Finding a suitable spot to inject was a challenge. The nurse’s hand was riddled with needle marks. The Russian had to roll the man’s sleeve way up above the elbow.
He plunged in the needle and squeezed the syringe. Whatever the ex-green beret’s tolerance level before, the stuff that now coursed through his veins was so potent, there was no way he would survive.
Sighs and moans from the television were the only sounds in Mahler’s bedroom. The lights were off, but the chamber glowed and went dark as porn scenes flickered on the giant flat screen on the wall. Mahler was fast asleep in his bed.
The titan had spent a lifetime battling foes and ordering around the men under him as he built the monumental, globe-spanning empire that he now controlled. The sense of being in control was the one thing corporate warriors like Mahler craved most, the Russian thought. They hungered for it more than money itself, more than love, more than physical pleasures. The assassin was sure the idea of being so powerless, so completely vulnerable in his final moments would have been utterly abominable to Mahler.
All the same, the man would have a beautiful death, the Russian thought.
He placed a breathing mask over Mahler’s nose. Attached to a canister of carbon monoxide, it delivered enough of the toxic gas to choke more than half of the oxygen out of his blood.
Mahler would continue to breathe for a few minutes again, but he would never wake up.
The Russian found the alarm code scribbled on a Post-it note that was stuck to a cigarette case. He memorized it and returned to the living room.
Setting the fire was his final task.
He picked up the decanter from the bar counter and sniffed. The aroma of caramel and vanilla pleased him. It was a fine bourbon, and, with an alcohol content of at least forty percent, it would make a fine fuel.
He placed the decanter to the left of the nurse’s body. Then he shoved the deadweight along the counter and straight into the bourbon and the wine rack.
All hit the floor with a terrific crash. Glass splintered, and amber and red liquids streaked the plush, beige carpet.
A paperback novel, The Broker, which the nurse had apparently been reading, had slid off the counter as well.
The Russian took a half-smoked cigarette out of his pocket. He re-lit it and placed it beneath the alcohol-soaked cover of the book.
He waited.
The embers died.
He lit the cigarette again. This time, the pages ignited. He watched the flames grow wilder and begin to travel the course of the spill.
His work was done.
He entered the alarm code, shut the back door behind him, and bounded up the steps. It took less time to remove the photo from the security camera than it had taken to install it, mostly because the thought of the spreading flames and the fire alarm they would soon trigger propelled his every muscle. He packed all his equipment, and climbed out through the skylight.
Back down on the street, the coast was clear. He skipped up a flight of stairs that led to the French border and noiselessly bounded up the hill to his motorcycle.
The bike would be left in a garage in Nice. He had arranged for it to be picked up before dawn to be melted down as scrap.
He, himself, would be on a plane bound for Macau within the hour.
It was the perfect crime; it would never be detected, and he would never be caught. The client would be well pleased.
As the assassin donned his helmet, his lips spread in a faint smile at the thought of the string of zeroes that would soon be added to his bank balance.
Chapter 5
Spike Simmons straightened his tie and tamped down the lapels of his jacket as he stepped into the elevator. He pushed the button for FBI Director Robert Hutton’s floor and scanned the notes he’d scribbled on a small pad. In his mind, he rehearsed what he would say and exactly how he would say it.
He’d been in group briefings with the director a couple of times before, but this would be his first one-on-one with Hutton and he wanted to come off looking good.
The man was a legend. A decorated Army intelligence officer-turned-lawyer who later spent years abroad as a diplomat, Hutton had been running the Bureau with a steady hand for twelve years under three different administrations. And he had another two years left before retirement. The four years’ extension to what would normally have been a ten-year term had come at the special request of the president who shared his predecessors’ implacable faith in Hutton’s leadership.
The timing of the meeting with Hutton that Saturday afternoon, however, could not have been worse.
It was Simmons’ weekend with his son, Reg, and the two of them were supposed to have been at the cinema right about this time, watching Lottery Ticket and laughing their heads off at the antics of Bow Wow and the gang. That outing, itself, was supposed to have made up for having to cancel their trip to the Redskins’ training camp a couple of weeks before, again because of work.
His ex had been decent about taking the boy back at short notice, though. She’d even refrained from giving that look, the one by which she would usually let Simmons know she was relieved they weren’t together anymore.
Now, he would have to try to think up some fantastic, mind-blowing activities to keep himself in the good books of a super intelligent nine-year-old. He had let things slide as husband, but he was sure as hell not going to strike out at being a dad.
Still, his job came first.
It was all he’d ever wanted to do, growing up in the tough neighborhood of Capitol View. And it was all because of Mammy. His mother had been a receptionist with the FBI and would come home and fill his head with stories of the fine folk in spiffy clothes who checked in at her desk and dropped hints about the important and sometimes dangerous work they did to keep the nation safe.
She’d made up all of those stories, of course. Simmons quickly realized when he joined the Bureau right after college that nobody spilled such details to a lowly front lobby receptionist. But Mammy’s deception had worked to keep him off the streets and dreaming in a different direction from his peers.
He was glad she had lived to see him get his badge. If she’d still been around, she would have clapped her hands and giggled to hear that he was to sit down with the great Hutton, himself, in his office.
He had barely set foot in the doorway when the low bass voice boomed in his ears.
“Simmons, what have we got on this William Mahler case?”
“Not much, I’m afraid, sir.”
This was definitely not how Simmons had imagined things would go.
For a thirty-nine-year-old, he was pleased about having climbed a rung or two in the department that handled crimes committed abroad against US citizens. But it was by a fluke that he’d landed in the director’s office.
There were four others in the chain of command above him who should have been in that meeting with Hutton. However, Callahan, his immediate superior, was in the hospital with a ruptured appendix; Baldwin was on vacation, and incommunicado at some fly-in fishing lodge; and Reginald and Tubman were off separately attending conferences in far-flung corners of the world. It was a groggy-sounding Reginald who’d called and ordered him to get his butt into the office, pronto, to brief the director on the death of a wealthy US businessman in Monaco.
Simmons had thought there’d first be an exchange of pleasantries and that, maybe, he’d have a chance to talk about how he enjoyed being part of the Bureau before he would ease into confessing his near empty-handedness on the Mahler case. But he understood; Director Hutton was a very busy man whose time you didn’t waste with small talk. Even on a Saturday.
“Shut that door, will you,” Hutton said.
Simmons obeyed, almost robotically.
The silver-haired director, at six feet, nine inches tall and with two hundred twenty-five pounds that gave only a hint of sagging on a seventy-two-year-old frame, was intimidating to the average person, and more so to a kid from Capitol View who sometimes still pinched himself to ensure his entire career with the Bureau wasn’t all just a dream.
Dressed in his customary dark suit as if it were any ordinary workday, Hutton pointed his chin toward a chair in front of his desk. He leaned back in his executive chair with his fingers clasped over his broad chest and waited for Simmons to settle himself.
“So?” Hutton said.
Simmons cleared his throat. “It happened around midnight, Saturday, Monaco-time. Monaco is saying it looks like there was an accidental fire after Mahler’s nurse OD’ed on heroin.”
Hutton nodded.
“A former addict, it seems.” Simmons found himself suddenly dependent on his notes. “Looks like he went off on some kind of suicidal binge. He was apparently drinking at the time, and smoking too. Cigarette ignited. Er… flames spread quickly before the fire service arrived. Mahler died of smoke inhalation. The nurse had major third degree burns. That’s it; no further details.”
“So, just a tragic accident?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, that’s what Monaco would say, wouldn’t they?”
“That’s the information they’ve given us, sir.”
“Well, they have an image to protect. Nothing out of the ordinary ever happens there. Ever.”
Simmons adjusted his tie. He felt Hutton’s eyes scrutinizing every inch of his being.
“You know Mahler had his fair share of enemies among rival companies, don’t you, Simmons?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Mining is a cutthroat business. Any one of a number of his competitors could have wanted him dead.”
“It’s quite possible, sir.”
“And you also know it’s said that for a long time Magrelma Mines occupied, let’s say, a special place among US business interests abroad, don’t you?”
“I got clearance to access the files on Magrelma only this afternoon, sir. Didn’t have the time to go through them fully before our meeting. But from what I understand, there’s been speculation over the years that the company was a channel for the CIA to support opposition groups in certain countries where Magrelma had operations. Some of those groups came into government and that activity is said to have died off by the end of the nineties. But as far as I can tell, all of that is only speculation. The CIA has never confirmed any of this.”
The director tapped his fingers on the armrest of his chair.
Simmons felt a knot form in his stomach. Okay. Big mistake. Never contradict the boss, or even give the slightest appearance of doing so. And especially not a boss like Hutton. As FBI Director, he was privy to secrets about everyone and everything that mattered. And it was quite conceivable that in his past life as a diplomat, he could have been in on the truth about Magrelma. Simmons knew well enough that all kinds of foreign service postings were used to mask the fact that a person was actually working for the CIA.
He coughed. “Of course, there could be some truth behind the speculation.”
Hutton kept him in a steady gaze.
“Let’s just suppose it were true,” the director said. “And let’s say Magrelma’s support of opposition forces led to the ouster of some two-bit despot or the other. Well, Simmons, power is a very intoxicating thing. It elevates a man’s sense of potency. Makes him feel invincible. It even deludes some into believing that they’ve somehow become immortal. Those who find it suddenly snatched out of their hands feel the sting for the rest of their lives. They may spend all their remaining days in a desperate fight to climb back to the lofty heights they once enjoyed. And if they get the opportunity, some will hound down and seek to destroy those they believe are responsible for their fall from grace.”
Hutton sat up.
“So, you see, we can’t assume, like Monaco, that things are as they seem. If we continue to suppose that Magrelma was a covert channel to promote a US agenda abroad, then there are serious implications if some person or some forces came after Mahler because they found out about his company’s clandestine political role. It could even mean current US operations abroad have been compromised.”
Simmons swallowed hard, but remained silent.
“So?” Hutton said.
Simmons knew the right answer was that he would report back to Callahan, or Baldwin, or Reginald, or Tubman and let them take things from there. But, at this moment, in the pregnant silence of the director’s office, with the stern eyes of his ultimate boss pinning him, Simmons knew that that was also the wrong response.
He cleared his throat. “I’ll contact Paris. Our legal attaché there could dispatch a couple of people to Monaco to collaborate on a full investigation.”
“Good.” Hutton stood up. “Stick with this file, Simmons. We must leave no stone unturned.”
Simmons nodded and got to his feet.
“Keep me posted,” Hutton said.
As soon as he closed the door behind him, Simmons yanked his tie loose.
Sure, he wanted to be known and to move up in the Bureau. But this case, which had landed in his lap simply because he was the only able-bodied man available on a weekend, had taken on an importance he hadn’t remotely expected.
The director seemed to be into this case in a big way. Simmons wasn’t sure he could survive this level of scrutiny.
Chapter 6
The state dinner for the Canadian prime minister was winding down. Having gorged and tippled, the guests were in high spirits as they floated out of the dining tent and sauntered to the entertainment tent on the South Lawn.
Robert L. Hutton detested such occasions for their pomposity and feigned congeniality. He had hosted his own share of them, on a smaller scale, of course, during his time at the missions in Cairo, Ottawa, and London. He had arrived tonight as late as was socially acceptable, and would slip away soon. But first, he had to take care of the real reason he was there.
His eyes narrowed as he scanned the stream of bejeweled and tuxedoed bodies passing by. After some time, he saw her: Secretary of State Angela Roseau.
She was headed his way, walking and speaking with Alfred Danforth, the Canadian deputy prime minister, and two other members of the visiting delegation. Hutton was glad that her almost eternal shadow — her fastidious chief of staff Kathy Wang — was nowhere in sight.
Dressed tonight in a long-sleeved, floor-length, teal gown, instead of her usual austere pants suit, she appeared more feminine and less like the formidable political animal she was known to be. He had been aware of this softer side to her going back twenty-five years to the time when she had arrived as a fresh-faced articling student at his law firm in New York, the year he had made partner. Even back then, the ever upward-moving internal force that drove her had been palpable.
He positioned himself in a corner close to the exit of the dining tent, in front of a row of tall, potted plants.
“Angela,” he called out in a half-whisper.
She turned to his direction and caught his eyes. She excused herself from the Canadians and walked over to him.
“Robert! Where have you been all night?”
She reached up and kissed him on either cheek. There was nothing more than business to it. She had always been so with him.
“How’s Valerie?” she said.
“She’s fine.”
“Give her my regards.”
Hutton nodded.
“Well, this has turned
out to be a fine evening.” The Secretary of State looked about her with a broad smile.
“I noticed, earlier, when I’d just arrived, that you had the president’s full attention,” Hutton said.
“He may be smiling, but he’s having an awful night.”
“Is he now?”
“With this being his last term, everyone in his orbit with even an ounce of ambition is jockeying to get his endorsement for their bid to take over from him. People have been approaching him to whisper in his ears all evening. This event was all my idea and he blames me for his woes tonight.”
She laughed.
“On the positive side, though,” she said, “Prime Minister Peabody is in his glee. The man looks like he’s about to explode with his sense of importance. It’s almost farcical.
“Of course, I told the president it would be so. Invite him for a state visit, I said. Let’s massage his ego. See what we can wring from him after.
“You know he’s not been budging on this softwood lumber issue, and it’s been souring relations between us and Canada. But his ego is his weak point and we’ll work on it. The man is such an amateur in this game.”
She dropped her voice to a whisper.
“Do you know what they nicknamed him at his first G20 meeting?”
Hutton shook his head.
“Shirtsleeves!” She chuckled. “It started with the staff, then moved up to the ministers and even some of the leaders were using it at the end. Not to his face, of course. But it was clear to everyone that the man can’t control his emotions. Can’t properly govern himself. I found out tonight in just how low a regard he’s held by his own cabinet.
“But you know the story. Two years ago, Peabody’s opposition party was in disarray, and he became leader almost by default, and soon after that, the previous government had to call an election because of a spending scandal. So, with a low voter turnout, those who were most disgruntled with the past administration ruled the day. And voila, there you had it; by an accident of fate, Canadian Prime Minister John J. Peabody.”
Run, Girl, Run: A Thriller Page 4