Armstrong watched the choppy surf kicking up the black water. He had spent millions of dollars to find Caspian, and now he had to rely on Smith’s abilities to extract information.
Armstrong didn’t like that at all. Caspian remained a man of mystery. Armstrong wedged the cigar between his teeth and wondered whether or not they were really any closer at all.
67
They lost two hours flying east. The Cessna flew into the fading light of sunset. Coburn was relieved when D.C. at last came into view. He was exhausted. He put the plane down and they stood and stretched and walked around on stiff legs.
It was nearly dark by the time they rented a car.
“Let’s get our room, and then we’ll find someplace to eat,” Coburn said.
Sabrina didn’t argue.
Coburn pulled the rental off the highway at the third hotel in the row. He had no reason other than it looked affordable but not too cheap. He left her in the car and went inside. She turned on the radio and dialed up an alternative rock station.
When Coburn returned with a card key ten minutes later, he was a hundred bucks lighter.
“What sounds tasty?” he asked.
“Chinese.”
Coburn nodded and cut the wheel and accelerated hard into the rush of D.C. traffic. They rolled through a four-way stop and spotted a sign ahead. He wedged the car into a narrow slot in a grungy parking lot. They sat facing each other across a table in a booth and Sabrina ordered for both of them. The dim light hanging above the table was a glass replica of a traditional paper lantern.
They sat in silence for a long minute. Stringed instruments played softly in the background. He closed his eyes. The background music seemed miles away. He sat with his forearms resting on the table. When he opened his eyes Sabrina was staring at him.
“How long were you married?” she asked.
“It lasted ten years.”
“What happened?”
“She wanted more.”
“She left you?”
“She was a local news anchor and met a lot of fascinating people. One of them happened to be a billionaire. She seems happy enough now. He keeps her adequately spoiled.”
“Kids?”
“A daughter. Every bit as beautiful as her mother.”
“What’s her name?”
“Tasha.”
“Cute.”
“What about you? A boyfriend?”
Sabrina hitched her upper body to one side, angling her head to the opposite direction. The glow from the paper lantern on her features was magical.
“There are men in my life,” she said.
“You want a family?”
Her eyes darkened. “I’m not wife material.”
In the D.C. heat, she had removed the hooded sweatshirt and was back in only her tank. Coburn noticed her shoulders. They were toned and feminine and perfect. But there wasn’t much about her that wasn’t toned and feminine and perfect. Just like her sister.
The food was served and they attacked it with chopsticks. Coburn fumbled with the wooden utensils, and though Sabrina managed to suppress a small laugh, her face betrayed her with a smile. Sabrina’s meal was composed mostly of steamed vegetables. She picked at some sort of sprouts and peas. Coburn had ordered a large iced tea. He took a long drink. The spicy pork had made his eyes water.
“Wow, my tongue is officially numb,” he said.
“Sounds like you need to man up.”
She flashed her eyes at him. The moment lingered. Both of them were still starving, but they didn’t finish the meal.
68
They barely made it back to the room. Coburn broke several traffic laws getting back to the hotel. The elevator going up was empty. It was a good thing. They attacked each other the instant the doors shut. Sabrina slammed him against the wall and crushed her mouth into his. She grabbed his neck with both hands and pulled him down to her. He responded by burying his hands in her hair and thrusting his tongue deep inside her mouth. Sabrina gasped.
It was a short ride up the elevator. The doors opened and they stumbled out. Coburn dropped the card key twice - once as he wrestled it out of his pocket and again as he swiped it through the lock on the room door. He grabbed her by the arm and pulled her inside.
The door slammed and Coburn turned and pressed her against it. He mashed his mouth hard against hers. Sabrina parted her lips for him and thrust her tongue between his teeth.
Coburn hooked his hands under the hem of her tank and lifted it up over her head. Her long dark hair funneled through the hole in the tank. Coburn let the tank fall to the floor and land with a whisper in a soft pile of cotton.
69
Afterward, Sabrina lay in bed in only her tank and turned on the TV. Her long dark hair was sweaty and plastered to her flushed face, but she didn’t care. Coburn pulled on his jeans and went down the hall for ice. He was shirtless and barefoot. He carried the little bucket to the machine at the end of the hall and and waited until the plastic liner had reached its capacity. His heart rate had not yet returned to normal.
Back in the room, he set the ice bucket on the nightstand beside the bed. Sabrina was propped up on one elbow with the TV remote in her hand. She was watching a disposable reality show.
“Anything good on?” he asked.
“MTV.”
“When did they stop playing actual music?”
She glanced at him and wrinkled her brow.
“It is music television, right?” he asked.
She turned her eyes back to whatever nonsense was being played out on the screen.
Coburn filled two plastic cups with ice and then topped them with water from the tap in the bathroom. He drained the first drink without coming up for air, then refilled it. He sat on the bed and passed the other cup to her. She took a small sip and then set the cup on the bedspread. It left a wet ring.
“So Brian Ripley was some kind of Special Ops back in the day. What does that have to
do with my sister? Do you think he’s still a Marine?”
“No, I don’t think he is. And I’m still looking for the connection to Courtney.”
“She was nothing more than an expensive escort in New York City. Maybe he wanted sex but didn’t want to pay for it. The answer could boil down to something as simple as a couple thousand bucks.”
“That’s the simplest conclusion, but it’s wrong. He didn’t kill her over money. I think he killed her because she heard me say a name he had buried in an avalanche a decade and a half ago. This is about her learning something about him that he didn’t want her or anyone else to know. Her murder was about information.”
Sabrina raised the plastic cup to her lips, hesitated a moment lost in thought, and then she took a sip. She rested the cup on her naked thigh. A bead of condensation dripped from the cup and traced down one leg to the other.
She used the remote to bump down the volume. She spoke without looking at him.
“What was she doing with him that night? Do you think she knew this guy?”
“No. Maybe Courtney had spoken to him or knew what he looked like and maybe they had even met prior to Monday night, but she didn’t appear to really know him. And another thing I’ve been thinking about, I don’t think she trusted Smith. She might have even been scared of him. Maybe that’s why they met at the bar. It was neutral territory. I think she picked the spot and told him when and where. The bar was full of people. It was a place she likely felt safe.”
Sabrina pushed herself up and sat cross-legged on the bedspread. Coburn thought she looked fabulous in the tank and nothing else.
“You said there was more than one of them, that Smith wasn’t alone.”
Coburn cut a quick glance at the action on TV.
“Smith definitely has a team. I don’t have a good solid count, but I’d guess four or five men, and at least two of them were there that night in the bar. They were the gentlemen who did this to my face.”
“Did Courtney walk into a trap?”
“Yes and no. My guess is that whatever was going on, she had approached it intelligently, but I think she expected Smith to come alone. Maybe she had told him to, but maybe Smith had gone against her will and done things his way because he couldn’t afford to let her slip away, so he brought backup. Maybe he was afraid she would see something she didn’t like and change her mind about whatever it was she’d gone there to do and back out. Smith wasn’t willing to let that happen.”
“This might be a whole lot simpler than that,” Sabrina said. “Smith might just be a pervert. Maybe he wanted rough sex and brought some guys along to make sure she didn’t put up a fight while he got off.”
“ From the looks of it, she didn’t seem to be treating this as business as usual. If Smith was after nothing but rough sex, he wouldn’t have clued her in up front. He would have waited until he had her safely behind a locked door. If Courtney had thought this was about sex she would have met him at a hotel or something, just like Addison did with me. That’s got to be standard practice. Besides, she wasn’t dressed for it. Jeans and a T-shirt and Nikes wouldn’t cut it. She was dressed down.”
“Every guy has a different preference.”
“I can appreciate that, but what she was wearing had nothing to do with a fetish. She was obviously off the clock.”
She shrugged. “The truth is, we don’t know anything about anything. One guess is as good as another.”
“Wrong. There are variables to be considered. All you have to do is study the details and a snapshot starts to develop. Maybe we can’t see the complete picture all at once, but a form is beginning to take shape.”
“Nobody knew Courtney better than me, and suddenly I feel like I didn’t know her at all.”
“I said it before, she was protecting you.”
“You don’t know that,” Sabrina said.
“I’m certain of it. Absolutely positive. Which tells me she was perfectly aware of how dangerous Smith might be.”
Sabrina turned and lay flat on her back with her head on a stack of pillows.
“This friend of yours had better fill in some of the gaps tomorrow about Smith.”
“In a few hours hopefully we will know everything there is to know about Ripley’s short career as a Marine.”
“Do you expect any surprises?”
Coburn shook his head. “I might be shocked but not surprised. Nothing surprises me anymore.”
70
Mr. Armstrong’s mansion was built on an island with an interesting history. At some point the island had been owned by the Federal Government. A small military outpost had been erected during the Civil War, with a tower made of stone and a series of low-lying buildings inside a surrounding wall. A previous owner had brought in heavy equipment and leveled the stone structures and hauled most of it away, so not much of the original fort survived. It had been crude at best, and most of the demolition work was done without any forethought to historical value or the potential for tourist dollars.
When Armstrong designed his home, he had the architects blast into the bedrock to put in a gun range. When they did the blasting, they made an interesting discovery. They found a series of underground tunnels. The tunnels branched out from a central point like the spokes of a wheel. There were five spokes in total. Of the five, four extended outward as far as a couple hundred feet and ended at a stone stairway that led back to the fresh air at the surface. The fifth tunnel, it was eventually discovered, was deeper than the other four. Some nineteenth-century Army engineer had had his hands full. They had blasted through layers of sand and granite and limestone, straight down. Then they turned their efforts due west and blasted their way toward the mainland. The result had been a tunnel extending nearly a mile underwater.
When Armstrong happened upon it, the horizontal shaft was walled up in several places with brick and clay. He had it cleared all the way to the mainland. Then he installed thick metal doors at both ends. The tunnel system was a curiosity and little else. Armstrong had no real use or need for any of it.
The firing range was a long narrow lane cut into the limestone. It was down deep where no sound could escape and was accessible only by elevator. Armstrong had weapons and ammo arranged on a table against a wall. He had already unloaded three clips worth of nine-millimeter rounds into a cardboard target the shape of a human silhouette. A hole the size of a can of peas had been punched through the target’s chest. Armstrong was an expert marksman.
He was prepared to leave the country at a moment’s notice. His Learjet was fueled and waiting at a local airport. He could be anywhere in the world in less than twelve hours. All the necessary paperwork and passports and visas were in order. His equipment and luggage were already loaded on the plane. He could walk out his door and be in the air in twenty minutes.
He was doing his best to remain calm, but he was failing miserably. Folston had convinced him it was important that he remain outside the city while they performed the gruesome task they were trained to do. And Armstrong couldn’t afford to be linked to the torture of someone on American soil. There was no tangible proof, but Armstrong was confident that the Feds were monitoring his activities. The moral of the story was he had to be careful.
But he was coming out of his skin. He wanted to get his hands on Caspian. He wanted to get a firm grip around the man’s throat. He desperately wanted to squeeze down and feel the bones crack and hear him wheeze for breath. Armstrong was confident he could make him talk.
But Folston had been firm.
“There’s no room for emotion,” Folston had said from the beginning. “You would kill him and then you’d have nothing.”
Armstrong had wanted to transport Caspian to his island but Folston had quickly vetoed that notion.
“We will catch him in the city and keep him in the city,” Folston had said. “There is nothing to be gained by moving him around. Too many things can go wrong and we’d have too much exposure.”
Armstrong had listened, but now he was restless. He was tired of waiting. The ground around his feet was littered with spent shell casings. He ejected the empty clip from the pistol grip of a Sig and reeled in the target. He set the Sig on the table and removed his ear protection. This waiting game was driving him mad. He wanted to know what was coming out of Caspian’s mouth. Every word of it. He wanted to know that Smith was accurately conveying every syllable to Folston and that Folston was not leaving out the slightest detail when passing the information along to him.
Armstrong glanced at his watch, and then at his cell. He was tempted to call for an update, but that would only irritate them.
It was getting late.
Armstrong felt the immense temptation to fly his helicopter to Manhattan and watch them take Caspian apart. He wanted to see it with his own eyes, but he did not move. He decided instead to trust Folston and Smith. He would trust that they knew what they were doing. Trust that they possessed the skills to break a man and make him reveal all his secrets, no matter how strong he might be. He would trust them because they were professionals. They did this for a living.
71
Caspian heard the door open and shut several dozen times. The effect was disorienting. There were no voices. All conversation inside the concrete room had ceased. He might have been alone or surrounded by a hundred men. There was no way to know. He was sweating heavily under the bag that was over his head.
So far Caspian was missing the pinky toe and its older brother on both feet. The wounds had been cauterized using an open flame. His captors had done nothing to deaden the pain. His legs were screaming like they’d been set on fire. Caspian longed to sleep but the pain wouldn’t let him.
The door opened and closed and again footsteps shuffled in and out. Then the door opened and closed again and the footsteps orbited him like a satellite moon around a distant planet. Caspian counted the steps and listened. He tried to keep track so he could differentiate and make sense of the sounds and deduce how many men were currently inside th
e room. It was an impossible task because his mind was fuzzy from pain and lack of sleep and overall disorientation.
Footsteps streamed around him toward the front of the room and the door again opened. It slammed shut and the echo rifled off the walls.
Caspian was again left in silence.
Absolute silence. Even the muted hiss of the kerosene lanterns seemed to have faded to nothingness. Perhaps they had run out of fuel, and perhaps the entire room was now draped in total darkness. There was no way to know with the bag over his head.
An hour passed.
“I know what you’re thinking.”
Caspian nearly jumped out of his skin. He jerked, the back legs of the chair lifting off the floor a full inch. He jerked his head side to side finding nothing but continued darkness.
The voice came from behind him. He recognized it.
“Who are you?” Caspian asked.
“My name is Smith.”
“How long have you been here?”
“Quite some time.”
“What do you want with me?”
“Answers to important questions.”
“You are going to kill me no matter what I tell you.”
“You are exactly right,” Smith said. He was standing twelve feet behind Caspian, leaning his back against the wall. “And I know you’ve been thinking that. You have, haven’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Yes, of course, because you are an intelligent man and you understand how the world works.”
A Coleman lantern stood on the floor at Smith’s feet. The flame was turned down so the glow was minimal.
“Aren’t you curious how we found you? Don’t you have a lot of questions of your own? You certainly should, though none of it really matters. I think a man like yourself might find the details interesting, right? You strike me as a man who pays attention to detail. I’ve spent time in your apartment. I’ve seen the proof. You are a meticulous individual. Very impressive.”
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