Power and Empire

“Well, shit,” Callahan said. This was starting to spin out of her control. If it got too big, then Violent Crimes or one of the counterintel squads would muscle her out. “So tell me, Eddie. How do we find Matarife?”

Feng looked up from his map, which was incredibly detailed considering that he was drawing it with his hands cuffed. “He’s supposed to have a big house out in the country.”

Callahan pounded the table again. “Where is this big house?”

Feng shrugged. “Still working on that,” he said. “I haven’t managed to get myself invited out there. Until you arrested me, though, my next stop was a mid-level guy named Naldo Cantu who owns a string of massage parlors in South Dallas. He’s a real piece of work, just brutal to his girls. He keeps them strung out to keep them under control. Burns them with cigars for entertainment…” Feng shook his head, as if to clear away the image. “I know he pays a fee to operate in Matarife’s area. He’d have to know how to get in touch with the guy in order to pay him. Cantu will have some girls on hand. He always does. Could be this friend of Blanca’s is with him. I can tell you where he lives.”

“You can?” Callahan said, surprised at a glimmer of positive news.

“Sure,” Feng said.

Callahan patted her hand on the table. “Hurry up, then,” she said. “I’m not done with you yet, but if you know where Naldo Cantu is holding girls, I want to act on it right damn now.”

“Good,” Feng said. “Because there are probably some other things you need to know—”

An electronic buzzer sounded at the door, nearly sending Feng out of his skin. There was a heavy metallic click and Tim Dixon, one of the supervisory agents, entered. He had a tall Starbucks cup in his hand with steam coming off the top — which meant it couldn’t be for Feng. Prisoners got lukewarm coffee at best — in case they decided to try to weaponize their drink.

Feng dropped the pen on the table and rattled his cuffs. “What’s going on? Who is this? Is he one of the guys watching me?”

Callahan snapped her fingers to shush him, then looked up at Dixon, afraid of what his presence meant. Interruptions like this usually meant a lawyer had shown up.

The news turned out to be even worse.

Dixon leaned in to whisper in her ear. “There’s an agent named Caruso here to see you. Apparently, he’s out of WFO.”

“Okay.” Callahan shrugged. “What does somebody from the Washington Field Office want with me?”

“He knows you have Feng in custody,” Dixon said.

Callahan gasped. “We just scooped him up two hours ago.”

Dixon gave her a knowing nod. “Fancy that. And get this, the Old Man got a call from the office of the director about five minutes before this guy slithered in here, telling us to show one Special Agent Dominic Caruso all possible courtesy. He didn’t say it, but I’m thinking he’s gotta be counterintel. You have to admit, Kelsey, this whole case has a CI stink to it.”

Dixon had surely read Callahan’s 302 summarizing the interview with Blanca Limón, and now there was Eddie Feng’s reference to the People’s Republic of China. All this talk of spies and geopolitical competition brought spooks swarming around like blowflies to putrid meat.

Callahan wallowed up out of the prison-industries chair, knocking it over and hoping she smashed it in the process.

“What the hell, Tim? You know this is all wrong. We’re saving kids here, not working on spy shit. All possible courtesy my ass!”

Dixon sipped his coffee. “He’s standing right outside the window.”

“I don’t care where he is.” Callahan yanked open the door. “I will not hand over this investigation to a bunch of Washington counterintel weenies.”

She nearly ran headlong into a dark-haired man wearing faded jeans and a face full of stubble over a passive smile.

He gave her a wink that made her want to punch him in the nose, then said, “I think I can help you with that last part.”

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