Rizzo’s flag-draped coffin is suspended over the open hole in the ground. The chaplain has given his remarks and recited that psalm, the one about walking through the valley of the shadow of death and fearing no evil.
Amen.
Off to the side, a line of seven soldiers in dress uniform point their rifles and fire off seven shots in unison.
Then seven more.
Then seven more.
A bugler blows taps—a call I’ve heard way too many times in my life, in too many places.
The uniformed pallbearers lift the flag from the coffin, pull it tight, then fold it into a progressive series of triangles, smaller and smaller, thicker and thicker, until only a section of the blue field and white stars is showing.
The officer in charge takes the folded flag and carries it in a slow march to the front row, where Marina, Tina, and Juan are sitting, dressed in their Sunday best. The sergeant hands the flag to Marina, then kneels in front of her and says a few sentences in Spanish. Marina nods, dabbing her eyes with a tissue. She lifts the flag from her lap and cradles it against her chest.
The officer places a white-gloved hand on Tina’s shoulder, then Juan’s. He says a few words to each of them. Then he stands up, snaps to attention, and salutes.
Willow pulls away from me and goes over to Juan and Tina. She hugs them both. I give them a moment, then follow. All the mourners are standing now—cops, friends, FBI agents. Ned Mahoney and Dennis Chan are in the back row next to a group of techs from Rizzo’s ATF office. Marina is speaking in Spanish to a relative. Willow walks over to place a single flower on the casket, then hangs her head.
I stoop down and gather Tina and Juan in my arms. I press their heads against my shoulders so they can’t see my face. Nobody wants to see a guy my size crying.
My throat is burning, and it takes me a few seconds to find my voice.
“Your mother was a hero,” I whisper. “I know you’ll always love her. I know you’ll always be proud of her, and I know that you’ll never, ever forget her.”
Neither will I.
Rest in peace, Anna.
CHAPTER 109
Two days later …
IT’S A CLOSED-DOOR CONGRESSIONAL hearing, and I’ve got a front-row seat. Actually, a side-row seat. Right next to Aiden Phillips.
CIA director Alvin Crowell played the national security card to keep the proceedings under wraps. I can’t blame him. He’s trying his best to protect the Company—and his own job. Nobody at Langley wants this mess aired in public.
Fortunately for Crowell, he has a friend in Representative James Halpin of Missouri, the chairman of the House Intelligence Committee, who agreed to the secret fact-finding session.
Everybody here, from the recording clerks on up, is sworn to secrecy. Including me. I can’t tell anybody what happens here. Not even my best friend, Alex Cross. Not ever.
The conference room we’re in has none of the pomp of theHouse chamber. No walnut paneling or marble sculptures here. Just rows of standard-issue meeting-room furniture, with armed guards outside the doors.
No unauthorized spectators. No press. We’re two hundred feet underground, sheltered by walls designed to withstand a nuclear blast.
Phillips and I have both given our testimonies under oath. Now it’s J. T. Polermo’s turn. The prime witness. The whistleblower of all whistleblowers. He’s sitting at the center of the table in a civilian suit. His lower jaw is still a bit purple. My knuckles are still a bit sore.
It’s a good hurt.
Polermo will be indicted for the murders of Roland Perkins and Anna Rizzo as well as the other victims killed in the DC bombings. But that’s not what this is about. This inquiry is about Polermo providing testimony against a career CIA officer.
His old handler, former station chief Tom Walsh.
Walsh sits at the far end of the table, glowering. His attorney, a balding guy with a walrus mustache, is beside him.
The preliminaries are out of the way. Polermo has been sworn in. Junior committee lawyers have put his résumé on the record: Dates of service and promotions. Deployments and duties. Medals and commendations. The picture of a perfect soldier. At least on paper.
Now Halpin steps up. He doesn’t waste any time.
