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  My reference is to the NCIS officer and his superior, Vice Admiral Duncan Lloyd Jennings, DCNO [Deputy Chief of Naval Operations] who was also a heroin smuggler and long-term spy for al-Qaeda. I helped in his capture.

  “You know that it is highly irregular for you to presume on our former association by using my very secret code. This must be an extremely important problem, McGee. Out with it.”

  She is obviously not in the mood for a little reminiscing chat; so, I waste no time in telling Dr. Norcroft the details.

  Sybil Norcroft, MD, PhD, FACS, is no stranger to the real work of a field agent well beyond the comforts of her large office. She listens with a seasoned ear to everything I know about the Decklin Marcus case.

  “What can I do for you, McGee?” she asks.

  “I think I have a fingerprint that belongs to a deep-cover agent of some foreign power at the crime scene, Sybil, if I might presume to call you by your first name.”

  “I think we are beyond worrying about such trivialities as first names, McGee. I agree with you. Although evidence is lacking, it seems likely that this young man you have been investigating was murdered, and that he may well have been killed for some reason related to a foreign national’s involvement. It is thin, but I have seen national security cases hang on thinner threads. I believe there are two things I can do for you. First, we can get over to the NCTC [National Counterterrorism Center] and look at their database for fingerprints, et cetera. Then, we can work together to see if the owner of the thumbprint is anybody on the No-Fly list or other listing of personas non grata in the US and unfriendly to the things and people we value. Second, the Company has forensic and toxicology resources that even the NYPD and FBI don’t have, especially when we are talking about real exotics.

  “I’m talking about things like the Georgi Markov case. Do you remember that one?”

  “Seems to ring a bell,” I say, “but, no, I can’t bring it to mind.” “Markov was a Bulgarian dissident in the communist era—late 70s—and was unforgivably loud about it. He got sick and complained to his doctors about having developed his illness after a man with an umbrella walked past him while he was crossing the Thames on Waterloo Bridge, and it seemed to Markov that he was hit in the leg with something. He was very precise about the day—September 7, 1978. I remember it because it was all over the news at the time of his death. At first, he ignored it as some sort of a sting or bite from a bug. Later, as he was dying, he told his doctors that he was sure that he had been poisoned. He had good reason to believe that because the Darzhavna Sigurnost [Bulgarian secret police] had made two previous verified assassination attempts on him.

  “After he died, British authorities ordered an autopsy. The medical examiners found a tiny puncture wound on the back of Markov’s right thigh; and, when they probed, they extracted a tiny—pinhead-sized—microengineered spherical metal ricin pellet.”

  “Boy, that is ingenious!” I say, meaning every word of the flattery. “I am going to have to study more history. You know, Sybil, you may be onto something.”

  “Ah, shucks,” she says, “it’s just my night-school education.” I had to laugh at the thought of the ultra-sophisticate Sybil Norcroft—consummate physician, renowned neurosurgeon, former surgeon general of the United States, international lecturer, and head of the most prestigious spy agency in the world—rubbing shoulders with the untermenschen at night school.

  She gives me a self-deprecating smile before continuing.

  “Is the boy … Decklin Marcus … is that right?”

  “That’s right. Good memory.”

  “Anyway, is his body still in the morgue?”

  “He’s in the city morgue—the one in the 400 block of 1st Avenue between 26th and 28th Aves, but they won’t be holding him much longer.”

  “I can’t appear to be involved, McGee. You’ll have to get your NYPD detective friends to ask the OCME [Office of the Medical Examiner] to put a hold on it for a few more days. It will take a while to get the studies done.”

  “Does it matter that he’s been dead for three days already?” “I really don’t know, but I doubt it. We can give it a try, at least.”

  “Thanks a million, Sybil. I definitely owe you a favor. Don’t hesitate.”

  “I won’t, McGee. I keep a little black book for such things. I’ll call you tomorrow, and we’ll go over to the NCTC and take a look in their private fingerprint files. I’m owed a few favors over there, and I know a guy—as we say—who can get a handle on a weird and wonderful poison if anyone can.”

  Chapter Three

  I tell Caitlin and Ivory what I learned from “my guy” but not who she is, what position she holds, or in what agency. Close as we all are, I decide that they do not need to know that. I am to meet with the DCIA that afternoon, and together we are going to begin the serious work of my investigation. Director Norcroft would know everything every step of the way, but that could not be helped.

  The team spreads out by twos and canvasses everyone and every place in Gramercy Park neighborhood to which they can gain access that morning. This neighborhood encompasses everything from New York’s 17th to 22nd Streets and from east of Park Avenue South to Third Avenue. It was originally built around a beautiful private park—one of the perfectly kept green spots in the nation’s most important city—in the nineteenth century. Getting into Gramercy Park is not for the untermenschen I had referred to in my conversation with Sybil Norcroft. The houses and apartment buildings surrounding the park are some of the most seriously coveted real estate in the world. Ownership is the only way to have a $500 passkey—a total of 383 such keys in existence—to make it through the gates of the park. Rockefellers, Astors, Chelsea Clinton, and Julia Roberts live there, and the Morgan Library is nearby. The place is the very quintessence of “exclusive.” Visitors—like McGee and associates—are not allowed to consume alcohol, smoke anything, ride a bicycle, or, heaven forbid, a motorcycle or anything resembling it, walk a dog, feed the birds and squirrels, play any form of ball, throw a Frisbee, or take a nap on the precisely manicured lawns.

  “So, what do we do now?” Caitlin and Ivory ask when we come to the gates at the 23rd Street entrance on the north boundary.

  I laugh.

  “Oh, smarty pants, I suppose you know a ‘guy,’?” Caitlin says with a mock peeved expression.

  “I just happen to,” I say, savoring another little piece of one-upmanship.

  I had put Howard Everhart Marcus’s landline at number 15 and cell numbers for him and his wife, Anne, into my iPhone when we first communicated about the death of their son, Decklin. A maid answers.

  “Please tell Mr. or Mrs. Marcus that McGee is calling. I need to get into the park.”

  There was a moment of frost.

  “I will see if the master or the mistress is receiving calls,” she says, making an effort to ensure that her voice was in the proper nasal—or as we untermenschen would say, snooty—tone.

  In less than a minute, Anne Marcus comes on the line.

  “Good morning, Mr. McGee,” she says. “Any news?”

  “Not exactly, and not on the phone, Ma’am. My partners and I are at the gates. We have some news to communicate, and it must be direct; it’s sensitive.”

  “I’ll come myself,” she says. “Which entrance?”

  “23rd Street,” I tell her.

  She is there in less than five minutes. Even Ivory is impressed at my clout. He swears that he will never again make fun of me when I say “I know a guy.”

  The frost and the nasal intonation is gone from the maid when the three McGee and Associates private eyes arrive at the front door of the thirty-four-room colonial revival style mansion. Next door on the left is a house that is a National Historic Landmark, and the house on the right is an attractive smaller Tudor home that survived Prohibition by putting itself forward as a mortuary.

  “Please have a seat, Mr. McGee, Mr. White, and Ms. O’Brian,” Mrs. Marcus directs when we enter an elegantly appoi
nted parlor.

  The silent and almost invisible maid brings in a tray of obviously very expensive organic loose Hawaiian Natural Tea, steaming hot.

  Anne Marcus is a handsome thirty-something blond woman—tall and patrician—who reminds me of Sybil Norcroft somewhat. But, where Mrs. Marcus is handsome, Dr. Norcroft is truly beautiful in an athletic sort of way. Both of them have striking blond hair—Dr. Norcroft’s is almost certainly genetic, while Mrs. Marcus has had some work done. Mrs. Marcus is nervous and ill-at-ease, and it is obvious that she has been crying. No one could fault her for any of that. I had seen Sybil Norcroft on her worst day—the day she learned that her only child, Cerisse, had been kidnapped—and she never lost her poise. I have to say that both women seem quite down-to-earth for all of their worldly accomplishments and possessions.

  “I hate to ask, Mr. McGee, because I know you’re very busy; but could we wait for the news you are bringing until my husband can get here? I called him at work as soon as you and I hung up, and he said he could be here in less than fifteen minutes. I would feel more … I guess … secure, if he were here with me. I hope you understand,” she says with a little quaver in her voice.

  “Certainly, Mrs. Marcus. You are going through a most distressing time,” I say as soothingly as I can. “Maybe we can have a little tour of the house while we wait.”

  It is probably the most beautiful home I have ever been in. That pleases her both because of the compliments on the house which is her pride and joy, but also because it will give her something to do.

  The tour includes only the main floor. There is enough original artwork on just that floor to grace a medium-sized city’s best art museum. In the entryway hangs a masterwork by Pomm (just Pomm)—The Story of Unspoken Courage, a touching depiction of a fireman and a boy after 9-11. Hanging from the museum-like walls are notable and nearly priceless works by the German printmaker, Albrecht Durer—The Hare, painted in 1502—the English printmaker and poet William Blake; J. M. W. Turner’s Dolbadarn Castle, painted in 1799; a Winslow Homer Civil War union camp scene; and oils by Albert Marie Adolphe Dagnaux, Alexander Pope, Americans Dennis Miller Bunker and Patricia Watwood, and the Italian Paolo Sala. The floors are covered with artwork as well: handwoven carpets from India, Pakistan, Morocco, and Syria—most of them more than 150 years old. Even the furniture is art: Michael Allison cabinets, a federal couch made by William Camp, and a hunter table and dining room table made by Deming & Bulkley.

  When Mrs. Marcus moves momentarily out of earshot, Caitlin ventures the observation, “I could retire on the income from any five of the paintings, or even of the first floor furniture.”

  I shake my head in agreement. Ivory—ever the cool dude—acts as if he were in his element. I have to laugh, but I avoid facing Ivory when I do.

  Howard Marcus’s limo pulls up to the front entrance, and his chauffeur gets out and opens his door for him.

  He meets his wife and the McGee Associates in the parlor and shakes hands all around. He is dressed in a $1,800 Saville Row suit with all the necessary trimmings. He is tall, lean, tan; and his hair—greying at the temples—was trimmed today, it would appear. I guess that his barber bill exceeds my rent. For all of that, he is as down-to-earth as his wife. Despite his inner turmoil, he makes an effort to make us feel comfortable.

  “Thank you for coming, and thank you for taking our case, Mr. McGee. I know it seems unlikely that we can find out anything more than the police have. I think they have been most thorough; but Anne and I just can’t accept that our perfectly healthy—and, may I say, beloved—son just keeled over dead. The autopsy showed nothing. There is no evidence of any disease or of foul play. Maybe we are just doting and bereaved parents, but my objective nature keeps pushing me to doubt. That’s why we asked around and came up with a number of glowing references to your firm, Mr. McGee.”

  “Mr. Marcus, most people just call me McGee. I have too many names to come up with a single first name that is to my taste. I would appreciate it if you would call me McGee. And I can speak for my associates—Caitlin and Ivory.”

  “Happy to,” Marcus says, “and we are Howard and Anne. I like to think that we can become friends; so, you will take personal stock in our problem and not just consider it another case.”

  “Thanks, Howard. We have already gotten personally involved. Objectively, we have been busy and have come up with some information that may shine a light on the death of your son. This afternoon I will be going to an institution that specializes in exotic identification data and some about criminal activities that cannot be accessed routinely. Caitlin and Ivory will continue to canvass the neighborhood. We would appreciate it if you could give your neighbors a call to grease the skids for us. We are not likely to get past the butler if you don’t,” I tell him.

  “Consider it done. We will sit down with our staff and get started as soon as you leave us. If I may ask, where are you going to get your exclusive information?”

  I was afraid he would ask that.

  “I’m sorry, Howard … Anne, but I really cannot share that with you. The stakes are too high, and my friends are extremely skittish. Please try and understand. We will share everything we learn except for identifying our sources. It is possible that you may not like some of what we find as we go along, but our promise is the truth and nothing but. We don’t sugarcoat things, and we don’t avoid unpleasantness in our investigations if it comes up.”

  “Good, McGee. That’s how I run my business. When or how often will we hear from you?”

  “Once a day at seven in the evening, if that fits your schedule. If we get a break, we will let you know immediately.”

  “Sounds like Wolf News,” said Anne with a wan smile at her attempt at a little humor.

  I speak for the McGee associates, “We need information from you—everything you know about your son, about his friends, his enemies, his acquaintances at work and in school … everything. Let us see his yearbooks, any files of newspaper clippings, all of his diplomas, and any secrets. This is no time for daintiness. We have reason to believe that all is not kosher in his death, and we intend to get to the bottom of the conundrum wherever our investigation takes us.

  “I have to get away now to see my source. You can trust Caitlin and Ivory for their thoroughness and discretion. Thank you for the hospitality.”

  The maid shows me to the door.

  The last thing I hear before making my exit is Ivory asking, “Please tell me your whereabouts on the evening of your son’s death, Thursday the ninth.”

  “Do you really think we need to have alibis?” Marcus says. As the door was closing, I hear Ivory say what I expected him to say, “Yes.”

  Caitlin uses up a couple of her personal markers to get the OCME to hold the body of Decklin Marcus for another ten days. Sybil Norcroft’s office arranges with the medical examiner himself to have one of the CIA forensic pathologists come to the City Mortuary to go over the autopsy with the ME to see if anything new could be found—like a small hole in the back of his leg.

  I meet Sybil in a Wendy’s in McLean, Virginia, at ten. I make a serious effort to be there earlier than the DCIA; so, I will not queer any chance I have to get our information—no “The traffic was brutal,” or “My alarm didn’t go off,” for this meeting. A definite indicator that this meeting is going to be clandestine is that Sybil arrives in a six-year-old Chevy somewhat the worse for wear, and she is dressed in casual clothes and wears a broad-brimmed hat.

  “Nice hat,” I say with a smile.

  “It’s from the prop department,” Sybil responds with an equal smile. “Let’s get to the NCTC. I got us an appointment—on the QT—with my guy in the Forensic Database Section at ten twenty.”

  I love all of the “guys” who keep popping up like angels more or less out of nowhere. It is proving to be very convenient.

  The NCTC center is one of the divisions of the ODNI [Office of the Director of National Intelligence]. It is responsible for national and inte
rnational counterterrorism efforts—the latter being the reason for our quest. The center is based in a huge blocky X-shaped complex in McLean, Virginia, better known locally as “Liberty Crossing” off the Dulles Airport Access Road and 267 near Tysons Corner. The complex is located in a beautiful green-wooded area, but the building is a mass of grey stone and small, unexciting windows. We enter the complex through the west gate—the Director of National Intelligence entrance—using the magic of Sybil’s credentials and the added bonus of having an appointment with a known NCTC officer.

  The Forensic Database section and lab are on the sixth floor of the west building. I am not cleared to go to any of the levels below the main ground floor. We are frisked by a male and a female security officer before obtaining our passes and then take the express elevator to the sixth floor where we are met by another pair of security guards. If you like that sort of thing, the NCTC building is a great place to get your jollies. I, personally, just tolerate it as a necessary evil of my job.

  John Smedley, the chief of the Forensic Database Section, meets us as soon as we are able to get inside his castle walls. He and Sybil go way back, apparently.

  “Hi, Sybil. Sorry for all of the security stuff. It gets old.”

  “Hi, John. It’s about the same as over at the Company,” Sybil says and makes of all sweet accord with one of her winning smiles.

  “I got the fingerprint files from your office this morning. Our computer wizards have already run them through our databases—emphasis on the plural. It took a bit, but we did get a hit and a very interesting one,” Smedley announces.

  I stand by like a wooden Indian statue outside a cigar store while the two grand poobahs have their talk. Finally, Sybil remembers me and makes an introduction.

  “Oh, yes—sorry, McGee, you need to be introduced. Dr. John Smedley, chief of the database for counterterrorism, allow me to present the notable private detective, Joseph P.A.M.J. McGee. Nobody can remember all of his Christian names. We all just call him McGee,” Sybil says with a wry grin.