“I like that place,” Ali said as we stood out on the sidewalk.
“I could see that, especially when you ate that chicken foot.”
“I did it.”
“You did it. With style, I might add.”
He liked that and gave me a hug. “I love you, Dad.”
“I love you too, buddy,” I said, hugging him back. “Pickled chicken feet and all.”
CHAPTER
29
AN HOUR LATER , Nana Mama’s kitchen was smelling outrageously good as she and Ali stir-fried the stuffing for the rolls. My cell phone rang.
It was Ned Mahoney.
“Alex?” he said before I could greet him. “You alone?”
“Give me a minute,” I said, and I hit mute. “I have to take this.”
“Dinner’s at seven,” my grandmother said. “Bree said she’d be here by then.”
I went down to my office and shut the door behind me.
“Okay, I’m good,” I said.
“We’ve got a new potential suspect in Senator Walker’s murder case.”
Mahoney went on to describe Viktor Kasimov, a Russian businessman closely allied with the Kremlin. Kasimov acted as an envoy between Washington and Moscow from time to time. Back-channel stuff carried out under a diplomatic passport.
“He’s also a degenerate, a hypocrite, and possibly a rapist.”
Ned said that Kasimov had been a suspect in a string of rapes in the United States and Europe, starting during his graduate years at UCLA. Kasimov was smart, cunning, and unafraid to use cash and lawyers to shut women up, and he used the diplomatic passport to keep himself out of the hands of authorities.
Kasimov was also believed to be a liaison between Moscow and factions in the Middle East who were looking for an arms deal, an accusation he had emphatically denied.
“He’s slippery,” Mahoney said. “Half the time he lives out on a yacht in international waters where he can’t be arrested or detained. Two weeks ago, he made a mistake. After a night of partying in Mexico City, he flew on a private jet to Los Angeles. Guess who was waiting for him.”
“I can’t answer that.”
“California state troopers, the California state attorney general, and Senator Betsy Walker. Seems the last time Kasimov was in town, he forcibly raped Senator Walker’s best friend’s daughter after giving her a date-rape drug.”
I said nothing.
“He squealed diplomatic immunity, but he ended up in LA County Jail. He spent almost a week in there until his army of attorneys paid for by the Russians got some state judge to grant him a two-million-dollar bail.”
“There’s an idiot savant born every minute.”
“You know it. Kasimov came up with a check for the whole nut. No bondsman. But here’s the thing. He left jail seriously pissed off at Betsy Walker. He said that in Russia, she’d be in jail or shot.”
“In that same Russia, he should have his balls chopped off,” I said.
“You’re probably right,” Mahoney said.
“So, let me guess. He skipped bail on the full two million?”
“That’s the thing, Alex. He hasn’t left the country.”
“No surveillance post-release?”
“Sure,” he said. “Kasimov and a small entourage flew domestic charter from LA to DC last week. He had a meeting at the Russian embassy and took a suite at the Mandarin Oriental. He hasn’t been seen outside since. Six days. His people claim he’s fighting a nasty flu he picked up in jail courtesy of Senator Walker.”
“He’s not wearing an ankle bracelet?”
“Not a stipulation of bail.”
“An even more savant judge.”
“Or more corrupt.”
“You think Kasimov was angry enough at Betsy Walker to have killed her?”
“Or have her killed? Yes. That’s the word I’m getting. And there’s another thing.”
“What’s that?”
“He’s a hell of a marksman with rifle and pistol. He came in eleventh overall at the last Olympic Games.”
“Was he in town when Betsy Walker died?”
“He was indeed.”
“Then I think we need to talk with him sooner rather than later.”
“Meet me at the Mandarin in an hour?”
I looked at my watch. It was 6:20.
“Ali and Nana are making a special dinner, and I know Bree would like to be there. Better make it two.”
CHAPTER
30
AT TWENTY PAST eight that evening, Ned Mahoney used a key card we’d gotten from the head of security at the Mandarin Oriental hotel to unlock elevator access to the suites-only fourteenth floor.
The doors shut. My mind was still processing what the security chief had told us.
Kasimov and his entourage of four were occupying the Jefferson Suite: three bedrooms, a kitchen, and a stunning view of the Jefferson Memorial. The Russian businessman had evidently been sick for days with an intestinal bug. A concierge doctor had been making twice-daily calls to his suite, and he was up there now.
Ned, Bree, and I got off on the fourteenth floor. The carpet was lush, like walking on spongy wool, and the air was scented from flowers in a vase on a table opposite the elevator.
“I kind of like this,” Mahoney said. “The ambience.”
“Who wouldn’t?” I said.
Bree laughed and shook her head.
We found the door to the Jefferson Suite and saw that the light near the bell was red, indicating the inhabitants did not wish to be disturbed. Mahoney rang it anyway.
When there was no answer, he rang it again, and then a third time, until a man barked in a thick accent, “Go away.”
“FBI. Open up please,” Mahoney said, showing his credentials through the peephole.
The locks were thrown open and the door moved to reveal a shaved-headed man built like an Olympic weight lifter wearing a pair of bulging gray slacks and a blue dress shirt.
“What do want?” he asked in the same thick accent.
“Who are you, sir?” Mahoney said.
“Boris,” he said.
“We’d like to speak with Mr. Kasimov, Boris.”
“Impossible. He has medical issues. Contagious.”
“We’ll take the chance.”
“No,” Boris said, his eyes dully locked on ours. “He is weak. They’re giving him the IV liquids and drugs. What is this about? More lies?”
“Just a few questions about Senator Walker,” Bree said. “She’s dead.”
Behind Boris, at the other end of the entry hall, a handsome, tall, and athletically built man in his late thirties appeared. He wore a Dallas Cowboys baseball cap over dark wavy hair and carried a large shoulder bag.
“Dr. Winters?” a voice called weakly.
The man in the Cowboys cap stopped and looked back. Another man dressed like Boris appeared, pushing a wheelchair. Kasimov sat in the chair under a blanket. An IV line ran from a pouch on a pole into his arm. He looked like death warmed over.
“Yes, Mr. Kasimov?” the doctor said.
“You will return tomorrow?” the businessman said.
“Yes. But the change in medications should help you tonight.”
“Thank you,” the man behind Kasimov said.
Dr. Winters started toward us again. Mahoney called out, “Mr. Kasimov? I’m with the FBI. Could I have five minutes of your time?”
“I said he’s sick,” Boris said loudly.
Kasimov peered down the hall a moment, blinked slowly, and then said, “No, Boris, let them in. Let’s see what they’re trying to frame me for this time.”
CHAPTER
31
TWO FLOORS BELOW Kasimov’s suite, Martin Franks paced in his room. He whistled that Kansas tune again. Carry on, my wayward son …
He just couldn’t get the damn thing out of his mind.
But every time Franks passed his unmade bed, he glanced at the FedEx envelope lying there, bulging with documents regarding his ta
rget. He was always up for a challenge and never a man rattled by the implications of an assignment.
But this?
This was …
He couldn’t bring himself to say it.
But it was, wasn’t it?
He picked the envelope up, shaking his head in disbelief. I’d never have to work again.
Franks’s heart raced a bit at that thought before excitement was replaced by anxiety. Being a hired gun had made life simpler, turned his darkest impulses clean, orderly, and paid for. What if he stopped after this, made it his last for-hire job?
After several long moments he decided he could stop professionally and yet sate his particular hunger by continuing to look for those moments of chance, those prime targets of opportunity, like the logger.
Franks smiled. The logger .
He closed his eyes and let his mind dwell on the instant where he’d dodged the chain saw and driven the knife deep into the sawyer’s neck.
Wasn’t that something?
But wouldn’t this be something else again?
My biggest Houdini takeout ever.
Franks opened his eyes and read the payment schedule once more. With that kind of money, he could vanish into Bolivia or Uruguay, and …
He shut off that line of dreaming then, turned cold and professional, and forced himself to focus entirely on the assignment and whether or not he could get it done. He started by setting aside the target’s name and title and all the potential implications of the hit.
None of that meant a thing to Franks, at least for the moment. He drew out more documents from the FedEx envelope and studied rather than scanned them, as he had the first time through, seeing patterns and possibilities, the risks and the penalties.
An hour later, Franks believed that he was up to the task from a technical perspective. Only then did he pull out the photographs and biography of his target. Only then did he consider the idea of being tried and hung for his crimes.
Is it worth it?
He immediately knew the money alone was not enough. But Franks closed his eyes and imagined getting the job done and seeing himself slip away clean, and the sum of the payout plus the thrill of achievement was enough.
He opened his eyes. He felt a familiar want tickle and churn in his stomach. He looked to the photographs of his target again and started to whistle the Kansas tune.
In Franks’s mind, the job was already done. He picked up the burn phone from the bed and dialed. The phone rang twice before a computerized voice told him to leave a message at the beep.
“This is Conker, Peter,” Franks said. “I accept.”
CHAPTER
32
SOMEWHERE IN KASIMOV’S suite, a phone rang twice, then stopped.
Boris was unhappy, but stood aside. Dr. Winters nodded to us uncertainly as we passed him in the hall.
Kasimov sagged more than sat in his wheelchair, his eyelids lazy, but he studied us when we held out our credentials.
“What’s this about?” the man behind the wheelchair said.
“And you are?” I asked.
“Nikolai,” he said. “Mr. Kasimov’s personal assistant.”
“I’m not dead, Nikolai,” Kasimov said weakly. “I can answer their questions.”
“I think it is unwise. Better to wait for the attorney.”
“I’ll be the judge of that,” Kasimov said, watching us all closely.
“Where were you around four thirty a.m. the day before yesterday?” I asked.
He let loose a phlegmy chortle. “You mean at the time Senator Walker died?”
“Exactly,” Mahoney said.
“See?” Kasimov said in a weak, sardonic tone. “I told you I’d hear about that sooner or later.”
“Please answer the question,” I said.
Kasimov was obviously not used to being talked to like this and glared at me a moment before saying, “I was in bed, here, Dr. Cross, sicker than a Siberian dog.”
“Can anyone corroborate that?”
Boris raised his hand. So did Nikolai.
Boris said, “And the hotel maid who was sent to clean up. And Dr. Winters.”
“Mr. Kasimov has not left this suite in six days,” Nikolai said.
“What’s got you so sick?” Mahoney said.
“My doctor says flu and food poisoning at the same time,” Kasimov said. “Worst illness I’ve ever had.”
“Did you consider Senator Walker an enemy?” Bree asked.
He coughed a laugh, said, “Certainly not a friend.”
“But you had nothing to do with her death?”
He blinked slowly, then turned his lazy attention on each of us in turn. “I had nothing to do with her death,” he said, and he smiled weakly. “Doesn’t mean I wasn’t happy about it, just that I had zero involvement.”
“Just a coincidence you being in town?” Mahoney said.
“As a matter of fact, yes. I came to visit my embassy, and I got sick. End of story. And now, please, I’ll ask you to leave. I’m feeling the need to sleep. Good night.”
Nikolai turned the wheelchair away from us. Boris gestured toward the door.
We said nothing in the hallway, but I noted the positions of the security cameras before we took the elevator back down to the lobby, again in silence. Only in the crowded lobby near the sound of the piano playing and the hubbub of the bar did we speak.
“He looked like hell,” Mahoney said.
“I agree,” Bree said. “He’s been through something rotten.”
Mahoney gestured ahead toward the lounge. I looked and saw Dr. Winters sitting at the bar drinking a martini and chatting up a very attractive woman whom unfortunately I knew fairly well.
I said, “I have a conflict here. The woman talking to Winters is an active patient of mine. You’re going to have to flush her out of there before I join you.”
“I’m going home,” Bree said. “I’m too wiped out to be much good. Let me know how it goes.”
I gave her a kiss and watched her go. Mahoney walked over and showed his credentials to Dr. Winters and Nina Davis. The Justice Department attorney was dressed for the hunt, her ash-blond hair swept back to reveal her high cheekbones, and her body stuffed into a strapless black cocktail dress that looked like a thousand bucks.
Davis peered at Ned’s badge, listened to him say something, and looked disappointed. She picked up her clutch and slid off the barstool. She moved confidently to the coat check, retrieved a coat, and then spotted me.
“Sorry about that, Nina,” I said, walking up to her. “I’m here with Special Agent Mahoney. My other life. We just needed to talk to the doctor alone.”
Davis watched me a moment, trying to see if I was judging her, then said, “What’s he done?”
“You know him?”
“Sure,” she said. “Chad Winters. He’s an … old acquaintance.”
“Trustworthy?”
She hesitated. “I’d ask the medical board. See you tomorrow afternoon?”
I nodded.
When I reached Mahoney and Winters, the doctor was acting the defensive professional. “There is still such a thing as doctor-patient confidentiality,” he complained.
“We’re not asking about Kasimov’s medical history,” Ned said. “Just trying to corroborate his statements. He says he was sick early Tuesday morning and that you were there.”
“That’s true,” Dr. Winters said. “He was projectile vomiting. High fever. I had to give him a shot of trimethobenzamide so he could keep food down.”
“He said a combination of the flu and food poisoning?” I said.
The doctor nodded. “Simultaneous viral and bacterial infections. He’s over the bacterial thing, but that’s a nasty strain of flu he’s fighting. It’s been a killer across Africa and Asia and can go on for a full two weeks.”
Mahoney and I looked at each other. The Russian’s alibi sounded bombproof. He wasn’t the killer. But he still could have been involved.
“Thank you,
Doctor,” Mahoney said. “We appreciate it, and we’re sorry to interrupt your talk with the lovely lady.”
“No worries,” Dr. Winters said, and he laughed. “That lovely lady’s got a dark side, and it’s probably better for me to keep clear of her, if you know what I mean.”
CHAPTER
33
West Texas
AT THE FIRST hint of dawn on February 3, Dana Potter looked over at Mary. His wife was staring through the windshield of their pickup truck as he drove along a red clay range road that cut through more of that scrubby, broken West Texas country.
The horses shifted in the trailer behind them, causing the truck to sway.
Mary swore under her breath.
“You okay?” Potter asked.
“Just processing,” Mary said, but she didn’t look at him.
“It’s the only answer.”
“I get it, and I’m here, aren’t I?” she said, and she paused to brood. “I just can’t help thinking what we’re risking, eh? We might never see …”
“It’s a job, just like every other job we’ve ever done,” Potter said.
“No, Dana, it’s not.”
“You have to think that way or we should have turned it down.”
There was a silence before she responded with raw emotion, “I love my boy.”
Potter choked up. “And we’re going to get him the help he needs, and then some, give Jesse the life he deserves.”
Mary teared up. “I’m so frightened for him.”
“We do this, he’s got a real chance. You saw the reports.”
“I keep wanting to believe, but …”
“We can do this,” Potter said. “We’re professionals, eh?”
She wiped at her tears and smiled, but it was weak. “Keep reminding me of that over the next two days.”
“Course I will. Just keep thinking: It’s a game. A game we always win. I mean, when it’s come right down to it, have we ever been close to losing?”
Mary smiled more broadly then and shook her head. “Not once.”
Target: Alex Cross Page 9