He considered letting Amanda know he’d flown back from Paris. But she’d take it as a sign that he thought her collaboration with Mullins wouldn’t succeed and that he came to pick up the pieces. In her mind, his lack of confidence in her was tantamount to being unfaithful. And he understood her logic. It was Mullins who worried him.
Twenty minutes later, Jordan saw the blue Prius drive by. Reflexively, he turned his head from the window. If Mullins recognized him, the encounter would be awkward. He was supposed to be out of the country.
The Prius continued half a block before finding a parking space. Jordan’s first inclination was to drive off, make a U-turn and head in the opposite direction. But Mullins might notice the vacant spot and recall the missing vehicle. Jordan knew memory hinged on little things and drawing Mullins’ attention was the last thing he wanted to do. Better to stay put. So, not trusting the tinted windows, he slid down below the windshield line and waited five minutes, plenty of time for Mullins to walk past.
Mullins eyed Amanda’s building with appreciation. The five-story brick structure, known as the Ponce de Leon, was on the National Register of Historic Places. Mullins had been in the co-op only once. Amanda had invited Laurie and him to a private party celebrating the launch of one of her husband’s thrillers. It was the last event Laurie felt well enough to attend. She’d been impressed with the high ceilings and overall spaciousness of the three-bedroom residence. Curtis Jordan had told them Alben Barkley once lived on the top floor. Alben Barkley, Truman’s vice president. How obscure could you get, Mullins thought.
He stopped at the corner of Connecticut and Appleton and looked back up the side street for any sign that another vehicle had been following him. The road was quiet. The only sign of life, a man walking a schnauzer puppy along the opposite sidewalk.
Mullins turned to the building’s entrance. For the second time, his wife’s voice rang in his head. “Upside down.” He knew Laurie’s words were only in his mind, but the message was clearly coming from somewhere. Whether generated by his subconscious or beyond the grave, Mullins couldn’t ignore it. “Give me strength, Laurie,” he whispered, and ascended the front steps.
Amanda’s co-op was on the fourth floor close to the elevator. She heard the knock on her door as she pulled a tray of feta cheese and caramelized onion appetizers from her oven.
“What’s wrong? Can’t you pick the lock?” Amanda crossed the foyer and undid the deadbolt.
Mullins hesitated, sniffing the air that drifted across the threshold. “You’re cooking?”
“Why not? We have to eat.” She reached out and took his hand. “Come in before someone sees you. In that suit you look like a damn IRS agent. The neighbors will think I haven’t paid my taxes.”
As he stepped by her, she slid her hand under his lapel. “Let me hang up your jacket. And do you want to check that shoulder holster along with it? We can talk about work without looking like revolutionaries.”
“Okay.” He let her slip the coat off and then he unsnapped the holster and handed it to her. She arched her eyebrows as he removed his Glock and held it by his side.
“Expecting company or are you afraid of me?”
He smiled. “Yes.”
“Yes what?”
His smile vanished. “Do you know Sidney Levine?”
The question startled Amanda. She recalled her husband mentioning Sidney Levine the day before. She realized that her recognition had been seen by Mullins, a man trained in reading faces.
“The name sounds familiar. A reporter, right?”
“Yes. Freelance. He wrote a book taking the Federal Reserve to task.”
Amanda nodded. “That’s probably where I’ve heard of him. Why?”
“He tracked me down last Saturday. He wanted to know if I thought Luguire had been murdered.”
“What did you tell him?”
“That I’d been surprised by the report of suicide, and I told that to the Arlington police. I was very interested to see what their investigation uncovered.”
“So, this guy was fishing for a story.” Amanda gestured for Mullins to follow her into the living room. “Can I bring you a glass of wine? I have a nice Pinot Noir, California. I stock it just to piss off my husband who’s an irrational Francophile.”
“All right.” Mullins sat on the white sofa and laid his pistol on a marble end table. He looked around the well-appointed room. “I don’t know, though. Red wine in this room could be dangerous.”
“This coming from a man who needs to keep his loaded gun beside him at a friend’s house?”
“I hadn’t finished telling you about Sidney Levine. He left a message on my home machine that I retrieved on my way here. This afternoon someone broke into his apartment and shot his girlfriend. We don’t know whether she’ll make it.”
Amanda’s face drained. “Jesus. You think it has to do with tomorrow’s attacks?”
Mullins saw she was genuinely shocked. He motioned for her to sit beside him. “Sidney posted speculation tying Luguire and Archer together. You and I know there’s a connection. I assume the only person you’ve told is Rudy Hauser.”
“Yes. I saw him alone at his office at Treasury. But I expect the Archer-Luguire link got passed up the coordinating chain as the anti-terrorism units were briefed.”
“Somebody saw Sidney as a threat,” Mullins said. “They stole his laptop and his hard drives. I think his girlfriend just walked in at the wrong time.”
Amanda sighed. “So our secrecy successfully kept the plotters from learning we were on to them. As far as they know, there’s still a secret to protect, a secret that got the woman shot.”
“Yeah. Hell of an irony, isn’t it?”
She cocked her head and studied him closely. “You haven’t told me the whole story, have you?”
Mullins got to his feet. “You said something about wine.” He picked up his gun. “This white sofa makes me nervous. Why don’t we sit at the dining room table?”
Amanda brought two crystal glasses and a full bottle of Pinot Noir, gave each of them an abundant pour, and then returned with trays of fruit and the warm Pastry Bites. “Trader Joe’s finest,” she said. “I’ve probably let them get too cool.”
Mullins sampled one. “Very nice. I could eat them all.”
“I also have two small steaks. Those and a salad will be dinner.” She sat in the chair directly across the table width. “After you tell me what’s going on.”
He took a sip from his glass and then ran his finger around the base. “I’ve had more than one conversation with Sidney Levine. He followed me to Roanoke.”
“What?” Amanda’s hand trembled so hard a trickle of wine fell across her fingers. “He knows you talked to Archer?”
“He suspects I did. Archer logged my appointment under a false name. I guess he didn’t want anyone knowing he was meeting with the Federal Reserve.”
Amanda’s eyes narrowed. “Why the hell didn’t you tell me?”
“Because I just found out about it.” Mullins said the lie with just enough defensive tone to aid its credibility. He didn’t want to get into an explanation of his parallel investigation into the disappearance of Khoury’s family or his collaboration with Sidney and Sullivan.
Amanda made the mental leap. “Your name is on that computer.”
“Yes.”
“What about me?”
“He has no knowledge of you or the information you gave me.” Mullins hesitated. “At least, if he does, it didn’t come from me.”
“Well, that’s not reassuring. Especially given the number of people who know we’re close.”
“Where do things stand on your end?”
Amanda gave him an encouraging account she said came straight from Rudy Hauser of the Secret Service. Eleven terrorist cells identified and
monitored, Richmond’s was probably disrupted but the Reserve branch was under tight security, and an impenetrable net had been drawn over the Federal Reserve building in D.C. “If that’s the thirteenth target, there’s no way they’ll get close enough to execute an attack.”
“What’s the common denominator?” Mullins asked. “Al Qaida? Iranians? Syrians?”
“That’s the odd part. We’ve got Khoury a Lebanese, Asu a Syrian, and the other cells seem to be linked to the more extreme elements arising from the Occupy Wall Street protests.”
“Domestic? Who’s infiltrated whom? Are the protesters unwittingly harboring these terrorist cells?”
“We don’t know. At this point, we’re set to stop eleven of thirteen. Hauser’s betting noon for the trigger time.”
Mullins nodded. “Nine in the morning in San Francisco. Once one Federal Reserve Bank is hit security will clamp down on all of them. It has to be a nearly simultaneous attack. But strike too early and there’s not enough traffic or pedestrians.”
“Not enough casualties, you mean.” Amanda took a sip of wine and then shivered. “I’m scared, Rusty. I was confident until you told me about the reporter’s girlfriend. Their tentacles seem to be everywhere. What about your daughter? Is she safe?”
“Kayli and my grandson are away from their apartment. They’re to lie low until this is over.”
“A wise precaution.” She rose from the table. “Keep your seat. You can talk to me while I make our salads.” She headed for the kitchen. “Finish those appetizers.”
“Why do you think Asu would buy wrapping paper?”
Amanda froze in the doorway. Then she turned slowly. “Wrapping paper?”
Mullins popped one of the Pastry Bites in his mouth, chewed and swallowed.
Amanda stared at him, her forehead creased with furrows. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“Asu bought gift-wrapping paper at Toys “R” Us in Woodbridge this morning. He also bought a cardboard cutout set called Cinderella’s Castle. I can understand him getting that for Khoury’s daughter but why the paper?”
“You should have told me at once.”
Mullins picked up his wine and shrugged. “Virginia state police found the receipt in a motel room Asu rented. I’m sure it went up on the network where Hauser’s people saw it.”
“You don’t know that.”
“There’s a lot of things I don’t know. And right now wrapping paper is top of the list.”
Amanda marched past him. “I need to call Hauser. My phone’s in the bedroom.”
“Does that mean you don’t have a theory?”
“My theories would be just that. Theories. Hauser and Homeland Security have the analysts in place to make real headway.” She left him alone in the dining room. He refilled their wine glasses.
Five minutes later, Amanda returned. “Sorry I snapped at you. Hauser had the information. They’re working on it.”
“That’s okay. I shouldn’t have assumed the Virginia report crossed to the feds. I thought the news about Sidney Levine’s girlfriend was more important.”
“And more of an immediate threat.” Amanda rested her hands on Mullins’ shoulders, and then gently massaged them. “That’s got me uptight.”
Mullins leaned forward out of her grip and picked up her wine. “Here. A second glass always works for me.”
She took it. “I’ll take out my frustration on the salad. Toss it without mercy.”
Mullins laughed. “You do that. Where’s the restroom?”
“Down the hall to the left past the middle bedroom.”
He looked in the first bedroom and noticed it had a distinctly feminine flair. A mirror above the bureau on the far wall reflected the doorway on the other side of the queen-sized bed. The bathroom for the master bedroom. Atop the bureau, he saw Amanda’s open purse. Quickly he crossed the floor and pulled the cellphone clear. He called up the log of outgoing calls. Within the previous hour only one number appeared, a 202 area code. He committed the Washington number to memory. Satisfied Amanda had made only the one call, he replaced the phone and returned to the hall.
The middle bedroom had a king-sized bed. Prints of Paris landmarks decorated the walls and an impressionist painting hung over the headboard. Mullins didn’t know much about art but the work looked like an original.
The third bedroom had been converted into an office. Bookshelves lined two walls. A chrome and glass desk faced double windows. A leather recliner sat where the bookshelves came together. The layout suggested a private office for writing and reading. There was no client chair or conference table. It had to be where Curtis Jordan created his thrillers when he wasn’t traveling around the globe or ensconced in his beloved Paris.
Mullins stepped into the hallway bathroom, flushed the commode, and braced himself for the ordeal ahead.
They ate slowly, first the salad of mixed greens, walnuts, and crumbled bleu cheese. Amanda seemed to be drawing out the evening, talking about old times at Treasury, asking Mullins about presidents and memorable assignments, and liberally refilling their wine glasses.
She had him stay at the table while she broiled the steaks, keeping the conversation going through the kitchen doorway.
When she rejoined him, Mullins tried to shift the conversation away from himself, although he understood Amanda’s need to prattle about anything other than the next day’s operation.
“What’s your husband’s next book about?”
“Four hundred pages.” She cut into her steak with undisguised ferocity.
“It’s set in Paris?”
“Maybe. At least one scene for sure so he can write off his living expenses. He spends almost as much time at the Odéon Saint-Germain as he does here.”
“I see his books everywhere.”
“Yeah. Especially on the remainder tables in front of the bookstores.”
Mullins looked puzzled.
“Remainders,” Amanda repeated. “When a book goes out of print and the publisher doesn’t even want to spend the money for warehouse space. The inventory is dumped on the market and the author receives no royalties for the bargain-basement clearance sales.”
Mullins chewed his steak. His mind jumped back to his book conversation with Sidney Levine. He swallowed, and then asked, “Shouldn’t they print fewer and then do POD?”
Amanda looked up in surprise. “POD? Print-on-demand? Where’d you learn that term?”
“Kayli researched it,” he lied. “She wants me to write my memoir. I figure a print run of two—one for Kayli and one for my grandson Josh.”
Amanda laughed. “Put me down for a copy. Unless you say bad things about me.”
“Never. So, your husband’s publisher doesn’t do print-on-demand?”
She shook her head. “They sell enough that even with a large number going to remainder, it’s still more cost-effective. And Curtis considers the remainders loss-leaders. Get readers to sample his writing for five bucks and then they might pay regular price for the next one. But POD eliminates impulse buys.”
“How?”
“They’re usually not in stock. Might be a five to ten day lag time.”
“Even for the big chains?”
“Curtis says they’re notorious for not keeping POD titles on the shelves.”
“How long’s he planning to be in Paris?”
“Your guess is as good as mine.” She cast her eyes down at her half-eaten meal. “I’m afraid we’ve grown apart the past few years.”
“Sorry.” Mullins took another bite of steak, signaling he would ask no more questions about Curtis Jordan.
Later, he stood in the solarium off the living room with a cup of decaf in his hand. As he stared down at the traffic on Connecticut Avenue, he thought somewhere within easy driving di
stance, Asu held Zaina and Jamila Khoury hostage. Why?
Light footsteps sounded behind him. He felt an arm reach around his waist.
“Stay with me, Rusty,” Amanda whispered. “You can have Curtis’ room. I’ll find you a clean shirt in the morning.”
“I really shouldn’t.”
Amanda stifled a sob. “I don’t want you to be alone. Not tonight. Not until this is over. You’re safe here. You said the reporter had you on his computer. I feel responsible for getting you in this mess.”
“You? I’d have gone after Luguire’s murderer anyway.”
“No. I’m responsible because I recommended you as Luguire’s bodyguard. I thought you’d get along.”
“You know me too well.” Mullins took the final sip of his coffee. “All right, Amanda.”
She stood on her tiptoes and kissed his cheek. “Thank you.”
On the sidewalk below, Curtis Jordan waited in the shadows. He saw the two silhouettes in the window four stories above him. Betrayed by a kiss, he thought.
He walked up Appleton to his SUV. Mullins was going nowhere and Jordan would spend the night at the Hay-Adams Hotel on Sixteenth Street. But first he would pay a visit to Mullins’ apartment. Turnabout was fair play.
At eleven, Mullins said good night and retired to the second bedroom. Amanda would make sure he was up by five-thirty so that they’d be at the Federal Reserve building by seven.
Mullins stripped to his boxers and crawled between the cool sheets. Maybe it was thirty minutes, maybe forty-five before he began drifting toward sleep.
He heard footsteps, bare this time on the hardwood floor. The bedroom door rattled, but he’d locked the knob. Two gentle raps, then silence for a few seconds. Mullins kept his breathing rhythmic, adding a light snore.
The sound of departing footsteps faded down the hall.
Chapter Forty-three
Mullins let the hot water pound the back of his neck. He showered to stimulate circulation to his brain more than to wash his body. For the final two minutes, he turned off the hot water and stood under a cold spray till the invigorating assault took his breath away.
The 13th Target Page 22