by Chris Allen
At 6.15pm there was still no sign of Nash at the diner. Morgan accepted a coffee refill and decided to ask for the menu. He wasn’t concerned yet. Nash was reliant on getting around under his own steam, so being absolutely punctual wasn’t really something he could achieve easily. By 6.30pm, Morgan had decided to order the steak and eggs – steak well done, eggs scrambled – and to wait it out for Nash until 7.30. At 7.15, he’d had his fill of coffee and had finished his meal and was now concerned. Nash had not fronted and there was every chance that he’d succumbed to one of his episodes. Morgan paid his check, left his number at the front counter in the event that Nash did eventually turn up, and then sat in the street for a few extra minutes, just in case.
Nash didn’t show. He called McDowell to let him know, followed by Vaughan.
DAY 5 – MONDAY
Washington DC
Morgan woke to his phone buzzing incessantly on the bedside table.
“Yeah?” he said, groggy.
“It’s Vaughan,” came the reply.
“G’day,” said Morgan. He was sitting up now, trying to shake off sleep. “What’s up?”
“Metropolitan Police Department got a call last night about a guy trying to climb the perimeter fence of the Russian Embassy.”
“You can’t be serious,” said Morgan. “What time was this?”
“About twenty-three-hundred,” Vaughan replied. “Fortunately, they grabbed him before he got over. He was arrested and taken to the Second District Police Station on Idaho Avenue. The MPD cops who picked him up got him inside ready to charge him, but he got the better of them. Same story as the vagrancy charge – one of the cops recognized him and told his compadres that Nash had been awarded the Medal of Honor. A bunch of the on-duty cops were ex-military, so they all sat around swapping stories with Nash until one of them decided Nash shouldn’t be sitting there in cuffs. He was a decorated war hero not a criminal. And, hell, if he wanted to take on the Russians, why shouldn’t he?”
“They took the cuffs off,” said Morgan. He was awake now.
“It was all Nash needed. Once he had his hands free he was gone and none of the cops were prepared to shoot him.”
“So where is he now? Surely someone managed to pick him up?”
“This is where it gets tricky,” said Vaughan. “Nash has disappeared again. How soon can you meet me at Justice? I’ll get together everything I’ve managed to scrounge from MPD.”
Morgan checked the TAG. “By the time I get dressed and grab a cab, about half an hour.”
“Good, I’ll get the coffee.”
By 7.30, Morgan and Vaughan were side by side, drinking coffee, their eyes locked onto a bank of computer screens, all of which were displaying various scenes of Washington DC at night. Specifically, the Northwest area. There was footage captured by body-worn cameras issued to MPD officers and from permanent CCTV locations throughout the Northwest area.
“You know, it’s the darnedest thing. No matter how far we dig, we can’t find anything on Ms Erika Gustafsson that could even remotely connect her to the Russian Embassy.”
“Seriously, nothing?” Morgan was surprised. He’d never known the Intrepid intelligence team to get stuck on anything. “What do you make of that?”
“Well, usually if anyone is that clean then it reeks of a precisely constructed cover. She’s a Dane, like her boss. Educated at the best schools. Never been in any kind of trouble. Not even a speeding fine. It’s all a little too perfect. We’ll keep digging but I do have my suspicions.”
“OK, well, I guess we can come back to her later. What about her boss, Budolfsen; anything there?”
“He’s not so clean but it’s all the stuff you’d expect from a guy in his position and his personality. Minor infringements for drugs and the occasional assault, all when he was younger and, I suppose, building his fortune. He’s cleaned up his act a lot since then, though. Those types invariably get themselves in some kind of trouble when they’re young. Can’t help themselves, because they think they’re above the law. Other than that, there’s nothing to suggest he’s mixed up in anything untoward. These days he has to be clean in order to be considered for government contracts.”
Morgan’s attention was drawn back to the screens. Despite last night’s rain, which had continued unabated this morning, Nash’s attempted incursion into the Russian Embassy, his arrest and subsequent escape were all captured in varying degrees of detail and streaming across the screens. It was clear that he’d had one of his episodes. The anticipation of finally achieving his objective was obviously too much for him. It just wasn’t possible for him to think it all through. Nash needed help. He deserved help. He didn’t need to be locked up for trying to bring down scumbags. Where would he go?
It’s dry and it’s warm. I can stash my gear here.
“The place on 35th Street,” Morgan said out loud. He stood and downed the rest of his coffee. “His stakeout place, overlooking the house these bastards use for their sex club. That’s where he’ll be.”
“You need back-up?” asked Vaughan. “Say the word and I’ll call in the Marines.”
“Better make that the Rangers,” Morgan replied. “No, I’ll go in alone. If he gets a whiff of any cops, he’ll run for sure. I’ll have a better chance to bring him in one on one, but I’ll keep you posted. It’d be good to have some backup if anything unexpected happens. Meanwhile, it’s time to start preparing all the information we have so far to hand over to the FBI. I sent through all my notes to you last night. Can I leave it with you to finish off?”
“Almost done already,” said Vaughan. “I’m meeting with the Director of Interpol Washington later this morning to brief him and hand it over. The Senator is in for a big surprise.”
“Great,” said Morgan. “That bastard deserves everything that’s coming to him.”
Minutes later Morgan was racing along Constitution Avenue, across the Theodore Roosevelt Bridge, past the Marine Corps War Memorial and back across the Potomac into Georgetown. Avoiding 35th Street where the club was located, he came in from the west via P Street and parked well back from the intersection. He sat for a few moments, listening to the rain drumming on the roof, and checked to see if there was any sign of activity in the street. He made sure the Sig Sauer P226 that Vaughan had arranged for him was sitting snugly in the paddle holster on his right hip, then got casually out of the car and, pulling the hood of his anorak up to fend off the rain, walked towards the alleyway at the back of the abandoned house Nash had been using as his base of operations. The rain started coming in harder and he could feel himself getting wet despite the coat. Well, as the old jungle warfare instructors used to say back at the Battle School in North Queensland, “Once you’re wet, you’re wet.” He decided to do a full block, taking in P Street, 35th, Volta Place and 34th before coming back in via the alley. The coast seemed clear.
Eventually Morgan was back inside the abandoned house, moving cautiously through the space, quietly stopping and starting as he eased into each room, and then upstairs to the room overlooking the target house. He found Nash’s gear, mostly ex-military stuff – pack, water bottles, sleeping kit – but no Nash. There were no signs of anything untoward having happened and no water on the dusty floorboards. Nash’s gear was still warm, which suggested he’d slept in it. So, he’d been and gone, but where would he go in his current heightened state of anxiety? He’d tried to access the Russian Embassy, clearly attempting to find out more about Gustafsson. Crazy. But what the hell did he expect to achieve by scaling the wall of the embassy? There was a desperation to his actions. So, he’d tried the Russian angle and that hadn’t worked. What next? The answer presented itself immediately as Morgan pondered the question: the Senator. Surely not. He rifled through Nash’s gear, searching for the notebook that was his bible. I’ve got everything in here. Dates, times, addresses, bios. The notebook was gone, along with the resealable bag of newspaper and magazine clippings. Jesus. Morgan had to follow his gut, and it was telling
him that Nash was going after Redmond. Nash would be on foot. Morgan had to get to Redmond first. If Nash managed to get to the Senator, God only knew what he was capable of.
Morgan raced downstairs. He called Vaughan and told her he needed the location of Senator Redmond, preferably the home address. It would be impossible for Nash to confront him at his offices. He also told Vaughan to get the backup on standby. With a US Senator and, potentially, the Russian Embassy involved, if this thing went pear-shaped, Morgan needed to have all his ducks in a row. By the time he’d returned to the car and had the engine running, Vaughan had called back with the address.
“Seriously, you could probably walk there,” said Vaughan. “Prospect Street is about two blocks from your current location.”
But Morgan was already moving and punching the address into the car’s onboard GPS. By the time the onboard computer had calibrated, Morgan was almost at the intersection of Prospect and 35th. He couldn’t fathom how Redmond, a US Senator with more personal wealth than most people could dream of, could be engaging in sex with teenage girls – girls who must be at least close to the same age as his own daughters – and he was doing it just two blocks away from his home. Morgan’s hands tightened on the wheel. Fucking scumbag. You’re going down today, Senator Redmond.
Restraining the urge to race down Prospect Street at top speed, Morgan managed to make the left turn from 35th as sedately as possible. This wasn’t the type of area where people sped around the streets. The dashboard map display told Morgan he was a hundred yards from the house. He slowed, looking for a place to park and pulled into a spot about thirty yards short of the address. He narrowed his gaze at the house. His subconscious had spotted something and he was trying to work out what it was. The fucking rain was making it difficult. What was it? He scanned the street between each arc of the windscreen wipers and then he found it. The black Chevrolet Suburban that had been Erika Gustafsson’s shadow. It was parked in front of the Senator’s residence. There was no one in it. Not that he could see, anyway. He called Vaughan back.
“Yeah?”
“That black Chevy we saw tailing Gustafsson’s Mercedes into the embassy is currently parked outside the house,” said Morgan. “I’m going in. Give me half an hour. If you haven’t heard from me and I don’t answer my phone, send the troops in.”
“You got it,” Vaughan said. “Standing by.”
Morgan ended the call. Well, no time like the present. He pulled the hood of the anorak up again and got out of the car into the pelting rain. Approaching the house, he was on edge. The rain made general environmental awareness almost impossible. He wouldn’t hear anyone approaching from the rear or a blindside until it was too late and visibility was now limited to about ten yards. By the time he reached the front door, his collar, feet and trouser legs were drenched. Only his upper body had been spared, just.
He pressed the intercom at the gate, but after a number of attempts there was still no response. He tried the gate and discovered that it was unlocked. Not great security but perhaps they weren’t thinking very clearly this morning. He pushed it open and walked up to the front door. The house was one of those classic Georgetown, two-story brick homes that looked to be at least a couple of hundred years old but had been maintained by a succession of owners who could afford to keep it in pristine condition. It was white with a gray roof and had a narrow street frontage, but Morgan guessed inside it would be spacious with a subterranean level or two.
He gave the front door three sharp raps.
Nothing.
He tried again. Louder this time, to account for the rain. Still nothing. He paused for a moment, hoping that the rain might subside for a second but that didn’t happen. So, he banged even more loudly on the door with his fist. Still without a response, Morgan headed for the back of the house, walking down the long driveway to a wooden gate that opened into a small yard. He followed a path around the edge of the perfectly kept lawn, leading up to a line of French doors that appeared to access the kitchen. He peered inside but the place yawned at him. He tried the middle door of the line and it opened. Taking a deep breath, he eased the door fully open and entered the house.
Inside was nothing but the gentle hum of the central heating. Morgan removed his anorak and hung it over the back of a stool. With his feet squelching in wet socks and RM Williams boots, he strode purposefully from the kitchen into the body of the house. A muffled noise caught his attention. He turned his head to listen more carefully for a repeat of the sound just as a punch caught him from behind, making contact with the base of his skull. The strike was perfectly placed, albeit pulled, designed to stun rather than render him unconscious. Dazed and trying to see through the squadrons of fireflies that had appeared in front of his eyes, Morgan faltered but held his ground, turning sluggishly, trying to get eyes on his assailant so he could respond in kind. He could just make out the silhouette of a man in dark clothes standing back from him. He raised his fists and tried to get his feet steady enough to fight back when a second strike from the rear, a cupped hand, caught him across the side of his face and ear. A second assailant. Instantly, everything was fuzzy. Morgan was losing his depth perception and his breathing was shallow. His fists came down. He wondered why his socks felt so wet. The light from outside was dimming fast and he could feel himself falling, falling, falling toward the floor. And then nothing.
*
“This is a catastrophe!” A male voice. Older. Important. Used to being listened to. “You people assured me that nobody would ever know!”
“This one is a homeless person. Nothing more. I suspect he has taken a dislike to you because of something you’ve said in the media.” A woman. Young. European. Confident. “It appears that he has been observing you. For how long, we do not know.”
“But why does he have all those newspaper clippings about me, and how does he know where I live? And couldn’t these two idiots of yours have taken him somewhere else? Why bring him in here? I called you to make this go away!”
“He was brought inside because it was expedient to do so. Your home is private, secure and soundproofed. If my men had tried to remove him from the premises there would doubtless have been a disturbance and every chance that someone, one of your neighbors, would have seen or heard something. Besides, your family is back in Georgia. It just made sense.”
“Then who the hell is this guy?”
“Him, I’m not sure about. I thought perhaps a cop, but he is not carrying any identification. He could be from one of your clandestine services.”
“Oh, Jesus Christ!”
Morgan had regained consciousness but was maintaining the illusion that he had not. Judging by the status of his still wet boots and clothes, he hadn’t been out long – probably no more than five minutes. His face was turned away from the room. He’d been dumped on the carpet in a corner, near a table. He couldn’t see or hear the two who had taken him down but he gathered he was currently listening to Senator Redmond and Erika Gustafsson. The Senator was clearly agitated. The pitch of his voice increased every time he opened his mouth.
“I cannot believe this. How can this even be happening? You assured me absolute secrecy. Yet all this time I’ve been followed. What if they’re from the media? What if your homeless guy isn’t homeless at all but a paid investigator? This other guy could be his partner! Jesus! If word of this gets out, I’m finished. How could you bring this into my house?”
“With respect, Senator, you went into this with your eyes wide open. You could barely contain your enthusiasm when we introduced you to our little club. Nobody forced you. You should remember that. And all those beautiful young girls. Whatever will your wife and daughters think when they find out?”
Morgan could just about feel the rage brimming in the man from across the room. That was good. By letting their argument continue and build in its intensity, he and Nash could benefit from their distraction. Morgan couldn’t see Nash but he gathered he was close by. Dead or alive, he couldn’t
say. And where were the two heavies?
“Don’t you ever speak to me like that or threaten me again, you little bitch! You’ve obviously forgotten who the hell I am. Without me, nothing happens. There’ll be no more inside-track on the Defense R&D programs. No more introductions to the key players on the Hill. No more—”
“You are seriously deranged if you think you cannot be replaced, Senator.” Her tone was as dismissive as if she was speaking to a petulant child. “It seems you’ve forgotten to whom you are speaking. The moment you accepted our hand of friendship, you became one of us. You are on our payroll now. Your future will be determined by us. Not you, Senator. You handed over control of your career the first time you walked through those doors. Your every visit has been recorded. We have literally hours of footage of you with your little playthings. Digital is forever, Senator. Hasn’t anyone ever told you that?”
There was silence. Morgan wondered for a moment whether the man’s anger would result in a heart attack. No, that would be the easy way out for Redmond – Morgan wanted him alive. He wanted this guy personally and professionally crucified, but first Morgan had to assume control. Somehow. Why did she keep saying “us”? “You became one of us.” “Your future will be determined by us.” Surely Senator Redmond hadn’t fallen for the oldest ruse in the book? Morgan wondered what he could get his hands on to change the balance of power in the room.
“So, what do we do now?” Redmond asked eventually. Beaten, he slumped into a chair and let out a deep sigh. “With these two, I mean. How do we contain this?”
“Now you’re thinking like one of us, Senator. Good boy. We need to determine who they are before we decide what to do with them. We will take care of that, but not here. We need to move them as quickly as possible.” She paused. “You, bring the car around to the back of the house, do it quickly. And you, get something to bind and gag this one.”