Zero Separation

by Philip Donlay

  Donovan closed the door and waited as Keller’s footsteps receded into the night.

  Montero put her finger to her lips to silence Donovan and then went to where Keller had been sitting. An exhaustive search turned up nothing. Montero finally grabbed her untouched drink and downed most of it and then settled into the sofa. “I don’t see a bug, but I’m convinced that he’s completely full of shit. He was here fishing. I’m not sure anything he told us tonight was true.”

  “I saw that guy tonight in the bar,” Donovan said.

  “Who? Keller?”

  “No, the guy in the photo.”

  Montero’s eyes grew wide. “And you didn’t say anything?”

  “The only reason Keller was here was to find out if we’d seen that guy. Everything else was camouflage. We’re not even sure exactly who Keller is—he flashed some credentials, but who knows? I wasn’t about to give him what he came for without knowing what was going on.”

  “Good call. Where was this guy? I don’t remember him. What was he doing?”

  “He was standing at the bar. He had his back to us most of the time. I didn’t think much about him until Sasha got agitated. It momentarily crossed my mind that maybe she’d reacted to seeing him. He may have been the one who scared her, not us.”

  “Think about the timeline. Did you see him leave? Is it possible he could have beaten you to the parking lot?”

  “I didn’t see him leave, but he could have slipped out while we were tied up with the bouncers. If that’s the case he could’ve easily made it to the parking lot before I did. We need to ID this guy. He could have been the one driving the Lexus.”

  “I don’t know how we can.” Montero shook her head in frustration. “I can’t explain where the image came from. If I tell Burgess we took it in the bar, he’ll want to know why we didn’t say something earlier. The FBI would go ballistic if someone caught wind of the fact that I’d talked to a Mossad agent.”

  “Okay, forward the photo to my phone.” Donovan said. “I’ll find out who he is.”

  “How?”

  “Let’s just call it Washington connections.”

  “Give me your number,” Montero said as she picked up her phone, going into the kitchen to pour herself another measure of whiskey. Moments later she told him it was sent.

  Donovan checked the image, and then finished his Scotch. He relished the warmth of the liquor as it began to soften the razor-sharp edge he’d been riding all night.

  “I have to get some sleep.” Montero yawned. “You should too.”

  “I will. What time in the morning?”

  “Let’s sleep in and then figure out what’s next.” Montero collected her drink and she padded back to her bedroom and closed the door.

  Donovan refilled his glass before heading to the guest room. He guessed Lauren was home with Abigail by now and that both were safe. He hated what this was doing to his family. He thought of what Lauren had told him earlier about the police being at his house. More than anything he wished he could hold his daughter and tell her that everything was going to be fine. Courtesy of Calvin and the DIA, there was a secure landline at his house, and he hoped that Lauren would be free to talk. He let himself into the guest bedroom, quietly closed the door, sat on the bed, and downed the remainder of his whiskey. He was stalling and he knew it. He couldn’t imagine what Lauren had been through tonight, and he had no real idea what to expect or what was causing his sudden uneasiness.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Lauren heard the soft chime of her phone announcing a text message from Donovan. She opened it, but there was no text, only the image of a man. A quick look confirmed she had no idea who he was, only that he had startling white hair for such youngish facial features. What in the hell was she supposed to do with this? she wondered and set the phone aside.

  She was too wired to sleep. Buck and Andy were somewhere close, and they’d told her to go about her normal activities. The only deviation from normal: insistence that she close all the drapes and avoid standing near a window. That, and the armed men lurking inside her home. How could that not feel like an intrusion? From the study, she heard her work line begin to ring, and as she headed that way she knew it had to be Donovan calling.

  “Hello,” Lauren said.

  “It’s me,” Donovan said softly. “I didn’t wake you, did I?”

  “No, I just walked in. Where are you?”

  “At Montero’s. Can you talk? How’s Abigail?”

  “She was asleep when I got home. The babysitter said she’s fine. I can talk for a little bit, but it’s still chaotic here.”

  “You doing okay?”

  “I’ve been better. I spent most of the evening being interrogated by the FBI, the house is now under armed guard, and I have a massive headache that won’t go away. Other than that, I’m fine. Hang on, let me close the door.” Lauren quietly shut the door and went back to the desk. She saw the book where Donovan had hid the movie and felt her displeasure flare again. “Okay, I’m here.”

  “Who’s there with you?”

  “Buck and one of his friends, a guy named Andy. The Fairfax County Police are parked outside the house as well as making regular patrols through the neighborhood. Calvin has the Defense Intelligence Agency on round-the-clock support. Whatever that means. The FBI has taken over the protection detail for Michael and Susan.”

  “It’ll all be over soon. How’s Michael doing?”

  “He’s Michael. He asked me where you were. Even pumped full of drugs, he knows something’s wrong.”

  “It’ll be okay.”

  “You know what? I’ve had a really crummy night and the last thing I need to hear right now is a bunch of empty platitudes. Earlier, at the hospital, a minute or two either way and everything might not have been okay.” Lauren felt her anger rise and she practically dared Donovan to lock horns with her.

  “You’re right. I’m sorry.”

  “Why did you text me this picture?” Lauren ignored his frail apology. “Who is this guy?”

  “It’s a long story, we think this guy might be involved, but we don’t know who he is. An Israeli diplomat named Aaron Keller gave us the photo. Can you run both men and see what turns up?”

  “Why can’t you get the FBI to do it for you? It would probably be a whole lot faster.”

  “I’m afraid they’d leave us out of the loop.”

  “All right, I’ll see what I can do.”

  “As far as the situation here, we’re in better shape now than we were a few hours ago. The investigation is in full gear. It’s gotten everyone’s attention, and I think the FBI will turn up something soon.”

  “Not according to Buck.”

  “Why? What does Buck think?”

  “I overheard him talking to someone with the FBI. He thinks that somehow we’ve become a target, that some jihadist group has leveled a fatwa against us and that it’s far from over. What happens if I have to jump on a plane to Europe? We won’t have any protection at all from the people who are trying to kill us.”

  “If we have to go, we’ll take the security with us. It was how we were going to have to start living anyway.”

  “God, I really hate this. I can’t go to the grocery store, let alone sneak off to Europe.”

  “If you think it sucks living in an armed camp for a few days, imagine being Mrs. Robert Huntington. It’ll be armed guards twenty-four-seven.”

  “I don’t want to be Mrs. Robert Huntington, but most of all I don’t want to be a widow.”

  “Nothing’s going to happen as long as Montero’s with me—she’s not a threat as long as I’m here. She’s been sidelined by her superiors, and if I can keep her in check until the case is solved, then my part of the bargain will have been met.”

  “I don’t know why you’re applying simple business principles to a volatile, emotionally impaired woman. You don’t have a single assurance that she’s going to do what she tells you. How can you trust that she won’t string this out i
ndefinitely? Why should she ever let you go? She has her own personal billionaire on a string. I’m not seeing an endgame here that turns out well at all—for anyone.”

  “I’m not on a string, and despite what we know about her from the file, I think her behavioral issues are manageable. I feel I can trust her.”

  “Oh, perfect. I’m so glad you can trust the woman who’s blackmailing you. I’m sure Montero’s been grilling you about your past. Why wouldn’t she, you’re an icon. Does she know about the documentary? It must be great to hang out with someone you can trust.” Lauren hated that she’d said the words, but somewhere down deep she knew she needed to confront him about what she knew and how much it had hurt her.

  “I was going to tell you about the film. I just wasn’t sure how to explain certain things.”

  “I’m your wife, I don’t expect you to have every negative emotion quantified and catalogued before you bring it up to me. In fact, I’d prefer you bring me the unvarnished truth, and we’ll work on the problem together.”

  “I’m sorry. I don’t operate that way.”

  “Give me one good reason why not,” Lauren said with more bite than she intended.

  “Meredith thought very much the same way you do, and my unfiltered actions got her killed. If you watched the movie, my guess is you have three questions about Costa Rica. The threats, the delay in my getting the money, and the phone call.”

  “I already know about the threats and the money. William explained the delay and he told me the threats weren’t anything specific.”

  “William doesn’t know everything,” Donovan said, his voice almost a whisper. “There was one threat that came straight to Meredith. We came back from a meeting to find an envelope placed on the bed in our hotel suite. Inside was a letter written by some political extremist that basically threatened to kill Meredith. She shrugged it off and said that security at the conference was perfectly adequate. I was furious that some crazy man knew what room we were in and I let my fear get the better of me. Without thinking it through, I convinced her to leave the hotel and get to the villa we’d rented, thinking we’d return when we had beefed up security. I didn’t really think it through, and as soon as we abandoned the security of the conference, she was taken. I’d reacted emotionally. Took a manageable situation and turned it into the scenario that got Meredith killed.”

  “You tried to protect her.”

  “What I did was get her killed. She’s dead because of me, plain and simple. I can’t change what happened. I can’t bring her back. I can’t change places with her. All I can do is never forget her and with that comes not forgetting what I did to her. With every molecule of my being, I want to keep something like that from happening to you or Abigail. I may appear impulsive at times, but I can assure you that I process everything, and that will never change—ever.”

  Lauren felt stung. His fury, guilt, and shame possessed an energy she’d never known him to have—and he’d unleashed it at her, as if his revelation came with a measure of punishment. Then she felt her resentment rise. He’d made her feel like she’d crossed some sort of line, but in her mind this was his mess, issues he’d never dealt with, and most certainly wasn’t her doing. She decided that as long as he was talking, she’d ask him the one question still on her mind. “What was said when you talked to her that night?”

  “That’s private.”

  Fully rebuffed, Lauren felt the last of her patience dissolve into anger. “Fine. You and Montero do what you need to do. I’m exhausted. We’ll talk later.” Lauren slammed the phone down and found that her hands were shaking. She felt the tears come and did nothing to try and stop them. She lowered her head, pressed her hands over her face, and began to sob.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Distant screams filled the morning sky. The sun hadn’t yet cleared the trees, but already the air shimmered in the heat. As always, everything started from far away and drew closer. What at first sounded like only a few scattered people’s cries of alarm, quickly grew to dozens, then hundreds. Donovan felt his growing panic and fought the muddy field, each step forward a monumental effort. Turning back wasn’t an option. In the distance, he could see her lying motionless, pale skin and auburn hair. His terror grew and he pushed harder, heart thudding furiously in his chest as the screaming around him grew in intensity. The voices of a thousand people were now wailing and sobbing. The field resembled an amphitheatre and Donovan clawed his way closer to her body. Lurching forward, pulling himself with his hands, he kicked furiously with his legs to cover the last few yards. Tens of thousands of tortured voices shrieked at him from every direction.

  With a hand darkened by the soil, he gently touched her shoulder so he could see her face. Her skin was cold and lifeless; her green eyes stared past him. The single bullet that had neatly perforated her forehead told him she was beyond help—but it wasn’t Meredith—it was Lauren. The thousands upon thousands of voices went silent at the same moment and the only scream was his.

  “Donovan! Wake up! It’s just a dream.”

  Arms wrapped him up and he fought the restraints until the images in his head faded and then dissolved. In the darkness he slumped, spent from exertion, and he felt hot tears roll down his face. His breathing was shallow and rapid. His heart pounded and he felt sticky and flushed. He couldn’t remember where he was—only the paralyzing fear that Lauren was gone.

  “You’re safe,” Montero said as she clicked on the bedside lamp.

  Donovan brought his hands up to his face to ward off the light. He struggled in the purgatory between the nightmare and reality.

  “Take long, steady breaths.”

  Donovan let the pieces began to arrange themselves in his head. He was in Florida. Montero’s house—she had her arms around him. He opened his eyes to find a genuinely concerned expression on her face. Donovan spotted her Glock on the nightstand and understood that his night terror must have alarmed her.

  “You were yelling—calling her name.”

  “Whose name?”

  “Meredith’s. I’m sorry if I’ve dredged up old wounds.”

  “You didn’t dredge them up. They’re always there.”

  “Is it always the same dream?” Montero asked. “I have the same one over and over. In mine I keep trying to wake Alec up to tell him we’re in danger and I can’t—he never wakes up.”

  “Yeah. Something like that.” Donovan didn’t want to share his dreams with her, or anyone else for that matter. He gradually became aware of the fact that Montero’s hand was still on his shoulder. Sitting on the bed next to him, her proximity made him feel uncomfortable. “What time is it?”

  “It’s a little after five.”

  “I’ll never get back to sleep. I think I’m going to hit the shower and get dressed.”

  “I’ll make coffee.” Montero stood up and grabbed her Glock. She hesitated for a moment and then left the room, gently closing the door behind her.

  Donovan threw off the damp sheets, swung his legs off the bed, and rested his head in his hands for a moment. He recalled his conversation with Lauren. It was a miracle he’d even gotten to sleep at all last night. He needed to talk to her, but he also needed time to process a response. The fact that she’d found and watched the documentary about Meredith was bad enough, but he’d hidden it from her. He was eventually going to tell her. He just hadn’t been prepared for how hard it had hit him. Until he could get through watching it unfazed and intact, he hadn’t wanted to share it with her. All of that sounded rational, but now she’d discovered his deception. She was angry, and he didn’t blame her. What he hadn’t been prepared for was the intensity of her anger. Last night she was hurt, tired, and scared, and he was an easy target. After all, he was at fault. She’d said last night she didn’t want to be Mrs. Robert Huntington. Right now he wondered if she was all that thrilled about being Mrs. Donovan Nash.

  “You better get in here and see this!” Montero shouted from the living room.

  Donovan
threw on his pants and shirt just as his cell phone began to ring. He didn’t recognize the number, but he snatched it from the table and ran to join Montero.

  She was standing in front of the television, the remote still pointed at the set.

  “CNN has learned from the FAA that a search is now underway for an overdue airliner. Pan Avia Flight 17, flying from São Paulo, Brazil, to Washington Dulles is listed as missing.”

  Donovan answered the phone. “This is Nash.”

  “Mr. Nash. It’s Captain Ryan Pittman onboard the Atlantic Titan. I’m sorry if I woke you.”

  “Ryan, I was already up. What’s going on?”

  “We have a situation. About an hour ago we encountered a fairly large debris field coupled with a fuel slick on the water. We’ve discovered bodies as well. At this point we’ve recovered enough wreckage to determine that it’s from an airplane.”

  “Are you certain? Any idea whose airplane it is? I’m watching a CNN report about an overdue Pan Avia flight. Do you think that’s what we’re dealing with?”

  “Too soon to tell.”

  “Bodies?”

  “Fifteen, so far. Judging by the amount of kerosene floating in the ocean, my guess is it’s something big.”

  “How long until you have some assistance?”

  “We’ve notified the Coast Guard and they should have a cutter here by midday. The British Navy has a destroyer steaming our way, as does the U.S. Navy, but they won’t be here until sometime late tomorrow or the next day. Right now we’ve been asked by the Jamaican authorities to secure the site and recover as much debris as we can until more help arrives. I’ve already deployed all of our underwater acoustic and sonar assets to try and pinpoint the wreckage.”

  Donovan turned to Montero and mouthed that he’d be right back. He went to the bathroom and closed the door and lowered his voice. “Ryan, I need a favor.”

  “Sure, name it.”

  “If you’re in contact with the Navy or the Coast Guard, ask them to route a request to the FBI field office in West Palm Beach. Tell them my presence is required immediately onboard the Atlantic Titan. The guy you need to talk to is Hamilton Burgess. Don’t mention to him we’ve spoken, only that you’re trying to find me.”