Chapter Forty-seven
“Kill them,” Mustapha said.
Brad was surprised that he was resigned and sad but not terrified. In seconds, he would be dead, and that meant he would never see Ginny again or have kids or take any of the trips they had planned. This was it. The last moment of his life-and the last thing he would see was the smirk on a terrorist’s face.
Brad waited for the shot. There was an explosion, and Brad was showered with blood and brains. At first, he assumed the gore belonged to Lucas Sharp or the senator. Then Mustapha dived for his weapon and there was another shot. Mustapha’s left kneecap shattered. He collapsed, screaming.
“How are you doing, Brad?” Clarence Little asked.
Brad’s mouth gaped open, but he couldn’t speak. Carson and Sharp stared wide-eyed at the most wanted man in America. Little walked over to Brad and used a handkerchief to wipe the gore off his face.
“Sorry about that. I’ll get you a wet towel in a bit. And before you start worrying, I’d have to be a complete ingrate to harm even one tiny hair on your head after you saved my life. And don’t worry about Ginny, either. She’s certainly delectable, but she’s off limits as far as I’m concerned.”
Little turned to Carson then Lucas Sharp. “These two are another story. I don’t like them. Especially you, Mr. Sharp. Imagine my surprise when I learned that I had been in Washington, D.C., killing Jessica Koshani. I do tend to be forgetful at times, but you’d think I’d remember traveling cross-country and playing with someone that tasty.
“Then I heard Senator Carson admit to shacking up with Dorothy Crispin on the day Koshani was murdered. I decided that things were not as they seemed, so I drove from Seattle to Portland and had a chat with Miss Crispin. In between screams, she told me that the senator had been stabbed and needed a place to hide out and recuperate.
“Like Sherlock Holmes, I have considered all of the evidence and deduced that I did not murder Miss Koshani and that the real killer is someone in this room. Unfortunately, the senator ruined my dramatic unveiling of the killer’s identity by confessing before I had the opportunity to reveal my startling deductions, but you’ll have to take it on faith that I really did figure out that you and your boss committed the dastardly deed.”
Clarence placed the barrel of his gun under Lucas Sharp’s chin and pressed his head up.
“Tell me, Luke, do you have any idea how inconsiderate it is to frame someone for murder? Gosh, there are so many consequences, I have trouble keeping count of them. But the biggie is that people who are successfully framed for murders they don’t commit have to spend years in teensy, weensy cells living like animals until they are taken out to be slaughtered like a Thanksgiving turkey. Did you think about my feelings when you decided to frame me to save your pathetic boss?”
Little turned his head toward Carson. “And for the record, Jack, I agree with the raghead. You are pathetic.”
While Little was talking, Mustapha had been dragging himself toward his gun. Little watched for a moment, then stood over the terrorist.
“I happen to be a big pro football fan, Osama, and your plan to disrupt the season pisses me off.”
Little shot Mustapha between the eyes. Then he walked over to Lucas and pulled a hunting knife with a serrated blade out of a scabbard he had fixed to his belt at the small of his back.
“You are the second person who has framed me for a murder I did not commit. Enough is enough.”
Little slashed the knife into Sharp’s crotch. Brad had never heard anyone scream like that.
“Please, Clarence, don’t do this,” he begged.
Little considered Brad’s plea. Then he nodded.
“I owe you big time, so I’ll make this quicker than I would have liked. He’s a murderer anyway, so I’m just carrying out his inevitable sentence.”
Little walked behind Sharp, pulled up his chin and slit his throat. Brad turned away, unable to watch.
“Don’t kill the senator,” he begged. “You heard what he said. He was being blackmailed, he acted in self-defense. It was Sharp’s idea to frame you.”
Little smiled. “I have no intention of killing Jack Carson, Brad. Death is too quick for him.”
Clarence walked over to the television and took out the DVD.
“We have a lot in common, Jack. I’m into S and M and bondage, too, although I prefer to be the bind er and not the bind ee. And I must say, what I saw of your adventures lacked imagination. But I could be wrong. Let’s see what the public thinks when this runs on the Internet.”
Clarence left for a moment. Brad heard water running. When he returned, he was carrying a damp towel and a dry one. He cleaned the blood and brains off Brad’s face, then inspected his work.
“I’m going to call the police,” he said when he was satisfied. “They’ll set you free. All I ask, Brad, is that you tell them about the senator’s confession so I can stop worrying about defending myself for a crime I didn’t commit. And please tell them about Mr. Carson’s part in Miss Koshani’s murder and how he committed treason by telling that lady terrorist state secrets.”
Little patted Brad on the shoulder. “I know I can count on you,” he said, and Brad sensed an unspoken threat.
Then Little turned to Senator Carson. “When I’m settled in my new home, I’ll send you my address, and you can tell me how you enjoy prison life.”
Clarence pocketed the DVD. “Sorry I can’t stay and chat some more, Brad, but I’ve got to run. Give my best to Ginny. I meant what I said in my letters. You two are the best.”
As soon as Clarence was gone, Carson began to sob.
“You can’t tell them,” he begged. “I can’t go to prison.”
“You knew the terrorists were targeting FedEx Field, and you never told a soul.”
“I couldn’t,” Carson pleaded.
“What if the plot had worked?” Brad asked. “You would have been responsible for a mass murder.”
“But it didn’t work. No one was hurt.”
Brad felt sick to his stomach. He looked directly at his boss. “Tell me, Senator, what did you and Lucas have planned for me if I didn’t tell you how I knew about Koshani and Crispin?”
“Nothing. We’d never hurt you. You’ve got to believe me.”
“No, I don’t, Senator. No, I don’t.”
Chapter Forty-eight
The moment Dana gave the transcript to Bobby Schatz, she was plagued by the knowledge that she would be the instrument of Ron Tolliver’s release. By the time Schatz had pressured Justice into dropping the charges against his client, Dana had decided that there was only one way she could absolve herself of the guilt that was overwhelming her.
Tolliver had been booked into jail wearing a sweat suit the FBI had grabbed from his closet. Bobby Schatz had given Dana the job of buying clothes their client could wear when he was discharged from jail. Dana had sewn a miniature tracking device into a seam of Tolliver’s jeans. She’d purchased it from a contact with sources in the intelligence community. When Tolliver left the jail, Dana followed in the nondescript brown Toyota she used for surveillance, using a GPS to track her target. She was carrying several weapons. She planned to end his life with one of them, but she had higher aspirations. Tolliver would be desperate to get out of the country, and he wouldn’t be able to escape without help. Whom could he turn to? The Spook had told her that Imran Afridi was a man who had made terror his hobby and insisted on running his operations personally. The chances were good that Tolliver would ask Afridi to help him get out of the country. Dana knew what Afridi looked like. If he met Tolliver, she would take out both of them.
The GPS showed that Tolliver had stopped somewhere ahead. The landscape was a bleak collection of vacant lots, shops with OUT OF BUSINESS signs in the windows, check-cashing establishments, bars, and convenience stores. On the horizon was a tall building that showed fire scars and gaping holes where window glass had once been. Next to the abandoned building was a hotel, and this is where
the GPS led her.
After Dana parked in front of a shuttered Laundromat across from the hotel, she checked her automatic and the revolver in her ankle holster to make sure she would be prepared if any of the local bad guys were unwise enough to bother her. Then she hunkered down and waited for Tolliver to move.
A little after sunset, a cab stopped in front of the hotel, and Tolliver got into it. Dana followed the cab to Georgetown. It stopped a few blocks from the C amp;O Canal, and Tolliver got out. Luck was with Dana, and she found an empty parking space. Tolliver turned into a side street that led to the walking path that ran along the canal. Dana started after him, but then she sensed movement. A black van pulled to the curb and the doors swung open. She reached for her gun and the prongs of a Taser embedded themselves in her chest. Dana spasmed and collapsed. Seconds later, she was hustled into the van; a needle slipped into a vein, and she passed out.
W hen Dana came to, she was in total darkness and couldn’t be sure if she was awake or still drugged. Then she felt the restraints that secured her wrists and ankles. She flashed back to the basement where the meth dealers had trapped her and panicked, fighting her restraints until she realized that her struggles were futile.
Dana squeezed her eyes shut and forced her breathing to slow. When she was calmer, she tried to figure out where she was being held, but she couldn’t see much even after her eyes adjusted to the dark. There was a pillow under her head. It smelled as if it had been freshly laundered, which gave her a little hope. There was also a clean sheet under her hands.
Dana tried to figure a way out, but there didn’t seem any chance of escape unless her captors made a mistake. And who were they? The lights snapped on just as she was starting to consider this question. She shut her eyes against the glare before opening them slowly. She was secured to the guardrails of a hospital bed in a concrete room with bare walls. Directly ahead was a thick steel door with a small window at the top.
The door opened and Dana tensed. A short man in a tweed jacket, brown-and-yellow striped tie, white shirt, and tan slacks walked in. He was partially bald with a bad comb-over, and his pale brown eyes examined her through wire-rimmed bifocals. Behind him were two bodyguards.
“How are you feeling?” the man in the tweed jacket asked with what appeared to be genuine concern.
“Pissed off,” Dana said.
“Yes, I imagine you are,” the man said in a tone intended to be comforting, “but there is an explanation for your abduction, Miss Cutler. We knew you were following Ronald Tolliver, and we surmised that you were planning on taking action that would have endangered a very important intelligence operation. We couldn’t let you do that, so we neutralized you.”
“Are you going to let me out of here?”
“Definitely. You have nothing to worry about on that score, although we are going to hold you for a little while longer.”
“How much longer?”
“Until we’re certain that everything has gone according to plan.”
“And this plan involves Ron Tolliver?”
“I’m sorry, but you’re not cleared to get information about our operations.”
“Whose operations?”
“Sorry again.”
“Would it do me any good to ask to see a lawyer?”
“I’m afraid not.” The man apologized again. “But tell me, are you hungry? I imagine you are. You might also want to use the restroom,” he said, pointing to a door in one of the walls. “If you promise to be on your best behavior, I’ll have your restraints removed and have dinner brought to you. So what do you say? Can we take off the restraints?”
Dana nodded. “I won’t try anything.”
The man smiled. “That’s an empty promise. I’ve read your file, and I know what you did to those meth cooks. But it would be foolish to try anything with these men. You’d be risking serious injury for no good reason. I assure you that you’ll be released quite soon.”
B y the time Dana’s food was brought to her, the effects of the drug had worn off. She was sore where she’d been Tasered, and there was a knot on the back of her head where her skull had struck the pavement when she fell. Other than that, she was okay.
Dinner was an excellent steak, mashed potatoes, and mixed vegetables. There was even apple pie and coffee, so she deduced that she was a prisoner of an American intelligence agency. No one else visited her, and she started to wonder if she would really be released. At first, the isolation and quiet unnerved her. She used her free time to think about the secret operation she’d stumbled into. Obviously it involved Tolliver, but how was he involved, and was it also focusing on Imran Afridi? After a while, Dana concluded that she had no facts to work with, and she stopped guessing.
There wasn’t a clock in the room, and Dana’s watch had been taken from her, so she had no way to tell time. She went to sleep when she got tired and woke up when her door opened. She guessed it was morning because a guard brought in a tray loaded with orange juice, bacon, eggs, toast, and coffee.
Dana finished breakfast and waited for something else to happen. Nothing did, so she started thinking about the mystery organization that had kidnapped her. She decided that it probably wasn’t the FBI. It was possible that they would kidnap a citizen, but she found that highly unlikely for a domestic law-enforcement organization. That left the CIA as the most likely suspect. They kidnapped foreign terror suspects and held them in secret prisons.
Assuming she’d stumbled into the middle of a CIA plot, what was the Agency up to? She’d been tailing Tolliver when they’d grabbed her, so they didn’t want Dana to interrupt whatever Tolliver was doing, but what was that? If she were in Tolliver’s shoes, she’d be trying to get out of the country as fast as she could. Maybe Tolliver was on his way to meet Afridi. If so, Tolliver was lucky the government had caved when it had. A day or so later, and Afridi would probably have been back in Pakistan.
Dana froze. Something occurred to her. She thought back to the beginning of her involvement in Tolliver’s case, and she reviewed everything she knew about it. By the time she finished, Dana had developed a theory. As soon as she was home, she would test it out, then run her idea past Ginny.
T he door to Dana’s room opened before she was fed another meal, and the man in the tweed jacket walked in with his bodyguards. As far as Dana could tell, he had not changed his clothes.
“You’re going to be released. I hope this hasn’t been too unpleasant.”
“It was great,” Dana answered sarcastically. “Can I book in advance for my next vacation?”
The man smiled. “It’s good to see you’ve retained your sense of humor.”
“How long have I been here?”
“Two days. You got a parking ticket, but don’t worry. We’ve taken care of it.”
“You do work for a powerful organization.”
The man laughed. “I’ve read your file, and I have tremendous respect for you. It’s unfortunate that you had to be detained. It’s also unavoidable that you’ll have to wear a hood when you leave, but we won’t sedate you if you promise to cooperate. You’ll be dropped off by your car.”
Chapter Forty-nine
When Dana got home, she found copies of the Washington Post piled up on her doorstep. She dropped them on the kitchen table with the mail. Then she went to the bedroom, stripped off her clothes, and took a shower. Hot water pounded her body. She luxuriated in the steamy confines of the stall until she began to feel like a prune.
Dana dried off, dressed in sweats, and went back to the kitchen. She poured a mug of coffee and checked her answering machine, smiling for the first time in days when she heard Jake tell her he was headed home. She missed him terribly, and she had worried about him constantly since he’d left for Afghanistan.
Dana was about to look at her mail when she remembered the idea that had occurred to her just before her release. She looked up the number for Ben Mallory, Bobby Schatz’s investigator.
“Mr. Mallory, thanks for taking
my call,” Dana said when she was put through. “My name is Jaime Pavel. I’m a reporter with the Post, and I’m researching an article about the way people who lost relatives in the Twin Towers on 9/11 are coping, years after the disaster.”
There was dead air for a second. When Mallory spoke, he sounded confused.
“Why are you calling me, Miss Pavel?”
“I was led to believe that you had a brother who was working in the World Trade Center on 9/11.”
“You’ve been misinformed,” Mallory said. “My brother manages a Walmart in Kansas.”
Dana apologized for taking up the investigator’s time and ended the call. She looked at the clock. It was the middle of the afternoon. Ginny was probably still at the DOJ. They needed to speak, but Dana didn’t want to call her at Justice, so she decided to wait and call after Ginny got home.
Dana shuffled through her mail before opening that day’s edition of the Post. The headline TERROR SUSPECT MURDERED jumped out at her.
According to the article, the body of Ronald Tolliver had been discovered by a jogger on a footpath bordering the C amp;O Canal. He had been shot, and his wallet was missing. Robbery was the presumed motive. Because there was no immediate way to identify the victim, it wasn’t until late last night that the authorities had discovered that the dead man had been arrested in connection with the attempted bombing at FedEx Field and released because of lack of evidence.
Dana wasn’t surprised that Tolliver was dead, but who had killed him? Was it Imran Afridi or someone working for him? Was it the people who had kidnapped her? What did it matter? Tolliver deserved to die.
What with following Tolliver and then her abduction, Dana had not read a paper or heard news reports for the past three days, so she was shocked when she noticed another front-page article about the murders at Senator Jack Carson’s estate. The story said that United States Senator Jack Carson, Carson’s chief of staff Lucas Sharp, and Brad Miller, a legislative assistant, had been attacked by burglars in Carson’s home. Dana’s jaw dropped when she read that Brad and the senator had been rescued by escaped serial killer Clarence Little, who had killed the three burglars before calling 911. Lucas Sharp had died during the encounter, but it was not clear who had killed him.
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