There had been inquiries into Brinker before, starting when that officious little Colonel Sterling in the Pentagon’s Procurement Division finally managed to convince the Inspector General’s office that there might actually be something after all to the allegations he’d been making for months to anyone who’d give him a hearing, that Brinker’s arms deal to supply weapons and ammunition to police forces in Iraq and Afghanistan was rotten clear through.
He was right, of course; as the chief analyst and second in command of Internal Security Systems, she knew just how rotten it was. She and her ISS boss and partner, Greg Mayhew, had worked closely with Brinker head Durwood Quentin III to put the whole deal together.
It had been no easy task. Wheels had to be greased, a small army of politicians and bureaucrats bribed, not just in Washington, but in Beijing, Kabul, Baghdad, and even in Tirana, Albania. The Balkan connection was key because that was the cutout, the front, necessary to procure the arms and ammo from the People’s Republic of China, U.S. corporations being forbidden to do weapons deals with the PRC.
The PRC armaments were worse than useless, so old and outdated that they were more dangerous to the users than anyone else, but so what? The arms had to come from somewhere, they had to be delivered to the end users to fulfill the terms of the contract, and the price was right.
Such subterranean transactions were ISS’s stock in trade, and a very lucrative trade it was. Both Danner and her principal, Mayhew, each had a not so small fortune tucked away in offshore bank accounts, and their share of the Brinker deal had substantially fattened those golden nest eggs.
A great deal of time, money, and effort had gone into building an international web of corruption to make the Brinker deal happen. And then that magnificent edifice of dirty money and sticky-fingered conspirators had been jeopardized, all because some nitpicking Army bean counter in the Pentagon wouldn’t stop kicking up a fuss.
Sure, the deal stank to high heaven. What of it? It wasn’t like there weren’t dozens of other deals just as dirty going down daily throughout the federal government. Who wouldn’t enrich themselves by hook or crook on the taxpayers’ money if they had the chance? That was the system, the facts of life.
But the little colonel refused to see it that way. He was persistent, and even a horsefly can drive a bull moose half crazy if it keeps annoying it long enough. When Sterling had his fatal rendezvous with a shotgun in his garage, it had been a relief to all concerned, except for the dead man’s grieving family and friends, but who were they? Nobodies.
Elise Danner had her suspicions about the true nature of the colonel’s death; more than suspicions, because she knew ISS boss Greg Mayhew, knew him intimately, and part of that knowing was the certainty that when rough stuff was required, he knew who to go to, to get it done. But that part of the business was none of her business and she steered clear of it; what she didn’t know couldn’t hurt her.
Sterling’s demise made her happy, as it did all the others involved in the Brinker deal, because it meant that a boat-rocker would rock the boat no more. Official interest in the contract melted away, and the conspirators went back to grabbing all they could of the dirty money that kept rolling in.
The hell of it was, though, that everything was connected to everything else. The Department of Justice became curious about how a well-connected senior congressman had come by several vacation homes and a brand-new, half-million-dollar yacht. When he was unable to reconcile these acquisitions with his tax returns, DOJ and the Treasury Department really went to work on him. Threatened with a twenty-year prison sentence, the legislator broke and spilled his guts, revealing the details of a vast criminal conspiracy involving government contracts and private contractors. Naming names, he told who did what and how much they got paid for it.
One of the names that came up was Brinker Defense Systems. Probers started digging, and the whole business about its shady arms deal was reactivated. Congressional subcommittees held hearings, whose investigatory results were just about nil.
But when the FBI got involved in the case, Elise Danner got worried. The Bureau wasn’t as easily hoodwinked as a bunch of headline-hunting officeholders. It wasn’t so much the Brinker arms deal that worried her; ISS, as always, had covered its tracks with a veritable labyrinth of shell companies, false fronts, and phantom figureheads. But ISS had many interests and operations, some of which might not hold up so well when exposed to the spotlight. A few of them might well be labeled treasonous by those less-than-broad-minded G-men.
That’s when Elise Danner first began to know fear, the stirrings of a gnawing anxiety that loomed ever larger as the investigation intensified. Up to now, it had been all fun and games at ISS, brushing aside the rules like cobwebs, running intricate rings around the legalities to make things happen and generate cash flow. Everybody was doing it, all the wised-up insiders were riding the government gravy train, and ISS happened to be doing it better than most. She reveled in the intrigue, in her cleverness in constructing elaborate ploys and ruses to outwit the law.
But with the FBI bloodhounds nosing around trying to pick up the scent, suddenly it wasn’t fun anymore. She and Mayhew were certain that their defenses were armor-plated and indictment-proof, as they kept telling each other more and more often as the pace of the probes quickened.
Durwood Quentin III loomed ever larger as a matter of concern. His dealings with ISS were not such as should be brought to light in open court. Of course, he couldn’t very well reveal the machinations without incriminating himself. But if he should get tagged for something else, some unrelated scam, he might well give up ISS to cut himself a better deal with prosecutors.
Worse, his behavior was growing steadily more erratic with each passing day. He dealt with the pressure with ever more intense bouts of drinking, drugging, and whoring. Elise Danner found herself wishing and hoping that something would make him go away and stop being a problem. Like Colonel Sterling and the problem he’d presented had gone away. Only, the feeling was infinitely more intense in Quentin’s case. Sterling had threatened profits, but Quentin carried the menace of prison bars for his associates.
Recently, on more than one occasion, she had expressed to Greg Mayhew her desire that Quentin should just…go away. Mayhew had indicated that such, too, were his thoughts on the subject. No more had been said about it between the two; no more needed to be said.
Rather than allaying her fears, the realization of her wish had only multiplied them, rocketing them into hyper-drive.
The first she learned of the last of Quentin had come early this morning, around dawn, as she was taking her daily jog in the affluent neighborhood of Alexandria, Virginia, where she lived. She had a good body and worked hard to keep it fit, her breasts high and firm, belly flat, and buttocks taut.
In recent weeks, the workouts had become even more important to her as a way of coping with the stress and anxieties generated by the Bureau’s investigation. They had helped her burn off some of the tensions.
She’d been outfitted in her usual jogging regalia of sports bra, T-shirt, gym shorts, white socks, and running shoes. And the one accessory she was never without, her cell phone. Now more than ever, when she needed to be apprised of fast-breaking information, which could come at any hour of the day or night. The cell was worn in a little holder that was clipped to the top of her gym shorts over one hip.
Her neighborhood featured houses that were elegant, expensive, and sited on spacious tracts well separated from each other. The area was conveniently close to CIA headquarters in Langley, but only the highest-ranking officials, those officed on the building’s seventh floor, the level occupied by the Agency’s key power brokers and intelligence mandarins, could afford to live in the neighborhood.
During the years she had worked as an analyst at Langley, the prospects of her living here had seemed as remote as her scaling Mount Everest. Only after leaving the CIA, and taking her extensive network of contacts and connections with her to partner
up with Greg Mayhew at ISS, had her fortunes taken the sudden and dramatic upturn that allowed her to buy her dream home in the neighborhood.
The area didn’t have any sidewalks, so she jogged in the street, following a mile-long course along picturesque, winding lanes. She ran in the middle of the road, her sneakered feet beating out a percussive rhythm on the asphalt.
The sun had come up, but was so low that its heat had not yet begun to be felt; she cast a weirdly elongated giant shadow before her. Dew sparkled on well-manicured lawns. Lights still burned in lamps mounted over the front doors of grand homes. Most of the houses showed dark windows, with only a few lights shining behind curtains to indicate the presence of early risers.
Elise Danner was deep into her jogging rhythm, her ponytailed hair flailing back and forth across her shoulders, her breathing deep and regular, arms working, long legs flashing, as she ran on the balls of her feet.
Her cell phone rang. Not so much of a ring tone as an electronic bleeping, fast and urgent.
She was deep into her concentration and the intrusion jarred her, throwing her off stride. Instantly and instinctively, she knew that this could not be good news.
She pulled up short, slowing to a walk. The cell bleeped again. Unholstering it, flipping it open, she recognized the caller’s number as that of Greg Mayhew. Answering, she said, “What?”
Mayhew said, “Where are you?”
“Out jogging.”
“Go home. I’ll meet you there.”
“What’s up?”
“Not on the phone. I’ll be right over,” he said, cutting off the connection.
She realized that her heartbeat and pulse were racing faster now than when she had been jogging. Her hands shook as she put away the cell. She turned, retracing her route, going back the way she came. Not jogging, walking. She had trouble catching her breath.
Mayhew reached her house before she did. His Hummer stood at the curbside, idling. It was the largest model of the brand available; it looked like a square-sided omnibus.
Mayhew stood beside it, hands on hips, waiting impatiently as he watched her approach. Seventy, he looked a well-preserved fifty, lean, spare, and fit. He had a full head of hair, snow-white, but all of it his. His eyebrows were white inverted Vs, his skin was bright, shiny pink. He wore a lightweight, navy blue nylon windbreaker, open and unzipped; a green sport shirt; khaki slacks; and blue boating shoes with white rubber soles.
He was not alone, Elise Danner saw to her dismay. With him were Donny Piersall and another man unknown to her.
She knew that Piersall was Mayhew’s go-to guy for the rough stuff. He sat in the driver’s seat of the Hummer. The window was rolled down and he rested a folded arm so that it was half hanging out the window.
The other man sat behind the front seat. He had short sandy hair, a gingery goatee, and dark, watchful eyes in a chiseled, well-featured face. He looked tough; Elise Danner immediately tagged him as one of Piersall’s people.
She halted a few paces away from Mayhew, studying his face. He looked vaguely irked, but that was pretty much his habitual expression, so there wasn’t much to be gotten there. Low-voiced, pitched for Mayhew’s ears alone, she said, “Greg, what’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” he said flatly. That was contraverted by his being here now. Indicating her house, he said, “We’ll talk inside.”
Donny Piersall thrust his head out of the open Hummer window, looking like he hadn’t a care in the world. Flashing a big, cocky grin, he said, “Hi, Elise.” Like they were big buddies.
For most of her adult years, it had been a guiding principle to keep the Donny Piersalls of the world out of her life. She’d known others like him, mostly action men from the Agency’s covert ops branch. Violence was what they were about, they liked it, and the need for it hung around them like the electric charge of an aura.
Now, here he was, with another sideman who was no different, parked out in front of her house in the early morning light of a June weekday. She felt slightly nauseated, but she nodded to him in acknowledgment of his greeting. No sense in antagonizing him with the cold shoulder, not now.
Mayhew was already starting up the flagged walkway toward her front door; she started after him, conscious of Piersall’s gaze following her. She didn’t have to look to know he was eyeballing her; she knew him well enough to know what he would do.
She punched in the access code on the numerical keypad set to one side of the front door, deactivating the alarm system. Then she and Mayhew were inside, in a central hall where a beige-carpeted staircase spiraled up along the curve of the well to the second-floor landing. The space was thick with gloom, still deeply shadowed, hushed.
Mayhew’s arm dropped to his side, causing the flap of his jacket to fall open. A snub-nosed revolver was holstered on his hip.
Elise Danner gasped. “My God, Greg! A gun?!” She’d been worried that they were going to be served some papers or, at worst, arrested. But a gun was pointless against those possibilities. That’s what lawyers were for. Mayhew wasn’t going to shoot it out with the G-men.
He said, “Don’t get excited. It’s simply a precautionary measure.”
“Against what?”
“Trouble. We’ll talk about it later.”
She planted herself flat-footed, determined not to move until she got some answers. “We’ll talk about it now, now that you’ve thrown a scare into me. Are we in danger?” With some of the clients they serviced, that was always a possibility.
He was quick to say, “No, no.”
Her eyes flashed, hard and intent in the dimness. Skeptical. An eyebrow arched. “That gun, those two gorillas outside…”
Mayhew took a deep breath, exhaled. “All right,” he said. “Someone might be making a move on us.”
She said, “Who? What kind of a move?”
“I don’t know who, not just yet. Don’t even know if they are making a move, if their intentions are hostile. They could be, though. Best that we go to the Acres for a while until we sort things out.”
She said, “Now?”
“Right now. Get changed and pack an overnight bag and do it quick.”
“Greg—”
“You know I’m not the type to hit the panic button. I wouldn’t be doing this if I didn’t think it was necessary. Like I said, it’s strictly precautionary. But necessary.”
“Can’t you tell me anything more?”
“I’ll tell you all I know along the way. But let’s get moving. Now.”
“I’ll have to shower first—”
“Fine,” Mayhew said, his tone indicating it was anything but. “Hop to it, girl.”
Elise Danner took a shower in the second-floor bathroom. Standing naked under the hot steaming spray, she shivered. The moist heat failed to take the chill out of her bones.
When she was done, she toweled dry, not even bothering to blow-dry her hair, a key indicator of the disruption of her normal routine, because she was a woman who always took great care of her appearance at all times. Mayhew had once opined in his sour fashion that she was the type who’d put on makeup before taking out the garbage. It was an exaggeration, but only a slight one.
He stood around waiting in her bedroom while she got dressed. They’d been intimate for a time, early in the start of their partnership. Not lovers, but intimate. Despite his age, he was still able to perform in bed, after a fashion. Minimally. But she had ways to excite him and get him off. With Mayhew, it wasn’t about the sex; it was about the power, about his being in control. It wasn’t very nice, but she’d done far more distasteful activities in the past to advance herself, and she’d have done a lot more if that had been needed to secure her place in and piece of ISS.
But that aspect of their relationship was long passed. If Mayhew was still sexually active, and she suspected he was, in his way, he was getting his kicks elsewhere, which was fine with her. Once they’d gotten the sex bit over and done with, they could concentrate on their one real, abiding common
interest: making money.
Now, dressed in a bra and slacks, she padded barefoot about the bedroom, packing an overnight bag.
Mayhew said, “You’ll hear about it sooner rather than later, so you might as well know now. Quentin is dead.”
She pulled her head out of the closet where she’d been grabbing some clothes and looked at him. “Is that what this is all about?”
“Partly.”
“I take it he didn’t die of natural causes,” she said dryly.
“One of those chippies he liked to chase pulled a gun, or something,” Mayhew said. “They’re both dead.”
Elise Danner was puzzled. “That’s good, right? So what’s the problem?”
“Some character’s been following Quentin around. Not one of ours. A stranger. Donny spotted him. A couple of his boys tried to question him, find out who he is, who sent him. He killed them,” Mayhew said.
“Killed them?!”
He nodded, a short, curt gesture. “Snuffed them out without so much as a by-your-leave. Whoever he is, he’s a professional. A professional killer. It’s a pretty sure bet that he killed Quentin and the chippie, too.”
She said, “But why?”
Mayhew shrugged. “Who knows? Quentin had his thumb in a lot of pies and not just our deal. A lot of folks might have reasons to want him dead. The point is, the killer knows about us, about ISS. And we don’t know anything about him, or who he’s working for.
“So under the circumstances, you can see why it’s best that you and I drop out of the limelight for a while instead of walking around with big fat targets on our backs, not knowing where or when our unknown friend might decide to pay us a visit.”
Elise Danner pulled on a blouse and finished packing fast. Without consciously thinking about it, she picked out a pair of sensible, low-heeled loafers from her shoe tree, shoes that were good for running in.
Built into a secret compartment in the floor of her walk-in closet was a concealed safe containing important documents—important to her—bank books, personal ID, that sort of thing, along with ten thousand dollars in cash, getaway money.
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