K Street

by M. A. Lawson

  “Where’s Fang now?”

  “We released him. He’s a diplomat. Right now the big boys upstairs and the State Department are trying to figure out what to do about him. We’re not going to just send a couple of uniforms over to the embassy and arrest him.”

  The only thing Prescott cared about was that nobody had connected Fang to Winston or K Street or Danzinger or Parker. She also knew that Fang would never be arrested for killing Jamal Howard; the Chinese would whisk him out of the country while the State Department tried to make up its mind.

  But Prescott could not believe that Fang had had such a string of bad luck—not unless Kay Hamilton was the one dealing the cards.

  • • •

  DAO YUNYI, ambassador to the United States from the People’s Republic of China, had a small smile on his face as he looked at the photos that had been e-mailed to the embassy that morning—photos of Fang Zhou in bed with an American whore. The photos had not been sent directly to Dao, but to the embassy’s general e-mail address, which meant that half the people in the embassy had probably seen them.

  Last night, Dao had to send a lawyer to a police station to pick Fang up after he was detained. Fang insisted that he’d been set up, that he’d been drugged by a woman he’d met in a bar—which Dao found laughable. When Dao asked who had set him up, Fang said it must have been the CIA, but that made no sense.

  But it was worse than simply being arrested for driving under the influence. Much worse. The lawyer said that the police seemed to be particularly interested in a weapon they’d found on Fang’s person.

  Fang finally admitted to Dao that he’d used the gun to kill the young gangster who’d assisted in the operation to save Winston. This meant that Dao needed to get Fang out of the United States immediately, before the police could build a case against him.

  Fang’s biggest problem, however, wasn’t being arrested by the American police for murder. His biggest problem was the money found in his car. The cash was evidence of a crime against the People’s Republic. Every penny Fang had spent to save Winston had been carefully documented: the gold and cash he’d paid Otis and his men to steal the safe; the cash he’d paid Jamal Howard; even the money spent to pay off some woman’s mortgage. Fang’s superiors didn’t care that he’d spent the money, but where had the twenty-five thousand dollars come from? It made them wonder if Fang had lied and kept some of the money for himself. A bullet in the back of the head was well within the realm of possibility.

  It was possible that Fang might survive this debacle. He’d performed superbly on past assignments, and his incompetence in this case might eventually be forgiven. But ultimately, his fate hinged on his father-in-law, a man who sat on the Politburo Standing Committee—and a man known to be very protective of his daughter. He certainly wouldn’t use his influence to help Fang if he found out about the photos with the whore. His daughter would be humiliated, and Fang would be finished.

  A few minutes later, using his secretary’s computer, Dao forwarded the photos to Fang’s wife. Fang had been a rising star, but that star was about to experience a rapid, painful descent.

  42

  DAY 21—7 A.M.

  Prescott couldn’t focus. She’d been in her office since six looking at a transcript of another phone call between the retired Russian colonel and the Saudi prince. The two men were speaking in code, pretending to talk about a trip the prince was planning to make to the Caspian Sea with all his wives, but they were actually discussing transporting ten kilograms of plutonium. Still, Prescott’s mind kept wandering back to Hamilton. There wasn’t anything left for Hamilton to do to avenge the attack on the Callahan Group, and if she was the least bit rational, she must realize this. But Hamilton wasn’t rational.

  Prescott was worried that Hamilton might have figured out she’d warned Otis that Hamilton had gone to Miami to kill him and now might come after her. No, she wasn’t worried. That wasn’t the correct word at all. She felt vulnerable—and she’d never, ever felt vulnerable before. It would be prudent to begin watching Hamilton again.

  • • •

  KAY WOKE UP AT SEVEN, feeling great. The only way she might have felt better was if Eli Dolan had been lying in bed next to her.

  Today she was going to go see Callahan. He was finally out of the hospital and back in his crummy apartment. It was time to tell him that she was quitting the Group and would be looking for other employment. She was thinking about either the CIA or the Joint Terrorism Task Force in D.C. The task force included a gaggle of federal agencies—CIA, Homeland Security, ICE, Secret Service—as well as the local cops, and she figured she’d fit right in. And she knew how she was going to get a leg up on the competition: She was going to force Thomas Callahan to use his connections to help her.

  She took a shower and instead of dressing in jeans and a T-shirt as she usually did, she put on a sleeveless blouse that matched her eyes, a tight skirt that showed off her legs, and her expensive new Jimmy Choos.

  But she wasn’t dressing for Callahan. Her first visit was going to be with Eli—which was why she’d picked a skirt that showed off her legs. She knew he was still annoyed with her for not keeping him in the loop, and she wanted to give him a reason to be less angry.

  She called him. “Hi,” she said, “would you like to meet for lunch?”

  Eli didn’t answer.

  “Come on, Eli, I know you’re pissed at me, but after you hear what I have to say, you’ll understand why I didn’t tell you everything I was doing.”

  “All right, fine,” he said. What a grump.

  “Do you remember where we went to brunch for your birthday? Let’s meet there.”

  “Okay.”

  “Oh, and don’t bring your cell phone.”

  “Why not?” he said.

  “Just trust me. Don’t bring it.”

  Kay didn’t know if Prescott was still monitoring her or if she was monitoring Eli, but she decided not to take the chance of Prescott eavesdropping on their lunch.

  • • •

  AS KAY WAITED for a cab to arrive, she noticed a young woman walking on the other side of the street. The woman was wearing a cute pink baseball cap, sunglasses, and had on a snug-fitting white T-shirt and blue jeans. She was slim and moved athletically. There was something familiar about her but Kay couldn’t say what; she was fairly sure she didn’t know her and didn’t recall ever seeing her in the neighborhood before. The woman never looked at her as she walked and then she turned into the doorway of the apartment building across the street and rang one of the doorbell buttons just as the cab stopped and picked Kay up.

  • • •

  SHIT! BECKMAN HADN’T expected Hamilton to take a cab. Beckman’s car was parked near the garage exit so that if Hamilton took her car, Beckman would be able to follow. If Hamilton decided to walk, she’d follow on foot. When she saw Hamilton exit her apartment building, Beckman started walking because she didn’t want Hamilton to see her just standing there. She let the cab drive half a block, then sprinted back to her car and took off after it.

  She didn’t know why she was following Hamilton. Prescott had called this morning and told her to tail Hamilton, report what she was doing and whom she was seeing. Then Prescott told her for the second time that Hamilton was better than her so she needed to be really cautious, but so far Beckman wasn’t all that impressed. Hamilton appeared to have no idea that she was being tailed.

  The cab dropped Hamilton off at a restaurant in Georgetown called the Café Deluxe. After Beckman finally found a place to park—the lack of parking probably being why Hamilton had taken a cab—she reached into the bag on the backseat of her car and put a short-sleeved blue blouse over her white T-shirt, took off the pink baseball cap, and put on a drab brown wig. She walked past the restaurant and looked into the window and saw Hamilton. She was sitting across from an absolute stud and Beckman wondered who he was.
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  • • •

  KAY TOLD ELI EVERYTHING. As she was talking, she could see that he was about to explode, but not because of what she’d done but because of the risks she’d taken. She was glad she’d chosen someplace public for their meeting.

  “I didn’t tell you what I was doing,” she said, “because Prescott was monitoring me around the clock. If I’d told you anything earlier, she might have gone after you, too.”

  “What are you talking about?” he said, and that’s when she told him how she discovered Prescott was monitoring her conversations and tracking her movements.

  “But that’s not the worst thing she did. She told Otis I was coming after him in Miami. She must have been hoping he’d kill me so I’d never be able to reveal her connection to Callahan.”

  “You’re being paranoid,” he said.

  “No, Eli, I’m not paranoid. I’ve seen what this woman can and will do. I told you everything so you’d know the kind of person that Callahan is working for. That you’re working for.”

  “But why would Prescott want you dead?”

  “Because she’s the one who’s paranoid. She’s afraid I’m going to talk about her connection to Callahan.”

  Eli didn’t say anything for a moment, then he said, “So what are you going to do?”

  “I’m quitting. I was actually planning to quit before this all happened. I’ve had enough of Callahan’s lies. And Prescott may not be the only one working with Callahan. There may be other people in the intelligence community involved and they’re probably as ruthless as she is.”

  “What are you going to do about Prescott?”

  “Nothing. I’m walking away, and I’m hoping that when I do, she and whoever else she works with will just leave me alone.”

  “But what will you do after you quit?” he asked.

  “I have no idea. But I’m going to force Callahan to help me find a legitimate job.”

  Eli smiled. “Have you considered making Callahan get you a job in New York?”

  At that moment, Kay knew she’d been forgiven.

  • • •

  SHE AND ELI left the restaurant together. She gave him a soft kiss on the lips and suggested that they meet that night for dinner. She thought she might stop by Victoria’s Secret later and buy something to make the night memorable.

  Callahan’s apartment was about a mile from the Café Deluxe, so she decided to walk, even though the Jimmy Choos—as gorgeous as they were—weren’t designed for it. As she was crossing the street, she looked both ways to make sure some idiot wasn’t about to mow her down, and she noticed a woman with short dark hair coming toward her. There was something about the way the woman moved—the long, athletic strides—that was familiar.

  She crossed another street, which gave her another opportunity to look around, and this time Kay was certain the woman with the short dark hair was the same woman she’d seen near her apartment. It was the woman’s shoes—gray running shoes—that gave her away.

  • • •

  CALLAHAN LIVED IN A ONE-BEDROOM DUMP. He had a generous civil service pension, but after four divorces, it was the only place near his office that he could afford.

  He was also a slob. Three weeks’ worth of mail was scattered on the floor; clothes littered his couch. Kay didn’t know if the unwashed dishes in his sink had been there before he’d been shot or if they’d accumulated in the short time he’d been home. Without a doubt, a mop had never been introduced to Callahan’s kitchen floor.

  He was sitting in a red leather recliner in front of a television that was probably a decade old, watching the Nats lose to the Mets. He didn’t look too bad. When he’d answered the door he’d moved stiffly, as if he was still in some pain, but at least he was mobile. The docs had done a good job of patching him up, but now he was doing his best to undo the work they’d done. The ashtray next to the recliner was overflowing with cigarette butts and he was drinking some amber-colored liquid.

  Kay didn’t see any point in beating around the bush. “I’m quitting, Callahan.”

  Instead of responding to what she’d just said, Callahan said, “There’s an Italian place just a block from here and they don’t deliver. Go pick up an order of clam linguini and a couple bottles of red wine. Oh, and the calamari appetizer. Get that, too. I’ve been eating nothing but fucking Jell-O and soup for almost a month. I need something substantial.”

  “Did you hear what I just said?”

  “Yeah, I heard, but we can talk about that while I eat.”

  Kay couldn’t help but smile. “Okay, Callahan. I’ll buy. My treat to celebrate your homecoming and my departure. Do you want a salad, too?”

  “Hell no. I want real food. And get some garlic bread, too.”

  Kay walked to the restaurant and spotted the woman tailing her again. She’d ditched the blue blouse and the dark-colored wig and was once again dressed in a white T-shirt. Her hair was short and red—and now Kay remembered where she’d seen her before: in Miami, at the Starlight Motel.

  Half an hour later, Callahan was stuffing his face. With his mouth full, he said, “You can’t quit. Not now. You see, there’s this Russian—”

  “Callahan, your pal Prescott tried to kill me.”

  “What?”

  She then told Callahan everything she’d told Eli about what had happened. She once again had the impression that he already knew most of what she was saying.

  “Your ego is driving you to the wrong conclusion,” Callahan said. “I mean, I haven’t worked with Olivia since I left the CIA . . .”

  More bullshit.

  “. . . but I’m telling you she would never have done what you’re saying.”

  “She did, Callahan, but I’m not going to debate it with you anymore. I’m done. I can’t work with people I don’t trust. And that includes you.”

  Callahan shook his head, but he surprised her by saying, “Hamilton, somebody has to make the hard decisions. Now let me tell you about this Russian colonel. He’s selling plutonium for a suitcase nuke to a nut in Saudi Arabia. In fact, as near as we can tell—”

  “Who’s we?”

  “—as near as we can tell, the sale’s already been made. We don’t know where the material is right now—only the Russian does—but we have to find it before it ends up in Grand Central station. Somebody needs to deal with this, because the administration isn’t.”

  Kay stood up. “Sorry, Callahan, not my problem.”

  “Hamilton, what are you going to do if you quit? What kind of job are you going to get that’s as much fun as this one? Admit it. You love the kind of stuff you do for me and you’re doing work that makes a difference. Can you really see yourself back in law enforcement? They got cops wearing body cameras now, so they can catch ’em if they break the rules, and pretty soon DEA and FBI agents will be wearing them, too. Can you see yourself in a job where you’re not breaking rules?”

  “I don’t know what I’m going to do,” Kay said, “but when I figure it out, you’re going to help me. I have to go now but—”

  “Hold on. We’re not through talking.”

  “For now we are. I need to deliver a parting gift to Prescott.”

  • • •

  PRESCOTT HADN’T HEARD from Beckman in five hours, and wondered why.

  The last update from Beckman was a text message saying that Hamilton was meeting with Callahan, which wasn’t totally unexpected. She’d contact Callahan later and find out what they had discussed. Right now, though, she just wanted to go home and get some sleep. She felt bone tired from everything that had happened in the last three weeks.

  When she opened her apartment door, the first thing she noticed was that the alarm didn’t start beeping. She stood in the doorway, listening, then she reached into her purse and pulled out a small .32 automatic. She’d never carried a weapon before; she didn’
t even own one. But with Hamilton out there, and not knowing what she might do, she’d decided it might be prudent to arm herself. She’d borrowed the gun from one of the security guards, saying only that there’d been a rash of burglaries in her neighborhood.

  The smart thing to do would be to leave and call the police. Then she looked at the door; it didn’t appear as if anyone had forced it open. Maybe, as tired as she was, she’d simply forgot to set the alarm that morning.

  Holding the gun in front of her, ready to shoot—she wouldn’t hesitate to kill an intruder—she moved into the apartment. She checked the closet nearest the door, making sure no one was hiding in it, feeling a bit silly as she did. She could see part of the living room from where she was standing. There was no evidence that it had been ransacked. She moved forward cautiously until she was standing in the living room. And there was Beckman, gagged and bound to a chair with duct tape.

  On the white wall behind Beckman, in red spray paint, were the words:

  LEAVE ME ALONE, OLIVIA.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I would like to thank the people at Blue Rider Press for working so hard to publish this book. In particular, David Rosenthal, Katie Zaborsky, Vanessa Kehren, and Dorian Hastings. And, as always, thanks to my agent, David Gernert.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  M. A. Lawson is a pen name for award-winning novelist Mike Lawson, author of Rosarito Beach, Viking Bay, and the eleven novels in the Joe DeMarco series. Lawson is a former senior civilian executive for the U.S. Navy.