“Did you recover the slugs?” Randall asked her.
“Yeah, but they’re in bad shape; you might get some metallurgy and rifling info, but it’s a toss-up. I sent them over to Quantico. My guess is nine millimeter. The mother’s wound is starfished, but there’re no powder burns or stippling.”
In cases of contact or near-contact gunshot wounds, the entry point is almost always bordered by radial tears, hence the “starfish” appearance. The lack of gunpowder burns or graphite “tattooing” on the skin could only mean one thing: The weapon had been equipped with a noise suppressor that had absorbed both the gas and the powder. That would explain why none of the neighbors had reported hearing anything unusual during the night.
“In the case of each child,” Margaret went on, “the bullets bisected the vertical axis of the skull, traveled down the neck, and lodged in the chest cavity.”
“Any idea about time of death?” asked Latham.
“Between nine and midnight.”
“What about the father?”
“He died after them, about an hour or so. Here’s where it gets interesting. Take a look.”
She drew down the sheet to reveal Larry Baker’s head. Except for the bruised swelling from the gunshot under his chin, his face was snow white. Margaret had partially reconstructed the exit wound on top of the skull, but still it looked like a jigsaw puzzle of blood, matted hair, and jagged bone.
Margaret pointed. “See the spot just above the entry wound … that indentation?”
“Looks like a sight stamp?” Latham said.
“Right. It’s from pressing the barrel hard against the skin. In suicides a stamp usually means the person wants to make sure they don’t miss, or they’re holding on tight so they don’t lose their nerve.”
“Okay …”
“Look to the right of the stamp. See the gouge in the skin? It’s the same pattern as the indentation.” She let it hang, looking from Randall to Latham.
“I don’t get it,” said Randall. “He moved the gun; he had second thoughts. So what?”
“No,” Latham said. “If you have second thoughts you lower the gun, then put it back. You don’t drag it around your skin. Think about it: You’re parked in your car, sitting in the driver’s seat. Someone’s next to you, in the passenger seat. Suddenly they pull out a gun, reach over”—Latham mimicked his words—“and put it under your chin. You react by jerking away, to the side.”
Now Randall caught on. “And if the gun’s pressed tightly enough, the site drags across the skin.”
Latham nodded. “Baker saw it coming. He tried to move, but wasn’t quick enough.”
It took some delicacy to make the inquiries without raising suspicion, but three days after the Chinese ambassador’s visit to the Oval Office, Chief of Staff Howard Bousikaris had confirmed the source of Martin’s eleventh-hour campaign contributions.
Though still unsure how China had done it, Bousikaris knew it didn’t matter. If made public, the evidence would be irrefutable. More importantly, no one would believe Martin was an unwitting dupe. The American public had no more stomach for corruption.
Having satisfied himself they’d been checkmated, he focused on the next step: How to turn defeat into a victory. First, however, they had to find out exactly what the Chinese wanted.
To get that answer, Bousikaris had left his home at midnight, drove his car to the Eastern Market metrorail stop, boarded the train, and taken it to the last stop, Addison Road. The ambassador’s instructions had been clear about the time and place of the meeting, if not the identity of his contact.
“Stand at the railing overlooking the parking lot on Adak,” the ambassador had said. “You will be approached by a person who will identify himself as Qing.”
The train squealed to a stop and Bousikaris stood up. There were only two other passengers in the car, a spiky-haired teenager and a businessman. Bousikaris resisted the impulse to pull up the collar of his trench coat. Relax. You’re just a man on a train, another late night commuter …
It was all very surrealistic, if not downright bizarre, Bousikaris thought. Here he was, chief of staff to the goddamned president of the United States, skulking around in the middle of the night like a character from an Ian Fleming novel. If not for the stakes, it might actually be amusing.
The doors opened. Bousikaris stepped out. The platform was deserted except for his two fellow riders, both of whom quickly disappeared down the steps to the street. The train’s doors whooshed shut and the train started out again, trailing scraps of trash in its wake.
Bousikaris looked down the platform, saw no one. He checked his watch: 12:55. He walked to the railing. Across the street he could see the streetlights encircling the parking lot. Except for a dozen cars, the lot was empty. A minute passed. Then two. Suddenly, a figure was standing beside him.
“You were not followed, Mr. Bousikaris.”
Bousikaris wasn’t sure if it was a question or a statement. “No, I wasn’t. You’re Qing?”
“I am.”
“I have to say, you’re … You’re not what I expected.”
Qing shrugged. “It’s unlikely we will meet again, but if it becomes necessary, I’ll leave a message in the Post’s classifieds. It will read, “Adrian, I love you. Come back. Always, Harmon.” Check the paper daily. If you see the ad, meet me here the following night at eleven p.m. Is that clear?”
“Yes.”
“I understand you’ve been told about our problem.” Qing handed across a 3.5-inch diskette. “On this are the details of what we want done, and how. Follow them precisely.”
Bousikaris hesitated. Very serious people. Qing was so businesslike it was unnerving. “At least give me an idea of what you’re asking.”
Qing considered this for a moment, then shrugged. It took two minutes of explanation.
“God, you can’t be serious,” Bousikaris rasped. “Do you have any idea what you’re asking?”
“Don’t ask stupid questions, Mr. Bousikaris. Of course we know. Follow the instructions.”
“That kind of operation you’re talking about is … complex. If even one part of it goes wrong, we could find ourselves in a goddamned shooting war.”
“Follow the instructions and nothing will go wrong.”
7
FBI Headquarters
“So it’s official,” said Owens. “We can start worrying.”
“Yep,” replied Latham. “We’ve got at least two, maybe more, Guoanbu operatives out there. We’re gonna have to be careful with the media.”
“They’re treating it like a murder-suicide. Until you’re done that’s going to be our party line.”
“Good. Maybe these sons-of-bitches will let down their guard.”
“Maybe. You doing okay with this?”
“Yeah. It’s just … Christ, what they did to that family.”
“I know. You said two operatives. Why two?”
“Part deduction, part instinct. We know they gained entry at the kitchen door because one of the glass panes had been tapped out. I’m guessing they’d probably been watching the house, waiting for the lights to go out before moving.
“Once they were inside, they went to the master bedroom, woke Baker and his wife, then took him into another room and held him there. The second intruder rounded up the family and gathered them in the master bedroom, where they were tied up. Once done, Baker was taken in to see them.”
“Why?”
“To show him his family’s in jeopardy. To show him there’s nothing he can do about it. Here’s where it gets sketchy, but I think it fits: Baker is taken away again. They question him for a while, get nowhere, then start describing what they’re going to do to his family. He still balks. One of them takes him away again, this time in his car. They drive to Rock Creek Park.”
“Before his family is killed?”
“Right. It’s unlikely he would’ve been able to drive after seei
ng that. Once parked at Rock Creek, the intruder places a call to the Baker home.”
“We’ve checked—”
“One incoming call at eleven-forty. It was from a cell phone; lasted seven minutes. We tracked the phone; it was stolen from a woman’s car at a Bethesda shopping mall the day before the murder. We narrowed down the location to a cell that encompasses all of Rock Creek and about a mile beyond.”
“Why make the call?”
“So Baker can listen to his family being tortured.”
Owens’s face went pale. “Jesus.”
“At this point, Baker’s already been told what will happen to his family. His imagination is working overtime. He’s cut off from them, helpless, forced to listen as the other intruder works on them … It would be devastating. A couple minutes of that and even the toughest SOB would talk.”
“About what, though? What did he have they wanted? That’s the big question.”
“Exactly. So, hearing his wife and children screaming, Baker breaks. He tells the intruder everything he knows, or at least enough that the intruder is convinced they’ve wrung him out.
“Now, this is another guess, but at this point the intruder probably tells Baker it’s all over, that his family will be released. Baker relaxes, lets down his guard. The intruder reaches over, puts the gun under Baker’s chin, and pulls the trigger.”
Owens picked it up: “Then, as arranged, the second intruder kills the wife and kids, then leaves the house and picks up his partner.”
Latham nodded. The scenario contained a fair number of leaps, but it felt right.
“Where now?” Owens asked. As if on cue, his phone rang. He punched the speaker button. It was Randall: “Quantico’s working with Baker’s computer. They want us over there right away.”
“Something good?” Latham asked.
“Depends on how you define ‘good.’”
Moscow
Vladimir Bulganin was in one of his moods, Nochenko realized.
Bulganin stood up from his desk, clasped his hands behind his back, and strode to the window. He parted the curtains and peered out. A shaft of sunlight fell on Bulganin’s face, and he lifted his chin and narrowed his eyes as though seeing something on the horizon.
Where are the cameras when you need them? Nochenko thought.
Bulganin looked like something out of a Cold War propaganda poster. All that was missing was a giant red sickle and hammer looming over his head. The stalwart Russian proletariat, a peasant thrust into service by the needs of the Motherland …
Nochenko couldn’t decide if these dramatic posturings of Bulganin’s were genuine or an affectation. It didn’t matter, really. Whatever the truth, Bulganin knew how to work a crowd—and that was why he was going to be the next president of the Federation.
“What’s wrong, Vladimir?” asked Nochenko. “You seem troubled.”
“You saw what happened last night. It was a debacle!”
The previous night’s speech in Gorky Park had drawn nearly twenty thousand people. The cheers and applause had been thunderous. With each passing day more voters swung their way. Soon their momentum would be unstoppable.
“I don’t understand,” Nochenko said. “The speech was a rousing success.”
“Yes, the speech was fine. I’m talking about the press conference. You were there, you saw!”
“What—”
“The questions! Those reporters … like dogs nipping at my heels. Always with details: gross domestic product, agricultural output, manufacturing infrastructure … Where’s their vision?”
“Vlad, that’s their job.”
“A country’s greatness is built on vision, not details,” Bulganin continued as though Nochenko hadn’t spoken. “When the Motherland called, I did not ask questions, I obeyed.”
Straight from Joseph Stalin’s handbook, Nochenko thought. Bulganin was not only an admirer of the old ways, but of the old leaders as well, especially Koba Stalin. It was an idiosyncrasy Nochenko preferred the public did not see; luckily, his pupil had thus far cooperated.
“Vladimir, we’ve discussed this,” Nochenko said. “As bothersome as it is, the media is powerful. It can shape the opinions of voters we can’t reach—”
“Ah! But don’t you see? The people who cast the votes decide nothing. The people who count the votes decide everything.”
Another damned Stalinism. “Perhaps long ago, but not anymore. The Federation is—”
“Russia, Ivan. They can dress up the name as they wish, but to true patriots it will always be Russia. The Motherland.”
“Yes, of course.”
Bulganin’s eyes narrowed. “You say the words, friend, but sometimes I wonder if you believe them. Do you, Ivan? Do you believe?”
Nochenko stared into Bulganin’s inscrutable eyes and again marveled at the man’s charisma; he could almost feel the power radiating from Bulganin like a wave. Another page from Koba’s playbook: An implacable gaze always enfeebles the blustering coward … There was only one response that would satisfy Bulganin when he got like this.
“You dare ask me that?” Nochenko snapped. “I served the Motherland! I toiled in her factories before you were born. Be very careful when you question my patriotism, Vladimir!”
There was a long silence as the two men stared at one another. Finally Bulganin’s face cracked into a beaming smile. He clapped Nochenko on the arms. “There! That’s what I like! Some fire from my compatriot! Well spoken, Ivan!”
Bulganin spun on his heel and strode back to his desk. “Back to work. We have much to do!”
White House
Mason’s summons to the Oval Office had come directly from Bousikaris. When Mason arrived, the chairman of the joint chiefs, General Chuck Cathermeier, was already there. “You, too?”
“Yeah. Any clue?”
“None.”
The secretary’s phone buzzed. “General Cathermeier, Director Mason, you can go in.”
They found President Martin seated behind his desk, Bousikaris at his shoulder. Sitting in one of the chairs before Martin’s desk was Tom Redmond, the director of the Defense Intelligence Agency.
Interesting, thought Mason. Redmond was a recent political appointee, one of many Martin had brought aboard after his inauguration. As far as Mason was concerned, Redmond had about as much business running the DIA as a chimp had flying the space shuttle.
“Sit down, gentlemen,” Martin said. “We have a situation. Go ahead, Howard.”
“Director Redmond has uncovered some information regarding the sale of chemical weapons.”
“Uncovered how?” Mason asked.
“HUMINT,” answered Redmond, referring to human intelligence—eyeballs on the ground.
“Whose?”
“Ours.”
Crap, Mason thought. The DIA’s mandate did not include developing human assets. Redmond was either lying or he was spreading his wings. Either way, Mason was wary. It was no secret that Martin didn’t much care for him, and the DCI recognized a knee shot when he saw it.
“What kind of agent?”
Bousikaris answered: “A stringer. One of yours from long ago, in fact: a Kashmiri named Sunil Dhar. He was approached about seven months ago by a broker for the Japanese Red Army. They were looking for some sarin nerve gas and knew Dhar had contacts in the Russian black arms market.”
“By contacts, I assume you mean former military,” said Cathermeier.
“Correct; Dhar hasn’t given up a name, but it’s probably someone in the rocket forces.”
It took all of Mason’s discipline to hold his tongue. A DIA controller handling a former CIA agent, who’s brokering a deal for a terrorist group … None of it fit.
“We’re aware of Dhar,” Mason said. “We’ve never taken any of his product at face value; he likes playing both ends against the middle. Without corroboration, I’d be skeptical of his information.”
Martin smiled. “Dick, I
know it stings a little that you missed this, but nobody’s blaming—”
“Mr. President, with all due respect—”
“This is a team effort, Dick. Don’t forget that.”
“Sir, I’m not concerned about saving face. Sunil Dhar is—”
Bousikaris said, “We feel Dhar’s information is solid. Now that we’re aware of the problem, we need solutions. To that end, Director Redmond came up with a plan. Tom, if you would.”
“According to Dhar, his contact will have the sarin at the delivery point within the next seventeen to twenty days,” said Redmond. “He’ll have a more exact time as it nears.”
“That’s where we’ll need your help, Dick,” Bousikaris said. “We want you to coordinate with the DIA and make sure this is the real deal.”
“Where’s the delivery point?” asked Cathermeier.
“Russia. The Bay of Vrangel, the port of Nakhodka-Vostochny. The cargo is to be transferred to a ship called the Nahrut. Once the cargo’s aboard, the ship will be heading for Rumoi, Japan.”
Martin said, “That ship cannot be allowed to leave port.”
Suddenly Mason realized where this was going. “Why not take it while it’s at sea? Board the ship, secure the cargo, detain Dhar and his crew.”
“Too risky,” said Bousikaris. “More to the point, the Russian’s have been playing fast and loose too long with their weapons of mass destruction. It’s time to send them a message.”
“By sinking a ship in the middle of the Bay of Vrangel? It’s an act of war, Howard.”
“The target ship will be of Liberian registry. The Russian government won’t—”
“They won’t Care if it’s a rubber dinghy. If we attack it in Russian waters, they’ll retaliate.”
President Martin broke in. “They can’t retaliate if they have no proof. The plan Tom has developed will get the job done without leaving any footprints.”
Tom Redmond couldn’t plan a sandwich, Mason wanted to say, but the spook inside him told him to shut up and listen. “Okay,” he said, “Let’s hear it.”
Wall of Night Page 7