“This is not an official review,” Scott Rotem began. He faced Deputy Marshal Gilla Geldwig, an unusually attractive woman with dark, brooding features and haunting green eyes. Her body, a bit big and clunky by femme fatale standards, was nonetheless full at the top and lean in the leg, giving her an imbalanced look that would not have photographed well, but worked fine when she was sitting down, as she was now. It was her face, though, her eyes, that grabbed you, so Rotem tried his best not to look directly into her eyes, not to cave in to the compelling pull. He needed this interview-this interrogation-to be successful. For the sake of Markowitz, Laena, and his own career. Five protected witnesses had been executed in the past twenty-four hours. The bloodbath appeared to have started. Thousands of others were at stake. He hated her for what she represented.
It was dark outside now. Traffic on Pennsylvania Avenue slowed to a crawl, seen as two long streams of red and white lights from the one-window conference room.
They shared the oval table, Rotem sitting across from Geldwig, and to his left, Assistant United States Attorney Tina Wank, who possessed a mannequin’s complexion and body type that complemented her somewhat nervous disposition.
“Do I need my representative present?” Geldwig asked.
“It’s certainly your right to make such a request. You tell me: Do you need a rep present?”
“Not if there’s a deal to be made beforehand.”
“You’ve been carrying on an affair with Assistant Marshal Bob Mosley,” Rotem said.
“Sue me.” She contained her body language well but could not prevent the scarlet blush that moved up from her fashionable suit’s shirt collar to its hiding place behind her ears.
“Mosley came clean earlier this morning, and we’ve had the day to review your own activities, assignments, and your overall participation within the Service. You’re a hard worker. You moved around a lot within WITSEC. Now you’re here. You’ve moved through the ranks surprisingly quickly.”
“All legitimate promotions.”
“I’m sure.”
Tina, the attorney, took notes, her pen working furiously so that it looked as if she were a stenographer.
“What’s your point?”
“Ms. Geldwig, this may have started out as some kind of game to you. I’m not sure. Maybe it was for the money, because God knows we’d all like more in this job. Maybe it was the secrecy or the joy of feeling so damn important to someone. Or maybe they-and in this case I’m specifically talking about the Romero syndicate-had collected some piece of information that they could use against you. Hold over you. Your sex life, your vices, your spending habits, your family. I mention these only because they are the most commonly seen in cases like this.”
“Cases like what?” She fumbled in her clutch purse and came out with a delicate handkerchief that she used to dab at her nose, more nervous habit than necessity.
“Bob Mosley remembers everything he told you. Everything you asked.”
For Rotem, the inconceivable thing in this case was that a guy like Mosley would ever believe a woman such as this could fall for him in the first place. He’d now have twenty to thirty years to think about it, and so would Ms. Geldwig, thanks to his testimony. “What you seem to be missing in this, Deputy Marshal Geldwig, is that Mosley’s told us everything. The longer you play the naïf, the less time you have to get on the other side of this and help yourself.”
Finally Wank joined the discussion. “You’ve been with Fugitive Apprehension for a little over three months, Ms. Geldwig. Perhaps you can explain what was behind your decision to transfer.”
When she failed to answer, Rotem did it for her. “WITSEC might be considered the more prestigious, more interesting employment. And yet you transferred over to the FATF.”
“I wanted away from Mosley. Besides, I think you’re wrong, sir. This is where the action is.”
“We know for a fact that Mosley told you everything there is to know about Leopold Markowitz and what came to be known as Laena,” Rotem said. “Do you know what Laena means, Deputy Geldwig? Where the term came from?”
She cleared her throat. “It’s Latin or Greek for ‘cloak,’ as I recall.”
Rotem now forced himself to lock eyes with her. “And you’ve removed that cloak, haven’t you?” He avoided mention of the recent executions-she’d lawyer up given that information. “Exposed several thousand lives to possible execution. And all for what, Ms. Geldwig? The seven hundred thousand dollars in commercial real estate? The time-share in Paris? We know about those, Ms. Geldwig, and we’ll find out more. We’ve seized all your property, all your assets-or rather, Ms. Wank has. As of this moment you don’t have two nickels to rub together. Are you sure you don’t want to talk?”
“RICO,” the attorney said.
“We own you. And you’ve run out of time to explain yourself.”
A knock on the door was followed by an aide poking his head inside. It had to be important.
Rotem stood, walked around the table, and passed close to Geldwig. She smelled darkly sweet and earthy, a perfume designed to engorge a man. The effect lingered as Rotem reached his aide, who apologized for the interruption.
The aide, a young man in his late twenties, handed him a sheaf of papers. “Her movement through the network, sir. What files she accessed. I highlighted the few of interest.”
Rotem scanned down the list of computer network addresses, all directories and files that Geldwig had accessed in the past week.
The aide said, “We can go back further as time allows.”
Rotem flipped pages, waiting for the yellow highlight. On page four his thumb found the line and his eyes carried over.
“What the hell? What is this, utilities for what?”
“She’d been surfing the utility records-the billing records, sir-for our various safe houses. A change in utility consumption.”
“Indicates activity at a particular safe house.” Rotem jumped ahead to what this meant, but restrained himself, needing to confirm his suspicions before sounding the alarm. “And these particular billing records?” he asked.
“Are for the Orchard House, sir. But I checked with WITSEC and they don’t have anyone assigned to the Orchard House at present.” The young man noticed Rotem’s sudden pallor. “Or do they?”
Rotem swallowed dryly. “Get Larson on the phone. Now. Right now! You don’t send him an e-mail, you don’t leave him a message, you get him on the phone. I need to speak to him right now.”
He glanced back at the closed door to the conference room, thinking a gun to the head would serve the taxpayers far better where Geldwig was concerned.