Mesmerized

by Gayle Lynds

  Turning a page, apparently engrossed in his reading, Hammond spoke softly, in Russian, "It's been a long time."

  "We always know you're there," the balding man answered in Russian. "Tonight. Ten-thirty."

  "Where?"

  "Meteor Express. It handles transportation—trucking, rail, air, that sort of thing." He recited an address in Arlington. "Don't be late." With that warning, the Russian left, his coffee undrunk, the gray steam curling upward like a ghost.

  Hammond, who had never lowered his newspaper, finished his espresso. At last, he folded the paper, placed it neatly on the table, and strolled back out into the Washington night.

  Beth's throat tightened, and she froze, her hand on the telephone. Who was the Russian who had answered? She had a moment of complete panic, and then the terror evaporated and a strange quiet came over her. There must be a real Mikhail. That was it. Probably a coincidence. Mikhail was a common Russian name. Mikhail Gorbachev, the last leader of the Soviet Union. Mikhail Glinka, the father of Russian music. There were hundreds of thousands of boys and men in Russia, and now quite a few in America, named Mikhail—"Michael."

  But now a voice was attached to the phone number. There had to be a simple explanation for why she had known the number, and she intended to find out.

  Because of occasional work for the current administration, Edwards & Bonnett had access to a government online reverse telephone directory, which could be used to backtrack phone numbers and addresses, including those that were unlisted. She keyboarded in her code and looked up the Virginia phone number. Alongside was listed an address in Arlington and the name of a business—Meteor Express—with a brief description. Meteor Express was an international transportation company.

  She did not recognize the name, which was odd. She checked Edwards & Bonnett's database, but according to it, she had never represented Meteor Express and neither had any of the firm's other lawyers. Neither the phone number nor the address was in her personal computer address center or in her Rolodex. In the past, she had worked with several transportation companies as they tried to put together deals in former Communist countries; she had also represented Eastern Bloc businesses involved in oil development, insurance, commercial aircraft, voice and data communications, and even franchises for shops in Moscow's metro stations. Until her heart attack, she had been familiar with every international trading and transportation company in the United States, not just in Washington. But she had never heard of Meteor Express.

  She collapsed back against her chair. The whole thing gave her a hollow feeling. What should she do? Her own voice answered: You'll go home and take care of yourself right now, counselor. That's what you'll do. It's late, and you're off your schedule.

  She grabbed her briefcase, turned off the lights, and headed to the elevator, which took her down to the underground parking garage. As she drove across the lighted metropolis to the historic suburb of Georgetown, where her lavender Victorian sat off N Street, she tried to collect herself. She considered again the telephone number and who the Russian stranger might have been. As she parked her Mercedes and let herself into the house, the Virginia phone number no longer assaulted her brain, yet it left an odd void, like a tooth that had been removed while the ache remained.

  She flung her briefcase onto her desk in her home office. Feeling caged, she stood at her refrigerator and ate. Then she headed down the hall and up the staircase, stripping off her business suit. She passed beautiful hand-carved wainscoting, cove ceilings, and gleaming wood floors, some of the attributes that had attracted her to this lovely old house. But tonight she was lost in thought, her gaze unseeing. In her bedroom she dressed in white cotton trousers and shirt and wondered for the hundredth time about Meteor Express.

  Downstairs in her basement gym, she worked out before a wall of mirrors she'd had installed so she could refine her karate. Eager for endorphins to improve her mood, she kicked and punched. Sweat glistened on her face. Her cheeks turned rosy. Her short blond hair matted against her head. Her hands and feet slashed the air. In the mirror, she was a blond dynamo in white, without an apparent worry in the world.

  She loved karate and had taken to it quickly. Always a runner, she found that her rhythmic pace had translated easily into the fluidity she needed for this new sport. After the first month, she began lifting weights, too, so her upper body would develop strength compatible with that of her legs. Karate had become her exercise of choice, and, as she had told Zach Housley, she would soon earn her black belt.

  An hour later, she felt light and exhilarated, although she had found no answers. Although she had not erased the fact that it was not just any stranger who had answered the phone: The man had had a Russian accent.

  She quit and climbed upstairs, feeling an eerie sense of inevitability. She could ignore this situation no longer. She had to put to rest all the intrusive thoughts and strange ideas that had begun after her surgery. She could not live as if constantly under siege. No one could, not really. Not if they wanted to get out and have a full, interesting life. Then she had an idea: Perhaps if she saw the Meteor Express building, she would recognize it. Determined, she showered, changed clothes, and found her purse. She was going to Meteor Express.

  Special Agent Elias Kirkhart had barely seconds to decide whom to follow from the Adams Morgan coffeehouse—Jeff Hammond or Anatoli Yurimengri.

  It had all begun earlier, when Kirkhart had gotten lucky and pulled into an empty parking space across from The Washington Post. From there he had waited, watching, until at last Hammond had rushed out the newspaper's front entrance. After a brief conversation with another man, Hammond hailed a taxi.

  Kirkhart tailed the first taxi but not the second, losing it finally in the congestion of the downtown streets. He swore aloud in frustration. Hammond was still damn good, he had to admit that, but were Hammond's actions anything more than the automatic precautions of a trained agent? Could Hammond have spotted him? He shook his head. No, he decided. The only mistake he made was coming up with nothing again. It was the downside of intelligence work that movies and novels seldom showed—the monotony, the routine, the endless waiting that were the backbone of an operation's success.

  Kirkhart drove through the District, hoping that, by some miracle, he would spot his quarry. Since he and Hammond had met in the old yavka shopping center a year ago, he had continued to compile information, search the Bureau's archives for blown missions and agents, and send members of his small, undercover team to make random checks on General Berianov and his close associate, Colonel Yurimengri, in case Hammond made contact. There was no news about Ivan Vok either, who was apparently still safely in Russia. An operation like this—finding the traitor who had been riddling the FBI from within for years, perhaps decades—could mean several more years of work. But the mole had to be found.

  Kirkhart took the assignment personally. But then, he always did. The phenomenon of "emotional attachment" happened occasionally in the covert business, most often among field agents. Two years ago he had been warned he might have it. A Bureau shrink explained some agents had a deep need to belong and believe. Then when you added peril and privation, they could go off the deep end, supporting extreme causes and chasing unattainable goals. They said he seemed to fit that profile and he should let them help him get over it.

  It had made him laugh. Because he was frustrated, the idiots wanted to diagnose him with a borderline mental disease. He wondered what they would think now, because he was ready to explode with aggravation. Where in hell had Hammond gone?

  He was continuing to drive haphazardly through downtown, still swearing to himself, when a call came in on his private cell phone.

  "Caligari here, Eli. That Colonel Yurimengri you sent me after is sittin' in a coffee shop in Adams Morgan with some guy. They're not talking to each other so's you can see, but it looks like a secret meet to me. I think the other party's Jeff Hammond."

  As Eli Kirkhart listened to Carlos Caligari's Midwestern dr
awl, he remembered Jeff's complaints about his own accent with its slight tilt toward England. Jeff had always been too critical, and now perhaps that criticism had turned against the United States itself. "Indeed? I'm on my way." This was what made for success, he reminded himself with satisfaction: Preparation. Thoroughness. Persistence. Because he had sent his agents out to watch Berianov and Yurimengri tonight, he had results. Perhaps not what he had expected, but, with luck, maybe something even better.

  He arrived at the coffee shop in Adams Morgan seconds before Yurimengri came out. He had just enough time to determine that the other man was really Jeff Hammond before he had to decide which one to tail. If what he suspected were true, it was more likely Hammond who would have given information to Yurimengri, not the other way around. Now he needed to know where Yurimengri would take it.

  "You follow Hammond," he ordered Caligari. "I'll pick up on Yurimengri."

  Yurimengri proved relatively simple to tail, which surprised Kirkhart. He had never found any KGB man easy. Either Yurimengri thought he had nothing to hide, or Kirkhart had read the situation wrong. Both possibilities worried Kirkhart, since they suggested his quarry was nothing more than what he purported to be now—an American businessman. That might mean Jeff Hammond's connection to the former Soviet official was simply his years-long obsession.

  Kirkhart followed Yurimengri across the Potomac River and into an industrial area of Arlington, where he turned into a drive that ran alongside an aluminum-sided building with two large windows and a glass door in front. The sign on the building read: METEOR EXPRESS, INC. Venetian blinds covered both windows and the door, giving Kirkhart no view inside. A CLOSED sign showed on the door. He parked in the black shadow of a tree, turned off his motor, and waited. No one other than Yurimengri went near the building, and no one left.

  After two hours, he decided to take what he knew back to the Hoover building where he could check out Meteor Express. As he drove away, his cell phone rang again.

  It was Carlos Caligari, making a report: "Hammond went straight as birdshot back to his office."

  "Still there, I presume?"

  "Hasn't come out."

  "Stay where you are. I'll be there shortly."

  When he arrived, he sent Caligari home, and an hour later began to regret it. It was past eight o'clock, and Kirkhart had had no dinner. At nine o'clock, he walked in through the lobby entrance. The security guard at the lobby desk checked his manifest and told him Hammond had signed out. Kirkhart swore again, but not as hard this time. At least he had a lead—Meteor Express.

  Moonlight shone in an unearthly silver glow over the bustling highway into Virginia that Tuesday night. Although it was late—nearly 10:30 P.M.—the perpetual rhythm of the nation's capital seemed to pulse in the streaking red and white lights of vehicles. In her green Mercedes CLK 320, Beth Convey pulled off George Washington Memorial Parkway and headed south. Driving her small but powerful sedan, she passed gaudy strip malls, neon-decorated bars, motels with dirty vacancy signs, dark banks, and fluorescent-lighted gas stations that made her think of Edward Hopper paintings.

  She was resolved. Enough was enough. "So do you know where you are?" she asked her fast-beating heart. A sad and uneasy mood settled over her. She did not recall being in this part of sprawling, unincorporated Arlington, but she had an odd sense she had.

  She cruised past a lumber yard and there it was: An aluminum-sided building with a painted sign attached over the front doors told her she had found Meteor Express. She paused her car on the quiet street in front, hoping for a sense she had been there before, a flash of recognition.

  But all she felt was curiosity. This was the first time she had seen this place, she was sure. As she studied the building, she noticed dim light seeping out around the blinds on the door and two windows. Perhaps a cleaning crew or some ambitious executive. Anyone, it did not matter. She would talk to anyone. She had to know what, if any, connection she had to Meteor Express.

  She parked, got out, and locked her car. This was a light-industrial zone, with other large, warehouse-style buildings dotting the long block. The street was shadowy, and traffic was a distant hum. The spring air smelled of diesel exhaust, like a deserted late-night truck stop in the middle of the Mojave.

  A sense of foreboding fell over her, but she shrugged it away. She had to know. She dropped her keys into her shoulder bag and walked toward the building, where concrete-block planters beneath each window held struggling juniper bushes. She climbed concrete steps and searched all around for a doorbell. There was none, so she knocked on the glass door. She waited. No answer.

  She impatiently tapped her foot then knocked again. Still no response. Around the Venetian blinds she could see what looked like office furniture. At last she tried the door. It was unlocked.

  She pushed it open. "Hello!" She paused in the open doorway and called out again. "Is anyone here?"

  Somewhere a digital clock clicked. The small, colored lights of communications equipment glowed on the shadowy desks behind the counter. She padded forward, her muscles loose, as she had been trained in karate, heading toward a glow of light at the end of the central corridor. She passed closed doors and stepped into a large back room with two more desks—these were wood, far more expensive than the metal ones in front—and more doors. Two desk lamps poured ivory funnels of light onto piles of paper where people had recently been at work.

  It was strange, as if the room had been deserted at a moment's notice. A chill shot up her spine. She was just about to call out again when she heard a low, pained moan. Someone was hurt. Then she saw shoes, toes pointed up, legs spraddled. She pushed aside her nervousness and ran around the first desk to see whether she could help. Behind it lay a man in a pool of blood, a ragged red wound on his white shirt. The primeval odors of blood and sweat assaulted her in a wave of shock. Somehow, they were familiar. Carnal odors she had smelled before. When? Where?

  She rushed to kneel beside him, remembering that just a year ago strangers had saved her life in the courthouse. He was in his late fifties, with cavernous cheeks and gray hair he had kept long at one side to comb up over his bald spot. She was sure she had never seen him. She was equally sure she recognized him.

  She felt another chill. Maybe he was from her nightmares. Yes. She was certain. He had been one of the men sitting around the campfire. A name flashed into her mind. Yuri.

  "Yuri?" she whispered.

  When she said the name, his eyes snapped open. They were glazed and watery, intense. He grabbed her arm and squeezed. " I . . . didn't. . . know."

  As blood bubbled at the corner of his mouth, she heard the faint sound of footsteps somewhere in the distance. In an instant, her trance was over. Somehow she had lulled herself into a dangerous situation. The shooter might still be here.

  "I'm going to phone for help, Yuri. You need a doctor." She tried to pull away, but the man's grip tightened.

  His pale eyes were compelling, demanding she pay attention. He seemed to summon energy. He forced the words out: "I didn't realize about . . . Stone Point . . . West Virginia." It was almost an apology. Seeking the understanding or the forgiveness of whoever he thought she was.

  She asked, "What didn't you know?"

  His hand fell away. His eyes were still open, but the light inside vanished. Flicked off as completely as an electric circuit. Some part of her mind recognized he had just died. She was motionless with horror at his death . . . and then with shock at what she had done by walking in here. How could she have been so careless? So stupid? The man had been murdered, and she could be shortly, too. Was this more insanity from all her medications . . . or from her new, dangerous heart?

  She closed his eyelids, feeling a stab of regret for his death, and jumped up. But in an instant, all her questions evaporated in fear because the footsteps had returned, and this time they were distinct. The door to her right—behind the desk where the dead man lay—swung open. As she turned to leave, she glimpsed someone emerge fro
m the shadows of the darkened doorway, pistol first. The killer.

  Terrified, she sprinted back down the corridor the way she had come. She heard steps pounding after her. Terror clogged her chest. She could hardly breathe. She burst around the desks, tore around the counter, and hit the metal bar on the front door with all her strength. It slammed open, and she was outside, running for her car. For her life.

  She could hear him thundering in pursuit. She called upon all her new muscles and put on a burst of speed. Strange sounds erupted behind her. Sounds she could not quite identify. It could be a violent scuffle, or perhaps her pursuer had stumbled and fallen.

  As she neared the curb, she turned. In the silvery moonlight, she saw his profile clearly. She burned his image into her brain. The killer. He had a straight forehead, an aquiline nose, and a jutting chin. He wore some kind of baseball cap. She would never forget—

  She dug into her purse for her keys and turned to escape to her car. But her foot landed off-balance on the street curb, and she tripped and fell. The street's asphalt seemed to slam upwards. It hit her with the velocity of a speeding car. Violent, throbbing colors assaulted her. Great sheets of blinding green, exploding red, sickening purple, and black . . . deep black . . . endless black . . .

  6

  Beth awoke with a start, drenched with sweat, trying to push a new nightmare from her mind. She threw an arm over her closed eyes. She could see it still in all its horror: The dark night, but an office this time. A Russian again, his face twisted in pain as he died there on the floor. There was a sense of danger everywhere. She remembered the sound of footsteps and the realization they could belong to the murderer. She had rushed away. And he had chased her, faster and faster. She shuddered. Why had the bad dreams not stopped, as Dr. Jackson had promised?