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“But what’s this got to do with motorcycles?” Olivia plucked a tissue from the box on the side table and wiped the fat and salt from her fingers. She was hungry and looking forward to a bag of hot carbs she could pick up at some drive-through. Had she eaten today? Olivia didn’t remember eating.
“According to the I.C. folks, it was done by two motorcycle assets on the behest of Uncle Sam.”
“For the U.S.? So it wasn’t like a tier-one team dropped in. They’re saying it was the CIA roaring around on motorcycles?” She tossed the tissue into the can. “What is that government saying?”
“Yeah, interesting. Apparently, they’re trying to cover it all up because they don’t want their citizens to know that a hit took place on their soil and that it happened in some upscale part of the city. The motorcycles driving up, taking the shots, and moving on says the assassinated terrorist was living there amongst their elite, and the government did nothing about it.”
“Okay, but how does a government cover something like that up if it’s on social media?”
“They’re saying that it was a robbery gone bad and that this story about the CIA is all made-up bunk. The people absorbed that. Their government conditioned the citizens to accept events like that as propaganda. Take the Canadian-American exfiltration mission in the 1970s as an example. Argo never happened, according to their government. The movie is merely Western propaganda.”
“I see. I guess better a robbery than an assassination. And you were thinking, what? What’s good for the goose is good for the gander? Maybe the extremists are sending motorcycles to my neighborhood to look for me to do a tit-for-tat since I’m trying to imprison one of their spies?”
“Bit of a stretch, admittedly. I wasn’t saying that at all. I said I was thinking about a thing with motorcycles—but it’s a CIA story.”
“Okay, back to the reason I’m here. Did anyone find our witness?” Olivia asked.
“That would be a no. And I did bring it to the FBI's attention. So I guess there’s no point in meeting tonight. We can take this up again after the Offsed trial is finalized. But I would appreciate your reading over that file and giving me your thoughts on next steps.”
“Good enough,” Olivia stood.
“Hey, Olivia,” Steph said quietly. “If the extremist organization did get hold of our witness, and if they applied advanced interrogation techniques to get him to share information, our names would come up as people who know the story. Do you have good security on your house?”
“I—"
Both women turned toward the tap on Steph’s door. Steph’s paralegal stood there, wide-eyed. She shrank back out of the door jamb to reveal the police.
Olivia instantly knew the officer was there to speak to her. Her body braced for terrible news. Had the Offseds found Candace’s hideout?
Steph stood up from behind her desk. “Officer, can I help you?”
Chapter Twelve
Olivia
Olivia glanced at the plate over the door to assure herself this was the right conference room. She paused long enough to square her shoulders, set her game face in place, and then pressed through the door. “Olivia Gladstone,” she announced in her prosecutor’s timbre as she strode forward with the overbright clickety-clack of her heel echoing off the terrazzo floor.
Two suited men rose from the cheap laminate table. One was an ill-fitting off-the-rack, and the other suit was bespoke.
Ill-fitting stretched out a hand. “Detective Wannamaker.”
Bespoke stepped closer with a manicured hand extended, not prissy, more like an attention to detail. “Sy Covington, Iniquus Senior Counsel.”
Olivia was only mildly surprised that an Iniquus lawyer was here. As soon as Olivia had taken her phone off airplane mode as she got into her car to drive to the station, Iniquus’s switchboard rang through and briefly explained that there was an attempted break-in at her house—the same information she’d received from the officer who had shown up at Steph’s door. Without any other details, Olivia thought that Nutsbe had seen the crime and called it in to someone.
But why hadn’t Nutsbe called Olivia himself?
Olivia dropped her glance to the metal folding chair between her and Covington.
Covington pulled it out in a very old-school manner but didn’t press her for an acknowledgment of the gesture, nor did he make a show of helping her to push the seat in. He merely settled back down in front of a closed leather briefcase. A tablet was positioned on top.
Olivia turned to the detective. “I was told there was a break-in at my house, and two subjects were detained.”
“That’s correct.” Wannamaker flipped pictures upside down and slid them her way. “Can you identify either of these men?”
Olivia picked one of them up and held it with her fingers pressing along the edges. It was a mugshot of Nutsbe dressed in the Iniquus uniform he had been wearing at Candace’s. This had to be some kind of mistake. Nutsbe?
Well, at least she better understood Covington’s presence.