Frame 232

by Wil Mara

  42

  RYDELL WAS ON I-95, halfway between his home and his office, nursing a fierce headache as he continued to hyperfocus on an escape plan that now had to be plucked from its tree well before it was fully ripened. Not all the money was tucked safely away yet. Not all the travel tickets had been purchased. For that matter, the itinerary hadn’t even been finalized. There were no bags packed, no disguises assembled. I have to buy more time, he thought, barely aware of the thickening traffic around him. Somehow . . . maybe with Theresa’s unknowing cooperation . . .

  What jarred him out of this trance was the mention of Hammond’s name on the radio.

  “Billionaire Jason Hammond has finally reappeared on public radar, spotted when his rental boat encountered a Coast Guard vessel near Key West during the early morning hours. And while a Coast Guard spokesman is refusing further comment on the matter, Hammond is believed to have slipped through their fingers, and his whereabouts are once again unknown. A report filed by the Associated Press also states that Hammond was traveling with one other passenger, an older Latino man whose identity is unknown at this time. . . .”

  Rydell whispered one word—“Clemente”—then took out his cell phone.

  Theresa answered on the first ring. “Where are you?” she asked, clearly shaken.

  “I’m on my way right now, but there’s traffic. Why? What’s going—?”

  “Director Vallick has been asking for you. He’s called three times and come by twice. I can’t hold him off forever.”

  “Okay, okay. I’ll be there shortly,” he said.

  He got into the left lane to take the first available U-turn.

  Exactly forty-two minutes later, an enraged Peter Vallick burst into Rydell’s empty office with four FBI agents close on his heels and Theresa peering through the doorway with tears in her eyes. It would take another seventeen for this impromptu team to establish that many of Rydell’s most sensitive papers had been dumped into the building’s basement incinerator, and that a large and now-irretrievable portion of his computer’s hard drive had recently been erased. Both operations had been carried out without authorization.

  Red-faced and screaming, Vallick ordered an immediate manhunt, and the FBI formally issued an arrest warrant for J. Frederick Rydell.

  Rydell was already in his home, having entered through the back door so he wouldn’t be seen by his neighbors. He had a list of needed escape items on the computer in the den, but it was unfinished. He would now have to complete it on the fly. He passed through the kitchen and went into the living room, where he turned on CNN. There were no reports that concerned him yet.

  First—cash. Leaving the TV on, he went into the bedroom, parted the louvered closet doors, and knelt in front of the small safe. There were several stacks of banded bills on the top shelf, resting on a large envelope containing his Social Security card and birth certificate. A similar envelope on the middle shelf held a variety of agency papers that he was required to keep in the event of his death. There was also a DNA sample in a small vial. On the bottom was a handgun and a magazine, the latter separated from the former but fully stocked. Rydell grabbed the cash, the gun, and the magazine and slipped them into various pockets around his blazer. Then he shut the door and gave the dial a spin.

  The next item on the list rolled out of his memory as effortlessly as the first—clothes. He retrieved a large duffel bag from under the bed and began loading in handfuls of socks, undershirts, and underwear from the dresser. He went back to the closet for several pairs of pants, shirts, shoes, and belts. Then into the bathroom, where he gathered toiletries and several over-the-counter medications.

  Next, disguises. The bag, which was nearly full already, had to be carried into the basement. The space was unremarkable, with unpainted cinder-block walls, a maze of copper piping, and a single bare bulb in the center of the ceiling. There were several dozen cardboard boxes stacked by the water heater. Rydell moved box after box until he reached one with Tax Receipts—Nondeductible written on the front with Magic Marker. He set the box down beside the duffel and unfolded the flaps.

  He froze when he heard the screech of tires on dry pavement outside. They can’t be here already. He took the gun out, rammed in the magazine, and went back up the steps. He made sure to stay low at the top, out of view.

  Then the question presented itself: If this does turn into a shoot-out, will you really fight to the death? Will you be able to take your own life, if it comes to that? He didn’t know. An unpleasant mental image followed—his bloody, bullet-riddled body, lying half on the living room couch and half on the floor, arms extended, one eye partially open, tie running down his shoulder. They’d take pictures for their official files, but a few would mysteriously make it to the newspapers and the Internet. It would be his fifteen minutes of fame, which was fairly ironic given that he had worked all his life to remain invisible.

  He was surprised to hear the tires a second time, preambled by another uniquely automotive signature—an engine being revved over and over, in progressively higher tones. He went to the front window and parted the blinds with one finger. The tires on the vehicle in question had drawn a long equal sign, wavy and dark, on the macadam. Farther up the street, two boys of no more than nineteen or twenty stepped out of a ’68 Plymouth Barracuda. Rich kids with too much free time and parents who couldn’t be bothered watching them. They went around to the rear of the car, inspected their handiwork, and traded enthusiastic high fives. Rydell fantasized about shooting them dead where they stood. How much precious time did I just lose? He slipped the gun into his jacket and went back downstairs.

  There actually was some tax paperwork at the top of the box, but this was a diversion in and of itself. He tossed it aside and turned the box over, shaking the contents into the bag—wigs and other false body parts, hats, eyeglasses, hair coloring, skin toner, all of professional grade. Like everything else, though, this kit was incomplete, and he’d had no time to study up on how best to use it.

  Identity. Sliding back a tile in the drop ceiling, he groped about with one hand until he came upon another large envelope, this one containing a collection of false passports, birth certificates, Social Security cards, credit cards, and driver’s licenses. It would be difficult to travel without these and impossible to leave the country. Two of the personas were already active, tied to bank accounts in Switzerland, Singapore, and Morocco. He had made some progress with this aspect of his strategy, knowing it was the most delicate. Creating a fictional character who functioned in the real world required time and patience, which he’d had in abundance until recently.

  Returning to the first floor, he made a conscious attempt to calm himself. What happened next did little to fertilize this effort—CNN broke in with an alert about early reports of a trio of murders that had occurred overnight in different parts of the nation. Then another story—possibly connected to the murders, according to the newsreader—about a manhunt that had been ordered by the FBI for the assistant deputy director of the CIA. When Rydell saw his official agency photo appear on the screen—not off in the corner but rather front and center, along with a phone number that “anyone with information that might be helpful” was urged to use—he felt like he’d been hit in the chest with a railroad tie.

  He slung the bag over his shoulder and went into the garage. It was as astringently bare as the basement, save for a car that was covered stem to stern with a blue tarp. He went to the front and peeled the tarp away in dramatic fashion, revealing a stone-gray 2004 Chevy Malibu. Rust bubbles were beginning to form around the lower edges of the body, there was a soft dent in the front passenger’s door, and the previous owner had put a Washington Redskins sticker on the rear bumper. In other words, it was remarkably unremarkable, which was exactly why Rydell had bought it, with cash, three months earlier.

  He threw the duffel into the backseat and got behind the wheel. The key was still in its hiding place above the visor, and the engine turned over without a fuss. Rea
lizing he would need a disguise immediately, he stepped back out, removed his jacket and tie, and took a baseball cap and a pair of glasses out of the bag. He used the remote on his other set of keys to open the garage door. As it lifted, his heart began thumping again. He imagined a fleet of government vehicles screaming up the street to intercept him.

  But the road was empty, so much so that it was downright eerie. Even the two motor heads had disappeared.

  He pulled out and pressed the remote again, sending the door back down. As he navigated through the development, his eyes darted from place to place. He reached the exit gate, which was mercifully raised, and cruised out.

  Once in the flow of traffic, he allowed himself to relax a little. Still a long way to go, he told himself, but he was pleased by his progress so far. What he required now was a diversion of some kind, something to throw the Feds off his trail for a while. The inspiration came to him, as so many had before, virtually on command. He leaned over and removed the cell phone from his pants pocket.

  Birk answered immediately. Rydell felt him out first, trying to determine if he had seen any of the news reports and perhaps put the pieces together for himself. He hadn’t. Then Rydell gave him his new orders. These would be the last, Rydell promised; then he could return to his gigolo’s life on the Gulf Coast—and with an extra $100,000 to boot. That caught Birk’s attention, as Rydell knew it would. Unfortunately for the employee, the employer had no intention of carrying through on this part of the proposal.

  Mere seconds after the call ended, two black Chevy Suburbans—smoked windows all around and FBI without question—appeared ahead, approaching with frightening speed. Rydell knew the rest of the script—one would spin to a sideways halt in front of him, the other along the driver’s side. Then a dozen or so agents, weapons drawn, would jump out and surround him. The options at that point were fairly obvious, and the choice would be his alone: give up or go down in a blaze of glory.

  But nothing of the sort happened. The Suburbans zoomed past, their engines roaring, and kept on going. It didn’t take an MIT graduate to figure out their destination. Rydell watched them vanish in the rearview mirror and exhaled deeply.

  If his attention hadn’t been trained so pointedly on the Suburbans, he might have noticed the white Lexus SUV three cars back that had been on his tail since he pulled out of his development.

  43

  HAMMOND KEPT his speed at the legal limit as he drove the rental car—secured under the same false identity as the southbound flight to Miami—north on Interstate 95. He was still shaking from the Coast Guard encounter. They had ordered him to stop, and he had evaded them through a combination of raw speed and strategic maneuvering. It had been a risky decision, but it was one he would make again under the circumstances. Still, he regretted breaking the law and knew beyond any doubt that some unpleasant punishment would be part of his future.

  Beside him in the passenger seat, Clemente seemed largely unaffected. If anything, he struck Hammond as energized by the recent excitement. He also continued his love affair with the iPad, his face like that of an enthused child.

  Hammond looked at the old man and was unable to suppress a smile. “I’m glad you’re enjoying that so much.”

  “It really is most remarkable. When I was a boy, we played dominoes or chess for fun. Now there is this.”

  “Both those games are on there, along with checkers, cribbage, blackjack, poker, and others. You can also read books, listen to music, draw pictures, send e-mail, take photos, watch television . . .”

  Clemente shook his head. “It is unbelievable. But I worry about children. If they have these, they will not leave their homes. They need to go outside and play in the fresh air.”

  Hammond nodded. “That’s a problem, no doubt about it.” When he saw that Clemente was paging through the Internet with his forefinger again, he said, “What are you looking at now?”

  “More stories about Rydell and these other killings. I would not be surprised if, as some of these sites are suggesting, they are all connected. The three victims—Shevalek, Magliocci, and Kanter—are of the right age and from the right places. One Mafia, one military, one business. Their hits were very professional. The Mafia man, for example—his guards were taken down without a fight, and his alarm system got turned off. Then the killers just disappeared—swoosh!—like smoke in the wind.”

  “Now Rydell is gone too,” Hammond said bitterly, “also like smoke in the wind.”

  “He is an old man like me, but I would not be surprised if they never caught him. He would have to be very smart to go so far in the CIA. I’m sure he knows many tricks.”

  Hammond felt real anger begin to bloom. All the suffering Rydell had spread around during his career, including the death of a president that he was supposed to have served . . . Look at what he’s done in the brief time since Margaret Baker’s film was found. This made him think about Sheila again, and the nimble fingers of depression began reaching out. “I hope they do catch him. And then I hope they . . .” He trailed off, not wanting to give in to the kind of hatred that manufactured the Rydells of the world.

  Clemente looked up. “Don’t feel bad, Mr. Hammond. He would deserve such a fate.”

  For a brief moment there was a formless yet undeniable brand of understanding between them. And in spite of Clemente’s many sins, Hammond could not help but feel some benevolence toward him. It had been there all along, he realized, waiting for the cue to surface. “You know, you can call me Jason. You are twice my age, after all. No offense.”

  Clemente laughed. “No offense taken. But only if you will call me Galeno.”

  “I think I can manage that.”

  “We are friends then, yes?”

  “Sure.”

  “Okay. Friends.” He went back to the Internet and soon thereafter laughed out loud.

  “What’s funny?”

  “I am reading something now about the hill in Dealey Plaza by the fence, the one they call the grassy knoll.”

  It occurred to Hammond that they hadn’t discussed the assassination since they left Cuba. It seemed like too sensitive a topic. But now that Clemente had introduced it, Hammond found himself eager to engage this soon-to-be-historic figure before he was in the clutches of federal prosecutors.

  “That theory has been around for ages,” Hammond said.

  “I know this, and it is what we in Cuba call tonterías—nonsense. The fence above the knoll was very tall. Did they think the shooter would stand on a box? There were also people there who would have seen him. No professional assassin would want to be seen. There were people in that big parking lot on the other side of the fence too.”

  “But a sewer grate was there.”

  “Yes, I know. I saw that on the map in my hotel room.”

  “Did it also go to your storm drain?”

  “No, to the river.”

  “Well, that would have allowed a grassy knoll shooter to escape quietly in the confusion, no?”

  “Maybe, maybe not. As I said, a smart assassin does not want to be seen regardless of his escape route. Of the four of us, only Oswald made a mistake there.”

  “He did?”

  “Yes, he stuck his rifle too far out the window. There were people on the sidewalk in front of the book depository who looked up and saw it. That was stupidity on his part. If he had brought it back farther, the shots would not have been any harder for him to make.”

  “That’s interesting.”

  “He also left the shells on the floor. How long would it have taken to pick them up and put them in his pocket? He did a terrible job of hiding the weapon too. His planning was very poor. If he had done everything right, he might have gotten away with it. And then killing that police officer, Mr. Tippit.” Clemente shook his head sadly. “Why did he have to do that? He could have just pointed his gun at the man and run off. Foolish . . . foolish.”

  Hammond nodded. “Do you think Oswald was going to—?” His phone cut him off. “It’
s Noah,” he said, then answered it. “Hello, how are—?”

  “Jason.” Noah’s voice was unsteady. “I’ve got a call on hold here that I’m passing to you.”

  “Who is it?”

  “He wouldn’t give me his name, but . . . he’s got Sheila.”

  “What?”

  “I’m sure it’s the same nut who’s been tailing you all along, the one who shot Ben.”

  “Haven’t you received several other calls from people claiming—?”

  “I talked to her, Jason. She’s with him right now.”

  “How did she sound?”

  “Upset, very upset. But . . . he wants you. I need to transfer the call.”

  “Was there any caller ID?”

  “No.”

  Hammond took a deep breath. “Okay, go ahead.”

  Clemente, noticing his strained expression, said, “What is wrong?”

  Just before switching to speakerphone, Hammond said, “It’s the man who kidnapped Sheila Baker. He’s got her with him now.”

  There were two clicks followed by silence, and for a bone-freezing moment, Hammond thought the call had been lost.

  Then—“Mr. Hammond?”

  The voice was exactly how Hammond always imagined it would be—on the surface, calm, even polite. The sound of a man capable of producing the illusion of decorum and etiquette whenever he chose. But even this well-used talent could not entirely eclipse the corruption beneath, the sadism and irrational self-love that lay at the core of his being. “I’m here.”

  “Good; very good.”

  “And what should I call you?”

  “You can call me Birk, but we really don’t need to get into names, Mr. Hammond. We’re not going to become friendly.”