Why? One why becomes clear as I tabulate all of the ODS and Praetorian defense revenue. It outstrips the revenue reported by all of Olympic. It’s nice to have black ops money flowing in—maybe an inspector general will stop by, probably not. If you get a slap on the wrist, it probably won’t lead to federal prosecution, especially if your board is politically connected. A fine here and there is a cost of doing business. And none of it has been reported in that disappearing mainstream media. Meanwhile, the difference between the real revenue and the reported revenue was $200 billion last year. The personal motive is powerful enough: Imagine the secret bonuses for the executives “in the loop.”
Why? Perhaps also to conceal the size and missions of Praetorian. The unit began by providing protection for American diplomats, then for entire U.S. installations in Afghanistan. Imagine that: Praetorian guards protecting American soldiers. Now it has become something much more. Fitz is a student of history. He knows that in the Roman Empire, the Praetorian Guard, the emperor’s personal army, became powerful enough to dictate who the emperor would be. There’s been a bureaucratic fight going on in recent years between the military and the contractors, and the contractors were starting to lose—lose money and influence.
That could change with an “event.”
At that moment, a siren’s loud wail fills First Avenue.
I am back in my dense city of narrow streets where the sirens echo loudly off the walls of the buildings. They barely penetrate my focus. I am strangely detached from the killings I did not twenty-four hours before. No remorse. No anxiety. No satisfaction. I want the story clean and tight, to email to Melinda. That way, she can in-put it into the newspaper’s CCI editing and composing system later tonight. By that time, the bosses and most of the newsroom will have gone home and can’t see it. I ask her once again if she really wants to do this. She says she does.
Another run through the story. So much I wish I had: the killer ambush interview with Pete Montgomery, the first-person account from a whistleblower Praetorian employee, where and when “the event” might happen. What is eleven/eleven? But I can only write the facts I have and hope they are enough.
Then it’s done. I spell-check it. I make a notation at the bottom of the text:
--30--
It’s the old style that marked the end of a story. I’ve heard various versions of its origination, maybe as a telegraph code. It is so old school. Melinda will get it and laugh. I do, too, as I press the key that sends her the story.
That’s why I barely react to the tapping on my door. It is a quarter before five and full dark outside.
I’m not expecting company, so I carry the Combat Magnum with me as I cross into the living room. The revolver is straight down my right arm, slightly concealed behind my leg as I open the door.
Standing there is Karl Zimmer.
He’s wearing his standard maintenance uniform. His big hands are empty and the prominent planes that define his high cheekbones look red raw. He just stares at me, like he did the other day. He struggles to speak.
“After I did this thing,” he begins. “Afterward…my mother appeared to me. She shamed me…”
He taps his head and gives a knowing look. “I live alone. Too much time on my hands. Crazy Old Zimmer, I know that’s what people say…”
“They say I’m crazy, too.” I smile. He doesn’t.
“My mother. She demanded to know how I could do such a thing. And she came back, night after night.” His jaw strained, as if carrying an unimaginable weight.
He says, “My mother has been dead for fifteen years. She believed in signs, don’t you get it? When you came back, when I saw you there, after they said you were dead… I knew I couldn’t live with this any longer…”
I invite him inside and we talk for an hour.
***
Amber answers her cell on the first ring.
“How’s your lifeline?” I ask.
“It’s good. Strong. I’m going to have some interesting news for you. Good news.”
“Same here.” While Zimmer sits in the other room, I give her the details that moments before made me feel as if I had been kicked in the stomach. “Maybe you could talk to our friends at Seattle PD and get a search warrant.”
Amber sucks in a breath. “I can do that.”
“Don’t be in a hurry,” I say. “Meet me around eleven p.m.”
I am selfish. The story must run prominently in tomorrow’s paper. Even this can’t get in the way.
“Amber, now I know why the FBI sent you to the Free Press.”
She only asks me to take care of myself.
Chapter Forty-six