Mesmerized

by Gayle Lynds

  Faced with that gloomy, probing gaze, Hammond felt a twinge of guilt. Suddenly his favorite herringbone sports jacket was worn and tacky. His hair was too long. The gold earring was definitely over the top. And he had murdered the couple in Stone Point.

  But there were reasons for everything, so he tried, "You're looking good, Ty. Sorry we couldn't be meeting under better circumstances. I assume the Bureau sent you because of your work with the intelligence committee—"

  The senator waved a dismissive hand. "Give me a break, Jeff. You've been up to no good. Your father wouldn't have approved. Your mother's probably rotating in her grave. I was fond of them." His morose eyes hardened. "Can't say I feel the same about you right now."

  "I understand," Hammond said truthfully. "But you're dead wrong on this. I didn't kill those kids."

  "Bullshit. For the good of the Bureau, you've got to be square with me. What in hell are you up to? If there's a shred of a reason . . . something private you're working on? Maybe those kids were into illegal weapons or some kind of sick cult thing. Give me some help here. I want to understand what the situation is, if not with them, then in your mind. If there are extenuating circumstances, perhaps they'll provide a way out of this. Better yet, it'd be good if you've been investigating a national-security news angle that led you into this mess and you can turn it over."

  "I had nothing to do with them or anything in this unfortunate situation. You've got nothing to defend."

  Senator Crocker shook his head sadly. Studying Hammond, he continued, "National security's the ruse Bobby Kelsey used to get control of you before we lost you to the local police. With your security background, Kelsey was rightfully concerned that they not learn any secrets from the past that you might inadvertently reveal. But we've still got to deal with the charges somehow. It'd help if they were involved with terrorists or smuggling. As I recall, you write about that for the newspaper." He paused. "But if you just simply murdered that young man and woman in cold blood, then there's nothing I can or will do to help, and neither will Bobby or the Bureau."

  Hammond shook his head sadly. "So you believe it, too. You've known me all my life, and you think I could do such a thing? I had no reason to shoot them." He hesitated. He had to know: "Just what in hell is the evidence that's got everybody convinced?"

  The senator turned to Chuck Graham. "You didn't tell him?"

  "I was under orders to wait."

  The senator pursed his lips. He walked to the chair between Hammond and Graham and sat. He leaned forward, his bare forearms resting on his light-colored trousers. He delivered the bad news. "Jeff, they've got two fingerprints from the windowsill where the killer shot. Your fingerprints. Clear as a bell."

  "That's crap!" Hammond said angrily. "How could that be? It's impossible!"

  The senator sighed. "There's no other rational explanation for your prints to be at the murder scene, except that you killed them . . . or know who did."

  "There has to be, because I wasn't there and I didn't do it. Hell, I don't even know where that girl lived!"

  "The police picked up the prints, wired them to the Bureau for identification, and they were yours. No question about it. The DNA results will be in next week from the skin oils. We both know they'll match." The senator sat back and shook his snowy head. "You're not doing yourself any good denying it. The parents of the dead boy showed up at the Hoover building yesterday to make statements, too. They were pretty broken up, but they managed to say he'd been in and out of trouble since he was a juvenile, which we'd already discovered. They also said he'd been worried recently about some tall man who'd been threatening him. Somebody who used to be FBI and now worked for The Washington Post. This man wanted him to lie about drug use for a story he was working on. The boy's juvenile trouble all had to do with drugs."

  "Let me guess," Hammond said, disgusted. "Some guy named Hammond."

  "Right. How do you explain that away?"

  "The parents are lying. Or the boy was. It's obviously some kind of setup. I can't explain it any more than that."

  "Then how did your prints get there?" The senator's eyes glinted with disappointed anger.

  As a knock sounded on the door, Hammond said, "If it made sense to me, I'd tell you. I don't write drug stories. Not my beat. Check on it. And I didn't kill those kids. All I know is I've been doing my job at the Post, minding my own business, and all of a sudden I'm on my way to the electric chair for two murders I didn't commit. Or does West Virginia hang or use lethal injection? I don't know. It's absurd. Preposterous!"

  "It's not preposterous," the senator corrected. "It's evidence." The knock sounded on the door again. "Come in, Joyce."

  The door to the hallway opened, and the woman with the wild hair pulled up into a messy bun swayed into the room, carrying a silver tray on which sat an ornate tea service. Her tiger-striped wrap was gone, replaced by an Indian-print blouse, pantaloons, and sandals. Just the right touch for colorful Adams Morgan.

  Chuck Graham frowned. "Joyce, this is Jeff Hammond, our 'guest' for a few days. Don't fall for any of his tricks. He used to be one of the best. Consider him dangerous."

  "So I hear." She glanced curiously at Hammond and deposited the tray on the round coffee table. "Tea's ready. I'd pour, but I've got work to do. Can you manage?"

  Senator Crocker was already leaning over to pick up the tea strainer. "Be happy to handle this."

  Hammond watched. His stomach was sour, and he had a disquieting feeling the world had gone haywire. He had learned everything he could here. It was time to try to escape despite his fear there was no way to get safely from the house.

  Still, he said innocently, "I need to use the bathroom, Joyce. Would you kindly point me in the right direction?"

  "Very funny," Graham grumbled. "I'll take you."

  Hammond marched out into the paneled hall, Graham close behind. As the door guard slipped his hand into his jacket to find his weapon, Hammond turned left, heading back in the direction from which they had entered.

  "That's it," Graham directed. "Last door on the left."

  Hammond opened it and quickly scrutinized the interior for the sign he desperately hoped was waiting for him. There was nothing. Hiding his worry, he said, "Thanks. Are you coming in, too? You'll notice there's no window, but I suppose there's always the possibility I could escape by dematerializing."

  Graham's gaze narrowed. He studied Hammond, then looked around inside the small guest bath. He even checked the toilet tank for a hidden weapon. "Guess you're not going anywhere, but don't lock the door. You've got five minutes."

  As soon as the door closed, Hammond examined the walls for a mark of some kind. Anxiously, he checked the wood floor. The plaster ceiling. It had probably been difficult, maybe impossible, to create an escape route here. But his orders had been to find the nearest bathroom if he should be captured by the Bureau. In his secret line of work, there were few backup plans. He hoped like hell this one at least was in place.

  His head was beginning to pound. Then he saw it: Chalk on the wood panel behind the toilet bowl, where the plumbing was. It was unobtrusive, the brown color almost invisible against the old walnut paneling. His chest contracted with excitement. He quickly wiped away the chalk, took out a dime, and turned the screw at the bottom of the panel. He flushed the toilet. They should think he was doing what he was supposed to be doing in here.

  Two more screws, and the panel swung free, hinged at the top. Working quickly, he slid back away from the toilet and pulled up a piece of the wood floor. It had been cut recently, and the removal of it and the panel made an opening that was just large enough for him. A musky odor of soil and cobwebs drifted up. Here was an escape route under the house that would avoid the Fort Knox surveillance and armaments. He worked for a damn smart man. But he had to hurry. Graham was already suspicious.

  The agent's voice thundered outside the door. "Hammond! Your five minutes are up." Graham had given him one break. There would be no other. "Come out of t
here!"

  "Hey, I'll be out. One more lousy minute." Sweat beaded up on his face. Silently, he lowered his feet into the hole, eased past the plumbing, braced, and reached back up. With one hand he held up the panel, and with the other he shoved the piece of flooring back where it belonged. Then he let the panel swing quietly back into place, and he dropped down to the ground.

  20

  Hammond landed on his haunches in the dirt. The house had only a half-basement, and he had dropped into what was the remaining crawl space, with a ceiling so low he could not stand erect. To his right was a concrete block wall, but to his left was a gift: About a foot away lay a flashlight. His boss was not only smart, he was thoughtful.

  The roar above his head, muffled through the floor of the bathroom, was still volcanic. Graham's voice bellowed: "Hammond! Goddammit, the bastard's gone. Keller! Joyce! Ray! Get back here! Everyone, he's busted out!"

  He had to move. And fast. But where? As dirt and sawdust rained lightly onto his head from the floorboards above, he lit the flashlight and directed it through the dusty mist at the exposed beams. That's when he saw a white chalk mark, spectral on a support post ahead, and another, fainter, on a post in the darkness beyond. The odors of mold and spiders made his nose itch, and he fought off a need to sneeze as he swiftly duck-walked, following the trail of white marks beneath wood beams where telephone, television, and security cables were tacked, heading toward what he thought must be the rear of the townhouse.

  Above him, feet pounded in the bathroom, searching for him and how he had gotten out. Overhead in what might be the hallway, other footsteps thundered. His pursuers were fanning out. He broke into a sweat. His quadriceps burned. He pinched his nose to stop the infernal itching and hurried past more plumbing and piles of dirt. There were no spiderwebs interfering with his journey, which told him this was a recently checked route.

  He aimed the flashlight up. There was dirt overhead now, where a hole large enough for a man to squeeze through had been dug. Something wooden was sitting on top of it, and there was another white-chalk checkmark on the wood. He reached up and tested. The wood panel was heavy, but it moved. He slid it aside a few inches, allowing in fresh air. There was a heavy object sitting on top of it. As he carefully shoved the cover farther aside, metal clanked. He nodded to himself. It had to be a metal trash can. When they had arrived, he had seen the cans sitting in the alley on a strip of lawn beside the garage, waiting for pickup.

  Behind him, where the house stood, footfalls still boomed and echoed across the raised-wood foundation. They were hunting for him, and it was only a matter of time until they found his route or they spilled out of the townhouse to search.

  He shoved the can aside, jumped up, and pulled himself out of the hole into the fresh air. Birds sang, and in the distance he could hear traffic. He gazed around at the quiet alley with its high fences and the occasional parked car.

  He glanced back and saw the garage door to the safe house was rising. Black wingtip shoes came into view. They were polished to a high military sheen. Probably Graham. His pulse throbbing, Hammond rammed the can back over the hole, glanced left and right along the alley, and dashed to the right, the shortest way to the street.

  "Hammond! Stop!" Graham's shout shattered the quiet morning air. Rage was in every syllable.

  But Hammond kept running. Behind him, he heard a quiet pop. Concrete spat up in tiny chunks next to his right foot. Graham had screwed on a silencer and was shooting. But silencers were notorious for ruining aim, particularly when firing from a distance. It gave Hammond a chance.

  Sweat poured off his face. He had been a tailback at Harvard, a runner whose speed was far beyond that of most men his size. He sprinted. Pop. Pop. Pop. The bullets rammed into the last fence as Hammond rounded it, tore out into the street, and dashed between the line of parked cars and traffic. Horns honked. He had to disappear before Graham caught sight of him again.

  Breathing hard, he glanced back over his shoulder. And with relief saw it was there: A black Cadillac with darkened windows. It purred up to him, the back door swung open, and Hammond jumped into the dim interior. Cigarette smoke wafted from the front seat and stung his nostrils.

  Hammond fell into the couchlike rear seat behind his boss. "What in hell's going on, Bobby?"

  Bobby Kelsey swung the Caddy into traffic and glanced up at Hammond in the rearview mirror. Kelsey was the assistant director of the FBI's National Security Division, the nation's top agency for uncovering and stopping foreign spies and terrorists, and as such he also oversaw the FCI—the Foreign Counterintelligence Program. He and Hammond were the car's only occupants, but that was to be expected. Only three people were privy to the highly secret fact that Hammond was actually still on the job and working directly under Kelsey—Hammond, Kelsey, and the FBI director himself, Thomas Horn.

  As the Caddy accelerated, blending in with other vehicles on the busy street, Kelsey said, "After all these years, you still surprise me, Jeff. The first thing I expected to hear was 'thank you.' I went to a hell of a lot of trouble setting up that escape route. Crawling around under a house isn't my speciality." He stared up into his rearview mirror again. "You look like the devil." His hand moved the cigarette languidly to his mouth, and he took in Hammond with an unhurried, analytical gaze as he smoked. He had graying red hair combed back from his forehead and a short, upturned Irish nose.

  Hammond touched his stinging cheek and gazed at his fingers. Blood. Probably from one of the last three bullets that had hit the fence and sprayed out slivers of wood. He had not felt the little needle-like wounds at the time.

  "Yeah. Well, all in the line of duty." He took out a handkerchief and mopped his face. "How come you let them take me to an armed camp like that safe house? Wasn't there some other way to handle this?"

  Kelsey's voice was hard. "Look, Jeff, I played the national-security card. Be grateful. But that's all I had time for. Once the lab ID'd you, I couldn't interfere more without raising questions." He sped the car away around a corner. "You do owe me an explanation. Did you kill that couple in Stone Point?"

  "Come on, Bobby. It's bullshit. You know that." Hammond repeated the events of the last two days, everything from Colonel Yurimengri's death to meeting Beth Convey and his search in Stone Point for General Berianov. "You've got to call off the hunt for me. How am I supposed to do my job with the Bureau in hot pursuit? I've got to find Berianov!"

  For Hammond, Alexei Berianov had always been the key. It all began back in 1991 as the dying Soviet Union was breathing its last, and the trickle of defecting spies fleeing the political carnage increased to a flood. Many were the best of the KGB, ranging from in-the-know bureaucrats to star operatives who had trained in the highly secret Soviet tradecraft camps.

  In the beginning, the West was thrilled to be harvesting this golden espionage crop. Just four years earlier, even two years earlier, the United States would have done anything, gone anywhere, risked more than was sensible to get any one of these prime sources.

  But by the time September 1991 rolled around, each new defector was costing the U.S. government at least $1 million to debrief and resettle, and many were merely repeating what others had already revealed, a waste of time and money. There was also the question of how much of this information the West really needed now that the Cold War was over. And finally, there was the dirty secret no one wanted to acknowledge: The debriefers were tired and bored. They were not interrogating the newcomers as thoroughly as they had those who had arrived in earlier waves. There just did not seem much point to it any longer, and they were eagerly looking around for more interesting assignments or, better yet, a long vacation.

  All these reasons contributed to the joint FBI-CIA team leaders' decision to release Berianov, Yurimengri, and Ogust after only three weeks. Hammond had objected. When he was ignored, he filed a formal protest and request that they be held for further interrogation.

  Everything about the three men's escape from Moscow reeked, as far
as Hammond was concerned. They had left the chaotic city together the month before, in August, during the hard-liners' failed coup from which New Russia eventually arose. Not only were Berianov, Yurimengri, and Ogust among the highest-placed intelligence officials America had ever taken in, they had also accomplished their escapes at an extraordinarily convenient moment to themselves. At first this detail had merely intrigued Hammond, but the more he questioned them, the more he was convinced their emigration was too convenient. They were holding back. Something else was going on, something they had planned, something dangerous to the United States.

  But Alexei Berianov had been the next-to-last leader of the KGB's feared Department Eight special forces, and because of his special knowledge he had been able to offer his debriefers a sweetener to make certain he and his comrades were released from interrogation early. He promised tantalizing details of a longtime double agent in the CIA, a clandestine turncoat responsible for mammoth leaks to the old Soviet Union and for the tragic executions of many dedicated spies who had worked for the United States. Not since Benedict Arnold had America had such a treasonous spy hidden in its bosom, Berianov promised.

  Neither the CIA nor the FBI could resist. So Berianov divulged the man's name, a list of secret drops, the numbers of a Swiss bank account, and details of an ultrasecret mission against Saddam Hussein that no one in the room knew a thing about. That was the beginning of the end for CIA agent Aldrich ("Rick") Ames, who had a drinking problem, a spendthrift wife, and a bank account far too large for his income. Excited because so much was explained if Rick Ames really was a traitor, the FBI soon verified enough—including the operation against Hussein—to know the case had merit. At which point, with their gratitude, they released the three KGB defectors.