The other half of the duplex was presumably the mirror image of his. They shared a backyard, divided right down the middle and enclosed across the back and sides by a six-foot-high wooden privacy fence. A two-car garage intruded into both yards an equal distance, and there was an alley behind the back fence. Across the alley was another row of almost identical brick houses and garages. There were small fireplaces in all the major rooms, but the agent had taken great pains to point out that none of them worked except the one in the living room, and it was strictly a gas-log affair. There was a tiny covered back porch, with steps down to the winter-bare yard. All the rooms except the master bedroom were furnished. The master bedroom remained bare floor from wall to wall, ostensibly for use as his sculpting studio.
There was a basement, but it was only partially floored in concrete, the area where the heating, hot water, laundry, and air-conditioning machinery were installed. The rest of the floor was hard-packed dirt, with two tiny windows at street level, one of which had been the coal chute in days gone by. There was a trapdoor to an attic, but Heismann had told the agent he wasn’t interested in the attic. If the skylight in the master bedroom did not work out, he might have to get into the attic, but certainly not in his present condition. He moved in front of the chair and gingerly sat down, still wearing his heavy overcoat, homburg, and those oversized sunglasses. Anyone looking in from the street would have seen the makings of a Magritte painting.
Mutaib had been surprisingly calm when Heismann had called him earlier from a pay phone in a Metro station. Interestingly, he’d taken the position that the killing of the police lieutenant would only give legs to the deception plan, and ensured that the government would take the bait seriously, especially once Heismann connected the dots for them. Heismann had given the Arab no inkling of his own injuries, and he had told him to be alert for Interpol queries after today, when he dropped the second piece of the bait into the game. Mutaib had assured him their man was watching. He had also told him that “the package” was in the United States and would clear customs in Baltimore harbor by the end of the week. Delivery of the sculptor’s tools and other special equipment Heismann had requested was to be made this afternoon, just before dark. The first marble delivery was scheduled for next Monday, and the “package” itself would be delivered on Tuesday, the seventeenth, right before the downtown area around Capitol Hill was slated to be shut down for the inauguration. Details on the delivery would be sent to him the day before. So far, everything was going smoothly. The security preparations for the target were conveniently being reported publicly in gratifying detail, but nothing they did would have any bearing whatsoever on what Heismann had planned for them.
In the meantime, he had work to do, beginning with a detailed walking reconnaissance of the neighborhood, so that he could plan two, possibly even three escape routes. He had to prepare the house to receive the weapon, especially the roof and the floor of the master bedroom. He had to create a reasonable facsimile of a sculptor’s studio in the master bedroom, and for that he would need some tools, building materials, and probably a ladder. And finally, he wanted to get a sense of how often the local police patrolled this specific neighborhood. As much as he wanted to finish the problem with the nurse, that was probably secondary now that the weapon was in the country and the time was drawing near.
He longed to get out of the heavy disguise business—the wigs, the beard, the glasses, and all the bulky clothes. But he needed to stay in character until the neighbors had seen him, learned that he was a reclusive artist, and then forgotten about him. His groin still ached, and there were fiery nerves he’d never known about connecting his bruised testicles to points deep within his abdomen. He wondered if a kick to a woman’s groin would have the same effect. With any luck, maybe he’d get to find out. He began the deep-breathing technique again, willing the pain to subside.
Bertie called back at just after four o’clock. Swamp took the call on his secure phone. Bertie began with a question. “Did you get any hits on this Heismann in the national database?”
“Negative,” Swamp said. “We got some hits, but none of them sounded like our guy. As I told you this morning, I think he’s a European national. Possibly German.”
“He is indeed, if this is him. I’ll send you a secure fax with the details, but we’ve come up with a possible. Heismann, Jäger. Low-level Stasi operative at the time the Berlin Wall came down. Went back into the Rodina with some of his Soviet masters right after that, then surfaced again in Western Europe as a low-level enforcer for the FSB.”
“FSB. Who are they?”
“Russian federal security service. You know, the successor to the KGB. His job was chasing down Russian businessmen turned émigrés, the ones who were slipping out of the motherland with real cash money.”
“A player?”
“No, not really. One of those guys who dances around the fire but never risks the actual flames. When the Ivans ran out of money, he migrated to the Muslim underground back in Hamburg. They, of course, did have money. Supposedly did more enforcement work, screening out plants and informers, but never doing anything so egregious as to get any of the European CI outfits spun up. Speaks colloquial English.”
“How so?”
“Orphan. Taken in by an American air force sergeant at an early age in Frankfurt. Can probably speak English like an American. The Muslim fanatics would really like that angle. Ran away as a teenager to Berlin, drifted east. The Russians and the East Germans would have loved the American connection and his language ability.”
“They know where he is?”
“Not at the moment, which is only mildly intriguing. Emphasis on the midlevel aspect of this guy, Swamp—he’s no heavy hitter, no Carlos the Jackal. I talked to a German BND source earlier this afternoon. Their BVS directorate has Heismann as a Nazi sympathizer. Longing for the good old days of yesteryear, when Germans were Germans and the world was afraid. Trusted outside man for the Islamic fanatics, but never gonna be the guy who drives the truck bomb into the embassy compound. He reportedly has a stash of Nazi memorabilia somewhere, but even their neo-Nazi CI people say Heismann’s a guy who’s never done anything significant. A talker, waiting for the one big score.”
Swamp thought about the four names. “Sometimes,” he said, “those guys are the most dangerous. They conclude one day they have to prove themselves, make their mark. Then they come out of nowhere and do serious damage. Think Lee Harvey Oswald. The OK City bombers. Who’d ever heard of them?”
“Granted. He the guy who did the nurse’s boyfriend?”
“We think, which is not to say we have any really impressive evidence. I think he’s also the guy in that original transcript.” Swamp reviewed what had happened in that case since they last spoke.
“‘Bomb, bomb, bomb,’” Swamp chanted. “I think maybe he’s on a mission for somebody with money.”
“The State of the Union? Or I guess it’s the speech to the joint session this year, isn’t it?”
“Yeah.”
“Hell, why not the inauguration?” Bertie said. “I mean, if he’s going to make his grandstand play, why not do it right? Get both the old government and the new government in one fell swoop? Talk about a decapitation strike.”
“Because the inauguration is probably the most heavily protected event on the planet,” Swamp said patiently. “Much too hard. But the speech to the joint session? Just a month later? When maybe the security people have let their guard down a little? Sneaky, but feasible.”
“And Hallory and his people at PRU insist this thing’s still a firefly?”
“They might not yet know about Heismann, or that we’ve made a connection here with the original transcript, flimsy as it is.”
“We could have the wrong guy, Swamp,” Bertie cautioned. “I mean, this guy’s a pretty low-level thug to be trying something like what you’re suggesting.”
“What are you saying?”
“If it’s him, then he has to h
ave some serious money behind him,” Bertie said. “And we all know who’s behind most of the serious money going into attacking America these days.”
“And?”
“I’m just suggesting you need to look for some connection between the Arabs and this guy to make your theory more convincing. You gonna let the D.C. cops know you have a name?”
“They’ve been really cooperative, so yes. Unlike my onetime brethren in the Service.”
“Yeah, well, you play that as you will. But keep me in the loop, okay?”
“Will do, Bertie, and thanks again for the lead.”
Swamp hung up, called Gary over to his desk, and back-briefed him on what Bertie had revealed. “There should be a secure fax coming through on this. Oh, and any sign of that memo from Hallory?”
“No, sir, but that VanMetre woman called and says she wants a meeting.”
“Really. What about? And when?”
“This evening. And she wasn’t sharing as to the subject.”
“Okay, I’ll call her,” Swamp said.
“What do we do if we surface this guy Heismann?”
“We turn the whole package over to the Justice Department.”
“We wouldn’t build the case? Take it to prosecution?”
Swamp shook his head. “Negative. Old Secret Service rule. We want to catch these animals. You always want somebody else to clean them.”
Heismann finally felt well enough to get in his van and drive uptown. He’d waited until after the rush-hour traffic had flushed itself out of the city’s broad avenues, and then he spent an hour changing his disguise. Now he wore a white wig, wispy white eyebrows, Coke-bottle eyeglasses with a tiny clear central area for normal vision, a dark overcoat and gloves, and a floppy French beret. He carried a cane. And the liquid Taser pack was strapped to his body under that roomy overcoat. He drove the van up Connecticut Avenue, then went right and down into Rock Creek Park on Tilden, then right on Porter and all the way back to Connecticut. There was just enough residual traffic so that his van shouldn’t stand out, although it was fully dark by now. He’d been able to catch a glimpse of her house from the top of Tilden, but he had seen no evident police activity. He watched for signs of police surveillance as he drove down into the park and again as he passed the entrance to the nurse’s street, Quebec Street. He saw nothing obvious. All right, so they aren’t being blatant about it, he thought as he went left this time into Ordway Street and found a parking space in front of an apartment building.
If they did it German-style, there’d be one openly visible surveillance unit and one or more covert units. A police car parked in front of her house, or along the street. Obvious, out there in the open for anyone to see. And then a second unit, probably an unmarked car or perhaps a van, parked in someone’s driveway. Definitely not the old television show standby, the telephone company van. Perhaps even some individuals on the ground or in the house itself. It was cold, though, and the Ammies loved their vehicles. He was betting on a second vehicle of some kind. Maybe hidden in the yard, or even that garage. Or in the driveway of one of the adjacent houses.
He paused to think. He’d made the threat. The papers said she had been released on her own recognizance but had been ordered to stay in the city. They would have her under police protection. She was either a suspect in what had happened to the policeman or the next victim—she couldn’t be both. If suspect, she’d still be in custody. So now she was bait, ya? Very well. He’d tickled their web with that phone call. If she was still in the house, then it meant they wanted to play.
He’d told Mutaib that the police were running a deception of their own, because he, Heismann, knew precisely under which rock in the park the nurse was buried. Mutaib seemed to believe him, and he even warned Heismann to stay away from what was obviously a trap. Heismann had played that same warning back to him: Mutaib needed to keep his people away from the nurse’s house, as well. The Arab had agreed immediately. Heismann smiled in the darkness. Check.
So now he would take a walk. A white-haired old man, complete with three-toed cane, would take a tottering walk down Quebec Street, see what he could see. He made some adjustments to the Taser pack, then switched the charging unit on. He put his Walther in his outside coat pocket, checking it once more to ensure there was a round chambered. He took two Levolor cords rigged with locking clamps out of the bag on the right front seat and put them in the other pocket. If he did this right, he could leave the nurse an unambiguous message. He’d never scare off the police, but he might be able to make the nurse doubt their capacity to protect her. And then she might run. He needed her to run, for two reasons: to give the Ammies somebody to chase besides himself and to get her out from under police protection. If she went far, she was out of the game. If not too far, he might still find her and end the problem once and for all.
Five minutes later, he turned into Quebec Street, on the side opposite the nurse’s house. The sidewalks were uneven, heaved up by the roots of huge trees that lined the street. The houses on either side were substantial but old, dating probably from the 1940s or even earlier. There were picket fences, nice lawns, established shrubbery, and wall-to-wall cars parked along the street and in driveways. Every house seemed to have a detached garage, and each house was lighted and clearly occupied. There were streetlights only at street intersections, so most of the light on the street came from the homes themselves.
He took his time, trying to make it look right, not tapping the cane but leaning on it and carefully navigating the humped sections of concrete. He hoped no dogs would come roaring out to devil him, but he had a cure for that, too, a canister of pepper spray embedded in the top handle of the cane. One quick twist and the handle would come out of the cane, ready for business. Back in the old days, in Berlin, it had been a can of something a lot more permanent than pepper spray. But those days were gone forever, unfortunately.
He got to the small bend to the right in Quebec Street before he finally saw the police car. It was parked on his side of the street, and he could just make out two heads outlined against some internal greenish light in the black-and-white cruiser. Probably a computer screen. He stopped behind the bulk of a large tree trunk and watched for a few minutes. He saw the flare of a cigarette lighter, and then a puff of smoke streamed out the window on the passenger side into the cold night air. All right, this one was totally obvious. The question now was, Where was the covert unit? He continued on down the sidewalk, getting closer to the police car. The other unit should be in visual contact with this unit, while still being able to watch the house. He could see the front and right side of the nurse’s house now, but her driveway was empty. The stand of cedars was clearly visible, and she had her front porch light on. He stopped again. That porch light would blind anyone in the cedars themselves. So, the second unit—farther up the driveway? But then they would be out of visual contact with this unit. Or they were in one of the nearby driveways.
He looked around while pretending to rest, scanning all the driveways as best he could through the shrubbery. They could also be inside any of these houses. That would be the best spot. No visible vehicle, but in visual contact with the cruiser. Watching him even now. He felt a chill rise along his neck, imagined telescopic crosshairs or even one of those laser dots playing across his back. Was he making a big mistake here? Had he indeed walked right into a trap?
He shook off those thoughts and started walking forward again. The Washington police? Not to worry. He was fifty feet back from the patrol car, and the puffs of smoke were coming regularly out of that window, almost as if the smoker was sending smoke signals. The glow from the computer screen in the front dashboard was more visible now. Definitely two occupants, no more. The one in the driver’s seat was slumped lower than the one in the passenger seat. No hats. Windows cracked all around. The emergency light set mounted on the top was glistening with dew. He shifted the cane into his left hand and closed his right hand around the Taser. He slid the arming tab forward, im
agining that he felt the boxy little thing begin to quiver with lethal energy.
Twenty feet. No face visible in the left side-view mirror. He could hear a radio muttering inside the car, see the shotgun strapped into its rack. The driver—sleeping? The other one smoking furiously, puff after puff. He could smell it now, the pungent tang of tobacco hanging on the still night air. A lot of hair on the smoker’s head—a woman? Oh, he hoped so. That would make it even better. He kept a peripheral sweep going, looking for any signs of a car that didn’t fit, but they were all covered in dew. The nearest houses all had blinds or shades.
He finally drew abreast of the police car, looking sideways through the hideous glasses, stooping now, and making his movements more painful-looking. Yes, the driver was napping. A black man, with double chins bulging against his chest. The other one was indeed a woman, also black. She was reading a paperback book by the light of the computer screen. He stopped alongside the car, but incredibly, neither of them noticed him. He withdrew the Taser, held it down alongside his coat pocket, and then banged the cane forcefully on the hood of the car.
The driver’s head snapped up as the woman dropped her book, and they both gaped at him.
“Communists?” he asked in his best imitation of a querulous old man’s voice. “You watching for the damned Communists?”
The driver, still blinking himself awake, glanced over at his partner, who was relaxing, taking her hand off her service revolver. Heismann tapped on the car again, and the driver lowered his window all the way.
“Say what?” he asked
“Communists!” Heismann said. “They’re everywhere. Everywhere! You stay on guard. They are devils! They’re coming, you know. Soon.”
The driver glanced again at his partner, who was now trying to control her amusement, first at how badly surprised the driver had been, and now at this bat-blind geezer ranting on about Communists.
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