“Leon . . . you cannot—”
Sokolov’s eyes narrowed again.
“What is it that I cannot do, my friend?” Hearing no response, the SVR officer grunted. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to get back to work.”
4
During the first moments back in his limo, Trammel’s thoughts were in turmoil, buffeted by alternating waves of rage and fear. The smirking, arrogant apparatchik was pronouncing a death sentence upon his mission.
Instinctively, his hand found the cool, firm, reassuring surface of the watch in his pocket. It reminded him of his father, and of his father’s favorite quotation.
He had to get a grip on his emotions. To find a bold path forward. He owed his father that.
He could not lose—not now. He was not born to be a loser. He was born and bred to win.
It was always inevitable that he would one day break with Moscow. He had intended to do that after the new president was inaugurated.
Could he do it now?
The thought began to calm him.
Avery Trammel passed through the streets at the heart of the nation’s capital, unseen and unseeing, his focus turned inward. From his father he had been gifted with a quick, integrative mind, one that could seize upon disparate facts and ideas, then weld them into a plan. From the torn scraps of his thoughts and emotions, such a plan was coalescing now.
Why did he have to remain at Carl Spencer’s side en route to the White House, now that the destination was assured?
In fact, why did he have to be present at the Inauguration? Or even in Washington?
Then another thought struck him.
Or even inside this damned country, for that matter?
After all, he—and only he—still had the photos. Those photos were power. The ultimate power. They gave him iron control over the next president.
And he could exercise that control from anywhere.
In fact, that would be even more satisfying—and safer, because he could make sure they would never find him . . .
He indulged himself the sudden fantasy of lying poolside at some remote tropical resort—or perhaps in the lounge of some snow-covered alpine chalet in Europe—Julia at his side, drink in hand, in the other an encrypted, secure phone—and on the line, an obsequious, obedient President of the United States, taking his instructions, just as his own secretary took his dictation.
Yes, he could still accomplish the mission . . . by remote control.
He chuckled to himself. Why, he really would be Geppetto . . .
The fantasy washed over Avery Trammel like a religious epiphany, leaving him quivering with excitement.
5
“Julia dear, I have a surprise for you,” Avery announced as he entered their living room, overcoat in hand.
His buoyant manner startled her. The news about him had been ominous for the past two days; she expected anything but this. She had to remind herself to stay in character.
Rising from the chair and smiling, she said, “You look so happy, dear! What is it?”
“I am taking you on an extended trip. To Europe.”
“What?”
He dumped his overcoat into a chair, strode over, and embraced her. Then held her at arm’s length. She was astonished to see authentic excitement in his face.
“Julia, we both have been under considerable stress for months. And this is the perfect time for a vacation. You are between film roles, and with all this nonsense in the media, I certainly could use some time away, myself.”
“But . . . I can’t just—”
“Of course you can! And so can I. Who is to stop us? My business affairs and legal matters are in good hands, and you have no pending contractual commitments to hold you here. I should like us to pack minimally, then leave this weekend—Saturday or Sunday, depending on whatever flight and accommodation arrangements can be made on short notice. We shall first have to stop at the house—stay there for the next few nights. I have things to do there, and some items I need to take with me. We can then fly right from Dulles.”
“Avery! Really, you haven’t even given me a chance to think!”
“What is there to think about, my dear? All you should think about is where you would like to go. I am completely flexible. If you are not in the mood for Europe, we could go somewhere else. And please do not worry about what to pack. I shall buy whatever you need or want when we arrive.”
He squeezed her shoulders.
“Come now, I have made up my mind to take a vacation. I would hate to go without you.”
He laughed—a sight so rare that she was even more taken aback.
She forced a smile that she hoped looked authentic.
“All right, Avery. Why not? It sounds like fun.”
Thirty minutes later, inside her locked office, she extracted Dylan Hunter’s business card and the cheap phone he had given her from their hidden place, in a box at the bottom of the closet.
Then sent him a detailed text message about what had just happened.
FORTY-FIVE
He had not been to his Maryland house on Connors Point for a while. On Wednesday evening he decided to check on it, then stay overnight, leaving Luna in the care of the young cat sitter at his Bethesda apartment.
Red Mama had littered the yard near her fox den with two large, half-eaten fish and scattered bird feathers—bounty she’d harvested from the adjacent marsh to feed her growing kits. He was incredulous to find the lower leg of a deer out there, too—probably road kill she’d managed to drag from the highway, a quarter mile distant. He grabbed a shovel from the garage, scooped up her untidy table scraps, and pitched them off into the swamp.
At dawn the next morning, he took a cup of coffee out onto his screened-in back porch. He watched the purple martins and red-winged blackbirds soar and swoop above the marsh, just fifty yards away. Farther out, ducks paddled around in a patch of open water.
He would be a sitting duck for a rifle shot from out there, if Lasher ever discovered where he lived. The man’s reputation as a shooter was formidable. Only chance had prevented Lasher from nailing him that day in Quincy Park. He couldn’t count on his luck to hold out forever.
Hunter had spent long hours thinking about how to smoke the hitman out of hiding again, but in some way that would give himself an advantage. He was certain that Lasher was pondering the same problem. There was little doubt that at some point, perhaps soon, they would face each other again. The survivor would be the man who did not make a mistake—and who didn’t continue to rely on luck.
He felt the chill morning air from the marsh flow through the screened windows, and took another sip. Felt it warm him as it went down.
Then there was Trammel. A problem almost as serious. A Russian spy, planning to leave the country in another two or three days. No doubt to vanish for good, now that he knew he was soon to be exposed.
During many sleepless hours, Hunter wrestled over the dilemma. He had no proof Trammel had Emmalee Conn killed; he had only Julia’s suspicion. Without certainty, he couldn’t act to stop him. But if he turned over what he had to the FBI, in the faint hope that they’d do something, it would almost certainly expose Julia as the source.
It infuriated him to think that this lifelong traitor and probable killer, smug and self-important, might escape justice.
But he didn’t know what to do about it.
It was still too early to hit the road. He wanted to wait for the morning rush-hour traffic across the Bay Bridge to die down before setting out to return to Washington. He packed into “Vic Rostand’s” Honda CR-V just a few items that he could use back in his apartment. As usual, he’d drive it to the long-term lot where he’d left Dylan Hunter’s Subaru Forester. He’d leave the Honda there in its place, transfer the items into the Forester, then head back to Bethesda. The drive would give him more time to try to come up with fresh ideas.
He was running the dishwasher when his latest burner chirped. He checked the screen, then answered.<
br />
“Hi, Wonk. What’s up?”
“Dylan, have you watched the morning news broadcasts?”
“I haven’t. I’m on the road. What am I missing?”
“It was just being discussed on CNN. They said a police source, unnamed of course, revealed that an analysis of film footage and ballistics from the assassination attempt on Roger Helm suggests strongly that you were targeted, as well.”
He stood still a few seconds, then moved to a chair in the breakfast nook.
“How certain of that did they sound?”
“Quite certain. Of course, they are now speculating as to why.”
He remained silent.
“Dylan . . . do you have any idea why?”
He didn’t answer.
“Would this have any relationship to questions about . . . about your identity?”
“No, Wonk. Not about that. I think it’s about something else.”
“I am sorry to be so nosy. Truly. I do not mean to intrude upon your privacy. I just worry about you. I sense that you are often in danger.”
“Thanks. But it’s all right, my friend. No need to worry about me.”
He heard a heavy sigh.
“If you insist. However, I thought you ought to know.”
“Again, thanks. I’m glad you told me.”
He went to the TV and turned on CNN. Then spent the next several minutes watching.
It occurred to him someone else might be watching, too. And that gave him an idea.
He found the number for the CNN Washington bureau, then called through a spoof site. He identified himself and asked to be patched through to the show’s producer. Within a few minutes, he’d convinced her of his identity.
Three minutes later, he was being interviewed on-air.
“That’s right,” he said in answer to the host’s third question. “From everything I’ve learned about these kinds of cases, the person who shot Mr. Helm, then tried to shoot me, is probably some disgruntled loser. The kind of loser who thinks the world is treating him unfairly. He probably nurses some kind of long-standing, petty grudge, and thinks it justifies him striking back against the world. And being a total loser, he picks prominent people as his targets. In this case, a presidential candidate. And he probably singled me out because my name has been in the news a lot. So this loser thinks that by shooting prominent people, that would make him a winner. But when they find this guy, they’ll discover a nobody—just another pathetic loser.”
They tried to ask about his identity, but Hunter deflected.
“Look, I issued a statement about that and have no more to add. I just wanted to respond to your report this morning, with a message for that loser who shot Roger Helm. He probably imagines he’s some kind of a big, tough soldier. But he’s a coward. He shoots his victims from hiding, then runs away. He wouldn’t have the nerve to confront targets like me face-to-face.”
“Aren’t you concerned that you are goading this individual, egging him on? An unstable person might even try again.”
Hunter laughed. “I’m sorry, but that’s really funny. As I said, he’s a coward and wouldn’t have the nerve. A real man would confront me personally. But this loser will never do that. Believe me, I’m in no danger.”
In his hotel room, Lasher finished doing his set of one hundred pushups and situps, then went into the bathroom for his shower. He stood for the moment, naked, in front of the full-length mirror, admiring his body. He looked like an Olympic gymnast. His shoulders and abs were especially great. No wonder women went for him. Maybe his calves could use a little more work, but nobody saw them much, anyway. Still, tomorrow he’d have to pick a hotel with a decent workout room and some free weights.
He showered and toweled off, then padded into the living room and turned on the TV. He surfed the local channels, then the cable news networks.
At CNN, he stopped—riveted by the sight of a familiar face.
“. . . actual identity has become the source of speculation, called in to our studios about thirty minutes ago, in response to our report that the would-be assassin of Roger Helm had also targeted him. Here is an excerpt of our interview.”
Lasher stood there, naked, staring at the stock photo of Hunter on the screen, listening to what he said.
The bastard was just provoking him, taunting him. He knew he shouldn’t care. He knew he shouldn’t react emotionally.
But every time he heard the words loser and coward, it felt like a slap. Not a hard slap, just the kind of light slap in the face you do to someone when you’re goading him, humiliating him.
After a minute, he was cursing loudly.
He wrapped the wet towel around his waist, stormed over to his jeans and grabbed his burner. He went to his cloud site, then scrolled through the list of numbers stored there. Then keyed in the number.
“This is Dylan Hunter’s answering service. May I take a message, please?”
He was pacing the room when the phone chirped fifteen minutes later. He saw that it was a blocked number.
“This you?” he asked.
“The one and only. Loser.”
Lasher sat down. Gripped the phone tightly. Forced himself to stay under control.
“You think so? I changed history.”
“You mean shooting Helm.”
He felt himself grin. “That’s right.”
“So, that was just an ego trip, then.”
“Hell, no. I got paid plenty.”
“I figured. But shooting me—that was personal, right?”
“You were right there, so I figured—Why not? Sorry I missed, though.”
“You should be, Lasher. You should be very sorry you missed.”
“Yeah, well, that won’t happen again.”
“It’s too bad it’s only personal for you, and nobody is making it worth your while.”
He laughed. “Oh, you have no idea.”
“Really? Do I command a decent price?”
“Hard to believe, isn’t it?”
“Well, you’ll have to find me first, Lasher, before I find you.”
“Oh, that won’t be a problem. I think you’ll want to meet me right away.”
“And why is that?”
“Because if you don’t, I’ll track down your hot girlfriend.”
Hunter felt everything go still inside.
“Girlfriend?”
“Petite. Short-haired brunette. Big gray eyes. Gorgeous body. Long legs.” He heard the snicker. “I envy you. She must be fun in the sack. But maybe I’ll get to find out for myself.”
How did he know?
Then, a faint memory, nagging at his consciousness . . .
“So, how did you find out about her?”
Lasher snorted. “Because I’m smart. Smarter than you, asshole.”
The memory took fuller shape . . .
“But you don’t know her name. Do you.” Not a question.
He counted seven seconds of silence.
“That’s only a matter of time,” Lasher finally said, bravado back in his voice. “Because I’m relentless. You know, Hunter, I’m going to really enjoy raping the bitch before I kill her.”
And then it all came crashing together . . .
How could I not have seen it?
He saw it now. All of it.
Knew instantly what it meant.
Knew instantly what he had to do.
He heard Lasher laugh.
“So, you don’t know what to say about that, huh?”
Hunter did not react as he anticipated.
“Sure I do. Thank you—Ron.”
He felt the cold breath of the air conditioner against his damp skin.
“What? What did you call me?”
“Ron. Your real name is Ron Larsen, isn’t it?”
He was aware of the sound of his breathing. Rising. Falling. Rising. Falling . . .
“You still there, Ron?”
“How . . .” He stopped.
“Because I’m smart. Smarte
r than you, Ron. And better than you. To prove it, why don’t you and I meet tonight? No weapons, just you and me, hand-to-hand. Only one of us walks away. Just what you told me you wanted—remember? ‘Winner takes all.’”
“Sure. I remember. So, where do we do this?”
“I have the perfect place in mind. How about out at the estate of your billionaire boss?”
No. He couldn’t possibly know . . .
“What in hell are you talking about?”
He heard Hunter chuckle.
“Please tell Avery Trammel I’m coming for him.”
Lasher stood. He had to stand.
He had to reassert his dominance.
“You come after him, Hunter,” he snarled, “you’ll have to go through me.”
“That’s the idea.”
2
Annie had dropped off the sealed package to her latest target just two hours ago, with the appropriate deference.
“I know how busy you are, but I’ll only take a minute. One of our officers has been grooming a Russian diplomat . . . No, not here in D.C.—he didn’t say in which country. But anyway, the computer disk in here”—she waved the package—“contains a copy of a new one-time pad NSA prepared for us. The Russian developmental and our officer are using their copies of this pad to exchange coded messages while they negotiate.
“But our officer has to travel over the next few weeks. So we’re supposed to keep this backup copy here, to decode any new messages the Russian forwards through the local COS. Grant figured your safe was the obvious place to keep it.” She smiled. “Would you mind?”
The ruse was so preposterous she could only hope the target was too unsophisticated to see through it. And she could only pray the target would react immediately, rather than days later, because she had no surveillance team to help her.
But it worked.
The target left work early, at three p.m. Annie knew that, because she had left, too, right after dropping off the bait, and was waiting in the parking lot. She had attached a magnetic GPS tracker under the target’s Acura. When the cursor began to move on the tablet screen attached to her dashboard, she wondered if she’d finally hit pay dirt.
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