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  Without thinking about what the consequences might be, she pulled her phone out of a pocket and called 911. “I need an ambulance here right away,” she said to the operator, trying not to scream into the phone. “A man has been shot at least twice and he’s going to die if you don’t get the medics here.” She gave the operator the address and the location of Callahan’s office and hung up before the operator could say anything. She then ripped Callahan’s shirt open to see if she could stem the bleeding.

  3

  DAY 1—10 P.M.

  Two and a half hours after calling 911, Kay was sitting in an interview room at the D.C. Metro Police Department on Indiana Avenue. Across the table from her was a detective named Mary Platt, a stout, mannish-looking woman in her forties with big hands and short dark hair that was streaked with gray. Kay thought Platt looked like an older, tougher version of the girl who used to play goalie on her high school soccer team.

  Kay’s clothes were covered with Callahan’s blood; Platt had been kind enough to let her wash the blood off her hands. Well, maybe not so kind; they’d let her wash the blood off so they could fingerprint her. As Kay sat there, she couldn’t help but recall one of Callahan’s favorite sayings: Tell the truth as often as you can, because that way it’s easier to keep track of the lies you tell. And that’s what Kay was doing: trying to keep track of the lies she was telling Detective Mary Platt.

  The cops had arrived at Callahan’s office—with guns drawn—before the medics did and found Kay kneeling, pressing a handkerchief against a wound that was stubbornly seeping blood. When they saw Kay’s Glock on the floor, they started screaming at her to stand up and back away from the gun, probably assuming that she was the one responsible for the four dead bodies.

  Kay started screaming back. She said that she wasn’t going to stop pressing on Callahan’s wound until the medics got there and for them to quit fucking around before Callahan died. Eventually, they all stopped screaming, and the medics loaded Callahan onto a gurney and hauled him away. Kay’s gun was confiscated and she was led away in handcuffs; maybe she shouldn’t have sworn at the cops.

  Kay figured that there was now a large crime scene crew poring over the carnage in Callahan’s building. TV trucks would be parked outside on K Street, screwing up traffic, because some cop, to make a few extra bucks, would have told the media that there were dead bodies inside. Kay also figured that whomever Callahan worked for—if he, she, or they owned a television set—must be aware that the Callahan Group had been attacked.

  Kay started with the truth, telling Platt everything that occurred after she stepped off the elevator. It was when the detective asked her why she happened to be packing a .40 caliber Glock that she began lying.

  The cover story for the Callahan Group was that it helped U.S. companies do business overseas. This mission was clearly stated on the Group’s website, www.CallahanGroup.com. They showed companies how to avoid paying taxes on income earned overseas; they helped in negotiations with foreign regulators—meaning Callahan knew who to bribe. Like many other firms on K Street, the Group also lobbied Congress to create a favorable business environment for its clients. And Callahan actually did employ a number of people, like David Norton, the dead lawyer, who really did those sorts of jobs.

  The reality—which Kay wasn’t about to tell Mary Platt—was that the Callahan Group was also a covert intelligence organization that was brought into play when the U.S. government didn’t want to use the nation’s legitimate intelligence agencies.

  It was after Kay had explained the Callahan Group’s cover story that Mary Platt asked why she was carrying a weapon.

  “I’m basically a security guard,” Kay said.

  “Why would a lobbyist need armed security?” Platt asked.

  “I don’t really know, to tell you the truth. All I know is that I was hired to provide security, and I’m used as a courier to shuttle documents to people. And when rich big shots visit Callahan, I drive them around and they like that I’m armed. I got the impression that a lot of what Callahan did was pretty sensitive stuff involving big financial deals, and that’s why he needed security.”

  “Why would someone steal the safe from his office?”

  “I don’t know,” Kay said. “I know he sometimes kept cash in it—that was another reason he needed security—and I’m guessing he kept important documents in there, too. But I don’t know for sure.”

  “Come on,” Platt said. “You provide security but you don’t know why?”

  “Hey,” Kay said. “Why don’t you go down to a Chase bank and ask the guard in the lobby what Jamie Dimon is doing today? He’d have just as good an idea about Jamie as I do about Callahan. I’m telling you, I’m a grunt. I’m not management.”

  “You’re a little overqualified to be a security guard, aren’t you?” Platt said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “What do you think I was doing while you were sitting here? I was checking you out. You’re ex-DEA.”

  “Yeah, well, if you really checked me out, then you’d know that I got fired.”

  “The records don’t say that.”

  “I know. They say I resigned. But the truth is, I was told to either resign or they were going to fire me and maybe throw me in jail.”

  “Why?” Platt asked.

  “I’m not going to tell you that. Maybe the DEA will, but I doubt it. What I can tell you is that the DEA wasn’t willing to give me a good recommendation, which is why I’m now doing security work. I gotta pay the rent, you know.”

  “I think you’re lying to me.”

  “Hey, think what you want but—”

  “One thing I do know is that you’ve killed quite a few people,” Platt said. “You killed four in Miami when you worked there—that was on the Internet—and just a few months ago you were in this police station after you killed a guy you claimed was trying to rape you.”

  “He was trying to rape me and he had a knife. I wasn’t charged with anything,” Kay said. The real reason Kay had killed the man had to do with a Callahan Group mission in Afghanistan—but she wasn’t about to tell Platt that either.

  “Yeah, I know you weren’t charged,” Platt said, “but the fact remains that you’ve killed a lot of people.”

  Kay felt like saying, And a couple more you don’t know about. But she didn’t. Instead she said, “What’s your point, Detective? Are you accusing me of killing all those people in Callahan’s building?”

  “No, not yet,” Platt said. “After I get back results from ballistics and start matching bullets to bodies, then maybe I will.”

  “I only shot one guy,” Kay said, “and ballistics will confirm that. You didn’t find any MAC-10s at the scene because the killers, the robbers, whoever they are, took their weapons with them, but ballistics will show that Callahan’s people were killed with MACs. There are also security cameras all over the place in Callahan’s office. The cameras will back up my story.”

  “A funny thing about those cameras,” Platt said. “My technician said they don’t record anything. What they do is give you a real-time picture of people walking down the hall or entering Callahan’s office.”

  “Well, I didn’t know that,” Kay said.

  “You’re in charge of security and you don’t know how the cameras work?”

  “I never said I was in charge of security.”

  Kay knew that in reality the cameras did record a twenty-four-hour period of footage, but the recording went to someplace in cyberspace, like the Cloud, and Platt’s technicians hadn’t been smart enough to figure that out. Yet.

  “And you seem to forget,” Kay said, “that I’m the one who called 911 and I was trying to save Callahan’s life when your guys arrived on scene.”

  “That’s true,” Platt said, “but something screwy is going on here and I think you’re lying to me. I don’t buy that a hotshot e
x-DEA agent was working as a low-level security drone.”

  “Okay, that’s it,” Kay said. “I’m leaving now, unless you’re arresting me.”

  “If you don’t come straight with me, I will.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “Hey, you admitted you killed a guy. I can keep you in a cage for at least twenty-four hours. So you got anything else you want to say to me?”

  “No.”

  Platt stared at her for a long moment, probably trying to decide if it was worth the hassle to arrest her, then said, “Go on. Get out of here. But you better stay in town, and you better answer your phone when I call.”

  “Sure,” Kay said. What did one more lie matter? “Do you know if Callahan made it?”

  “No,” Platt said, “but I’m guessing he’s still alive or somebody would have called and told me that I’ve got five homicides to solve instead of four.”

  “Do you know the name of the man I killed?”

  “Not yet, and if I did, I wouldn’t tell you. You’re not part of this investigation. You’re a suspect.”

  Kay could tell that she and Mary Platt were not going to become close friends.

  4

  DAY 1—11 P.M.

  Kay went to her apartment on Connecticut Avenue, took a quick shower, and changed out of her bloodstained clothes. She put on a clean white T-shirt, jeans, and running shoes—clothes she could fight in if necessary. She also put on a lightweight blazer and under the blazer was the empty holster that had contained her Glock—the Glock the D.C. cops had confiscated and were holding as evidence.

  She was going to go see Callahan next, but before she did she wanted a gun.

  That is, she wanted a bigger gun. She had a little five-shot .32 she could wear in an ankle holster—sort of a lethal fashion accessory—but the problem with the .32 was that it was only accurate from very close range and it didn’t have the kind of stopping power she wanted. She wanted a lot of stopping power in case the guys with the MACs showed up again.

  On the floor below her lived a gray-haired lady in her seventies named Eloise Voss. Voss had introduced herself to Kay one time when they were both standing in the lobby waiting for an elevator. Voss was slim, in great shape for her age, and as tall as Kay, and Kay was five-foot-eight. Voss had no doubt been a real looker when she was younger and she seemed friendly—smile lines radiating from bright blue eyes—but the main thing that Kay had noticed was that the woman was very observant.

  Kay usually hid her Glock under a blazer or a jacket, but every once in a while someone would spot it. When that happened, and if the person seemed alarmed, she’d say she was an off-duty cop or a security guard or whatever came to mind.

  The day she met Voss, when they were alone in the elevator together, the woman got just the briefest glimpse of Kay’s weapon, but instead of going all big-eyed with shock, she said, “Never liked Glocks myself. They just never felt right in my hand. I use a Beretta.” Then she got off the elevator, leaving Kay standing there with her mouth open. The woman had barely seen the Glock, yet had been able to immediately identify it.

  Kay now took the stairs down to Voss’s apartment on the seventh floor. Because of the hour, Kay was afraid Voss might be sleeping, but she could hear the television playing on the other side of the door. Voss might have sharp eyes but her hearing wasn’t perfect. Kay hesitated for just a moment, then knocked.

  Voss answered the door wearing a bathrobe and holding a brandy snifter in her hand. She smiled when she saw Kay.

  “Ms. Voss, I’m Kay Hamilton, your neighbor from upstairs,” Kay said. “We’ve met before.” Kay said this thinking that someone Voss’s age might not be able to recall her name.

  “Yeah, I know,” the old woman said. “You’re the gal with the Glock and the cute daughter.”

  There was nothing wrong with Voss’s memory.

  “Look, I know you don’t really know me, but you mentioned you had a Beretta, and I want to borrow it. I lost my Glock tonight and the only other gun I have is a .32. I’m involved in something . . . something very serious. I can’t tell you exactly what, but I want a bigger gun. You can keep my .32 for protection until I can return your Beretta.”

  “Actually, I do know you,” the woman said. “Well, sort of. You’re ex-DEA. You had quite a career with those cowboys.” When Voss saw the look of surprise on Kay’s face, she added, “When I saw you packing, I checked you out.”

  “How did you . . .”

  “Come on in. I’ll get the Beretta.” She said this like Kay was borrowing a cup of sugar. A minute later she handed Kay a plastic Walgreens bag containing the gun and two full magazines. “And I don’t need your .32. I’ve got a .38 around here somewhere in the unlikely event I need a gun.”

  “I’m just curious,” Kay said. “I’m guessing you’re retired now, but what did you use to do for a living?”

  “Secret Service. And boy, do I ever miss it.”

  Ah. That explained it. “You know,” Kay said, “when things settle down a bit, you and I need to go have a drink together.”

  Voss smiled. “I’d really like that,” she said.

  • • •

  KAY HAD ASKED one of the medics where they were taking Callahan as they were loading him onto the gurney. They told her that they were going to the George Washington University Hospital trauma center, a place used to dealing with gunshot victims. When she arrived, Kay told the lady at the information desk that she was Callahan’s daughter and had driven up from Richmond after learning that he’d been shot. She said that she lived in Richmond to explain why a dutiful daughter would have taken so long to arrive at the hospital to check on her dear old dad.

  She was passed around to a few people until a nurse finally told her that Callahan was in surgery. The nurse, a middle-aged woman with a face that radiated compassion, took Kay’s hands into her own and said, “He was really in bad shape when they brought him in here, honey. He’d lost a lot of blood. But we’ve got good docs working on him and they’re doing everything they can to save him. You’re just going to have to pray that he makes it. Do you want me to show you where the chapel is?”

  Kay doubted prayer would help—particularly in Callahan’s case—so she found an area with a couple of sofas, and because it was almost midnight, she had the space to herself. She wasn’t tired. She was still too wound up from what had happened and she needed to figure out what to do next.

  She had no idea why a team of professionals would be willing to risk breaking into Callahan’s office while it was still light outside. And she knew they were pros because of how they’d been armed and because of the tools they’d brought with them. She didn’t know, however, why these men would be willing to kill for whatever was in the safe. The team looked to be the kind that did bank robberies or armored car heists—heists that would net hundreds of thousands of dollars. She knew that Callahan kept quite a bit of cash in his safe, but not millions. So she guessed that the robbers had been after something other than money—but because Callahan had refused to tell her the whole truth about the Callahan Group, Kay didn’t have any idea who could tell her what that might be.

  • • •

  BARB REYNOLDS was the woman who’d fired Kay from the DEA, and she had also been Kay’s mentor. Barb was an old D.C. hand, high up in the Drug Enforcement Administration, and a lot like Kay when it came to her personality. Barb knew about the Callahan Group because Callahan had once tried to recruit her, but Barb had turned him down. But it was Barb who recommended Kay for the job because she knew Kay would be perfect for covert operations: She was smart, she was brave, she had a gift for learning languages, and she’d proven more than once that she could be lethal when necessary. Callahan’s people did background checks on Kay, then after she’d signed a bulletproof nondisclosure agreement, Callahan interviewed her and told her the supposedly true story about the Group.

  Acco
rding to Callahan, he worked directly for the President of the United States. Callahan had spent twenty years at the CIA, had worked at the Pentagon, and had ended his civil service career as a deputy to George W. Bush’s national security advisor. In other words, he was qualified to manage intelligence operations—or to perform any other sort of skullduggery a president might want done.

  Callahan had said that it was Bush, via an unnamed intermediary, who’d asked him to form the Group. Callahan admitted that he never spoke to the president directly. He said his conversation with Bush’s guy happened not long after 9/11, and the president wanted a private-sector company—an entity not subject to congressional oversight—that he could personally deploy if he felt the need. And the beauty of the Callahan Group, from the president’s perspective, was that the president could—and would—deny any involvement with it, if it screwed up in any way.

  In the past year, Kay had been part of a team who overcame the security forces guarding a North Korean physicist so the physicist could defect to the United States. She’d also been involved in another operation involving a Russian who’d been brought secretly to the U.S. by the CIA as part of their program to prevent proliferation of nuclear materials. In both these operations, the Callahan Group was called in to help because there would have been a political firestorm if the CIA had been officially involved. But the biggest operation Kay had been part of had been a complex job in Afghanistan that had resulted in a number of people getting blown to pieces by a bomb—and Kay was almost among them. It was after the Afghan op that she began to have doubts about working for Callahan.

  Kay had known from the beginning that working for Callahan was legally problematic, but she rationalized her participation by believing that the president, as commander in chief, actually did have the authority to form an organization like Callahan’s. She also figured that if the Callahan Group was ever exposed, it would be Callahan and the president who would be held responsible, not her. She was just too low on the totem pole. The main thing was, Kay loved being part of an organization that dealt directly with national security issues but wasn’t hobbled by the federal bureaucracy.