K Street

by M. A. Lawson

  “Yeah, I could kinda see that coming, especially when you kept sayin’ my fuckin’ name.”

  “I need you to make this look like a home invasion.”

  Jamal laughed. “It was a home invasion.”

  “Kill them both and take anything that you can carry. And Jamal, this is very important: I want you to throw away everything you steal. I can’t afford to have you caught with stolen property.”

  When Jamal didn’t immediately respond, Fang said, “I’ll double the amount I agreed to pay you.”

  “All right,” Jamal said. He said this in the odd way that gangsters do, making all right sound like awight.

  “And make sure you don’t leave any evidence behind. You know, fingerprints, DNA—”

  “This ain’t my first rodeo. You just make sure I get the money today. And that’s no shit.”

  DAY 1—2 P.M.

  Fang left the office on Vermont and walked a block to a Starbucks down the street. He smiled at the pretty barista, and she smiled back. He ordered a coffee and a sandwich on a croissant, and took a seat near a window.

  Danzinger had said that the Prescott woman was in England and would pick up the document tomorrow. And once Prescott saw the attachment, she might be able to figure out which NSA employees were likely to have intercepted the e-mail based on their work assignments and trace it to Parker and then to Winston. But if Fang could get the attachment before Prescott saw it, there was still a chance to maintain Winston’s cover.

  There was another potential problem, however. This man Callahan might have looked in the envelope.

  He sipped his coffee and came to a conclusion: He had to make an attempt to retrieve the envelope before Prescott got it and he needed to kill Callahan—and he had the perfect man for the job.

  Dylan Otis was the consummate professional. Fang had used him twice before when the Chinese required items to be removed from secure facilities.

  Fang had learned of Otis from one of his contacts in the FBI. “This guy isn’t some junkie who has to steal so he can buy dope,” his contact told him. “He isn’t a gambler, and he isn’t the kind of guy who walks away with only fourteen hundred bucks from the teller’s drawer. Otis does one or two jobs a year, and he usually nets anywhere from a quarter to half a million.”

  “If you know all this,” Fang asked, “why haven’t you arrested him?”

  “Because knowing a guy’s guilty isn’t the same thing as proving he’s guilty. Otis doesn’t leave evidence behind, he launders the money carefully, and he and his guys always have alibis. We’re going to have to catch him literally coming out of a bank if we’re ever gonna nail him.”

  “Tell me more,” Fang said.

  “Otis and his guys are—I guess you’d say blue collar. They’re all good with tools. Otis restores old cars. He’ll buy a beat-up ’56 Chevy for ten grand, fix it up, then sell it for sixty to some collector. And he pays his taxes. The guys he works with are the same kind of people, guys who are good with tools and alarm systems, pros who keep low profiles.”

  DAY 1—2:30 P.M.

  Fang returned to his office on Vermont and called Dylan Otis. A woman answered, and he could hear a couple of kids yelling in the background. Fang knew that Otis was married but didn’t know much more about his personal life.

  When Otis got on the phone, Fang said, “This is John. Meet me at the Iwo Jima Memorial as soon as you can. This is a big deal and I’ll pay accordingly.”

  Otis didn’t know Fang’s real name and had no idea that he worked for the Chinese government. All Otis cared about was how much he’d be paid.

  Half an hour later, standing near the famous sculpture of the six Marines raising the American flag, Fang told Otis what he needed done: Break into the safe in Callahan’s office, remove whatever was inside it, and kill Callahan. And he needed the job done today, as soon as possible. He gave him a photo of Callahan he’d found online.

  Otis refused, saying it was too risky. Fang handed him a gym bag and Otis almost dropped it, not expecting the bag would weigh so much.

  “That’s a million in gold bars. I didn’t have time to get that much cash, but I had the gold on hand. You’ll get another million when the job is complete.”

  Otis hesitated, then said, “Okay. But it might be easier to just take the safe from the office and open it later.”

  “Then do that,” Fang said.

  “And it’s going to take me a few hours to round up my crew and get the equipment I’ll need.”

  “Just move quickly, Mr. Otis. Time is of the essence,” Fang said.

  DAY 1—7 P.M.

  Otis and his crew entered the building on K Street.

  DAY 1—8:45 P.M.

  Otis called Fang to tell him he had the safe and that Callahan had been killed. Also that two of his own men had been killed as well. Fang ordered Otis to take the safe to a garage in Arlington.

  DAY 1—10 P.M.

  The nightly news reported that four people had been killed in a building on K Street. Apparently, it was an attempted robbery, but the police weren’t giving out any additional information, except that there were two survivors—and Fang Zhou thought: Shit.

  9

  DAY 2—6 P.M.

  Kay was still sitting in Prescott’s apartment, still trying to digest everything that Prescott had told her. It also occurred to her that Prescott had told her a lot of things she didn’t need to tell her—and it was not the nature of the NSA to divulge information to people outside the agency. In fact, it was the nature of the NSA to hide almost everything they did from the public. So why had Prescott shared so much?

  “What do you plan to do next?” Kay asked.

  Prescott rose from the couch where she’d been sitting. “It’s been a long, rather stressful day. I need a drink. Would you like one?”

  “No,” Kay said.

  “Then I’ll be back in a moment,” she said and left Kay sitting in the living room. Kay heard a toilet flush and a few minutes later heard Prescott in the kitchen. She came back to the living room holding a tumbler containing either Scotch or bourbon. She drank it neat. She resumed her seat on the couch and then just sat there looking at Kay with her pale blue eyes. She reminded Kay of a cobra staring down at its prey—and Kay was the prey.

  “I asked what you plan to do next,” Kay said.

  “The first thing I plan to do is locate the e-mail that I believe Parker intercepted. We don’t destroy information at Fort Meade, but it can be hidden if a person is smart enough to know what to do. Since we only hire smart people, I’m sure the e-mail has been hidden in some very clever way, but my people will find it.”

  “Then what?” Kay asked.

  “Then I’ll find out which government received it and who their spy is at Zytek. What else would I do?”

  “But what are you going to do about the people who killed Danzinger and Callahan’s people?”

  “I’ll do what I can, but that’s not my job. That’s up to the police—or you, if you choose to pursue it.”

  “What?” Kay said. “Not your job! Callahan worked for you! It’s your fault he was shot.”

  Prescott shook her head as if Kay were being childish. “You keep saying that Callahan worked for me. And I’m telling you that Callahan was just an old friend I trusted. That was the extent of our relationship.”

  “That’s bullshit—” Kay said. She stopped and stared at Prescott and Prescott just stared back, looking . . . what? Amused?

  Kay knew exactly what Prescott was doing, and now she also understood why Prescott had told her so much: Prescott was planning to use her. Prescott wasn’t going to go anywhere near the investigation into the attack because that might expose her true relationship to Callahan. Kay also realized that Prescott must know about her background with the DEA and what she did for Callahan. How else would Prescott know that she had the ability to t
rack down the people who shot Callahan?

  But was Kay going to allow Prescott to use her? And the answer to that question was: Yeah, goddamnit, she was. She was going to get to the bottom of this.

  “Okay,” Kay said. “I need to know everything the cops know. Right now all I have is the name of the man I shot and that he has a record for armed robbery. He wasn’t a spy or an operative for some foreign government, and the cops aren’t going to tell me more. Do you have any influence over D.C. Metro?”

  Prescott shrugged. “When the NSA calls a law enforcement institution in this country, they know we wouldn’t be calling unless it was something related to national security. Most people also know that we can’t tell them why we’re calling, and they cooperate because they know if they don’t, considerable pressure will be brought to bear. We have sufficient weight to crush careers. So I believe I can get someone at Metro to meet with you.”

  “Then do it,” Kay said. “And I want the meeting tonight. The trail’s getting cold.”

  Prescott smiled slightly. She was probably thinking: Good dog. She walked over to a table where she’d placed her purse, removed a phone, and punched in a number from memory.

  “Detective, this is Olivia Prescott. Very well, thank you. A woman named Hamilton is going to call you soon and ask for a meeting with you tonight. You are to give her your utmost cooperation. Is that clear?”

  Prescott hung up and gave Kay the phone number of a man named Eagleton.

  “There’s one thing you need to understand, Ms. Hamilton. Everything I told you about the e-mail and Zytek is classified. If I find out that you’ve talked to anyone about what you learned this evening, I’ll have you arrested and prosecuted. Divulging classified information is a federal offense.”

  “Then why did you tell me in the first place?” Kay asked.

  “Because I thought you had a right to know.”

  Kay barked out a laugh. “I don’t know how many lies you’ve told me, but that’s definitely one of the bigger ones. You didn’t tell me because you thought I had a right to know, you told me so I could help you catch these guys.”

  “Be that as it may, I’m serious. If you talk to anyone about the e-mail, you’ll end up in prison. And that’s not a lie.”

  “Yeah, whatever,” Kay said, rising from the uncomfortable chair. “Give me a phone number where I can reach you in case I need to talk to you.”

  “No,” Prescott said. “I don’t want you calling me. But I’m sure I’ll be able to reach you if I need to.”

  10

  DAY 2—6 P.M.

  The Chinese government maintained a database on Chinese nationals who’d immigrated to the United States, and as soon as Fang learned that Callahan had been taken to George Washington University Hospital, he had his researcher check it. Fortune was on his side. Four Chinese émigrés worked at the hospital, and one was a nurse.

  As Kay was leaving Prescott’s apartment, Fang Zhou was watching the nurse. She had just finished her shift and was waiting for a bus. She was a short, slightly built, moonfaced woman in her early thirties.

  Fang joined her at the bus stop, and in her native tongue, said, “Little sister, we need to talk.”

  “Who are you?” she asked, looking up at him. He was six-foot-three and he loomed over her. She had no particular reason to be afraid—he hadn’t spoken to her in a threatening manner—but he could see that she was. Which was good.

  “I know you’re on your way home,” Fang said, “and that you must be tired from your long day at work. But I need a few minutes of your time. Let’s go to that restaurant over there and have a cup of tea.”

  “But what do you want?” the nurse said.

  “Tell me,” Fang said, “how is your uncle in Chaohu? Have you spoken to him recently? Is he doing well? And your uncle in Huaibei. How is his family doing? And your brother in Trenton. I was pleased to hear that he was recently promoted.”

  “What do you want?” she asked again, her lower lip quivering. He noticed she didn’t ask again who he was because she knew he must represent the Chinese government. She knew that he held the lives of her uncles in China and their entire families in the palm of his hand. She knew her brother’s life, even though he lived in Trenton, New Jersey, was also in danger.

  “Come, little sister,” he said. “We’ll be more comfortable in the restaurant. And if you do what I ask, you’ll be rewarded. So don’t be afraid. I’m not going to harm you.”

  She walked beside him, head down, as they crossed the street to the restaurant. For his own amusement, Fang almost told her to walk five paces behind him, and he knew that if he had, she would have obeyed.

  Inside, he asked her if she wanted coffee or tea. She said tea so softly he could barely hear her, and then tears began to well up in her eyes. He wagged a finger at her. “No, no, don’t do that. I’m telling you, everything is going to be fine.”

  He told the waitress to bring them two hot teas—Lipton or whatever they had would be acceptable. While they waited, he ignored the nurse and checked his phone for messages. The waitress brought the teas. “Drink,” Fang said. “The tea will relax you.” But he knew it wouldn’t.

  He waited until she obediently took a sip, then said, “There’s a man in your hospital named Thomas Callahan. I want you to go back to the hospital before you go home and find out his condition. I’m sure you can figure out a way to do that. You’re a smart woman. Then I want you to tell me what you’ve learned. Call me before you leave the hospital.” He wrote his phone number on a napkin and handed it to her. “That’s my number. Okay, little sister? Will you do me this small favor?”

  He pulled out his wallet and handed her several twenty-dollar bills; he didn’t know how many for sure, but there were at least six of them. “That’s for cab fare because I’ve made you miss your bus. Now go. I’ll be waiting here until I hear back from you.”

  Without looking at him, she left the table. Fang knew she’d catch the bus home instead of taking a cab.

  • • •

  FANG HAD TWO PROBLEMS. His people had not yet been able to break into Callahan’s safe to verify that it contained the envelope, and Callahan was still alive.

  He had been dismayed to hear on the news last night—contrary to what Dylan Otis had told him—that two people had survived the attack. Fang, a committed atheist, prayed that one of the survivors had not been Callahan. After he heard the news report, he contacted a high-ranking detective in the D.C. Metro Police force and asked if he could find out the names of the survivors and anything else the police knew about the attack.

  Fang had many contacts throughout Washington, contacts he’d built up in the eight years he had lived in the city. And this contact’s services came cheaply: Fang compensated him by allowing him to use his season tickets for the Redskins. Fang never used them; he thought American football was an idiotic game.

  The detective told him that Callahan was one of the survivors and that two of Callahan’s people had been killed—Fang didn’t bother to note their names—and that two of the robbers, both men with prior convictions for armed robbery, had been killed as well. But that’s all the police knew at this point.

  “Who killed the two robbers?” Fang asked.

  “A female security guard killed one,” the detective said. “She was the other survivor. It looks like Callahan killed the other guy before he was shot.”

  “A woman killed one of them?” Fang said.

  “Yeah. Her name is Kay Hamilton.”

  Fang was shocked to learn that a woman had killed some of Otis’s men, but the security guard seemed unimportant. Fang assumed she had been doing her rounds and simply blundered onto Otis’s operation. He thanked the detective, and because the football season was still a couple months away, he said he would send him a case of single-malt Scotch that was priced at over a hundred dollars a bottle. The detective was appropri
ately grateful; Fang was going to miss him when he retired.

  That Callahan had survived was disappointing, but that didn’t necessarily mean all was lost. If the information Fang had forced out of Danzinger was correct, Callahan had no idea what had been inside his own safe.

  • • •

  FIFTEEN MINUTES AFTER leaving the restaurant, the little nurse called. She told him that Callahan had survived a difficult, lengthy surgery but it was possible that he still might die. She said that right now he was unresponsive. “Has he had any visitors?” Fang asked. The nurse said she didn’t know. “Find out,” Fang said. “I know you can. You’re very clever.”

  Half an hour passed before she called back. She said a woman police officer, a detective named Platt, came to see him but he was unconscious. His daughter also visited him. “His daughter?” Fang said.

  “Yes,” the nurse said. “Right after he got out of surgery, but he was probably still unconscious from the anesthesia.”

  “Thank you, little sister, you did well. Now all you have to do is monitor Callahan’s condition. If he dies, call me. If he regains consciousness, you must call me immediately. And if you do these things for me, your aged mother will no longer have to go all the way to the basement in your apartment building to wash clothes. She’ll soon have a very nice washer and dryer that will fit right inside your apartment. Don’t worry. I have your address.”

  Now what? It probably didn’t matter if Callahan lived or died, but he’d certainly feel more comfortable if the man was dead. The fact that Callahan had a daughter could be useful if he needed to force him to cooperate.

  He called his researcher and told her to find out about Callahan’s family, where they lived and so forth, and to do so quickly. Next, he called his secretary and told her to arrange for the nurse’s parents to receive a washer and dryer—one of the stackable units because their apartment was small.