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8
Olivia and Savich
CAU—Criminal Apprehension Unit
Hoover Building
Interview Room
Tuesday morning
Savich knew two things about CIA agent Olivia Hildebrandt, besides her name, from Detective Ben Raven in his early morning call. She’d been in Walter Reed Hospital until a short time ago recovering from wounds she’d suffered on a recent mission, and she was nearly killed by two men the night before, one of them Iranian. She looked exhausted, her face as pale as her white shirt, the dash of lipstick on her mouth not much help. Her thick chestnut hair was pulled back from her thin face in a fat French braid. She had expressive eyes, a deep blue, nearly navy, but the shadows beneath them were dark enough to hide in. Savich believed he saw strength in her eyes and hoped he was right.
He smiled at her from the doorway of the interview room. “Good morning, Agent Hildebrandt, Detective Raven, and you must be Mr. Grace.”
Grace stood, offered his hand. “Yes, I’m Carlton Grace, Agent Hildebrandt’s chief—in popular parlance, her handler. I direct and coordinate her assignments. A pleasure to meet you in person, Agent Savich. I’ve heard of you, naturally. I’m only sorry it’s under such trying circumstances.”
Savich shook Grace’s hand, a slender hand with short buffed nails, but his grip was firm. He was a slight man with narrow shoulders, no taller than five feet eight, a long straight nose, a square jaw. He was comfortable to look at, his clothes sort of wrinkled, a guy you wouldn’t give a second look if he walked by on the street. Ben had warned Savich that CIA Operations Officer Grace had only grudgingly agreed the incident at Hildebrandt’s house was FBI purview, and he’d been even more reluctant to bring Olivia Hildebrandt and his own superior, Mr. Fulton Lodner, the CIA director of intelligence, to the Hoover Building, as if the FBI harbored a den of thieves. Lodner was late, perhaps to make an entrance? Savich had held firm, he wanted the CIA on his turf. Ben had said about Carlton Grace, “My take is Grace is reasonable enough, very worried about his agent, but he’ll follow his chain of command and they’ll fight tooth and nail to keep you from getting any information they want to keep classified, no matter how needful such information would be to you. My advice? Keep your boot on their necks or they’ll chop off your foot.”
Carlton Grace said, “Agent Savich, as you already know, this is Agent Hildebrandt.”
Savich gently took Hildebrandt’s hand. “I’m Special Agent Savich. No, don’t get up.”
Olivia nodded. “Agent Savich.” He knows I’m on the edge, and he’s being careful with me. He was being kind and she hated it, hated that she looked as pathetic as she felt. She forced herself to straighten, to sit tall when all she really wanted to do was lean forward into the uncomfortable chair, put her face on the table. “Agent Savich. I’ve heard of your wife, Agent Sherlock, and her heroism. I was in Germany at the time, but it was all over the news.”
Savich felt the jolt of pride he always felt when someone spoke of Sherlock. He nodded, pointed to the coffeepot and cups. “Thank you both for coming. Help yourselves to coffee.” He paused a moment. “Agent Hildebrandt, you need some orange juice. All right?”
Her eyes brightened, she nodded, and he excused himself. He was back quickly and handed her a large glass of orange juice. “Our unit secretary, Shirley, keeps juice in a small fridge near her desk for mornings like this.”
Olivia drank down the whole glass, closed her eyes a moment, then smiled at Savich. “Thank you.” She turned to Mr. Grace. “Sir, keeping juice around at Langley might be a good idea.”
Savich looked down at his watch, waited until Grace set his coffee cup down. “While we’re waiting for Mr. Lodner, why don’t you go over what happened to you, Agent Hildebrandt. I know very little. Please walk me through it.”
A bit of a smile appeared, disappeared. “You mean last night.”
She had a lovely smooth voice, with a hint of southern, maybe Georgia origins.
“Yes. I’m sure there’s much more, but tell me about last night for a start.”
Olivia told him about her nightly routine, Helmut’s waking her, and seeing a brief flash of light. Her voice was emotionless, her recounting clear, no digressions. “I was hunkered down beside the front of my house when I heard the two men whispering. One of the men spoke Farsi, the other English, but they spoke very quietly and I couldn’t make out their words. When they approached my front door, they were illuminated under my porch light; I saw they were both wearing black, and black masks. I yelled for them to drop their weapons. The taller man was fast, he got off seven rounds before I shot him. The second man was backing up and firing, then he turned and ran. I missed him.”
Ben Raven smiled. She sounded pissed.
Savich said, “It makes sense these two men were pros. Why do you think the first man missed you?”
“I was lying on my stomach so both men shot well above me.”
Savich said, “Well done. Did you search the man you shot?”
Olivia said, “I waited until I heard a car start up half a block away, called 911 and Mr. Grace. Then, yes, I searched him. Nothing in his pockets, not even change or a matchbook, a motel key, not a thing. He had a suppressor on his weapon. It was a Smith & Wesson 9 mm semiautomatic and it was on the ground beside him. I checked the magazine, saw I was wrong, he’d fired off eight rounds before I shot him, not seven. Given his features, I’d say he was Iranian, the one who was speaking Farsi.”
Savich said, “Can you describe the other man?”
“As I said, they both wore black masks, but when he fired at me, I saw his wrist—he was light-skinned, probably Caucasian. He wasn’t tall, but he moved well, looked fit from what I could see. That’s all I can tell you.”
“Do you have any idea why those two men were there to kill you?”
Carlton Grace’s fingers began to tap on the tabletop, but he said nothing.
