by Jack Bowie
Hoch nodded once. “His name is Adam Braxton. He is the one who exposed the Saracen Worm.”
The man’s eyes grew wide. Then he nodded and smiled. Apparently, this history was sufficient proof of Braxton’s trustworthiness.
Hoch suddenly rose. “It is time for me to leave, Mr. Braxton. I hope Wilhelm will be able to help you.” He paused for a moment, then continued. “Please give my regards to Trevor. And tell him we are now even.” He turned and walked deeper into the park.
There was an awkward silence, then the man spoke. “Why do you wish to find Scheherazade?”
“I only want to find her because she is involved with a man,” Braxton explained. “A very bad person who hurt someone I care about. I do not wish to harm Scheherazade.”
“Who is this other man?”
“I know him as Alfred Whitehead Singer. He—”
“The man with the hollow eyes.” It was a statement, not a question.
“Yes. Do you know him?”
“Years ago, I was a member of a … movement. This man came to us offering assistance. Money for our cause. He called himself Hermann.” The man drifted off into the past. Then his eyes focused and became dark. “He was looking for hackers. I introduced him to Scheherazade. She had just come to Germany. She was my friend. She had not yet become a … legend. But she was very skilled. And very angry.”
“Angry?” Braxton asked.
“Yes. I never learned why. She wears her anger everywhere. That is why she is Goth. But she worked well with Hermann. Your Singer. They seemed to feed off each other’s hate. They gave us much money.”
The man paused again. Braxton realized this was a painful memory.
“We eventually learned the money was from the capitalists. The ones we were fighting. It had all been a game for Hermann. To cause riots and get laws in their favor. And make more money. A friend of mine, Ingrid, discovered this. And Hermann killed her.”
“Do you know where I can find them?”
Teuber hesitated. He looked down before proceeding. “There are rumors. That is all.”
Braxton was desperate. He didn’t care about Slattery. He had to find Singer. “They have a dark web site. Where they sell secrets. I have the URL, but I can’t get in. Could you help me? Find out what it says? I can pay you.”
The man turned away and watched the storm clouds gather over the rooftops. Then he turned back. “No. You do not have to pay me. My name is Wilhelm Teuber. Give me the URL. I will see what I can do. Meet me here tomorrow at noon.” Braxton handed him the slip of paper with the onion URL.
“But first, you must promise to make him pay for what he has done.”
Braxton paused. Is this really what he wanted? The answer was obvious. “I will.”
“Gut. Until tomorrow.” Teuber stood and walked away, leaving Braxton alone on the bench.
* * *
Walker had seen Donnelly enter the afternoon session on “Block Ciphers” but couldn’t bear another two hours in one of those chairs. She found a heavily-cushioned sofa outside the session room, kicked off her heels and put up her feet. May as well be comfortable while she waited.
That was when she received the second text from Fowler. Braxton had turned off his regular phone and was now running rogue in Nuremberg. He was undoubtedly going after Singer.
What the hell is happening?
She nearly called his number, then stopped. If he was worried about being tracked, she couldn’t jeopardize his location. She had been undercover enough times to know you don’t break cover except in an emergency. And they weren’t there yet. Or at least she hoped.
If her boss needed her, he knew where she was.
* * *
Singer laid back on Shahid’s cot, staring blindly into the spider’s web of cables she had strung among the rafters, and let the Oxy deaden the pain. He didn’t even bother going to the doctors any longer. They just looked at him pitifully and shook their heads. As long as he had his dealers, and enough money to pay, he could deal with a little discomfort. And he knew that his final objective was within reach.
If Bullock had been his Savior, then Slattery was his Satan. Singer had first met the agent at the Farm. Even then, he had been a self-righteous ass. Singer had been there to learn how to kill. And he had been an exceptional student. He hadn’t needed Slattery’s morality to tell him how to execute his orders.
Then, after Singer had demonstrated his talents again and again, Slattery had reappeared, ordered to rein in what the hypocrites at Langley had declared to be overly-enthusiastic behavior. Singer hadn’t cared about behavior, he was simply doing what they had taught him to do. What followed had been interminable hours of rehabilitation, and endless sessions with Agency shrinks: sycophants who had never been in the field; never had someone trying to kill them.
Then Slattery had delivered the coup de grâce; Singer had been fired. Once again his family had been ripped from him and he was alone. Well, they discovered the ramifications of that decision.
His cell phone rang and he muttered a curse. He was surprised to see the name of the caller.
“Sallie? What’s wrong? Is Donnelly gone?”
“No. He’s here.” Her voice had its usual annoyed tone. As if he was bothering her with the call. “I just saw him. Looking like a true fatted calf. When is your team arriving?”
Singer had been lining up an appropriate group of contractors all morning. They were reliable mercenaries he had used before for similar missions.
“They will be there in the morning. They know you’re in charge. Just tell them what to do.”
“As long as they do what they’re told, everything will be fine. But there is one new thing.”
“What ‘new thing’? You’re there for Donnelly. That’s it.”
“Yeah, well I’ve also been monitoring the site. How hard do you think it is to watch one damn scientist?”
Singer sighed and let his colleague vent. She always had to make things more difficult than they needed to be.
“There’s a new player trying to hack the site,” Shahid continued. “Someone we know.”
“Who?”
“Someone from The Cause.”
“The Cause” was the name of the radical socialist group he had befriended in Germany, whose goal was the overthrow of what they saw as the increasingly capitalistic federal government. He had funneled money to the group, sourced from a decidedly anti-socialist cabal of industrialists who had a quite different view of federal direction, to support the group’s protests. The whole affair had become a highly visible, and profitable, demonstration of Singer’s covert capabilities.
“Who?” he repeated.
“Teuber. Wilhelm Teuber. I could tell from the tools he used.”
Singer remembered the name. Teuber had been one of the original radicals. He had been a hacker, but not sufficiently talented for Singer’s purposes. He had actually been the one to introduce Singer to his current colleague.
“Why would Teuber try to attack our site? How would he even know about it?”
“I can’t answer the second question, but as to the first, he was Ingrid’s lover.”
Ah yes. Ingrid. An unfortunate casualty of the operation. But she had stuck her nose into prohibited areas. And that had been unacceptable. Teuber’s connection to the woman would explain his actions, if someone had sought him out. Who had set this in motion?
“Where is he now?”
“I thought you might ask. Nuremberg. Not that far away.”
Singer nodded. Time for a short trip. “Send me the details. I think I need to ask Herr Teuber a few questions.”
“Texting them now.”
Chapter 27
Annandale, VA
Saturday, 4:20 p.m.
Fowler knew he had to get this resolved. It had been a long time since his wife had had to put up with over-nighters and she wasn’t pleased. Plus, he was definitely getting too old for such behavior. His bones ached, his eyes burned and what little was
left of his brain was slow and muddled.
But he had also made a commitment to White to relieve the surveillance team over the weekend. So he was back on 495 heading south to meet O’Shea in Annandale. The sky was clear and traffic was light, at least relative to the workweek logjam. Fowler felt relaxed. They were either going to discover what Turner was up to or move on to another Jason.
He had just hit Fairfax when his cell phone rang. The ex-cop had always wanted a pickup, but it had never been practical for a D.C. policeman. Once he retired, however, he had spent his PI income on a new F-150 with all the bells and whistles, including hands-free phone pickup.
He clicked the button on the dash. “Fowler.”
“It’s Darius, Detective Fowler. Mr. White said it would be okay for me to call you. Turner’s on the move. I think he’s heading for the storage unit. Can you meet me there?”
“Absolutely. Be there in ten minutes.”
Finally a break. It was time to find out what this bastard was up to.
Fowler turned up Backlick Road and five minutes later saw the white van sitting in the breakdown lane across from the Safe-T-Store. He pulled up behind, jumped out and walked to the driver’s side of the van. O’Shea had already rolled the window down. Traffic blew by him, ignoring his presence.
“This could be it, Darius,” Fowler said. “When did he arrive?”
“About five minutes ago. I stayed in the van so I wouldn’t lose him if he left.”
Fowler nodded. It had been the right decision, but now they needed more. “How about if I take over following? You go in and see what he’s up to. If you need cover, number 145 is open. I reserved it last week. You could pretend you’re checking it out.”
O’Shea looked uneasy. “You sure, Sam? You gonna be okay?”
“I appreciate your concern, Darius, but I’ve been doing this sort of thing since before you were born. I’ll be fine. Give me a call if you see anything.”
O’Shea nodded. “Okay, good luck.”
Fowler returned to his pickup. O’Shea left the van and walked into the storage yard.
Eight minutes later, Fowler saw Turner’s silver Camry exit the lot and head south on Backlick.
Looks like he’s going back to I-495.
As soon as Fowler had pulled out, his cell rang. It was O’Shea’s number.
“Darius. What did you see?”
“He’s going somewhere special. When he came out, he was all dressed up in a light gray business suit. Has a dark curly-haired wig, neat mustache and goatee. And a heavy pair of tortoise-shell glasses. Even I would have been hard put to recognize him. Where’s he going?”
“Just got on 495 east. Your guess is as good as mine. I’ll call if I need help.”
“Got it, man. Watch your back.”
Fowler stayed on Turner, trying to keep a car or two between him and the Camry. The Jason wasn’t making any of the evasive moves Fowler would have expected if he had been concerned about being followed. He just stayed in the right lane and kept up with the traffic.
They crossed the Woodrow Wilson Bridge across the Potomac into Maryland, as if he was headed back to NRL. But instead of taking I-295 north, Turner took the Harborview Avenue exit. Then he continued on to MGM National Avenue in Oxon Hill.
Fowler turned a corner and their destination became obvious. Ahead was the soaring glass tower of the MGM National Harbor Hotel and Casino. The National Harbor was the newest casino in the area and just a mile from the southern tip of the District. It was a favorite of D.C. politicians, athletes and celebrities.
They turned into the parking garage and Fowler felt a stab of concern. It was Saturday evening and the garage was packed. And so would be the casino, if that was even Turner’s destination. Fowler followed the Camry through the impossible switchbacks of the garage—maybe this pickup hadn’t been a great idea—and watched as it deftly slid into a space on the third level. Still searching for an opening, he screeched his way up to the fifth floor before finding a spot.
Fowler pushed his way into the next elevator to the concourse floor. Looking around, he saw Turner’s curly wig about fifty feet ahead moving toward the casino entrance.
When he finally entered the casino, he was assaulted by bright lights, mirrored ceilings—undoubtedly hiding the ever-present surveillance cameras—and noisy, pushy crowds. And Turner was nowhere to be seen.
Where the hell is he?
Fowler took a breath and scanned the territory. Crowds aside, the casino was very different from those he remembered from his infrequent trips to Las Vegas. The colors were subdued and there was less glitter and flashing neon. Probably in consideration of east-coast conservatism. He was tempted to say more “civilized”, but then took it back when he considered the well-known involvement of organized crime in the gaming industry.
The ubiquitous sexy waitresses were present, looking to keep the clients too drunk to know how much they were losing and, of course, there were no clocks, making it easier to lose yourself in the excitement of gambling.
Walking around, he discovered the casino was laid out to exploit each gambler’s habit: a claustrophobic room with thousands of slot machines, a quieter room for poker and still another for “table” games: blackjack, craps, roulette and even baccarat.
Turner had to be here somewhere. Fowler started in the poker room.
* * *
Fowler spent ten minutes roaming among the poker tables doing his best to look like an interested gambler rather than an over-the-hill cop. Surprisingly, the informality of his dress did not stand out. The casino’s clientele was a mix of young and old, suits and grunge, male and female.
Not seeing any sign of Turner, he finally gave up and moved to the table room. He passed two tables of baccarat and stopped at a roulette table crowded with twenty-somethings. The men all wore dark suits, and the women the same frilly dress, each in a different pastel color. They were all very drunk. Definitely a wedding party.
He hit pay dirt at the next table. Turner and three other players were sitting at a blackjack table surrounded by cheering onlookers. Someone must be doing well. Fowler stayed back sipping a tonic water—the cheapskates hadn’t had Diet Dr. Pepper—taking in the action. That’s when he spotted the other two.
A man and a woman, maybe mid-thirties, dressed conservatively moving in concert around the table. Fowler had seen it before. Most people in crowds moved at random; in and out, left and right, at arbitrary times and arbitrary directions. But a group, no matter how hard they tried, moved together. Maybe not in the same direction, but at the same time. He had seen this pattern in pickpocket gangs in subway stations, shoplifter rings in department stores, and inexperienced surveillance teams on the streets of D.C. Were they watching Turner, waiting for a drop? Why else would the Jason come out to the casino in disguise?
Fowler heard a roar from the crowd and looked to the table. He watched Turner pull in a pile of chips.
The Jason must have a knack for cards.
The man and woman moved to opposite sides of the table, the woman nudging herself into an opening on Turner’s right. Something was about to happen. He stepped in closer, behind the woman.
As Turner selected the chips for his next bet with his left hand, his right slipped into his jacket side pocket. The hand came out, dropped to his side, and opened. Right where the woman had hung her left hand. The exchange was good, not professional, but passable. Fowler had his evidence.
He stepped up and grabbed the woman’s wrist with his right hand, twisting it painfully outward. She squealed and dropped the object into his waiting left hand.
Turner glanced to his right, a look of surprise on his face. Then he looked up at Fowler and the expression turned to fear.
“It’s time you come with me, Dr. Turner,” Fowler whispered in the Jason’s ear. “I don’t think either of us wants any more attention than necessary.”
Turner opened his mouth, but nothing came out. He collected his chips and stood up. The Jason bare
ly came to Fowler’s shoulder.
Fowler grabbed his arm, squeezing as tightly as he could, and directed him to the door. The chatter around the table stopped, then continued as the dealer called for a new deal.
He glanced around. The woman and man were nowhere to be seen. Fowler didn’t care. They would be someone else’s problem.
Years of police training kicked in. He needed to get the suspect out of the casino and into an environment he could control. There were too many people and too many ways to be cornered. He pushed Turner toward the elevator to the garage.
They exited on the fifth floor and Fowler shoved the scientist into the pickup. He drove back down the switch-backs, paid the exorbitant parking fee and headed out MGM National Avenue.
Turner sat silently brooding in the passenger seat.
Anxious to get out the area, Fowler hadn’t been paying attention and missed the left turn to loop back to I-495.
Dammit.
He sped to the next light and took a right onto Oxon Hill Road under the yellow. If he remembered correctly, he could continue down Oxon Hill to National Harbor and hook back up to 495. No big deal. He could do this.
As Fowler straightened after the turn, he checked his rear view mirror and saw a black Mercedes S Class sedan run the red behind him. It seemed odd but not uncommon in the District.
“We’re not going back to the casino?” Turner finally asked.
“Why would we go back to the casino?”
“You’re not from the casino?”
“No. I’m a cop. And you’re going to jail.”
“What?”
Fowler glanced left and saw the Mercedes pulling up. The windows were heavily tinted. It could be some rich celebrity’s. Or something more ominous. He was about to turn away when the passenger window rolled down and an arm emerged holding what looked like a Glock 9mm.
What the hell?
He slammed his foot on the accelerator. The pickup lurched, driving them both back into their seats, and pulled away.
“What’s happening?” Turner screamed.
The Mercedes pulled closer. There was no way he could outrun it. What had he gotten into?