Endgame

by Dee Davis

  Which was a position he didn't relish in the slightest.

  Cullen hung up the phone and sat staring at it for what seemed an eternity. Even with the team close to unraveling the whereabouts of Ernhardt Schmidt, he was still battling with the Chinese and the president. Fighting to keep things alive, when in reality they were probably already dead and buried.

  He sighed, and buried his head in his hands, wondering exactly how he'd found himself in this position, knowing the answer without even having to think about it. Greed. Pure and simple greed. His desire for more outstripping all common sense.

  He'd played the game and now potentially he'd lost it. Only a last-minute Hail Mary could save him now. The grandfather clock in the corner ticked ominously, the great pendulum swinging back and forth as if it were a death knell.

  A requiem for all that he was and had been and perhaps would never be again.

  Greed.

  What a nasty word.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  "All right, so what have we got?" Gabriel paced in front of the operations room window, his gaze encompassing the group gathered around the conference table.

  Harrison fidgeted with a pile of papers, his ever-present laptop open in front of him. Payton sat in the corner, the back of his chair tilted against the wall. Nigel straddled the chair next to Madison, his attention apparently focused on a report he held in his hand.

  "The FBI dossier confirms what we already knew," Madison said. "Unfortunately there's not a whole lot else. Waxman did provide passwords for computer access and I turned them over to Harrison." She shot a smile at her friend, ignoring the resulting scowl from Gabriel.

  "And what did you find?" Gabriel snapped at Harrison, the sound making the younger man jump.

  "Ernhardt has been on a watch list since the early '80s. He's been tracked to the U.S. at least fifteen times, spending most of his time at various places on the East Coast. As expected, he keeps a low profile. Generally uses an alias, and to date has not been attached to any particular scheme. Although he has been linked to several plots against various political personalities—including some speculation that he may even have taken part in U.S.-sanctioned operations abroad. In fact, the bulk of his activity has been in Europe, which effectively takes him out of the purview of the FBI."

  "Interpol also has him on a watch list," Payton said. "But has likewise been unable to definitively tie him to anything substantial. He's been hauled in on numerous fishing expeditions, but no pay dirt. He's suspected of involvement in two assassination attempts. A NATO ranking official and a German subversive." He handed a typed report to Gabriel. "The man is definitely a spook. I also talked to various underground contacts and though they'd all heard of him, no one had actually met him."

  "By contacts I take it you mean other mercenaries?" The question came from Nigel, his expression inscrutable.

  "Black ops people, yes." Payton seemed unruffled by the barb. But then it was his profession, and Madison assumed he was probably used to disapproval—even from friends. "I also followed up with Lin Yao, and he could find nothing concrete to connect Schmidt to Chinese dissidents. However, according to Chinese intelligence, he did make a trip to the western frontier sometime last year."

  "They were tracking him?" Gabriel stopped, moving to lean against the windowsill.

  "No, the report came from British reconnaissance. But they seemed satisfied with its validity." Payton shot a look at Nigel, who shrugged.

  "I don't work the Far East, but if you like I can have the report verified."

  "Thanks, Nigel, but it won't be necessary. I trust Pay-ton's sources." Gabriel frowned, obviously trying to put the information together. "I talked with the counterintel-ligence people at Langley and they report much the same as their counterparts at the FBI. The man has been on a watch list for years, and has been in and out of the country on numerous occasions."

  He shifted on the windowsill, his frown still firmly in place. "They haven't been able to verify that he is currently in the country. And when I talked to the European department, they also seemed to be unaware of his current location. He's deemed low threat, so not watched with the fervor of some of his more anti-American counterparts. Nigel, what did London have to say?"

  "Very much the same, I'm afraid. That he's a shadow, and low threat, but worth watching. They did also hint at the fact that he might have worked with the U.S. on several black ops missions. Did anyone at Langley men-tion that?"

  "No." Gabriel shook his head with a smile that indicated he wouldn't trust them if they had.

  "And I suppose it wouldn't be relevant anyway," Pay-ton said.

  "Unless the CIA is trying to upend the accord," Nigel offered.

  "I doubt very much it's even on their radar. It may play out as an important economic boon for the United States and/or the president, but I don't think it figures much in the day-to-day operations of the CIA." Gabriel's tone was thy, but there was a barb there. Something between him and Nigel that Madison hadn't seen before.

  She glanced at Harrison to see if he'd noticed the exchange, but he was as usual oblivious to everything but the computer screen, the tapping of the keyboard a soft underscore to the conversation going on around him.

  "So how do we find out if the man is in the States?" Nigel's question held a note of frustration that Madison understood on more than one account. It seemed every way they turned they hit another dead end.

  "If the LUDs from Candace's cell phone are to be believed, then someone called her just after she talked to Smith. If we find that person, maybe we can find out more about who Candace was meeting. And if it turns out that Smith and Schmidt are the same person, then maybe that information will lead us to him."

  "Well, no one who was there that night is owning up to the call," Payton said. "Nigel and I talked to all sixty."

  "And Cullen claims not have talked to her at all that day."

  "No big surprise." Gabriel sighed.

  "Well, someone called her," Madison said.

  "Unfortunately," Nigel sighed, "the problem is compounded by the fact that there's a phone in the lobby. Which means that there's access without needing to clear security."

  "But surely the guard would have noticed someone unknown in the building at that time of night." Madison frowned.

  "Possibly," Gabriel admitted. "But there are over six hundred employees here. The guard couldn't possibly know all of them. Still, it's worth checking out."

  "I could recanvas the apartment building where W. Smith supposedly resided," Nigel offered.

  "Good idea." Gabe nodded. "And Harrison, you recheck the information we had on the man from Virginia. Maybe there's something there we missed. We're going to find the man. It's just a question of when."

  Payton's face reflected his skepticism. "Unfortunately we don't have an unlimited amount of time."

  "So we work all that much harder."

  "I'm afraid time has run out." Cullen stood in the doorway, his face ashen. "There's been another murder."

  Anderson McGee's house sat on the back half of ten acres in Connecticut, the long drive from the road and dense brush an effective camouflage for the old farmhouse. If Gabe hadn't have known it was there, he'd have never found it.

  Weathered clapboard and crooked shutters adorned the once-magnificent house, now dilapidated from age and lack of care. McGee had been an invalid of sorts, a semi-recluse, living on family money, and having little to do with the outside world.

  More interesting than all of that was the fact that he had no relation with the consortium at all, unless one counted the fact that his family's corporation was a member. But the link between Anderson and the company was slight, his activity limited to the role of major shareholder.

  His involvement with the accord was another thing altogether. A self-taught expert in Chinese diplomacy, as a younger man he'd traveled often to the Far East, and built quite a reputation as an historian and a scholar. When he'd returned to the U.S. he'd come to Connectic
ut to live in relative seclusion.

  But when the consortium began negotiations with the Chinese, it was Andy McGee who had fronted the operation, at least on paper. He'd drafted and reviewed almost every single document that had traveled to Beijing. His knowledge of protocol was critical to the success of the endeavor.

  And now he was dead.

  One shot to the head, while listening to a Bach concerto.

  The fact that he'd been found at all was only due to the diligence of the grocery delivery boy, who was determined to leave his boxes with or without the owner answering the door, and managed to shimmy through an open kitchen window.

  A cursory check of the house had revealed McGee prone on the recliner, blood staining the plaid upholstery with a garish flare.

  Gabe stood to the side, watching as the techs measured and photographed the body, while Madison questioned the still-shaken boy. There was no missing the similarities between Bosner's death and McGee's. Both had been shot through a window with a high-powered semiautomatic rifle of some kind.

  Here, as in Bosner's Manhattan apartment, shattered window glass littered the floor, and here, too, a brandy bottle sat open on the table, McGee's spilled glass on the floor beneath his now flaccid hand.

  "The kid didn't see anything." Madison appeared at his elbow, the sound of her voice warming him, despite the situation. "According to the techs, McGee had already been dead for at least twenty-four hours. They'll be able to give us a more exact time when Tracy does the autopsy."

  "Any employees or family?"

  "No family nearby." Madison moved a little closer, and his body responded to her nearness. He sucked in a breath, forcing himself to concentrate on what she was saying. "There's a housekeeper, but she only comes in twice weekly. And the last time she was here, McGee was hale and hearty." She glanced down at her notes. "There's also a groundskeeper. He lives in a cabin just over that hill." She pointed out the broken window toward the driveway. "No one's talked to him yet. According to the housekeeper, he's an odd sort. Likes to keep to himself."

  "He'll fit right in, then." Gabriel nodded toward the body.

  "I'll grant you he was a bit of an oddball, but that doesn't change the fact that he was murdered in much the same way as Jeremy. And that he had ties to the accord and, to a lesser degree, the consortium."

  "And I'll lay dollars to doughnuts that Tracy will find a .223 lodged in his skull," Gabriel finished. "But that still leaves us without a clue as to the whereabouts of the illustrious Herr Schmidt."

  "I've got people combing the ground underneath the window, trying to ascertain where exactly the shot was fired from. But unless they turn something up, we're at a standstill, I'm afraid. What we need is a witness. Someone who either saw Schmidt, or something to tie him to the case more directly than our leap from W. Smith to E. Schmidt."

  "There's something else you don't know about."

  Madison frowned up at him. "What?"

  "Something Harrison told me. I didn't share it with the group because I'm not sure exactly what it means." He ran a hand through his hair, trying to order his thoughts. "Harrison did another check on the hacker. Ran the same diagnostics he used to trace the relays that led us to Virginia and W. Smith."

  "And—" Madison's frustration was apparent.

  "And he may have found something new. Evidence that the hacking occurred from inside the building."

  "But he traced the relays." Madison's frown deepened, suspicion darkening her eyes.

  "Yes, he did, but he's not completely convinced now that they were genuine. It may be that they were put there on purpose."

  "To send us down the wrong track." She crossed her arms, looking up at him as she pieced it all together. "Pay-ion said that he thought it had all been too easy. But if someone is purposefully steering us in the wrong direction, the big question is why?"

  "I don't know yet. Harrison wanted to do some more lests. See if he could find anything else. And in the mean-time, there didn't seem any point in speculating. My guess is that Schmidt was worried we'd be looking for him, and so sent us on a wild-goose chase instead."

  "But why use a name so similar to his own? Surely that's a dangerous game to play?"

  "Maybe." Gabe smiled, knowing the gesture lacked any real humor. "But men like Schmidt are an arrogant lot. It's possible that he liked the idea of us eventually finding the truth. Sort of rubbing it in the wound so to speak."

  "But it puts him at risk."

  Gabe shrugged. "Not really. I mean we still aren't any closer to catching him than when we thought he was W. Smith. Quite frankly, I'd say he's probably laughing his ass off at our expense as we speak."

  "Or maybe we're missing the bigger picture." Her brows were drawn together in serious thought now. He could almost see the wheels turning.

  "What do you mean?"

  "I'm not sure. I want to think on it a bit. Maybe talk to Harrison. But I think Payton's right. There is something else going on here, and I, for one, don't like the idea of being led around by the nose."

  "I don't see that we have an alternative."

  Madison smiled, their gazes colliding. "There's always an alternative, Gabriel."

  "I think I've got him." Harrison stood up waving at the computer screen with a flourish.

  "Got who?" Madison asked, not bothering to look up from the file she was reading.

  They were waiting on Tracy's autopsy for confirmation and a possible ballistics match. Gabriel had gone over there, unable to wait for the phone call, and Madison was wishing she'd gone along. She'd stayed with the intention of reading over the forensics reports for both Bosner and McGee, but she was having problems concentrating.

  "Schmidt."

  That got her attention. And Payton's, too. He hung up the phone with a decided click, leaving someone sitting on dead air. "What have you got?" He moved so that he stood behind Harrison, looking expectantly at his computer.

  "I've been running Schmidt's known aliases against passenger manifests on international flights into New York and D.C."

  "And you got a hit." Madison, too, crossed to stand behind her friend, the stirrings of something suspiciously like hope in her gut.

  Harrison smiled up at her. "I did. A couple of months ago, a man named Smith Williams entered the country, ostensibly on a business trip. According to the customs declaration he hails from London, working for a cpmpany called Houghton Limited. Only problem being that there is no such company. At least not physically. It exists, but only on paper. A slick trick to avoid taxes."

  "And the perfect cover for someone who needs a cloak of legitimacy." Madison frowned down at the computer. "And I assume there are no employees."

  Harrison nodded. "And the owner has never heard of our guy."

  "Was there a destination listed for Mr. Williams?" Pay-ton asked.

  "Nope. But there was a hotel."

  "Bogus, I assume."

  "Actually not." Harrison smiled again. "It's downtown in Battery Park City. And according to their registry a Smith Williams checked in about the same time."

  Madison felt excitement rising. "And is he still there?"

  "According to the records, yes. But when the manager checked the room it was empty."

  "Damn it." The blasphemy was out before she had time to think about it. "I'm sorry. I just feel like we're always one step behind."

  "Well, it's not as bad as all that. I ran the name through the NYPD computers just for the heck of it and I got a hit."

  "But how is that—"

  "It was a traffic ticket." Harrison cut her off. "Issued to one S. Williams for running a red light." He hit a couple of keys on the computer. "And the beauty of the thing is that he had to give an address."

  "The hotel, right?" It was obvious from his tone that Payton was starting to get irritated with Harrison's dog and pony show.

  "No." He grinned up at them. "An apartment complex on the Upper East Side."

  "And you think it's real?"

  "I'm waiting f
or confirmation from the leasing agent right now. It looks like our Mr. Schmidt finally made a mistake."

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Tracy Braxton was in the process of cutting into the subcutaneous layers of the chest cavity of a man who'd quite obviously been burned to death. The disfiguration of the body and face lent an air of fantasy to the scene, like some horror movie gone amuck. And in doing so, it removed it somehow from reality.

  Tracy looked up briefly as Gabe walked into the room, then resumed cutting. "You're here about the autopsy."

  He contained a terse reply, knowing that Tracy had other cases besides theirs. "I'd hoped you'd have something by now."

  "I'm sorry. This guy was already waiting in line."

  "Burn victim," he said, stating the obvious in an effort to contain his frustration.

  "Vagrant." Tracy nodded. "Or at least we think so. It's hard to get a positive ID with what's left of him. He died in an abandoned warehouse. Suspected arson. I need to know when he died, and more importantly how his death relates to the fire."

  "And it's important to do it now?" Gabe clenched his fists against his anger.

  "I'm afraid so." She actually looked apologetic, and some of Gabe's anger dissipated. "There's a short window here, he's already degrading, and I've got to get inside before it's too late."

  "And McGee?"

  "Is up next, I promise. But right now I need to concentrate on this guy. All right?"

  "I'll wait for you in there."

  "Gabe—" Tracy's gaze was tolerant but firm "—I'll call you. There's no telling how long this is going to take, and I'm not going to rush it just because you're impatient. McGee will keep. This guy won't."

  "Fine," he said, the word coming out more sharply than he'd intended. But he needn't have worried, Tracy was already back at work on the burn victim, forceps gently separating the ribs.

  His cell phone rang, and he turned away from the gruesome scene to answer. "Roarke."

  "Gabriel." As always her voice sent heat waves chasing through him. "Harrison thinks he's found Schmidt."