The Hunted

by Alan Jacobson

  Douglas Knox was standing in a black wool overcoat, his collar turned up above the level of his ears. “This is how my elite intelligence masters protect themselves?”

  “Brian’s fault,” DeSantos said. “He was complaining about how cold he was. I was trying to distract him, take his mind off it.”

  Archer threw DeSantos a nasty look, then turned to Knox. “You said it was urgent.”

  The director nodded, then shoved his hands into the pockets of his coat. “Payne is going to be in Fredericksburg tomorrow night, five-thirty, Princess Anne Building. He’s set up a rendezvous with his wife.”

  DeSantos was itching to ask how Knox had gotten hold of that information, but in the intelligence community, such details were unimportant. When a job was bearing down on you, what mattered was the here and now, and what lay ahead. The past was old news. If you knew and trusted your sources, how certain data came across your desk was generally of little importance.

  “Does Payne know we’re going to be there?” Archer asked.

  “As far as he’s concerned, he’s going there to meet his wife. We’re not part of the equation. If he senses we’re there, he’ll take off. We’re not his favorite people right now.”

  “Obviously you don’t need us to be chaperones,” DeSantos said wryly.

  “Scarponi is going to be there, too.”

  A shrill gust kicked up a swirl of loose soil and slapped it against their coats. Archer shrugged it off and took a step closer to Knox, who was rubbing some grains of dirt from his eyes. “Are you sure?”

  “The news leak on Payne’s amnesia,” Knox said. “I had it back-traced and found its source. Not the person, but the pathway. I planted a dummy message and sent it back along the same channels. I’m betting our mole forwards it on to Scarponi.”

  “This the same mole who was feeding Scarponi six years ago, after his trial?”

  “I’m sure of it,” Knox said.

  “A bit risky, isn’t it?” Archer asked.

  Knox squinted angrily, then hung his head and began to pace. After moving a handful of steps in each direction, he zeroed in on Archer’s face. DeSantos moved closer as well, and the three of them now formed a tight triad. If nothing else, their proximity generated heat.

  “I intend to recapture Scarponi,” Knox said firmly. “I won’t—I can’t—tell the president he’s escaped. And I sure as hell can’t tell him that Payne also took leave of our company either, now, can I? The buck stops on my desk, gentlemen. So if I have a chance to capture both of them in one operation, I’m going to take that stone and kill the two birds.” He paused for a long second, then said, “To make this happen, I need your help.”

  DeSantos looked at Archer and instantly knew what his partner was thinking: How much of what Knox was saying was the truth, and how much was bullshit, laid out for the purpose of using them to get Scarponi back for his group? In the split second that this all bounced around in his mind, he decided not to broach the topic, and he hoped that Archer would feel the same way. With all they had seen so far, he did not feel they could fully trust Knox. At least, not yet.

  “I need one of you to hover on the perimeter, the other on the inside. Grab Scarponi and take him safely into custody.” Knox said it matter-of-factly, as if he were asking them to go shopping for groceries. “Once you have him in your vehicle, you will proceed to the safe house on Mission. And I don’t have to tell you to exercise extreme caution with him at all times.”

  “What kind of backup will we have?” DeSantos asked, already knowing the answer.

  “None. No one can know we’re expecting Scarponi to be there. All other available agents will be focused on identifying and safely securing Payne.” Knox pulled a folded piece of paper from his pocket and handed it to Archer, who opened it. “A map of historic Fredericksburg. The X’s show where all my agents will be. You two are the Y’s. We can only guess where Scarponi will be, but I’ve denoted his possible locations with Z’s.”

  “This is gonna be one hell of a fucked-up operation,” DeSantos said, shaking his head. The logistics of it all were fraught with problems, a fact he was sure Knox was aware of.

  The director’s face hardened suddenly, and with barren trees swaying in the wind against the park’s streetlights, shadows cut angrily across his features. “No, this will not be a fucked-up operation, Hector. If it is, we lose Scarponi, maybe for good. No matter how much he wants Payne, at some point he may decide it’s not worth it. In which case we’ll never see his sorry ass again.” Knox pulled a cigarette lighter from his pocket and ignited the corner of the map Archer was holding. The paper began to burn, the flames flickering in the wind, reducing the map to carbon.

  As the ashes floated away on the breeze, a blast of wind caught DeSantos’s wool coat and ruffled the bottom, sending tendrils of cold air up his back. They skipped across the gooseflesh that was covering his arms and legs, causing him to shiver.

  DeSantos thought about what Knox was proposing and was uneasy. He had studied Scarponi’s file in depth. Like a dog trained to sniff ordnance, he felt he understood his adversary well. And he knew that Scarponi would never give up. Not until his target had successfully been neutralized. No, either Harper Payne or Anthony Scarponi was going to end up dead in Fredericksburg.

  And it was becoming increasingly clear that if Knox had his way, the one carted away in the meat wagon was going to be Harper Payne.

  57

  When Harper Payne awoke in the small, cheap Fredericksburg motel room, he rubbed his eyes, wondering if the dreams he’d had last night were authentic memories of times with Lauren or fabrications of what he imagined their lives to have been like. They were so real... they had to be real. He sat on the edge of the mattress, grinding his teeth, angry at himself for having lost his memory, at having lost his connection to a life that he was beginning to think must have been enormously satisfying and fulfilling.

  He thought of Lauren, of what he remembered—or imagined—her to be like. More memories began to crackle in his mind like the flash of lightning against a clouded night sky...

  The time they got lost in Tahoe while hiking in the mountains, spending the evening wrapped in each other’s arms.

  The white splash of stars across the night sky, the sound of coyotes howling in the distance. What had begun as an intensely frightening experience became a fiercely romantic one...

  Feelings, emotions, isolated images. They had to be real.

  Sitting there on the bed, he thought of what it would be like seeing her face again, smelling her hair, holding her.

  He could feel her now. Her soft skin, the shape of her toned arms, the sloping curve of her back as it swooped down into her waist. How wonderful it felt to be able to see her again, to be able to remember. It was like being liberated from solitary confinement. In some ways, it was worse... unlike a jailed felon, he had done nothing wrong—he was a victim of a mind trapped within itself, unable to find a way out.

  With his memories coming back to him, he felt energized. Stronger, more determined. He stood up and walked into the bathroom to shower. Five hours until he would see her again.

  Only this time, it would not be a dream.

  It was four-thirty in the afternoon and the sun had begun its orange burn as it headed for cover behind the backs of buildings and, ultimately, the horizon.

  Payne had chosen to reunite with Lauren in historic Fredericksburg, a small colonial Virginia town. There were museums, such as the one devoted to former president James Monroe, as well as the Mary Washington House and the old-time Hugh Mercer Apothecary, where the sick were treated with bloodletting, anesthetic-less limb amputations, and crude, homemade pharmaceutical remedies.

  The rest of the town had an Old World charm to it, with shops still occupying buildings dating to the 1700s and 1800s. There were also several banks and a handful of ornate churches.

  At the moment, Payne was sitting in the bell tower of St. George’s Episcopal, a recently renovated structure or
iginally constructed in 1849 of nondescript masonry. With its forward-set, four-story steeple, it had the look of what could be considered “classic” church architecture for its time.

  Inside, however, its two-story sanctuary was adorned with tall, intricately leaded stained-glass windows, polished wood benches, and large brass chandeliers. Payne was surprised to find such beauty inside a building whose exterior was so prosaic and uninspiring.

  After having fully explored the church’s interior, he climbed into the cramped fourth story of the tower, peering through the fixed, downward-angled wood slats of the window casing. The air was so stale and dusty on his tongue that he felt as if he had just chewed a piece of chalk. Between the large brass bell that hung behind him and the thick decorative window slats in front of him, there was little circulation of fresh air.

  From his perch, he had a view of nearly a third of the block across the street and to his right. Ahead of him, he could see clear up George Street, while to his left the next half-block continuation of Princess Anne was visible. It was not an ideal location, but it was the only one he had seen in which he could sit at such a height off the ground without being out in the open, and without being subject to anyone questioning him about his intentions. The church, while still operational, was for the most part abandoned during the week, except for child-care classes in the basement.

  At 5:10 p.m., with all the details taken care of, his thoughts once again turned to Lauren. He leaned back against the cold metal of the bell and resumed his watch. She would be here soon.

  Lauren was sitting in the front passenger seat of the rental car, but she knew that from Nick Bradley’s perspective, it felt like he was alone in the vehicle. She was deep in thought, thinking of Michael, envisioning the moment when he would wrap his arms around her and kiss her gently up and down the neck, as he always did... when she would hear the slight raspiness of his voice, a sexy hoarseness that only she seemed able to detect.

  “Hey, you alive over there?”

  She blinked and was suddenly aware Bradley had said something. “What?”

  “Just wanted to make sure you hadn’t slipped into a coma.”

  “How much longer?”

  “I’d guess about five minutes.”

  The mere mention of the words five minutes sent her heart into a frenzy. It immediately quickened its pace, as if it had a mind of its own. Despite her attempts to slow it, to calm herself, the muscle galloped on.

  They drove up Amelia Street and pulled over to the curb a few feet from its intersection with Princess Anne.

  “It’s five-fifteen, we’re a little early,” Bradley said. “According to the map, we’re only about a block and a half away from your meeting place.”

  She did not answer him. Instead, she pulled up on the handle and popped open her door.

  “Lauren,” he said, placing a hand on her wrist, “I know you’re anxious to see him, but let’s show some caution. Michael said he’s a fugitive. Remember, I was hounding the FBI, trying to get information out of them. That landed us smack in the middle of their radar screen. I’m not entirely sure what their motives are, so I have no idea what to expect from them, how aggressive they’ll be. On the other hand, they don’t quite know what to expect from us, either. I took special care to make sure we weren’t followed. I did my best, but no guarantees.”

  “Are you saying we could’ve led them here?”

  “I’m not saying we did, but they could’ve been watching us or tracking our movements with an electronic bug they planted somewhere on the car. Back home, I’ve got things that can scan for that kind of techy stuff, but out here, we’re kind of winging it.”

  She fell silent, withdrawing into herself. Was she possibly harming Michael by coming here to meet him? Should they just leave now and find some other way of connecting with him?

  “He’ll be here in a few minutes, if he’s not here already,” Bradley continued. “Go on. But if you see anything strange, walk away, go down the street, and I’ll get the message. I’ll swing by and pick you up, then we’ll regroup, okay?” He gave her hand a gentle squeeze. “Please, don’t take any chances.”

  She nodded, and then stepped out of the car.

  Jonathan Waller accelerated as they turned off I-95 and curved around the ramp for exit 130A, headed toward Fredericksburg.

  “Take it easy, Jon,” Scott Haviland said over the loud squeal of the tires. “We don’t want to attract attention.”

  “And we don’t want to lose Harper again either.”

  “We’ve got backup set up all over the damn town. He’s not gonna slip away this time.”

  Waller shook his head. “And if he knows we’re gonna be here?”

  “No way. There’s no way he knows we intercepted his e-mail.”

  “Unless he knew that we fucked up the laptop so he couldn’t get online. If we figured that out, he might’ve also figured that we’ve got her e-mail address and could tap into the mail server.”

  “That’s a lot to assume. Besides, his brain’s scrambled and he’s confused. I don’t think he has a clue.”

  “And if he did figure it out, this could all be a waste of time,” Waller said, braking hard to stop at a red light. As he waited for a car to pass, his eyes darted around the intersection. It was clear, and he accelerated through.

  Haviland shook his head. “If he did send that e-mail as a ruse, then he wouldn’t have had us searching Union Station all day. He planted that info with the motel clerk so we’d do exactly what we ended up doing: wasting our time.”

  “Yeah, and like I said, it was bullshit.”

  “Then again, as far as he’s concerned,” Haviland said, “we’re an hour away from here looking for someone who isn’t going to show.”

  Waller turned hard onto Route 3, the momentum again pressing his partner against the passenger door. “I wouldn’t be so sure. He may’ve lost his memory and he may be confused about things, but his instincts are razor sharp. The biggest mistake a perp could make was underestimating him.”

  “But we’re not a stupid perp and we’re not underestimating him. We’re almost there and we’ve got ample backup.”

  “Backup’s a double-edged sword. If he sees one of our vehicles—”

  “If he’s in a position to see one of us, Jon, one of us will be in a position to see him.” Haviland looked away. “Besides, Knox seemed pretty upbeat about the whole operation.”

  “Oh, he was plenty nervous, trust me. He didn’t stop pacing the whole time we were in his office.”

  “This will all come to a head in fifteen minutes. We’ll have Payne and we’ll be back on track again toward nabbing Scarponi. You’ll see.”

  Waller depressed the accelerator again and the engine roared. “For our sake, I hope you’re right.”

  58

  Perspiration rolled down his forehead, stinging his eyes. The stale, humid air inside the bell tower was something Payne had not anticipated when he chose the location, but it was too late now to make a change. Things were set.

  He leaned against the small window and flapped his jacket lapels. He wanted to remove his suit coat, but his shirt was bright white and the navy blue jacket made it that much more difficult to see him in the dark enclosure.

  He pressed his face against the slatted window and breathed in a few mouthfuls of forty-degree air. Remaining in a crouch, he looked out over the street, keeping watch not only for Lauren, but also for any sign of law enforcement personnel. The worst thing he could imagine was being minutes from reuniting with his wife, only to have it stripped away at the last moment by a local cop who may have been briefed on an FBI be-on-the-lookout bulletin.

  The last charge he had made on Waller’s Visa was in the outskirts of Fredericksburg, just before leaving the motel. He knew Waller and Haviland would pay a visit there, questioning the clerk who had put the card through. But Payne had purposely asked about Union Station—how often Amtrak runs; if he left at five in the evening, what time would he arrive
in New York City’s Penn Station; where you buy the tickets; how much they cost. Even though the clerk did not have a clue to most of the answers, it did not matter—the purpose was to plant the information with him so that when Waller and Haviland went fishing, they’d hook a big one.

  Regardless of whether they thought it was a ruse, he knew they would have to check it out. The extra detail of reserving a seat on an Amtrak Metroliner for five-thirty this evening was a nice touch, he thought—but again, meaningless if they were wise to his motives.

  As a safeguard, he had sold Waller’s Visa card to a shady-looking character twenty miles up the freeway at a rest stop. Hopefully, the perp would have a ball and charge up a houseful of items, essentially driving Waller and Haviland out of their minds as they tried to figure out what he was up to.

  Payne wiped the beads of perspiration from his forehead and focused on the dark Crown Victoria that was passing by on Princess Anne and turning left in front of him onto George Street.

  The navy Crown Victoria cruised down William Street, a couple of blocks from George. As it passed Hector DeSantos’s Mustang, DeSantos checked his mirror and nodded. “Looks like everyone’s in position.”

  “I never understood why the Bureau always buys the same cars for their undercover fleet,” Archer said. “Perps aren’t as stupid as we always want them to be.”

  “Especially in this case, when the perps are a pro and an ex-agent.”

  “We don’t make the decisions.”

  “No, we just do what we’re told to do and collect our paychecks.”

  “Since when do you ‘do what you’re told to do’?”

  DeSantos shrugged. “Guess that means I just collect my paycheck.” He turned right at the next street, his eyes roaming the vicinity for signs of Payne or Scarponi. “Anything?”

  “Nothing. But at least we’ve confirmed where everyone else is and made a pass of the area. It’s been a few years since I’ve been here.” Archer glanced at his watch, then subconsciously patted his shoulder harness, making sure his Browning nine-millimeter was there. “Circle around and drop me off near Princess Anne. It’s almost time.”