A Dangerous Breed

by Glen Erik Hamilton

  Wren had seemed fascinated by my criminal past. I wanted to be up front with her about my life now, as harrowing as it was.

  Would the truth push her away? Or was that part of my attraction for her?

  The rest of the daylight hours were spent shopping, and cooking, after a fashion.

  My early appointment in Everett was with a salvage yard owner, who’d been willing to open on his day off to let me purchase a small and barely seaworthy rowboat for a hundred bucks cash. I’d brought my own rope to tie the boat to the top of my truck’s canopy. Secure while I made multiple stops in the northern tip of King County.

  At each hardware store I bought a quart or two of kerosene. From pharmacies and outdoor shops and a janitorial supply company I acquired chemicals and other materials, including a box of shotgun shells and what eventually amounted to two full cases of antacid tablets. All purchased with cash. It took me two trips from the truck to carry everything up to my apartment.

  Back in my kitchen, I filled the bottom of a large baking tray with clay cat litter and soaked it with a pint of gasoline mixed with cleaning solution, setting the granules to dry under the stove fan while I carried on in the living area.

  The kerosene I poured one can at a time into five-gallon buckets, steadily adding the antacid tablets with their active calcium carbonate and a mix of other chemicals. What I was left with, after an hour of very careful stirring, was a thick pungent slurry roughly the color of a rotting peach, a byproduct of the rainbow assortment of tablets.

  I had all the windows open and fans blowing to ward off the fumes. It helped, marginally. When my phone rang, I went out into the hall before I dared to take off my painter’s mask and safety goggles to answer.

  “Hollis,” I said. “Are you where you can talk?”

  “No one for a quarter mile but us, if you don’t count the fish.” Hollis was practically shouting. “I’m on the satellite phone, halfway up Juan de Fuca with the good Doctor Paula.”

  “How’s she doing?” I’d filled Hollis in on the last moments of Saleem.

  “A strong woman. She’s quiet a lot, but that might just be her nature. Having the dogs at her side seems to help. The mutts and I are actually getting along, if you can believe that.”

  Believe it I did. Hollis Brant could make friends with a tiger shark.

  “Hollis, I need to talk to your buddy Jaak today, along with someone who can translate the tougher parts. If you think we can trust him a short distance.”

  “You saved his life and his job, Van. I expect Jaak would take holy orders and become your father confessor if you asked. But, ah, you know he’s still recovering—”

  “There shouldn’t be any danger. In fact, he might find it fun.”

  I explained what I had in mind. By the time I finished Hollis was laughing.

  “Hell, I’d be up for that myself, if I were there. Sorry to miss it. I’ll have Jaak’s man call you.”

  I thanked him and returned to the miasma within my apartment. I sealed the buckets of flammable slurry, having already punched holes in the plastic lids with an awl to make sure the fumes didn’t build up pressure. One more task, and then I would be ready.

  The powder from the shotgun shells became the key ingredient in an oversized firecracker, packed into a cardboard tube with the dried and highly toxic cat litter. A long bit of waterproof fuse from the model rocket section of a hobby store capped the tube.

  Not exactly a shaped charge with C-4, but I didn’t have the Army providing toys for me anymore. It would serve just fine. Like Hollis, I was a little sorry I wouldn’t be there to see it go off.

  Forty-Seven

  The lobby of the Alexis Hotel had been partitioned by velvet ropes and concrete security guards. A pair of crisp concierges in eggshell blouses and skirts ushered guests of the hotel toward the marble-topped reception desk. The rest of us, the politically minded affluent, were allowed past the ropes and welcomed into a barroom decked out like a bookseller’s, with leatherbound editions lining the shelves in place of bottles. A cocktail reception was in full swing. A campaign staffer checked our names off a clipboard and handed us a card, which noted we would be at table 7.

  Wren placed the card in her clutch purse. “A souvenir,” she said.

  She wore a beautifully simple midnight-blue sheath dress. With its sleeves covering her tattoos, and her dark hair gathered into a twist that managed to be both elegant and casual enough to allow stray curls to frame her face, Wren might have been a candidate herself. Only the bemused smirk at the corner of her mouth spoiled the effect.

  “This is nuts,” she said as she took my arm.

  “Really? I feel right at home.” We moved into the reception crowd, as two of the security guards changed position to get a better angle on us.

  It had been a smart choice to bring Wren. Her earlier assessment was spot-on; I couldn’t pass for a political patron. Nor even much like the clean-cut security detail in their blazers and gray slacks currently giving me the eyeball. Concealed weapons would be their main concern. Hidden cameras a close second. Indiscreet footage could be more damaging than a bullet, at least to a candidate’s poll numbers.

  Had I been alone, I would have been discreetly pulled aside, queried, probably searched, and almost certainly denied access once they performed a cursory check and noted that I had bought my seats the same day and had no connection to either the party nor anyone at the event. Better to refund a few thousand bucks than to invite very public outbursts from some disgruntled vet.

  But Wren attracted the eye, to put it mildly. Once the guards had decided my presence was an acceptable risk, no one paid me any heed.

  “Drink?” I asked. Wren agreed and we drifted toward a gold-draped table covered with trays of canapes and tiny quiches. Two servers stood at parade rest, offering prepoured champagne as guests drew near.

  I didn’t see Palmer Stratton among the fluted glasses and speckled neckties. Only five weeks until the election. I knew just enough about campaigns to assume Stratton would have an event scheduled every available minute of his day. He would probably appear through some private entrance after the dinner, make his stump speech and shake a few hands, half of his mind already on whatever function was scheduled right after this.

  If all went well, I’d have ten seconds to grab his attention. Ideally without getting the rental cops involved.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, if you’ll take your seats,” a staffer near us proclaimed, his arm outstretched toward the banquet room. Wren and I joined the migration and wound through a small jungle of circular tables to the front row. Table 7 was set near stage left, with an unobstructed view of the podium.

  Hotel waiters circled, doling out bread baskets and pitchers of iced tea. The other guests at the table began to exchange names. They were all middle-aged couples, save for one lean older woman to Wren’s left, in a dress-and-jacket combo whose shimmering gray color emphasized her nimbus of white hair.

  “Margaret Stratton,” she said to us as the introductions came around.

  I’d already placed her, from the news videos. Palmer Stratton’s mother. As the wife of the late congressman and mother of the Democratic hopeful, she’d been in front of the cameras nearly as much as her son recently. Breeding and probably something like equestrian sports had kept her posture youthful.

  “I’m Van, this is Wren,” I said.

  “A Sounders game,” Wren said with a note of surprise. “Sorry, but I just realized that’s where I’ve seen you before, Mrs. Stratton. Last June. You were introducing a youth group at halftime.”

  “The Junior Strikers,” said Mrs. Stratton. “You certainly have a good memory. My husband, James, started that team for underprivileged children, after he left Congress. Part of our Stratton Foundation.”

  “Soccer and sailboats,” I said. “The Stratton Regatta was a few weeks ago. I saw the coverage.” The cynical part of me wanted to ask if the deprived kids served as deckhands, but I figured that would be unproductiv
e.

  “Anything we can do for our city.” Margaret Stratton nodded magnanimously. The royal “we,” perhaps. “Are you involved with the campaign?”

  “I aim to be,” I said. “Your son is something else.”

  She smiled. “I happen to agree.”

  A three-person camera crew had set up at stage right, running prechecks at the podium. Ready to get a clip from Stratton’s speech for the late news. The ambient jazz music dimmed and a woman with a blond pageboy and scarlet dress spoke into the podium’s microphone.

  “Good evening, and welcome,” she said, beaming at the assembled donors. “I’m very pleased to announce a change for tonight. We’ve moved up our guest of honor’s schedule so that he can take the time to meet you personally.” A few people in the crowd murmured appreciatively. “Please welcome the next governor of the great state of Washington, United States Attorney Palmer Stratton!”

  Stratton strode out of the wings and gave a big wave and even bigger smile to the room, as the guests obediently burst into applause.

  In person, he looked tanned and nearly overflowing with good health. His indigo suit had been expertly tailored to encompass his college-wrestler shoulders and to conceal the stubborn few pounds around his middle that had accumulated in the quarter century since. Combined with a jewel-toned red tie and the gray at his temples that might have been tamed by a careful dye job, Stratton’s whole image walked a line between old-money confidence and new-economy flash.

  After a moment of Stratton soaking in the welcome, a brunette woman who was his equal for glossy attractiveness joined him onstage. I wondered if her dress had been chosen to match his tie, or if the tie had been made to match the dress. The blonde with the pageboy handed Stratton a microphone.

  “Thank you for coming, everyone,” he said. “Carolyn and I are delighted to be here, and even happier that we’ll have a chance to thank you for your support in person. But I won’t make you wait for your meals all the way through a stump speech. Not even mine.” A ripple of laughter from the audience. “We’ll say a quick hello while you enjoy the hors d’oeuvres and then get back to what’s important.” Stratton waved once more and took his wife’s hand. On cue, the boisterous jazz music swelled again.

  They came down the steps from the stage and immediately began shaking hands at the first VIP table. Everyone around us rose to their feet. Wren looked at me in amusement—I guess this is how this works—as we stood, too.

  The campaign staffers quickly combined forces to herd the premier guests at the front into something resembling a queue. Rather than us filing past Stratton, he moved along the loose row, both preceded and followed at a discreet few feet by two of the blue blazers, who kept their eyes on the crowd. I pasted a smile on my face.

  Stratton and his wife took no more than thirty seconds to greet each guest, and the donor had the full focus of his attention during that time. It seemed to be enough. Each guest went away looking a little dazed. I’d heard once that Bill Clinton had a similar effect on people, making them feel, however temporarily, like the most important individual in the room.

  Busy with each VIP in turn, Stratton never looked to the next person. Never saw my face until he was already shaking my hand. Give him due credit. He had only seen me once before, in the state patrol station, but there was no question that he recognized me in that first instant.

  “Mr. Stratton, Donovan Shaw,” I said immediately, hoping security wouldn’t notice the astonished expression that had swept the candidate’s persistent smile away. “I’ve followed your time as our federal attorney, and it’s made a huge impression.”

  “Well,” Stratton said. His shake of my hand was much slower than the quick three-beat clasp he’d delivered to others. “That’s very good to hear, Mr. . . . Shaw.”

  “Building a platform on your prosecution record, that’s a solid foundation. I know a lot of people who put crime safety as their number one priority.”

  The candidate’s eyes narrowed in calculation. This close, I could tell the suntan was mostly makeup, expertly applied for the cameras. Was I here to disrupt the event? Embarrass him somehow? “What sort of work do you do?”

  “Freelance journalism. A new line for me, covering trade with Eastern Europe.”

  Stratton nodded, ignoring the staffer who was subtly trying to herd him onward. His public mask was back, but even as his body turned to greet Wren, his gaze stayed on me. “That sounds very interesting. Hello.”

  “Hello,” Wren said, as poised as if there was no tension in the air at all. “Raina Marchand.”

  “Very pleased. How did you come to be involved, Ms. Marchand?” Stratton’s laser attention had redirected to Wren, but I expected the question applied to us both.

  “I’m active in environmental causes,” she said. “My friends and I have a kind of task force.”

  I nearly snorted. Wren was a natural at sticking the jab.

  “I see,” said Stratton. His teeth behind the smile might have been gritted. “Very nice to meet you both.”

  After an extremely brief acknowledgment from Stratton’s wife, Carolyn, who looked slightly confused by our exchange, the couple moved on to the next table. Wren and I sat. Margaret Stratton had disappeared during the receiving line—I imagine she’d had her fill of those recently—and we could speak without being overheard.

  “That was strangely fun, poking the bear,” she murmured to me. “Now what?”

  I was watching Stratton. He glanced once in our direction, then leaned to speak a few quiet words in the ear of a campaign sheepdog. The staffer nodded briskly before hustling up the steps and backstage.

  “Now we think about what restaurant we’ll go to,” I said. “I don’t expect we’ll be staying for dinner.”

  It took ten minutes for Stratton to finish greeting the donors at the premier tables. The blond assistant murmured in Stratton’s ear, and he gave a quick wave to the camera crew before exiting into the wings.

  A security man tapped my shoulder.

  “Would you accompany me, sir?” he said.

  I nodded as if I’d been expecting the summons since I first arrived. Our friends at the table looked uncertain, not sure if I was receiving preferential treatment or the bum’s rush. Neither was I, but I smiled like I held the winning hand.

  Wren cocked an eyebrow. “I’ll make sure the champagne doesn’t get lonely.”

  The security man led me around the far side of the stage to a door used by hotel staff. Beyond it was a short hallway with the sounds of a kitchen in full swing coming from the end, a melody of clattering pans and shouted orders. I was hit with the scents of vinaigrette and searing beef. The guard led me halfway down the hall and stepped aside to allow me to enter a side room, then closed its door behind me.

  The room might have normally served as a meeting space for hotel staff, with framed Alexis promotional materials from years past on the taupe fabric walls. Now the furniture had been cleared to allow room for a studio-quality interview. Lamps and broad white fabric reflectors formed a loose circle around two high chairs at one end.

  A makeup station, its mirror emblazoned with glowing bulbs, waited to one side. I walked over to it, noting the stained applicators and sweat pads and hairbrush neatly arrayed in case the candidate required a touch-up during the filming.

  Stratton entered as I was adjusting my new tie in the mirror. He motioned to another guard in the hall before shutting the door.

  “We can speak privately. And I’ll spare two minutes, so let’s dispense with the bullshit.” His natural speaking voice was flatter and less resonant than the baritone he used for the public. “Why are you here, Shaw?”

  “To reach an agreement. About Anatoly Liashko, and your task force.”

  “Stop there. I’m not discussing any part of any investigation with you.”

  “So I’ll do the talking. Your ATF agent, Martens. He has an informant.” I glanced at the door, conscious of the guard somewhere outside. “I won’t say his nam
e out in the open, but you know who he is. You’d have to know, as head prosecutor.”

  He stared. Hard to interpret the look on his face, but it might have been dread peeking through.

  “No matter what happens with your case,” I said, “I want that inside man protected.”

  Stratton reassembled his hard expression. “What’s your interest?”

  I shook my head. Burke and I could keep our questions of family to ourselves.

  “Martens already made you an offer,” Stratton said. “You didn’t follow through. You’ve done jack to demand any concessions.”

  “What if I could find where Liashko is holding weapons? On U.S. soil?”

  His face tightened. “If you have information pertinent to this case, you’ll give it to us. Immediately. Or I promise I will bust you as an accessory and find a way to make it stick.”

  “In which case you get nothing. My way, at least you secure the arms. Maybe even get the drop on Liashko when he shows.”

  “This is national security, Shaw. You could wind up in ADX Florence for the next twenty years, playing checkers using scraps of felt alongside domestic terrorists. You lump yourself in with those traitors?”

  My expression was another answer.

  “So prove it to me,” Stratton pressed.

  “Your inside man,” I said. “Arrest, no arrest, complete clusterfuck, I don’t care—no backing out on your deal with him.”

  “Just assuming there was a source, that person would be protected. My word on it.”

  “Not enough. I want that protection guaranteed. Otherwise he’s dead. You know that’s the only outcome if Liashko goes free. And then you’ll have a new problem.”

  “A threat,” Stratton scoffed.

  “I’d never threaten a federal prosecutor. But it’s just as dumb to expect I’ll keep quiet if this goes off the rails. ‘U.S. Attorney Abandons Federal Informant to Mobster from Russia.’ It’ll look like you manipulated the task force to try and score a political win in time for the election.”