by Gayle Lynds
His herringbone jacket flapping behind, he ran up an alley. He had slept off and on during the car ride last night, but he was tired. By an act of will he kept himself going and alert. Not only had he been trained to work long, exhausting hours, he was also driven. At the alley's mouth, he stopped.
The woman sitting on a bus bench caught his attention first. She made the mistake of letting two buses go past, which was no indication in itself, but her complete lack of interest in reading the destinations of each was suspicious. Plus her gaze was constantly moving. She missed nothing. Her partner was across the street and two doors away. He was sweeping the sidewalk with a long-handled broom, just another neighbor taking care of business. But he swept the same patch twice, and he and the woman exchanged just enough glances to confirm Hammond's suspicions.
They, too, were something other than FBI. Anyone from the Bureau would be better trained. Evidently Bobby Kelsey had managed to cool the Bureau's ardor for him. So who was this pair? They could be local police, alerted by West Virginia's finest, he decided. Or they could be people associated with whoever had taken over Berianov's mission. They could also be someone else . . . but who? Both his home and his office were being surveilled, which constituted a warning he took seriously.
Since Berianov was dead, he had agreed to look into this mysterious terrorist plot that might ignite at any moment. But now he could not get to his notes, his computer, or his phone at the Post or at home. He gave his condo one longing look, turned, and trotted away down the alley, mulling the situation.
Hammond liked to think of himself as simple—simple of heart, simple in his goals. But the truth was that ever since he had gone underground for Bobby Kelsey, he had found himself living a life that had eventually made him question everything he had ever believed about himself.
The first casualty had been his marriage, which ended in divorce. Then his friends at the Bureau cut him off, and he never really made any close ones at the newspaper. His parents had died disappointed in him for having walked away from an honorable career in the service of his country. The money he inherited seemed meaningless. A series of girlfriends convinced him there was no way he could ever make a commitment to marriage again. And, perhaps worst of all, he had a sister living near Yosemite with her family, and he had neither seen nor spoken to her in five years, and it was his fault.
In the end, when he could tell no one what he was really doing, the lies in his life became his life, and he was left with a sham existence he kept running faster and faster to legitimatize. His one solace was that he had been able to feed Bobby Kelsey vital information that had revealed double agents within the government. That was satisfying. And in the beginning, he thought that would be enough.
Now despite Kelsey's new assignment to expose some unknown impending terrorist act, Hammond was still hooked on Berianov, Yurimengri, and Ogust. All three were dead, but Hammond was dissatisfied. Of course, he would do what Kelsey wanted. He would cajole, threaten, and mine his sources for information. But at the same time, he was not going to give up on the three defectors. He could not. To stop chasing them or their inheritors would be to turn his back on what had propelled him to go undercover in the first place, which had made him end up with this life that was no life.
He hailed another taxi and directed it to two businesses run by expatriate Russians—a restaurant and a mobile phone company. He took his contacts aside at each, good men who were assets to their communities and to America, but neither had heard anything that hinted at a terrorist plot. Then as he was just about to leave the phone company, one of the employees switched the channel of the TV on the wall to local news. With a shock, he saw his photo appear with a phone number under it.
He had taken off his sunglasses, and his face was fully exposed. The employee stared at the TV and then at Hammond.
His throat tight with anger, Hammond slapped on his sunglasses, ran into the street, and stopped a taxi. Kelsey's damage control could extend only so far. The West Virginia police intended to find and arrest him, and now the entire District knew it. He was very publicly a wanted man. Which explained the stakeouts at his condo and office. Probably local police or the West Virginia cops.
In the cab, he gave the driver Beth Convey's address in Georgetown. The police would not be there, and it was time to find out why she had really gone to meet Yurimengri. After all, it was his dying words that had sent Hammond to West Virginia.
At Berianov's house, Beth found her car untouched, sitting exactly where she had parked it in the driveway. After seeing the shambles the intruder had made of the house, the car's pristine condition was another surprise. She unlocked the door, started the engine, and drove away through Chevy Chase's bustling morning traffic. As she passed large residences set back on sloping green lawns, she watched for the big black Chevy van that had pursued Stephanie and her last night.
Then she had an encouraging thought. Maybe the police had found the black van. Maybe they had arrested Jeff Hammond. She turned on her favorite all-talk radio station and listened to the news at the top of the hour. The announcer was reporting the imminent arrival of the Russian president, at the personal invitation of President James Emmet Stevens. Stevens had made the gesture one of his first steps in fulfilling his campaign promise of global involvement. He was enthusiastic about the visit, saying he hoped to convince Vladimir Putin to join fully the democratic camp—"to bring an old Communist in from the cold," as he jovially put it.
The radio announcer changed subjects to report two murders in Southeast Washington, a new Medicare bill before the house, and—she straightened up, alert—a blazing, one-car crash in Virginia. The police had not yet released the names of those who had died. She had hoped someone had reported the black van, too, and that the driver had been apprehended. But the sound bite ended without the mention of another vehicle.
She wiped tears from her eyes so she could see to drive. Hearing the bare facts in the announcer's dispassionate voice had touched a well of grief as she thought about Stephanie Smith. She pressed her lips together, willing the tears to stop. Since the police had not released who or even how many had died in the fire, Hammond would still believe she was out of the way. Which meant she could go home and regroup.
Then she heard his name on the news: " . . . wanted for the murders of a teenager and her boyfriend in Stone Point, West Virginia. Hammond is white, six-foot-three, about two hundred twenty pounds, with long brown hair. According to reliable sources, he was fired from the FBI ten years ago. Shortly afterwards, he went to work as a reporter for The Washington Post. Anyone with information about his whereabouts is asked to . . . "
Beth's breathing grew shallow. Just yesterday she had walked down the sidewalk with Hammond, talking blithely, until she had recognized him. Now she knew she had been right. He killed Yurimengri, and he killed two young people in that little town in West Virginia. Maybe he finally realized she had seen him at Yurimengri's death scene, and, as she suspected, it had been him in the black van last night. She found herself clenching her teeth, at first fighting rage, then allowing it to rise and sweep through her. The bastard.
In Georgetown, Nikolai Fedorov slumped unobtrusively behind the driver's wheel in another stolen vehicle, this one a Ford station wagon, near Beth Convey's house. He had abandoned the black van in the vast parking lot of the Pentagon mall. Now with this dirty yellow Ford wagon, bearing Maryland plates from yet another vehicle, Convey had no way to identify him. Ivan Vok had also stationed people outside her law office, her last boyfriend's condominium, and two residences of colleagues from work, but knowing what they did about Convey, Fedorov believed home was where she would go if she thought she were safe.
Ivan Vok had assigned people to watch Jeff Hammond's regular haunts, too. He had faxed photos of both Convey and the newsman to all their people. Vok had warned everyone they must be careful of Hammond, since he was another professional. Fedorov was not certain why the Post man had to be eliminated, but he looked forwa
rd to it in much the same way he imagined an American businessman enjoyed toppling a foreign competitor.
Tiredly he took a small pillbox from his shirt pocket and opened it. He had nodded off several times in the past hour. As he tossed a caffeine tablet into his mouth, he glanced down at the floor of the passenger side where his black tradecraft cases sat, and then at his lap where his PSG1 sniper rifle lay—long, beautiful, and powerful. It was by the German manufacturer Heckler & Koch. He prized its adjustability, itsbig 6X42 telescope with illuminated graticule, and its outstanding accuracy. With it, he could shoot an impressive fifty rounds of match ammunition inside an 80mm circle at three hundred meters. Assessing it all now was an automatic response on his part: Having his tools close at hand was his only safety net.
Today he was dressed in an ordinary sports jacket and trousers. As the bitter taste of the caffeine tablet soaked into his mouth, he glanced into his rearview mirror. Still no sign of Convey. He was restless, on edge. He knew from the tone of Berianov's voice that this was his last chance. If he failed again . . . Berianov might send Ivan Vok to kill him. He tried to repress his fear, but he was terrified of the brutal man. Even if Berianov did not send Vok, Fedorov knew his punishment would be severe.
He fought off a sense of desperation. He'd had enough of waiting in the car. The residential street had quieted, so he slid his cell phone into his jacket pocket, picked up his H&K sniper rifle, and slipped from the car, across the sidewalk, and into a stand of trees near which he had deliberately parked. The trees were in an open area between two large properties, perfect for his purposes. He melted in among the foliage until he was about six feet from the sidewalk. From here he could clearly see Convey's Victorian. He studied it through the rifle's telescope.
He leaned back against a tree, a bush shielding him from the sidewalk. Birds twittered and called. Some small animal skittered through dry leaves. Sunbeams danced in golden shafts down through the trees. He registered the information, then discarded it. He was a man with a mission, a man whose fascination with killing had given his life purpose, and he looked forward to watching his high-velocity bullet bring the annoying Beth Convey down.
Jeff Hammond had developed many healthy habits over the years. At the top of the list was discretion, which he planned to put into full force from now on. As usual, he'd had the taxi driver drop him off two blocks from his destination—Beth Convey's house. It was midmorning, and the April sun beat down with enthusiasm, glancing off east-facing windowpanes along the street and sending long, cool shadows from the other side.
He chose the sidewalk that had been made safer by its shadows. As he walked past stately homes with filigreed front porches and pointed roofs, he slapped on his baseball cap and tucked his ponytail up inside. He removed his gold earring, which had showed prominently in the newscast photo. There was nothing he could do about his size or face right now, although wearing the sunglasses helped. And he did have the 9mm Beretta tucked under his arm. All in all, he felt mildly optimistic.
He passed a lawn where a young cherry tree was in flower, its roots encircled in red brick. Georgetown had a distinct ambience to it, a blend of history and affluence. But right now, as his sharp gaze scoured for surveillance, it seemed ripe with incipient danger. There were a handful of cars parked on the street, but none was occupied. He could see no signs the block was being watched. He heaved a sigh of relief as he noted ahead a lavender Victorian—a three-story, rococo grande dame—and he knew from the way the house numbers were running that it had to be Convey's place.
He almost shook his head. Who would have believed such an uptight lawyer would have a purple house? It almost made him like her. And then, too, being particularly fond of legs, he had to admit she had fine ones, plus a few other traits he found attractive. But a purple house . . . he would have to think about that for a while.
He was wondering why she had made up that cock-and-bull story about a client being interested in buying the Meteor Express building, when he noticed her green Mercedes round the corner and turn onto the street, heading toward her house.
Again he scrutinized everywhere for danger. As he passed a stand of trees, she pulled into her driveway. He saw her blond head emerge, then that knock-out face. She was obviously exhausted and looked as if she could have been in a fight. Somehow he liked that about her, too.
Her furious voice carried down the block and across the street to Hammond's ears. "Phil! What are you doing here? Go away! This isn't your weekend pad anymore, I have nothing to say to you, and I'm not remotely interested in anything you could possibly say!"
Hammond stopped to watch, surprised. Weekend pad? They'd been lovers? The man must have been waiting behind her house. He was tall and well-built, charging out with his shoulders as if he owned not only Convey but the world, or at least thought he ought to. By his expensive, tailored suit, Hammond figured he was another lawyer or some professional who placed a lot of importance on his monetary aspirations. The man's expression was grim, but his face was handsome, if you liked the pretty-boy type. Hammond strained to hear his voice.
It was low and furious. "You've gone too far this time, Beth. You should've given that list of names directly to me. There are ethics involved here. I'm her lawyer. You know damn well all her legal business goes through me first. I'm going to haul you up before the bar. You've gotten too damn sleazy!"
What Hammond really disliked was the fellow's irritating air of familiarity. Hammond was just about to trot over to see whether he could assist her when his peripheral vision caught movement in the trees beside him. Birds had been singing, but now the little woods was quiet. The movement had been slight, and it came from behind him. A shaft of sunlight had glinted off what could have been metal somewhere in the foliage. But the reflection was high off the ground, not from the duff, where you would expect to find a lost mirror or a discarded metallic candy wrapper. In fact, it was shoulder height.
Alarms went off in his head. He swiveled just as a sniper's rifle homed in on Convey. His throat tightened, and in an instant he analyzed the situation. Whoever the man was, he was good. He had waited patiently and silently, and he had picked a perfect location for an ambush. It was his misfortune Hammond had been alert for trouble and that he had chosen this side of the street, too, so he could use the morning shadows for cover.
As the sniper's finger began to squeeze, Hammond slammed through the trees and hurled himself at the man's midsection. Rifle fire sang out. The assassin had gotten off a round at Beth Convey.
23
Hammond connected with force. The sniper grunted in pain, and they landed together hard on the duff under the trees, Hammond on top. Hammond's sunglasses flew from his face. Twigs and rocks jabbed his knees, but he hardly noticed as the man, who had kept his rifle high, swung it toward his head. Hammond dodged, and the blow smashed his shoulder. Pain exploded behind his eyes.
Fedorov gasped for breath. He was furious. Because of Hammond's attack, he had lost his clear shot at Beth Convey, and now he had no idea whether his bullet had hit her. He had planned to pick off Convey then Hammond, two for the price of one, as the Americans said. It had given him an excited thrill to see Hammond prowl down the street, a target so perfect it almost made you believe in God.
Killing both Hammond and Convey would restore his reputation. With an enraged growl, Fedorov swung the rifle again.
Hammond ducked, grabbed it, and straddled the man's hips, pinning him with his thighs and weight. "Who are you?" he demanded.
But the assassin still had an iron grip on the weapon. His chin was tucked deep, the veins in his neck bulged as he fought to control the rifle. Sweat beaded out on his forehead. He had an undistinguished face, clean-shaved, with regular features and neutral hair. A hired gun, trained to blend and vanish. Then Hammond recognized him—the man who had chased Convey the night Yurimengri had been killed. It galvanized him. He needed to hear the man's voice. Did he have an accent? A Russian accent?
"Dammit! Who ar
e you? Who sent you to kill Beth Convey?" Fear tightened his chest. She could not be dead. Surely he had stopped the killer in time.
But the sniper was silent. With a sudden wrench, he tore the rifle from Hammond's right hand and bucked it up toward the right side of Hammond's head. The butt grazed Hammond's ear. Blood spurted out. But again Hammond caught the weapon. Using his left hand as a pivot, he slapped his right firmly onto the barrel. His lips peeled back with the effort of trying to dominate the rifle as it trembled between them.
"You bastard," Hammond snarled. "Why did you want Convey?"
Their eyes locked. The man had a dead gaze. Those eyes were so empty they could be black holes, sucking life from everywhere around. As sweat streaked down his face, Hammond glared into the dead eyes and figured this asshole was not going to quit, and although Hammond might be stronger, he was not strong enough to make a conclusive win the way things were.
Still, Hammond assured him. "You've lost. You might as well tell me who—"
That was when the man opened his mouth, laughed, and out came perfect American English: "No, Hammond, you can't win. Give it up. Some forces you can't control. Deep in that thick skull of yours, you know it. . . ."
Hammond did not like the message or the lack of accent, but he liked that the man was talking. It was not much of a distraction, but it would do. He dropped his right hand from the rifle and smashed it toward the sniper's jaw. But the man was good. He craned his head to the side, and Hammond's fist only grazed his neck. Hammond was ready.
Before the man's head could swivel back, Hammond released the rifle and pressed his left arm down against his throat, trapping him. At the same time, Hammond used his right hand to compress the man's carotid artery. That kind of pressure-point attack could cause great pain, unconsciousness, or kill outright.