Run, Girl, Run: A Thriller

by Alex C. Franklin

  Peabody clenched his jaws and fired darts at Roseau with his eyes. She remained immobile.

  After a lengthy silence, Peabody snorted. “I’ve got you figured out, Roseau. You’re a bitch! Plain and simple. It’s not that you act tough because you’re doing a tough job. You’re in this job because it gives you an excuse to wallow in your bitchiness.”

  Roseau allowed her lips to spread into a smile.

  “I take that as a compliment, John,” she said. “You see, tomorrow, I’ll still be occupying one of the highest positions in the most powerful nation in the world. And you’ll be out of a job. Sounds to me like you could benefit from learning how to be a bitch.”

  Without warning, Peabody flung his arms out and sent the table crashing. The digital recorder hit the floor with a metallic thud and papers went flying left and right.

  Secret service agents stepped forward into the light and appeared at Roseau’s side.

  Angus Firestone, who had accompanied his boss and had stood watching from the darkness, dashed forward, placing himself between Peabody and Roseau.

  Peabody snorted, stared daggers at Roseau for the last time, then turned and stomped toward the door.

  Chapter 111

  I was agitated. So was Parker. The director had made it clear that the agreement I’d signed encompassed everybody, including Parker. The director hadn’t directly confirmed that he’d made Parker also agree not talk. If he had, I imagined he’d told Parker the same thing about talking with me.

  Several times during games of Scrabble and Monopoly at the kitchen table, Parker had skirted the subject of whether I’d had seen the director alone. But with agents milling about the house, I wasn’t prepared to test the limits of the agreement.

  It was close to midnight. Neither of us wanted to sleep, and we were now into card games.

  “You’re either no good at gin rummy,” I said looking at my winning hand, “or very gallant in letting me beat you every time.”

  “I just don’t seem to have any luck, tonight.”

  He sounded amused and I looked up at Parker to see whether his words were genuine or whether he was playing with me. Pictures flashing on the television behind him caught my attention.

  “Raise the volume, will you. There seems to be some excitement over Peabody.”

  Parker got up and pressed the volume control.

  “…and as I said, Michael,” the female reporter blinking into brilliant light in front of a dimly-lit Parliament building said, “Ottawa is reeling from the sudden and unexpected resignation of Prime Minister John Peabody. Nobody, but nobody, not political analysts, nor supporters, nor rivals in his own party, had any inkling that this was coming.”

  Parker shook his head. “Wow, that’s–”

  “Shhh!” I put my finger to my lips. “Turn it up louder, will you.”

  Parker complied and we listened again to the reporter.“Of course in his very brief resignation letter, Peabody mentioned that he was leaving for personal reasons. We have been hearing unconfirmed reports that, perhaps, Peabody’s cancer is back, but, as I said, there has been no confirmation on that.

  “In fact, the prime minister’s…I should say, the ex-prime minister’s chief of staff point blank refused to comment when approached by reporters. If you will recall, when the issue of Mr Peabody’s health became an issue in his last re-election campaign, he made a statement to the effect that everyone was entitled to privacy when it came to health matters….”

  Simmons walked into the kitchen. His eyes homed in on the television.

  “Peabody’s just quit,” I said.

  “Huh!” Simmons uttered.

  “What are the chances that his departure has something to do with Syron Lake?” Parker said.

  Simmons tore his eyes away from the screen. Parker and I looked pointedly at him.

  “The answer to that,” he said, “is above my pay grade.”

  Chapter 112

  Thursday, March 10

  It was the wee hours of the morning. Angela Roseau reclined against the silk-covered settee in the living room of their Georgetown brownstone while her husband, ex-congressman Steve Roseau, sat on the ottoman in front of her, massaging her soles.

  He had offered to pour her champagne; she had declined. Not because of the hour, but because she’d always found champagne too light and insubstantial. Instead, she sipped a glass of VSOP.

  “I was on the phone with Danforth within minutes of his swearing in as prime minister,” she said. “He was appointed as the caretaker until his party can elect a new leader.”

  “When will that happen?”

  “Not for another nine months. He assured me we’ll have a softwood lumber agreement stitched up long before then. Even if we don’t, he feels pretty confident that he’ll get the nod from his party to continue on as prime minister. So the softwood deal is pretty much certain.”

  “What’s the president saying?”

  “He’s ecstatic. We’re going to deliver: he’s kept his promises, has a feather in his cap, and those lumber execs are going to open up their coffers to the party — and to the party’s next presidential candidate.”

  “And who might that be?” the ex-congressman said with a wink.

  “Oh, I expect there’ll be hard nomination battle. The Secretary of Defense has been quite aggressive in lobbying the president for his nod. That’s why, before I went up to The Farm, I made sure I got the president to agree that if I secured the softwood lumber deal, I’d have his endorsement.”

  “It’s in the bag, Angela.” Steve Roseau chuckled. “You’re unstoppable.”

  “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, Steve.”

  “Come on, you know whoever the president endorses is a shoe-in for the party’s nomination. And I daresay, for the general election itself.”

  He raised his glass of scotch. “Here’s to the next president of the United States. To the first female president of the United States.”

  Angela Roseau raised her glass and smiled.

  “We have a long way to go, yet,” she said. “The nomination convention is eighteen months away.”

  “The other contenders will envy your luck in getting the endorsement instead of them.”

  “That endorsement didn’t come by luck, Steve. It was an opportunity I had to create myself, something I had to spin out of thin air.

  “Like everyone around the president who figures they’ve got a shot at occupying the Oval Office after him, I, too, have been trying to bend his ear. With scant success up until now. Robert Hutton’s files gave me the big break I desperately needed.

  “If the information Robert passed on to me had fallen into anyone else’s hands, nothing would have come of it. But the instant he mentioned Peabody, I saw how I could turn the whole sorry mess into a solution for so many problems.”

  “President Roseau! Now, there you have two words that belong together. Americans are going to get used to the sound of that.”

  “Oh, I intend that they will. But we’ve got a nomination battle and then an entire election to fight first.”

  Steve Roseau drained his glass and stood up. He had had three straight shots as he had listened to his wife recount the night’s triumph. Now he could barely keep his eyelids open. He staggered to the back of the settee. He slid his hands down along his wife’s arms and squeezed her just above the elbows. Bending over her, he pressed his cheek against her silky hair and his warm breath cascaded over her right ear.

  “That’s my girl,” he said. “Run. Run, and show them what you’ve got.”

  He straightened up and chuckled. “We’ll soon be moving into the White Ho
use.”

  Chapter 113

  The red Lamborgini raced past a slow-moving Alpes-Maritimes bus on the narrow road that wound down from the French mountain village of Lantosque. Since he’d heard that the Canadian official had been shot, Daniel Greene had fled to the Riviera. He had holed up in a small but well-appointed farmhouse high in the hills, and had made himself invisible to the world, particularly to the Verhoevens.

  Now he was headed for Nice, to meet up with Nadia. Things had taken a turn for the worse. But he would let nothing stand in the way of his goals.

  He dialed her cell.

  “Heard from Nazarov and Laschenko?”

  “Not since they left the office.”

  “Damn, they’ve probably gone underground now.”

  “They looked spooked when those men said they were with Scotland Yard.”

  “Damn that Laschenko and his bloody past. I warned them not to let that nonsense about the fake PhDs interfere with my business. I need to get that file.”

  “I’ve tried all the old ways to contact them.”

  “You shouldn’t have let them leave without getting that file.”

  “I’m sorry, Daniel. I couldn’t get you on your mobile.”

  “I was out of range. Service is spotty up in the hills over here.”

  “I tried to ask them about the price, but they insisted on talking with only you.”

  “I would have paid anything, Nadia. Do you realize what we’re sitting on?”

  “I remember translating the word ‘gold’ for you that one time that they showed us the file. But you’ve never really explained.”

  “Gold and uranium occur together. Often one is predominant and the other isn’t in quantities that are economical to extract. But in certain cases, like the mighty Witwatersrand in South Africa for example, you hit the motherlode with both. Magrelma’s property in Syron Lake is one of those cases.”

  “And they never mined gold there?”

  “That’s because the gold seam that was found has been kept secret in that lost file for decades.”

  “Why?”

  “In-fighting in the company. But it means that the opportunity falls to me to develop that gold mine, today. It’s about one tenth the size of the Witwatersrand. Even so, we’re talking about billions of dollars worth here.”

  Greene felt his pulse raise just talking about this. “Things are hot right now, but we can’t let anything stop progress with developing that site.”

  “Yes but, Daniel, I checked, and what Scotland Yard came back and told me is true. It’s on Interpol’s website. You’re wanted for questioning.”

  “Any further information on what for?”

  “The website doesn’t say. All I know is the police told me it’s concerning irregularities in Magrelma’s operations.”

  “It could only be about the spill. Verhoeven and Peabody are probably behind this. I can’t get hold of that bloody Quinn to find out about the tapes.” Greene snorted. “And what about the Dutch freak?”

  “Hans Verhoeven has left five messages since he came by yesterday looking for you.”

  “Don’t want to see that animal ever again. Are you sure no one knows you’ve come to see me?”

  “I chartered the flight over as you instructed. I haven’t noticed anyone following me.”

  “Good. We can do this, Nadia. We’ll find Nazarov and Laschenko and we’ll get that file. You’ll just have to be my proxy and keep behind Maitland so that he doesn’t drop the ball with Syron Lake.”

  “He’s worried. Said he doesn’t understand why you haven’t gotten in touch with the police.”

  “Who the hell cares what he thinks? He knows nothing about what’s really going on here. We just have to work him like a puppet so we can get that gold mine up and running.”

  Greene heard a sigh on the line and it irritated him. “You still with me?”

  “I’m sorry, Daniel, but I’m a bit worried, too.”

  “Don’t go all weak on me, Nadia. I’m trusting you to be steady.”

  She was silent.

  “I’ve had rotten luck with the people I’ve trusted so far. Thought Verhoeven senior was a cool customer when I called in the favor he owed Isaac Greene. Now, he’s after my scalp. That Canadian official turned out to be much more hard-headed than I expected. It’s his greed, plus Quinn and his men proving to be trigger-happy idiots, that’s landed us in this mess. Only the Russian who took out Mahler did exactly what he was supposed to do.”

  The line remained quiet.

  “Hello? You still with me, Nadia?”

  “Yes.”

  “Look, you’ve got to trust me, okay? I know what I’m doing. I can handle this. Okay, so I made some mistakes. I thought using people at the top, Verhoeven and Peabody, that is, would have ensured success. But I’ve learned my lesson. I’ve got to keep things in a tight circle of people I know really well so I can be sure I can rely on them. And I need to be sure that you’re one of them. Are you with me, Nadia?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. I’ll be at the restaurant in ten minutes.”

  Chapter 114

  The Key West airport was throbbing with passengers. With my shorts and fanny pack, and with Parker’s flaming orange and blue, palm-covered shirt, we looked like typical tourists heading home. Except I also wore a neck brace and Parker looked like he’d had an encounter with a shark.

  Bruised and swollen as it was, his was a very manly face — a handsome face, even if sprouting a rough stubble. The injuries gave me an excuse to let my eyes linger there without having to explain myself or look away quickly when his eyes met mine.

  But I was determined not to repeat the last mistake I had made.

  Being cooped up in the FBI safe house had given me time to look back and realize that my heart had been in search of a hero and I had fallen hard for Benoit Dromel on the rebound from two-timing Peter Redmill.

  There were scars from both those disasters that I needed to let heal. So while Parker had shown himself to be a genuine hero, I would not foolishly rush into anything serious again. Where Parker was concerned, I would tread slowly, and, hopefully, more wisely.

  Simmons, who had driven us to the airport, shook my hand briefly. He gave a shallow bow. “All the best to you, my lady.”

  Then he gave Parker a much longer shake, with both hands.

  “So it’s back to quiet, small town life for you guys, then?” the agent said.

  “Back to writing for me,” I said. “And I mean fiction. I think I’ll give writing about radioactive spills a break for a while.”

  “Well, I’m officially on vacation now,” Parker said. “I’ll be sticking around in Syron Lake only long enough to get a doctor’s note for the days I didn’t show up for work.”

  Simmons chuckled. “With the way you look right now, that should be easy.”

  Parker joined in the laughter. “Then it’s off to spend time with the family. Quiet evenings on the patio listening to Aunt Bertha go on about her bunions. Sounds rather appealing now.”

  Simmons slapped Parker on the shoulder.“Wasn’t the best of circumstances, but it was nice meeting….” He furrowed his brow and looked at the television over Parker’s shoulder. It was turned on to CNN.

  “Hold on. I’ve got to see this.” Simmons strode closer to the overhead screen.

  Parker and I followed.

  Overlaying scenes of a wreckage were pictures of a man and a woman. The footage looped between a winding, hillside road and a burnt-out car.

  “French police are saying very little about the incident.” The reporter i
n a trench coat shouted into the microphone that she held. “What we do know, so far, is that the police had received a tip that the driver of the car, Daniel Greene, had been spotted at a restaurant in Nice and that he fled when approached by the police, who were seeking him for questioning.

  “Of, course, as you heard in our earlier report, drivers who were eyewitnesses claimed to have heard a shot or shots fired, then the car exploded and slid off the Moyen Corniche. The charred remains of the vehicle were found in a deep gully with the driver’s body burnt beyond recognition.”

  Simmons’ mouth was open. His eyes seemed glazed over. It was as if he was in a trance as he watched the television.

  The reporter continued.“Now, there’s very little information coming out about the nature of the investigation that led to this encounter with French police. But we are hearing that it had to do with irregularities in the operations of Magrelma Mines, the private mining concern, of which the late Mr Greene was a partner.

  “We also understand that an associate of Mr Greene’s, one Nadia Imre, had exited the restaurant with him at the time he was spotted by the police. She was taken in and questioned, and later released. News has also reached us that Mr Greene’s London apartment has been cordoned off, and that police there have been executing a search since….”

  Parker turned to Simmons.

  “What’s this then, Spike?”

  The FBI agent hunched his shoulders and splayed his fingers.

  Parker wouldn’t let it go. “Williams said the three of them worked for someone in London. This Greene guy, that was him, wasn’t it?”

  Simmons took a step back and held up both hands, showing his palms.

  “Sorry, pal. From hereon, as far as this case is concerned, it’s….” Simmons ran his hand in front of his lips, from left to right, as if closing a zip. “Orders directly from the boss.”