Free Liberty by Stephen Coonts Page B

upset. His minivan was found parked behind a bankrupt fast-food joint in Tysons Corner.”
    Jake shook his head to clear it. “Any sign of violence?”
    â€œNot so far. The forensic people are going over the van. Right now it looks as if he merely parked his vehicle there, locked it, and left.”

    â€œAnd you don’t know where he went?”
    â€œWe don’t know—that is correct.”
    â€œMoney?”
    â€œDoyle’s wife said he didn’t have over forty dollars cash on him. She saw his wallet when he gave her a twenty just before she left. Doyle has written no checks and hasn’t visited a cash machine. We’ve canceled his credit cards, even though no one has tried to use them. His wife is really frantic—either she’s an Academy Award-winning actress, or she really doesn’t know where he went or why.”
    â€œHis passport?”
    â€œCanceled. We’ve done all the routine things. Every policeman in the country is looking for Doyle. So far, false alarms only.”
    â€œDoes DeGarmo know about Doyle?”
    â€œOh, yes.”
    â€œI had an interview with him an hour ago, and he never mentioned the guy’s name.”
    â€œMaybe he assumed you already knew.”
    â€œMaybes don’t cut it anymore,” Jake growled, and shifted his weight in his seat. “So what about Doyle’s office?”
    â€œWe’re going through his desk, his files, his computer. His wife gave us permission to search their house. She also let us borrow the family computer so we can look at the hard drive.”
    â€œAny way to find out if he’s in Russia?”
    â€œIf he’s there he didn’t go on his own passport. I promise you that.”
    â€œFriday night?”
    â€œThat’s right.”
    â€œAbout twenty-eight hours after I met Ilin in New York.” Jake took a deep breath. “I want to know the name of every person in the United States government who knew that Friday night that Ilin had mentioned Doyle’s name. The list couldn’t be that long.”

    â€œWe’re investigating. I asked for that list on Monday. As soon as I get it I’ll send you a copy.”
    Jake nodded. “Okay,” he said, “let’s talk about terrorists and nuclear weapons.”
    An hour later, when Jake left, Myron Emerick dismissed his executive assistant and waved his hand at his deputies, Hob Tulik and Robert Pobowski. He seated himself behind his desk; they took the chairs immediately in front of it.
    â€œYou didn’t tell him about the suspected terrorist cells we’re tracking.”
    â€œHe didn’t ask,” Emerick answered curtly. “The bureau got caught with its pants down by the September eleventh terror strike. It isn’t going to happen again.”
    Emerick had a limited number of agents. Those agents still had all the usual federal crimes to investigate, plus security investigations and counterespionage duties, all of which had now taken a backseat to the hunt for possible terrorists. God knew there were enough of them. The United States had been scattering student visas around the Arab nations for many years, and the INS had no way to track the students once they were in the country. Tens of thousands of tourists arrived daily at the nation’s airports. Illegal aliens walked across the Mexican and Canadian borders daily, and like the tourists and students, disappeared into the American maelstrom. Finding those on terrorist missions was akin to cleaning the Augean stables, a task for Hercules. Then cases had to be built, ones that would justify arrests and prosecutions.
    Like every military branch and law enforcement organization in the country, the FBI’s responsibilities exceeded its assets. Emerick and his deputies had risen to the top because they had learned through the years to pick the responsibility that was the most important to the bureau’s clients—the