by Tim Tigner
“Actually that’s part of what I needed to talk to you about,” Wiley said, pulling the chair up beside the bed.
“I owe him an apology. I know. But—”
“Jack’s not your boss anymore,” Wiley interrupted. “He had to resign. Ralph Unger is the new head of Hostage Negotiations.”
Cassi felt the blood draining from her face. “Is that ... Is that my fault?”
Wiley nodded. “Jack took your bullet. But as you know, he was about to retire anyway.”
“And thanks to me, after thirty years of distinguished service he went out under a cloud.” Cassi bowed her head as tears swelled in her eyes. That was a double blow, straight to the heart. She needed some good news. “What happened to the children, to Masha and Zeke?”
As Wiley shook his head, Cassi thought she would faint. She was already numb when he spoke the dreaded words. “They didn’t make it.”
She gripped the rails of her bed like lifelines as Wiley continued. “As you might guess, their deaths have been all over the news.”
Grasping for straws, Cassi asked, “Do we know what happened yet? Why the bomb went off?”
“We don’t. The forensics team thinks it was an accident—homemade plastique is notoriously unstable—but that’s almost irrelevant. This is a political football now, so it’s sensation not science that counts.
“Look, Cassi, I’m sorry to hit you with this first thing after waking up. I thought it was important that you understand what’s going on. The minute word gets out that you are awake, the press are going to be trying to get to you, and they can be pretty slippery. I wanted to make sure that you were forearmed.”
“Thank you,” Cassi mumbled. “So what is going to happen to me?”
“Ralph’s first act in his new role was to place you on thirty-days medical leave and suspend your negotiator status—indefinitely.”
Cassi felt the world closing in on her. The injustice of it all was overwhelming. It was not her fault that an unstable bomb had exploded. She had successfully negotiated Sal out of the room with the children unharmed. Ralph, on the other hand, had blown dozens of cases. This was so unfair. She had—
“Cassi, there’s more.”
“More?”
“I don’t know how to say this other than to come right out with it.” Wiley stood up and began to pace. “Vice President Dish has an inoperable aneurism. He can’t stand with Carver for reelection, and it’s looking like I have a serious shot at his slot.” Wiley bowed his head and spoke with a soft voice. “It’s an opportunity I can’t let sail past.”
Cassi felt the floor giving way, but she managed to hold on. She knew that this discussion, in fact this whole chapter of her life, would only last a few seconds more. Wiley was going to make a run for the White House—and she was now too heavy to carry along. Part of her wanted to scream at him and make him feel bad, but after a moment’s repose she realized that that was the smaller part. In her heart of hearts she hoped he would succeed. She decided to make it easier for him. She said, “I understand. Air Force Two is like the Concorde—you have to check your baggage at the door.”
Chapter 22
Wilmington, Delaware
AVAILING HIMSELF OF the bridging cover provided by his chauffeur’s upheld umbrella, Defcon4 CEO Mark Drake stepped quickly from the portico of his Delaware mansion into the back of his custom Bentley limousine. He had a meeting with the Italian Ambassador that morning and did not want a single drop of October rain to blemish his dove-gray Versace suit.
As he settled into the buttery black leather, the chauffeur pulled the limousine around the circle and headed down the gravel drive. Mark listened to the bulletproof tires crunching out the sound of wealth on the tiny stones. It was music to his ears. The drive to work was often his favorite part of the day. It was forty-five minutes of refined luxury and productive peace.
He plucked the steaming latte from the heated cup-holder in his armrest and savored the day’s first sip. He loved the nutty warmth and the ensuing rush, the more so on dreary mornings like these. He smacked his tongue. Today’s brew left a funny aftertaste. Had William used his own off-the-shelf grounds, rather than the custom order Blue Mountain beans? Drake wondered. He was about to buzz William to lodge a complaint when his eye fell upon a headline on the front page of The Wall Street Journal: Pentagon Budget Woes. He unfolded the crisp paper, swallowed another sip of latte, and began to read.
Some twenty minutes later Mark heard a television monitor spring to life. He looked up to see the limo’s large central screen glowing blue. He reached for the remote control but found the holder empty. Vexed, he pressed a burlwood button and activated the intercom. “I say, William, the tele has just come on and I’m missing the remote.”
William did not reply. That was the problem with these high-technology cars, Mark thought. A twenty-five cent fuse could bring them to their knees. For three hundred thousand you expected better. That thought made him smile proudly. For that amount of money a government did get absolute reliability, in the form of one of his FreedomSeeker missiles.
Only when he glanced out the window to find an unfamiliar road did he get the feeling that something more serious than a technical glitch might be afoot. As if in answer to his unvoiced question, a video began to play. If he’d had any latte left, he would have choked. The screen showed a bulldog of a man hanging on to life at the end of a rope. His toes were barely touching the floor and his hands appeared to be bound behind his back. The man was looking at someone whom Mark guessed to be seated below the camera, although no part of him could be seen. The narrator could, however, be heard. “Aside from a slightly oily sheen, it looks like coffee creamer. Mix it in equal parts with Half-n-Half, add a little artificial flavoring, and it tastes that way too.”
Mark watched the hanging man’s face contort as he reacted to the words. Then Mark heard the narrator describe the chemistry of an explosive he called Creamer. When the description was over, the video paused. Mark wondered if this was some strange form of marketing video, a new explosive for Defcon4 to manufacture. Slipping it into his limo’s DVD was a bit aggressive, but then his was an aggressive business.
Engrossed as he was by the morbid show and tell, Mark had not noticed that his limo had parked. Looking out the window he was surprised to see the Delaware valley below. They were at one of those scenic pull-offs beside a hillside road. It was not very scenic now, however, on account of the rain.
Mark tried the door but it was locked. He pushed the unlock button and found that it had no effect.
Panic seized him.
He pushed the intercom button frantically but received no response. He began screaming William’s name. Nothing. The inescapable conclusion hit him like a punch in the gut. He was a captive, albeit in a burlwood and leather prison.
The video monitor came back to life and Mark refocused his attention on the pitiful wretch hanging by his neck. “Who asked you to do it,” the unseen narrator asked.
The wretch shook his head a few times as though coming to accept his fate. That action must have caused him considerable pain, though he seemed beyond the point of noticing anymore. His neck was already rubbed raw and blood had discolored the bottom of the coarse noose. Finally, the man grew a resigned grimace and looked directly into the lens.
The camera zoomed in.
Mark began to tremble.
The shaking started deep in his bones and worked its way out through his limbs in an uncontrollable spasm. He recognized the face.
The death mask before him belonged to the FBI Commander he had to hire as part of his contribution to Stuart Slider’s scheme. It was the man Wiley had given them to work the inside angle. Potchak.
“Who asked you to do it?” The narrator repeated.
Potchak spoke just two words, but they came out clear and strong. “Mark Drake.”
~ ~ ~
Odi stopped the video. He wished he could have seen Drake’s face at the moment Potchak pronounced his name, b
ut his hidden camera only provided a profile view. He turned to face the rear of the car and lowered the partition half way. The pallid CEO of Defcon4 stared back at him, a look of absolute horror on his aquiline face.
“You’re not William.”
All things considered, Odi found that a ridiculous thing to say. “No, I’m not. Care to guess who I am?”
“No, I don’t care to guess. Now let me out of my car.”
“Let you out? Do you know how many lives were sacrificed to provide you with this opulent ride? The least you can do to respect their memory is to enjoy it.”
“God damn it, I said let me out! I insist that you let me out of here—right now.”
Odi said, “If you don’t adjust your attitude, Drake, you may never leave.” He raised the partition to cut off further protest.
Odi fast forwarded the DVD to the climactic scene and pushed play. The explosion happened so fast that you missed it if you blinked. One second Potchak was there, then you heard a sickening ka-woomf, and the next second you found yourself looking through a misted red lens at an empty pair of boots. After enough time passed for your mind to register what your eyes had not seen, a cloth wiped the lens, providing a clear view of the grisly remains and the blood-drenched, gore-splattered room. The video showed that medieval picture for a full thirty seconds before it stopped.
Odi gave Drake a minute of silence before flicking the intercom switch with his leather-gloved hand. “Potchak got testy too. He didn’t have your advantage though. He didn’t have the visual of what happens to people who don’t fully cooperate. Tell me, Drake, are your fingernails turning blue?”
Again Odi wished he could see Drake’s face, but he did not dare to lower the partition a second time.
“Oh my God. You’ve got to give me the antidote.” His voice was no longer the haughty drone of a faux-British aristocrat. It was a nasal whine born of horrified desperation.
Odi let him dangle for a moment longer at the end of his metaphorical rope and then asked, “Does that mean you’re willing to cooperate fully?”
“Yes, yes, of course I’m willing to cooperate. Just hurry. My fingers. My fingers are already blue.”
Odi smiled. He was not enjoying the violence. He wasn’t the sadistic type. But he loved it when everything went precisely according to plan.
“Who are you working with?”
“Mark Abrams, Mark Rollins, and Wiley Proffitt.” Drake spit out the words as if they were poison.
The first two names Odi had expected. Together with Drake they rounded out the Wall Street darlings known collectively as The Three Marks. The third name stole Odi’s breath away. He was glad that the partition was raised so Drake could not see him shake. Wiley Proffitt was seriously involved with his sister. In fact, if her prediction was correct they were already engaged. What possible motivation could Wiley have for getting in bed with Defense? He had his own island for chrissake, and was the Director of the FBI. What could The Three Marks possibly offer him that he did not already have? “Tell me why,” Odi commanded.
Odi listened to Drake’s panicked account of the defense contractors’ plight, of how the river of cash from the War on Terror was drying up, and they were desperate for another Iraq. It was precisely as Ayden had hypothesized, but Odi still found himself amazed at both the brashness of their plan and the depth of their greed. He was also stunned by the personal connection. The fact that the consortium had selected Wiley for its White-House puppet was an amazing coincidence, and Odi did not believe in those. Drake, however, knew nothing about Cassi. Nor did he recognize Odi’s face or name. The investigation of that coincidence would have to wait.
“Now give me the antidote,” Drake implored, his voice accented by an adolescent crack.
“Coming right up.”
Odi scanned the scenic pull-off again to ensure that they were in fact as alone as you would expect at a location like this come seven A.M. in the rain. They were. He opened the driver’s door and went around to the trunk. He pulled wet-weather clothes on over his chauffer suit and then pulled a small motor scooter from the trunk as Drake pounded away at the windows.
He spoke into the intercom before riding the scooter away with the limo’s keys, leaving Drake locked inside.
“Drake?”
“Yes!”
“Adam Brazer, Flint Mulder, Jeremy Jones, Mitch O’Brian, Derek Doogan, Tony Oritz, and William Waslager.”
“What?!”
“Those are the names of my teammates. Those are the names of the men you killed.”
Drake could not get any paler. He just looked up with pleading eyes, and said, “The antidote … you promised.”
“There is only one antidote for Creamer ... and that antidote is death.”
Chapter 23
The Horus Club, Washington, D.C.
AS THE GRISLY image of Potchak’s boots faded to black, the four men stared silently at the blank screen. They did not know Potchak personally, but they knew Drake. Now they also knew the circumstances of their friend’s grisly end. Now they also understood the true horror of the threat. And so they sat there, motionless, silent. None wanting to meet another’s eye. None wanting confirmation that the nightmare was real.
Wiley was not surprised that it was Stuart who eventually broke the silence, but nonetheless his words left Wiley choking on his Dalwhinnie.
“It must be Odi Carr,” Stuart said.
Every time, Wiley thought, wiping his chin. He does it to me every frigging time. “Why do you say that?”
“Yes, why?” Abrams echoed, incredulity in his voice. “Carr is dead.”
Nestled amidst the sea of embassies in Dumbarton Oaks, the exclusive club Wiley had selected for their meeting was a flashback to a time when men of extraordinary privilege and means routinely gathered to exchange news and talk business at the end of the day over grossly priced brandy, the very best imported cigars, and whatever else men of unlimited means might desire. The only indulgence not offered at The Horus Club was whores. The deficiency was not a morality statement. It was just their stubborn adherence to a policy maintained for over two-hundred years. Horus was for gentlemen only. As General Manager Oliver Appleton loved to point out whenever he could do so with discretion, even Supreme Court Justice Sandra Day O’Conner’s application had been denied.
Abrams turned to Wiley. “You’re sure we can talk here?”
Wiley took a long, contemplative puff on his cigar. He wanted to present himself as cool and composed while his friends were still reeling from the shock of the video. “Absolutely,” he replied, blowing out a long stream of smoke. “The waiters, you know, are all deaf.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Rollins chuffed.
“Not at all,” Wiley said, teasing out the moment by pretending to study his cigar. “They read lips.”
Rollins and Abrams both raised their brows and nodded.
Wiley savored the moment before continuing. “Still, given this day and age, I brought in the Bureau’s best technician one evening to perform a surreptitious electronic sweep. Rives declared the club to be clean as a virgin’s sheets.” The men nodded their approval, teeing up the kicker. “On the way out that evening, Oliver Appleton pulled me aside. Despite Rives’ expertise, his actions had not gone undetected. Oliver told me that he recognized what my guest was doing because he did it himself—twice a day.”
Wiley accepted another round of kudos, noting that even Stuart actually looked impressed for once. “So yes, I am sure that we can talk. Stuart, you were going to tell us why you think our troublemaker is a dead man.”
Stuart took a sip of his twelve-dollar club soda. “Whoever killed Potchak and Drake was obviously very familiar with explosives. I’m no expert, but I work in defense and I’ve never heard of anything like the device that was used. Yet the killer was familiar enough with the explosive to stay in the room. That requires both intimate knowledge and humungous balls.”
“Like the balls of a CRT leader,” Abrams add
ed.
Stuart nodded and continued. “Odi Carr not only has every reason in the world to kill those two men, but he is also one of the world’s leading explosive ordnance technicians. Furthermore, only seven bodies came back from Iran. Potchak assumed that Carr’s body was incinerated in the explosion, given that there were no reports of survivors. In retrospect, I concede that perhaps that was wishful thinking. At the time it seemed the most reasonable conclusion.”
“It still seems a stretch,” Abrams said.
“Perhaps,” Stuart agreed. “But there’s more. I didn’t mention this before, but Potchak actually had to remove Carr from command mid-mission.”
“What?” Wiley asked.
“Apparently Carr figured out that it really was a clinic and not a training camp. When planning the attack, we figured that there would be no activity in the middle of the night, but were unlucky. A peasant boy got his foot blown off harvesting at night and showed up in an ambulance just as Echo Team was prepping for the attack. Anyhow, when Carr’s body was not with the others and not a peep was heard from him, Potchak assumed that he must have tried to rescue some locals and either succumbed to the smoke or got caught up in the blast.”
“That’s a lot of assumptions,” Rollins said.
“He has paid for his mistake,” Wiley replied.
Everyone nodded somberly.
“What about the letter?” Abrams asked after another protracted silence.
“Read it again,” Stuart said. “Aloud.”
Abrams picked up the note that he and Rollins had each received with their copy of the Potchak execution video and read its single sentence. “Come forward, confess all, and resign within twenty-four hours of receiving this, or share the same fate as Potchak and Drake.” Abrams put down the note as everyone pictured the smoking stumps. Then he said, “I don’t see any clues to the author’s identity.”