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“What was the nature of this ‘unpleasant encounter’? Did he say?”
“Yes, sir. He said the agents were investigating a kidnapping that didn’t happen.”
“A kidnapping?”
“Yes, sir. Payne said that there was no kidnapping.”
“Was there or wasn’t there?”
“Payne said the FBI agents believed there was a kidnapping; he knew for sure there was not.”
“Do you think your friend Payne was pulling your leg, Matthews? He has a strange sense of humor.”
“No, sir. I feel sure he wasn’t.”
“But there are no agents with those names.”
“Not here, sir. I was going to ask for permission to check with the Bureau—”
“Do that right now,” Davis ordered, pointing to one of his telephones. “Call the Bureau, tell them you’re calling for me, and see if there are agents with those names.”
“Yes, sir,” Matthews said, and picked up the handset.
“There are several possibilities,” Davis went on. “One, that your friend is pulling your leg. Two, that someone is in possession of fraudulent credentials, which is a felony, you know. Three, that these people are legitimate FBI agents of another jurisdiction, operating in our area of responsibility—”
“Sir,” Matthews interrupted him. “I checked that with ASAC Williamson. Neither of those names is familiar to him.”
Glenn Williamson, a well-dressed man of forty-two, who took especial pains with his full head of silver-gray hair, was the Philadelphia FBI office’s assistant special agent in charge for administration. As such, he would be aware not only of the names of every FBI agent assigned to Philadelphia, but of the names of FBI agents assigned to other offices who might be working temporarily in Philadelphia’s area.
“—without checking in with Williamson. I won’t have that, Matthews. That’s a clear violation of standard operating procedure, having other people’s agents running around like loose cannons in your area of responsibility.”
“Yes, sir.”
Two minutes later, Special Agent Matthews was informed that the FBI agents he was asking about were more than likely Howard C. Jernigan and Raymond Leibowitz.
“They’re with the Anti-Terrorist Group, working out of the Bureau. But they go all over, of course,” he was told.
“Thank you very much,” Matthews said. “We may have to get back to you.”
“Well?” Davis asked.
“According to the Bureau, sir, there are agents named Jernigan and Leibowitz. They’re assigned to the Anti-Terrorist Group working out of headquarters.”
“What?” Davis exclaimed, but before Matthews could repeat what he had told him, he picked up his telephone and issued an order to his secretary: “Helen, would you please ask Mr. Towne, Mr. Williamson, and Mr. Young to come in here immediately?”
He put the telephone back in its cradle and looked at Matthews.
“There is very probably a very reasonable explanation for all of this, Matthews,” he said. “Which we shall probably soon have.”
“Yes, sir.”
“When this meeting is over, I want an official report of your meeting with Detective Payne. If what I suspect has happened is what has happened, I’m going to the assistant director with this, and I want everything in writing.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good morning,” Amelia Payne, M.D., said as she entered Cynthia Longwood’s room.
“What’s good about it?” Cynthia replied, tempering it with a smile.
