Page 7

CHAPARRAL INN

WASHINGTON, DC

January 9

The elevator beeped, and the doors opened. The smell of pancakes and sausage struck Roth first, then the noise of clinking silverware and the murmur of guests. He checked his phone screen again, looking for a follow-up text from Lund, who’d told him Jordan would be meeting them for breakfast—a surprise for the boys. It was time to switch hotels again, which meant they finally got to eat breakfast in the common room. Truthfully, Roth wasn’t comfortable eating in a common area right now when any sound made him jumpy. But he knew the boys missed being around other people.

Their stuff would be transferred to another location while they were gone for the day, and they’d transfer to their new hotel that night. The twins were excited to be away from their room for once. The novelty of playing video games and watching TV while they were supposed to be in school had faded fast.

“I’ll probably go for the waffles. They’re pretty good,” Lucas said. “Chocolate chips, syrup—yum-oh.”

“I’m so tired of the food being cold,” Brillante said. “Reheating it in the microwave just sucks.”

It was a short walk to the dining area, which was already crowded. This particular hotel was directly across the street from NASA headquarters, which they could see from the window of their room on the fourth floor.

Roth was tired of moving from place to place like a fugitive. Tired of feeling hunted and on the run. They hadn’t brought much with them, having left Bozeman in such a hurry.

When they reached the crowded, open room, the boys were about to hurry to the buffet line, but Roth grabbed their shoulders. “Look who’s over there saving us a table.”

It was Jordan, his arm in a sling. He lifted a glass of apple juice and nodded to them.

“Jordan!” Lucas bellowed. The twins hurried to the table, Roth trailing behind as he maneuvered through the other patrons.

“When’d you get here?” Brillante asked.

“How’s the bullet wound? Can we see it?” Lucas cut in.

“Dudes, it’s pretty sick,” Jordan said. He grinned at Roth. “No way was I going to stay in that hospital any longer. I was so bored!”

Jordan had a crew cut, not too short, and dishwater-blond hair. He was in his twenties, having left the army for private security. Even with a shoulder injury, he’d managed to take out one of the jaguar priests with his marksmanship skill. He’d saved their lives.

“Have you been to the Spy Museum yet?” Jordan asked. “It’s the best!”

“Dad says we can go when this is all over,” Lucas replied with a flash of annoyance.

“Go get breakfast,” Roth said to the twins. “Grab me one of the packaged muffins.” He sank down into an open seat across from Jordan as the boys headed off, positioning himself so he could see them.

“They’re good kids,” Jordan said. “Any word about Suki?”

Roth shook his head. “Nada.”

“That sucks. Lund told me about the ransomware attack.” He took a sip from his apple juice. “We’re going back to FBI headquarters after breakfast. I’ll drive you.”

“You can drive with one arm?”

Jordan gave a half shrug. “The sling is just for show and sympathy. I’m not saying I want to arm wrestle Dwayne Johnson today, but it’s not that bad. I can even take showers again. Impressive, huh?”

“Why do we need to go back?”

“Lund wouldn’t tell me. Just said to drop you off. I’m hoping Monica will be there. Is she still in town?”

Roth arched his eyebrows. “Saw her yesterday.”

Jordan nodded his head enthusiastically. “Good to hear.”

His interest in Monica, and hers in him, was obvious. Roth always missed Sarina—but sometimes, like now, the loss was a bone-deep ache. He’d figured she was gone forever, but now he wasn’t so sure. He’d seen what Calakmul’s magic could do. Surely he could have cured her ...

Even if she had survived the diabetic coma, though, Jacob might have killed her—and Suki—out of vengeance. He didn’t know. Couldn’t know. Sleep didn’t come easily anymore. He was worried sick that his actions would have consequences he wouldn’t be able to live with.

When the boys returned with breakfast, they chatted it up with Jordan about video games, sight-seeing in DC, and other small talk. After they were done, they went down to the parking garage and packed into Jordan’s Toyota Highlander.

Going up Third Street, they passed the US Capitol building with its huge dome, then turned left on Pennsylvania Avenue. There were so many famous buildings, huge stone structures like Greek temples. So different from the gray limestone of the Maya ruins in the Yucatán and the pyramid shapes of differing sizes and heights. That was the future facing DC. If Calakmul succeeded, the old buildings would be torn down and replaced with new ones. In a few minutes, they were back to the J. Edgar Hoover Building despite the rush-hour traffic. Jordan drove to a car entrance that led underground, and a security guard stopped him at the top and asked to see identification.

Jordan winced as he got out his wallet and showed the man his ID. The man triggered the security obstacles to retract so they could enter the underground parking structure. Monica and Lund and another agent were waiting for them at the bottom of the ramp.

“Wonder if she’s dating anyone,” Jordan murmured, and the twins snickered in the back seat.

They slowed to a stop, and Jordan rolled down the window. “Miss me?” he asked Monica with a cocky grin.

Monica leaned down and glanced at Roth and the boys. “Welcome back,” she said, ignoring the question. “Agent Fields will park the car for you. Come with me.”

Jordan got out and tossed the key fob to the other agent, then looked around the gloomy parking garage. The sounds of squealing tires and engines resounded through the echoey space. Roth looked around, feeling tense and exposed.

“This way,” Monica said. She brought them back inside, through security, and to a bank of elevators.

“I wasn’t expecting to be back so soon,” Roth said to Lund as they boarded the elevator. “What’s up?”

The doors slid shut and Monica sighed. “The meeting with the director didn’t go very well apparently. Everything is business as usual until we get actionable intelligence proving otherwise. We’re hoping to get some today.”

“How exactly?” Roth asked.

Lund cocked his head. “The student who sent you the translation of the Dresden Codex.”

“Did you find her?” Roth asked. She’d proven difficult to track down. She hadn’t returned to her apartment since Roth had last contacted her, nor had she responded to any of his texts. The FBI figured she was staying with family somewhere in LA. But where?

Monica nodded. “She works for Dr. Estrada actually. UC San Diego lab, the Qualcomm one.”

“No way,” Roth said. The only identifying information he’d known about Illari was that she was a grad student somewhere in Southern California. He’d assumed it was UCLA, not San Diego, which was much farther south.

“She and her boss took the red-eye from LAX last night. Lund has someone driving them from Dulles right now.”

Roth looked at Monica. “Not the FBI?”

“We couldn’t risk it,” she confirmed. “It’s like we told you, Jonathon. Someone is overhearing our communications. They hacked the servers in San Diego to stop us from finding the data we need. Mr. Lund suggested, and Carter agreed—surprisingly—that it would be best if Lund arranged transportation instead of the FBI. They’ll be joining us later.”

“Wow,” Roth said. “I’ve never met her before. I don’t even know what she looks like.”

“It’s progress,” Lund said. “And totally not surprising that the director won’t take this threat credibly right now. We need more information. I think you can help us get it.”

“Me?” Roth said, surprised.

The elevator chimed when they reached the floor, and Monica led them through the offices to an empty conference room.

“Where is Carter and the other guy?” Roth asked.

Monica gestured for them to sit. The boys looked around and went to the end of the table. They both seemed bored. The first time they’d been to FBI headquarters, they’d been impressed and gazed around constantly. But they’d soon learned that conference rooms weren’t very exciting.

“EAD Brower works for the director,” she said. “He has a lot of responsibilities. Carter is in an interrogation room with Will Moretti and his attorney.”

“Whoa, what a minute,” Roth said, holding up his hands, feeling instantly uneasy. Because there could only be one way he could be of help. “You want me to talk to Moretti?”

Lund had shut the door and stood with his back to it. “Yes.”

“I don’t know anything about interrogating someone,” Roth said.

Jordan tapped his fingertip on the table. “Give me fifteen minutes with him without his attorney, and I could get him to talk.”

Monica rolled her eyes and shook her head no. “It doesn’t work that way, Jordan.”

“It’s worth a try,” he said.

Lund frowned at Jordan and gave him a curt nod to shut up. “I know you haven’t been trained in interrogation, Jonathon. But I have. So has Agent Sanchez. You’re going to have to trust us. We think you stand the best chance of getting him to talk. Now, listen. It’s all about asking the right questions.”

“But I don’t know what to—” Roth stopped when he saw Lund fish something from his pocket.

“This is an earpiece. A very small one. Moretti almost certainly won’t notice it. You might not know what to say, but I do.”

Roth watched from the other side of a one-way mirror as Carter paced on one side of a table, and Moretti and his lawyer sat on the other. Jordan had stayed behind in the conference room with the boys, but Steve Lund and Monica were both watching the interview with Roth.

It was weird seeing his high school friend, who’d put so many people away over the years, in a blue jumpsuit reminiscent of the scrubs a nurse would wear. Weirder still seeing him with his wrists cuffed. His attorney was a middle-aged woman with a no-nonsense expression.

“So you can imagine our surprise, Mr. Moretti,” Carter said, his tone scathing, “to find a man of your pay grade and tenure with overseas accounts worth millions of dollars.” He held up a hand and ticked off his fingers. “Cayman Islands, Switzerland, Belize, Montevideo. Just to name a few.”

“Agent Carter,” said the attorney, “he does not have to recount his finances to you.”

“My point, Mrs. Brown, is that there is ample evidence of multiple crimes in addition to the one we’ve already charged him with: accomplice to kidnapping.”

“I am protecting my client’s rights, as per—”

“I know, Mrs. Brown. I know.” Carter turned to the one-way glass. “Send him in.”

Lund motioned for Roth to come forward. He took a deep breath before he started moving, trying to prepare himself for the confrontation. Although he’d have Lund in his ear, he felt completely unprepared. But he had to try. He had to.

When Roth entered the room, Moretti’s expression instantly changed from stubborn to stricken. He flinched and then looked down at his wrists, unable to meet his gaze. Lund shut the door.

There was a single chair opposite Moretti. Carter gave Roth a disdainful look and then nodded toward it. Roth sat down, feeling awkward and unsuited to the task.

“I guess it’s time to roll initiative,” Roth said. It was a DD reference—when a party of characters was about to get into a fight, they’d roll a twenty-sided die to determine the order of combat.

Lund had suggested that he reference their history together, anything to soften Moretti and make him more likely to talk. It hurt to think of the old times, especially since their friend Westfall was dead—killed by Jacob Calakmul. The sting of betrayal hadn’t lessened.

Moretti made an involuntary chuckle. He shook his head. “I already rolled a one.”

“No, I feel like I did,” Roth said. He blew out his breath softly, trying to stay focused. “When we got back from Mexico without Sarina ... I almost told you what was going on. But I knew you were a cop. I figured if I told you she was being held hostage, you’d have to report it. I didn’t want to involve you any more than I already had.” Roth felt another stab of pain. “But you were already involved.”

“You don’t have to answer him,” Mrs. Brown said. “Anything you say can be used against you.”

Roth heard the little voice in his ear. It was so quiet, it felt like it was coming from his own thoughts. “Remind him of what he said at the hotel. That you pissed off Calakmul.”

“At the Tidwell Hotel, you said I’d pissed off Calakmul.”

Moretti lifted his head slightly, meeting Roth’s gaze.

“That conversation will not be admissible evidence,” Mrs. Brown said. “Anything you say here will be.”

“He’s got your wife and children,” Roth said, ignoring the attorney. “He’s got my wife and my daughter. He wants to kill me. Because I tried to stop this.”

“You can’t stop it,” Moretti said. “It’s too late for that.”

“Mr. Moretti, I urge you—”

“Shut up,” he said to his attorney, holding Roth’s gaze. “I’m just stalling for time, Roth. Just like you did in Bozeman over the last year. It’s all going to be over very soon. And then I won’t be wearing this jumpsuit or these cuffs.”

“Ask him if he knows how Calakmul plans to kill the president.”

Roth stared at his friend. “So he’s going to win no matter what?”

“There’s no stopping it,” Moretti said. “If anything, your attempts to stop him is making it all happen faster. I’m sorry, man. I was genuinely trying to help you survive what’s coming.”

“You didn’t know Westfall was going to die.”

Moretti shook his head no.

“But you should have expected it. You knew how ruthless Jacob is.”

“Ask him about Calakmul and the president.”

Roth ignored the instruction. If the question came out of left field, Moretti would realize he was wearing an earpiece. That he was being fed information. It needed to come across more naturally. Friend to friend.

“He doesn’t share his plans, Roth. Not with me. Not with anyone. He operates like the cartels do.”

Roth shrugged. “I’m not an expert on the drug trade.”

“Information is compartmentalized. You catch a street dealer, he can’t reveal the inner workings. He knows one person above him and a few below. No one else.”

“So you don’t know how Jacob is going to kill the president either?”

Moretti shook his head no.

“Good. This is good. Follow your instincts.”

“Does Angélica know?”

“Who’s that?” Moretti asked.

Was he lying? Or was this an example of Calakmul compartmentalizing information? “She was his personal assistant at the Cozumel resort. Blond hair, glasses.”

A blink of recognition flitted through Moretti’s eyes.

“You saw her,” Roth whispered.

He nodded. “She’d been shot. He was ... he was really worried about her.”

Roth swallowed. So he’d given Jacob another reason to hate him. He was running out of things to say. Questions to ask. Moretti didn’t know the specifics of an assassination plot. That knowledge hadn’t been entrusted to him.

“Ask him why he betrayed his country. He used to be in the navy. What made him turn?”

Roth rubbed his palm on the metal table. “Remember after high school when you joined the navy? How you tried to get through SEAL school?”

Moretti shrugged.

“If you had, you would have been trying to defend us. What made you change your mind? I don’t think you did it just for the money. What was it?”

“Excellent question. Well done.”

“The same reason the Aztec took up arms,” Moretti said.

“The Aztec?” Roth asked curiously.

“Yes.” His eyes flashed with intensity. “They turned against each other to survive.”