Sarah smiled. David Mahoney was a rookie fresh out of Quantico, full of zesty enthusiasm and uncomplicated ambition. He still had a lot to learn; knowing when to say no was right up there. But that would come with time and experience. Then again, she mused, it was past eleven and she was still there. Maybe some people just never learned to say no. She put her briefcase down and stepped into the room.
‘What have you got?’
Mahoney was tapping furiously into the keyboard, his stubby fingers complementing his round, fleshy face, greasy brown hair parted on the left hand side and scooped behind his ears. He barely looked up when she peered over his shoulder, adjusting her tortoiseshell glasses on her face.
‘Get this. Some guy abseiled down to the 17th floor of a Park Avenue apartment block, stole a nine million dollar Easter egg and then vanished. NYPD forensics found an eyelash on the floor next to the safe. They figure it’s probably unrelated but wanted us to run it through just in case something showed up. It’ll only be another few seconds.’ He looked up at her, the spots on his shiny forehead glowing purple in the flickering blue light. ‘What about you? What are you still doing here?’
‘Keeping my promises, like you.’ She smiled back. ‘Here you go.’
The screen flickered red, a boxed message flashing intermittently.
‘Restricted Access – Security Clearance must be sought before viewing this file.’
Beneath it, a name and a phone number.
‘Shit.’ She swore as she read the message and stood up straight.
‘What just happened?’ Mahoney was clicking furiously on his mouse as he tried to get the previous page back. ‘What does that mean?’
‘It means you forget you ever saw this.’ Her voice was grim, her jaw set firm. ‘You call up the NYPD tomorrow and tell them that you didn’t get a match. This never happened, understand?’
Mahoney nodded dumbly, his eyes wide and bewildered. She reached past him for the phone and dialled the number at the bottom of the message on the screen.
‘Yes – hello, sir,’ she said when the phone was answered. ‘This is Dr Lucas over at the FBI Lab in Quantico. I’m sorry for calling you so late. It’s just that NYPD sent across a sample taken from a crime scene two days ago. When we put it into the computer the system locked us out and said to call you … yes, sir … no, sir, just me and a new recruit … yes, sir, I’ve told him the drill.’ She fixed Mahoney with a cold stare. ‘I think he knows the consequences … thank you, sir. You too, sir.’
She put the phone down and turned to a confused-looking Mahoney with a tight smile.
‘Welcome to the FBI.’
Washington DC19th July – 08:35am
The car was new and the smell of faux leather and moulded plastic hung heavily in the air. A silver crucifix hung on a thin chain from the driver’s mirror and spiralled gently, its flat surface catching the light every so often.
Looking up from her notes, Jennifer lowered the window and let the hot breeze massage her face as the car crawled through the downtown traffic on Constitution Avenue towards the Smithsonian, as first the Lincoln and then the black hulk of the Vietnam Memorial inched past. A lone veteran was on patrol, two small Stars and Stripes taped to the handles of his wheelchair like pennants on a diplomatic stretch. Up ahead, two huge coaches spewed Japanese tourists onto the sidewalk, cameras unholstered as soon as their feet hit the concrete.
Unconsciously she smoothed the left lapel on the jacket of her black trouser suit. She always wore black. She looked good in it and besides it was one less decision to make in the morning. Noticing the time on the dashboard clock, Jennifer shook her head in irritation. She was late for her appointment and she hated being late. Five minutes later, seeing that she was only level with the Washington Monument, she opened her purse.
‘I’ll walk from here,’ she said thrusting twenty dollars past the driver’s right ear.
She opened the door and stepped out onto the street, the tarmac already soft under the heel of her shoes as the temperature climbed. She squeezed between two government-issue black sedans, their air-conditioned passengers shielded behind smoked glass, and stepped onto the sidewalk. A bit further on, a hot-dog seller had already installed himself on the corner of 16th Street and the smell of frying onions and reheated sausage meat made her stomach lurch unsteadily. Gritting her teeth and breathing through her mouth, she walked on.
The Smithsonian Institution is the largest museum complex in the world, comprising fourteen separate museums and the National Zoo in DC itself and two further museums in New York. Taken as a whole, the museum’s collection numbers over one hundred and forty-two million separate objects.
The Money and Medals Hall of the National Numismatic Collection is housed on the third floor of the National Museum of American History, a low-slung, white stone 1960s building on the National Mall at the junction of 14th Street and Constitution Avenue. The Collection numbers over four hundred thousand items although only a tiny fraction of these are ever on display.
Ten minutes later, Jennifer was ushered into a dark wood-panelled office, her feet sinking into the thick green carpet. A Stars and Stripes loomed in the corner. Framed by two large windows at the far end of the room, Miles Baxter, forty-two, the curator of the National Numismatic Collection, was sitting behind a massive desk covered in files and papers. He wore a dark blue sports jacket over a button-down white shirt and beige chinos and the air was heavy with the scent of freshly applied aftershave. He didn’t get up.
‘They didn’t tell me they were sending a woman.’
‘I’m sorry to disappoint you.’ Jennifer felt herself tensing automatically.
‘Quite the contrary, Miss Browne. It’s a very pleasant surprise. It’s just that if I’d known I’d have made more of an effort.’
He smiled and two rows of piano-key perfect teeth flashed back at her from a tanned and confident face. They shook hands and his palm felt moist. Almost subconsciously she registered that his hair was less fluffy where it parted on the left hand side. She knew instinctively that he had licked his hand and then smoothed his hair down just before she had been shown in. So much for not making an effort.
‘It’s Special Agent Browne, actually,’ said Jennifer, taking out her ID and passing it to him.
His smile faded.
‘Of course it is.’
He studied her ID carefully, diligently comparing her face to the picture with several searching glances. She took the opportunity to wipe her palm, still damp where he had clutched her hand in his, against her trouser leg. He snapped her wallet shut and handed it back to her.
‘Of course, I’ve dealt with the FBI before, although if I may say so never with someone quite so … attractive. Unfortunately I’m not at liberty to discuss those cases with you.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘A small matter of national security; I’m sure you understand.’ He gestured towards the right hand wall which she could see was decorated like a small shrine with photos, carefully calligraphed certificates and gilt-lettered diplomas. She nodded and hoped that he didn’t notice her stifle a smile.
‘Do you know Washington well?’ She gave a slight shrug which seemed to be all the encouragement Baxter needed. ‘You know, if you want someone to show you around, I’d be very happy to act as your tour guide one weekend.’
A couple of years ago, when she had still believed that intelligence and hard work would be enough for a black woman to make it