“It’s the only reason I can tell you about it. Picking him up drew attention to him in Moscow. He’s burned.” A sigh. “Five years of actionable intel, but the pipeline’s cut off now. Not likely we’ll ever find someone else in his position willing to cooperate.”
Sanchez gave a humorless laugh and turned to Jake. “Remember when Allison said after her husband died, she’d have to start all over again? She wasn’t talking about a new relationship or husband. She meant getting her hooks into another patsy in the government to use for her spy game.”
Jake asked, “Eric? What about Congress? I-squared?”
“The subcommittee apparently liked my answers. They didn’t even seem to mind when I asked a few questions of my own. Like: ‘Could you explain why, in detail, you aren’t willing to fund us at the level I’ve requested, Ms. Committee Chair?’ I think some of them were intimidated.”
Eric Williamson was, Jake knew, a master of intimidation.
Their supervisor lifted his palms. “So I-squared’s permanent. Or as permanent as anything ever is in Washington.”
“And staffing?”
“No action on that. Afraid it’s still just the two of you for the time being. Well, Mouse and Declan, of course.” He got a text and read it, nodding slowly. “Hm. Okay. I’ve got work to do,” the big man grumbled. Without a goodbye, he walked from the ER, texting as he went.
A nurse entered from the operating suites and handed a manila envelope to Sanchez. Allison Brock’s personal effects, which might, or might not, contain earth-shattering secrets about the life of a sleeper agent.
Sanchez dug in her jacket pocket. Jake smiled, reflecting that very few people have official law enforcement evidence bags sitting beside a tube of lip balm.
After she’d bagged everything, they started for the door, Selina beside them.
Sanchez offered, “So, cocktail hour?”
Selina frowned. “I think I’ll pass.”
“Why?” Sanchez asked. “You feeling all right?”
“Oh, I’m fine.” She turned to face Jake. “But if you’re not going to ask my sister out, apparently somebody’s got to take charge. You two run along.” A wink. “And Jake? Have her home by midnight.”
“Lina!”
Jake felt the warmth of what might have been his first full-on blush.
Selina slung her bag over her shoulder—wincing slightly—and strode out the door, leaving the two I-squared operatives alone.
Sanchez looked up into his eyes. She whispered, “Heron?”
“Hm?”
