“Let me know where and when,” Mullins said.
“Are you working?”
“No, I’m off-duty. But I’m babysitting Josh. Never too young to teach a boy the great American pastime.”
“I’d like that. I’d like to meet your grandson. The game’s at the field by William Ramsay Elementary. I’ll let you know the details tomorrow.”
When he reached the high-rise, Mullins drove into the underground garage, entered the security code, and dropped Luguire at the elevator. “Eight?” Mullins asked, as Luguire closed his briefcase and slid out of the backseat.
“Right. Have a good night, Nails.”
“You too, Old Greenbacks.”
Chapter Two
Fares Khoury steered the silver Ford 150 pickup along the leaf-covered lane. The truck’s shocks rode so low that every root and rut sent a jolt up his spine. He took comfort knowing his part of the mission was nearly complete. The last haul of fertilizer bags lay in the bed behind him, the final purchase of the quantities he’d assembled from feed-and-seed stores across five Virginia counties. Because of federal regulations and purchasing paperwork, many gardening and farm suppliers no longer carried ammonia-nitrate fertilizer, but his contact had given him accurate source information, and his photo ID and background story passed scrutiny.
Khoury swung the truck around the small clapboard house and parked in front of the shed. The rough plank walls were weather-beaten and the tin roof rusty, but the wood was still solid and the shiny padlock on the door would require a heavy-duty hacksaw to dismantle. Two days before, a heating oil supplier had filled the tank on the back wall of Khoury’s rented house. Then Khoury had siphoned that oil into ten-gallon drums now safely locked in the shed with the fertilizer.
He still hadn’t gotten used to sleeping in the house. There were no streetlights or traffic noise, only pitch black nights and cries from wild animals Khoury imagined lurked just outside his door. As a native of Miami and son of Lebanese immigrants, he had no experience living off a dirt road in an isolated mountain valley. His four weeks in this alien landscape had passed with the speed of a prison sentence. Only the thought of returning to his wife and four-year-old daughter gave him comfort. He didn’t like that they’d been taken from their home. For their protection, he’d been told.
The most nerve-racking event had been dealing with the bank. Bankers had ruined his life and to walk into their den, play the role of a businessman, and smile as he opened the new account pushed him to the limit. He kept thinking of the end game and how those responsible would pay. Now the need for the bank was behind him, although it seemed like a lot of trouble to net a thousand dollars. His contact had said transactions over ten thousand dollars drew the jackals’ attention so he did what he was told. He wondered if the banks had also cheated the rest of the chosen.
Although the evening temperature began to cool, Khoury became drenched with sweat as he transferred his cargo from the pickup to the shed. When he finished, he fastened the new padlock, locked the truck out of habit learned in Miami, and went into the house. The place had come furnished, but the few chairs, rickety table, and moth-eaten sofa looked like rejects from a yard sale. The box springs of the bed were so shot that Khoury had pulled the mattress onto the floor. He shuddered at the thought of what kind of vermin slept with him.
He took a quick shower because the water heater’s recovery rate meant only four minutes before the temperature dropped to that of the well. Then he sat in his underwear at the kitchen table and wrote down the day’s activities: the cost of the fertilizer and the gasoline for the truck were entered in a ledger and a short narrative of his actions went in his journal.
His contact stressed that both records be carefully maintained. Khoury would hand them over to the man who would replace him, the man who would convert the resources he’d gathered into a lethal bomb and then give it to those who would deliver it to the target and destroy the evil enslaving them all.
Khoury finished writing. He felt weak. He drank a glass of orange juice and got the kit for his injection. He’d pick up a prescription refill on Saturday that would carry him through the mission. Khoury had been instructed to wait patiently. The man would come. Any delay wasn’t to be questioned because the man was overseeing everything and he had his own target, the thirteenth. Khoury was curious as to what that thirteenth target could be. But he wouldn’t ask. He would wait. He would wait for the man called Russell Mullins to come to him.
Chapter Three
Mullins poured himself a Scotch and sat in his easy chair. He checked the TV listings to see if the Washington Nationals had an evening game. Not finding one, he flipped through mindless sitcoms and indignant talk show guests until he gave up and turned the set off. Maybe later he’d find one of the British cop shows. They were more realistic than their American counterparts.
He took a sip of his drink, and then picked up the phone. His daughter answered just as he thought he was headed for voicemail.
She spoke a breathy, “Hi, Dad.”
“Kayli, have I caught you at a bad time?”
Her voice brightened. “No. I was changing Josh. Yet again. I’ve plopped him back in front of the potty training video.”
“He’s only two. I’m sure he’ll be housebroken by first grade.”
Kayli laughed. “Housebroken? What? Should I make him go on the paper?”
“Whatever works.”
“You can try that with him at your place.”
“What time did you need me to come by Saturday?”
“My haircut’s at eleven. Anytime before ten-thirty.”
“Good. I might take him to a T-ball game if it fits your schedule.”
Kayli laughed again. “T-ball? Who’s the one pushing him now? He’s a little young for centerfield and not housebroken.”
“Just to watch. Paul Luguire told me his grandsons have a game.”
Kayli’s voice sobered. “Is it dangerous? I thought there were threats on his life.”
“Yes, technically. I’m more of a precaution. But I’m off-duty. Somebody else will be assigned to him.”
“Sure, if you think it’s okay.”
Mullins took a sip of Scotch in victory. “What’s the word from Allen?”
“We talked earlier. He’s still off the coast of Somalia.”
“Does Naval Intelligence let him use a webcam?”
“No. We exchange video DVDs, but that’s by mail. There’s no Skype. Everything’s done to protect the security of his location. I’m grateful his rank lets him use a POTS.”
“What’s that?”
Kayli laughed. “A highly classified acronym. Plain Old Telephone System.”
“Got to be tough for both of you.”
“I’m pretty lucky, Dad. If he were on the ground somewhere, I’d be worried sick. But on a ship, he’s reachable. I don’t take that for granted.”
“Never do.”
Kayli heard the sadness in the words. “Well, should I buy Josh a glove for Saturday?”
“No. But pack his Nationals cap. And some extra diapers.”
Mullins hung up, warmth from the Scotch and warmth from the call mingling together. “We’ve got a good daughter and grandson, Laurie.”
He found himself talking to his dead wife more and more frequently. Comforting in the lonely evenings and he saw nothing alarming about it. Laurie wasn’t talking back. Yet.
Mullins checked his email and sent most of the messages to the trash. He refilled his drink and headed for his easy chair. He stopped, then retraced his steps to the kitchen and pulled a dusty bottle of Drambuie down from a cabinet. He estimated half an ounce and mixed it with the Scotch. He held the glass up to the light. “To baseball and grandkids.” He took a sip of the Rusty Nail, trying to remember when he’d last had one. Then he watched an episod
e of Inspector Lewis he hadn’t seen. Shortly after ten, he went to bed.
***
The cellphone on his nightstand jarred him awake. His inner clock told him it was too early for the programmed alarm. A glance at the time confirmed his intuition. Two-forty. His heart started pounding. No good news came at two-forty in the morning. Kayli. Josh. Or maybe his son-in-law, Lieutenant Commander Allen Woodson, tracking pirates and flying drones from the Indian Ocean.
“Hello,” he whispered anxiously.
“Russell Mullins?” The man’s voice was clear and calm.
“Yes. What is it?”
“Are you the Russell Mullins with Prime Protection?”
“Yes. What is it?” he asked more urgently.
“I’m Detective Robert Sullivan with the Arlington Police Department.”
“My daughter. Has something happened to my daughter?”
“No, sir. I’m calling about Paul Luguire. He’s been shot.”
Mullins stood, his bare feet slapping the hardwood floor. “How badly?”
“I’m afraid he’s dead. Mr. Mullins, we need to talk.”
Chapter Four
Detective Robert Sullivan bent over the table, his eyes focused on the single, blood-splattered sheet of typing paper, his mind ignoring the body slumped in the chair next to him.
A uniformed police officer stuck his head in the kitchen. “Rob, that Mullins guy’s in the lobby.”
Sullivan straightened his back and groaned. “I told him to go to the station.”
“Well, he didn’t listen.”
“Of course he didn’t listen. Once a fed always a fed.” Sullivan rolled off his latex gloves and dropped them in his suit pocket. Three-fifteen in the morning. He should be home in bed with his wife instead of here with some banker who couldn’t take the pressure. Sullivan had pressure too. Luguire was evidently a big-shot and the media would be crawling all over each other for information. He hoped the statement “apparent suicide” would send them scurrying for titillating gossip and leave him clear to finish the investigation. This case looked routine, but Sullivan had been on the force long enough to know that as soon as you started treating something as routine it would bite you in the ass.
“What do you want to do?” the uniformed officer asked.
“Bring him up. The crime lab’s cleared the living room. I’ll talk to him in there.” Sullivan took a seat in a teal chintz chair that might have cost as much as he made in a month. He didn’t begrudge Luguire his fine possessions. How could he? What did Luguire have now? Sullivan felt sorry for him. And for the man’s daughter. No child should see a father with the side of his head blown off.
Sullivan heard footsteps in the hall. A second uniformed officer ushered in a man whose thinning red hair looked like it had been styled by a hand dryer in a public bathroom. He wore rumpled tan slacks, a wrinkled white shirt, and a blue sport coat that bulged slightly under the left arm. Probably a Glock, Sullivan thought. He might have dressed in the middle of the night, but he’d sooner forget his shoes than his semi-automatic. The man swept the room with a turn of his head. Any trace of sleep was gone from his piercing brown eyes. They settled on the detective.
“You Sullivan?” Mullins didn’t wait for an introduction.
Sullivan stood. “My name’s not important. The fact that I told you to go to the station is.” Sullivan strode forward. “I thought you’d respect law enforcement, Mr. Mullins.”
Mullins kept his eyes locked on the detective, ceding no ground as the other man walked into his space. He studied him carefully before replying. “Paul Luguire was my charge. I’m not cooling my heels at the station while some murderer walks the streets. There’s a job to do.”
Sullivan eased back a step but kept the edge in his voice. “It’s a little late for you to start doing your job now.”
Mullins’ jaw clenched. He fought the urge to deck the guy. But Sullivan was a head shorter and twenty pounds overweight. Assaulting a police detective wouldn’t solve anything. “I didn’t say it was my job.”
Sullivan saw the restraint win out. He’d baited Mullins but the man kept his cool, if barely. “And I didn’t say it was murder.”
Mullins shook his head. “It was murder. You can take that to the bank. I don’t care if you found a videotape of him putting a gun in his mouth and pulling the trigger, Paul Luguire didn’t kill himself.”
“You haven’t examined the crime scene.”
“Then show me.”
Metal clanked as a gurney rolled through the front door. Two techs looked at Sullivan. The nearer said, “We were told we’re clear to take the body.”
Sullivan held up his hand. “Wait a moment.” He turned to Mullins. “You’re a civilian. You know I can’t do that. I cut you slack bringing you this far into the apartment.”
“If it’s suicide, then what’s the problem?” Mullins asked.
“If it’s not, then I can’t have you contaminating the murder scene.” Sullivan smiled. “You see your murder premise keeps you out.”
Mullins glanced at the gurney. “Looks like you’re through with the scene.”
“We might have missed something. I’ll do a final sweep when Luguire’s been removed. I don’t want a trace of you showing up in that kitchen.”
For the first time, Mullins looked surprised. He understood the implications. “I’m a suspect?”
“You were the last person to see him alive. A defense attorney would claim any DNA or fiber evidence against you came from your tour of the scene.”
“What about his daughter? His grandkids?”
“What about them?”
“He was meeting them for ice cream. You don’t share a sundae and then blow your brains out.”
“No,” Sullivan agreed. “They never got together. His daughter got a text at practice that something had come up.”
“What time was this?”
“About six-thirty. She was supposed to pick him up here.”
“I dropped him off at six-ten. What could have happened in twenty minutes to cause him to kill himself?”
Sullivan shrugged. “You tell me. Maybe he never intended to go for ice cream.”
Mullins thought better when he moved. He stepped around Sullivan and paced back and forth across the living room. “Then why did he make me stop at an ATM? Why get a hundred dollars? Even if he intended to meet the grandkids for one last time, that’s a hell of a lot of ice cream. No. He was looking beyond last night. I was coming to see his grandsons play T-ball Saturday. We made that plan just before he left the car.” Mullins stopped pacing and stared at Sullivan. “So, you tell me.”
“I see where you’re coming from,” Sullivan admitted. “But Luguire left a note. We’re pretty sure it’s in his handwriting and written with his fountain pen. There are ink smears on the right edge of his palm and a slight smudge on one of the lines where he must have brushed across it.”
“What’s the note say?”
“We don’t make those things public.”
Mullins threw up his hands. “Do I look like the damn public? Come on, Detective, has nothing I’ve said given you pause in your rush to judgment?”
Sullivan flushed. The points made by Mullins did make him reassess the case. And he had been ready to dismiss the ex-Secret Service agent as someone trying to cover his own ass. He turned to the men by the gurney. “Follow me.” He pointed a finger at Mullins. “You. Stay where you are. Don’t sit. Don’t touch anything.”
Rusty Mullins fumed. He wanted to see the crime scene. Faking a suicide was difficult, but not impossible. However, evidence was only as good as the person interpreting it and Mullins had never worked with Sullivan before. He could be Sherlock Holmes or Inspector Clouseau.
Sullivan returned carrying a clear evidence bag. Mullins saw b
lue ink and red smears on a white sheet of paper. Sullivan didn’t look at him. “Let’s walk.”
Mullins followed the detective down the hall and into the elevator. Neither man spoke until they reached the lobby door.
“I’ve got an unmarked at the curb,” Sullivan said.
“Are you taking me to the station?”
“I’m not taking you anywhere. Now get in the passenger’s seat.”
The passenger’s seat meant Mullins wasn’t being placed under arrest or treated with hostility. He ratcheted down his attitude a notch and slid into the bucket seat. “You got a partner?”
Sullivan laid the evidence bag on the dash and closed the driver’s door. “Yeah, but he went home sick an hour before we got the call. You’re lucky. I’m the one with the sparkling personality.” He pulled a thermos and two cups from the floorboard underneath his seat. “Here.” He handed Mullins a cup. “Run your fingers around the inside to clean out the debris. My wife’s coffee will kill any serious germs.”
“Thanks.” Mullins held the chipped cup steady while Sullivan poured. “How many years have you been a detective?”
“Fifteen. Ten in homicide. So this isn’t my first time to a barbecue.”
“I didn’t think so.” Mullins sipped the coffee. The scorched taste brought back nights with the Secret Service, waiting for a president to arrive or depart.
Sullivan poured himself a cup. “But I admit my experience is nothing like the boys in the district. Corpses in D.C. have to take a number to see a detective.”
Mullins didn’t laugh, but he appreciated the bridge Sullivan was trying to build. “I got assigned to Luguire about a year ago. I was really a glorified chauffeur. Resentment and opposition to the Federal Reserve had created an atmosphere of personal threats and the Federal Reserve Chairman wanted protection for key personnel.”
“But you’re private now. Why didn’t the government take care of it?”
“Because the Federal Reserve System isn’t really a federal agency. It’s operation is independent of the government. Most people don’t know the Federal Reserve Regional Banks are privately held by commercial banks. Yes, the president appoints the Board of Governors, designating the chairman and vice chairman. And the Senate confirms. But Congress has limited operational oversight, and some say there’s less transparency than with the CIA.”
The 13th Target Page 2