Trust No One (A Lucas Holt Novel Book 2)

by JP Ratto

  CHAPTER 20

  I left my card with Ghada Shaheen and drove to the Hay-Adams. At seven sharp I was greeted at the entrance to The Lafayette by the maître d’ and, after giving Boxer’s name, he escorted me to the back of the room. Serenely decorated in creams and yellows, the high-priced restaurant boasted a fantastic view of the White House and Washington Monument awash in outdoor lights.

  Celeste Boxer stood at one of the windows sipping a glass of wine. She had also changed her clothes and looked stunning in a hot pink cashmere sweater and gray slacks. When she saw me, she nodded and we sat at a table for two. A waiter immediately appeared to take my drink order.

  “This is quite a place,” I said, taking in the ambiance of the space.

  “Glad you’re impressed. I come here quite often.” She clasped her hands and rested them on the table. “Let’s talk about this supposed theft.”

  “It’s not a theory. I spoke with Gates before I came here. The day after tomorrow, he will be given specific instructions as to when his man should leave the lab unattended. You can imagine how difficult it is for Gates, who has dedicated himself to protecting our country, to take part in a plot of this sort. If Windstorm made its way into terrorists’ hands, he would be devastated. It’s my responsibility to insure that doesn’t happen and at the same time recover Brandon.”

  “That’s a tall order even for someone with your expertise.”

  “Myself and someone else the commander trusts will be there to go wherever the thief leads us—hopefully to where Brandon Gates is being held.”

  “I can’t allow the product to leave the lab. I can only allow the lab to be accessed in an attempt to steal Windstorm. Once you have the culprit, you can persuade him to tell you where Brandon Gates is.”

  I shook my head. “I’m afraid that’s not good enough. If the product is not delivered, they’ll kill him.”

  “Let me tell you how dangerous this toxin is. Depending on the amount ingested, symptoms begin between two and twelve hours after exposure. At first, you experience dry mouth and difficulty swallowing or speaking. This is followed by weakness on both sides of the face. From your eyelids to the corners of your mouth, uncontrollable loosening of the muscles turns your face into a grotesque mask. Your vision and speech are hindered as the bacteria racks your stomach with pain. Constant vomiting only ceases when paralysis sets in. Your whole body is affected and the end comes slowly as you suffocate to death.”

  “Wow, sounds like botulism on steroids. And the anti-toxin is the only remedy?”

  “Yes, administered in time. Blood work from the patient can determine the amount of toxin ingested and the proper dose of the antidote. The anti-toxin can’t reverse the damage that’s been done, but nerves do regenerate and many people recover fully, but it may take months.”

  “Okay, I can now vividly understand your concern. Of course, we won’t allow the product to be handed off. We only need the thief to lead us to the drop.”

  “How do you know Brandon will be there?”

  “We don’t.”

  “I don’t like it.” Celeste leaned against the back of her chair and folded her arms across her breast. “This is a deadly product, and I’m not comfortable with your wait-and-see-where-it-leads plan.”

  “We have no other choice if Gates’s grandson is to be recovered alive.”

  “I understand, but I have a responsibility to avoid a catastrophe.” Celeste finished her wine, and a waiter was at the table in seconds to serve another.

  I also wanted to avoid a disaster. “What about switching Windstorm with a decoy before the theft?”

  Boxer relaxed and seemed to mull it over. Based on our initial conversation, I was surprised by her reservations that I would be able to thwart the spread of a plague and rescue Brandon. Maybe it was my ego rearing its swollen little head.

  “Lucas, let’s say I agree with the plan to use a decoy. How would you proceed?”

  “You agree the theft is an inside job. Correct?”

  She took time to consider and then nodded. “Yes, and I’m the only one I trust to make the switch.”

  “Perhaps it would be a good idea if I were there when you did that.”

  Celeste raised an eyebrow. “You don’t trust me?”

  “Just a precaution. You have an objection?”

  “No, not really. I’ll do it tomorrow before any of the staff comes in. You can meet me at the lab.”

  “Sounds good. We’ll need to know the whereabouts of all your employees until the theft takes place. I have to know who the thief is—he’s the one who can lead me to Brandon.”

  Shaking her head, Boxer sat back in her chair and scoffed. “ADL is not a prison. We don’t keep tabs on all our employees throughout the day. The only areas under twenty-four hour surveillance are the labs. If we arbitrarily implement more security, whoever is planning to steal the product will know we’re on to them.”

  She had a point. “Then we need to narrow down the list.”

  “Yes. And that shouldn’t be too hard since the number of people who have regular access are few. Still, it’s only you and I, and we can’t be everywhere. In fact, you shouldn’t be visible at all.”

  “That’s true, and I plan to keep a low profile that day. In any case, I’ve already made a list. There are two people on it.”

  “Just two?” Celeste asked. “That’s impressive. Who are they?”

  “One is the new technician in lab six, Alexander Hoffman.”

  “Because he’s new? You think he was planted at ADL as part of a plan to steal Windstorm?”

  “Yes, that’s a real possibility.” I folded my arms on the table and leaned in toward Celeste. “But he’s not my favorite in this race.”

  “Really? So who’s your money on?”

  “Robert Vilari.”

  ***

  We finished our entree, a superb sautéed Dover sole, and instead of coffee and dessert, Celeste suggested we move our party of two down to the hotel’s subterranean bar. While she settled onto a scarlet upholstered corner banquette surrounded by caricatures of D.C.’s political elites, I ordered drinks from the bartender. A pear martini for her and a scotch for me.

  As we drank, I noted the soft light cast from the ornate white and gold ceiling onto the red walls made for more of a romantic setting than a discussion of national security.

  I found it amusing that for the second time in a few short months I’d had a business relationship with a smart, beautiful woman. On the opposite end of the spectrum from Celeste Boxer, who did nothing to hide her sensuality, Madeline Grange was all business when I first met her. Dressed in her uniform, buttoned to the neck, thick red hair pulled back from her face, she exuded authority. It was a pleasant accomplishment to break through her tough exterior to the warm, caring person inside.

  “What has you smiling?” Celeste asked.

  I raised my glass. “Good scotch.”

  “And the company?”

  “Excellent.”

  “Liar,” Celeste said, smiling into her drink.

  Woman’s intuition never ceases to amaze me.

  Trying to keep to light conversation, considering the dire nature of the theft of a lethal toxin and the kidnapping of a young man, was difficult. I laid out my plan to enlist the help of a trusted former Delta comrade. She listened and made no objection. When she excused herself to go to the ladies’ room, I called Mac and asked him to meet us at the bar.

  Twenty minutes later, Celeste finished her drink and our conversation abruptly halted. She peered at something behind me, her expression a mix of concern and pleasure. I turned to see Mac sauntering toward us.

  “Don’t worry,” I told Celeste, “I can guarantee he’s up to the task.”

  “Hmmm, I have no doubt.”

  Over six feet and fit with roguish good looks, I viewed Mac as the ladies might for the first time since I’d known him. He approached the table and shook my hand, his eyes on Celeste as he did so.

  “Mac
, this is Celeste Boxer, CEO of ADL. Celeste, Gerard McFadden. Call him Mac.”

  Celeste held out her hand. “A pleasure, Mac. Please sit and join us.”

  Before sitting, Mac glanced at the bar and at our empty glasses. “I’ll grab a drink first. Can I get you another pear martini, Ms. Boxer? Holt, are you drinking Scotch?”

  “I’m good, Mac, thanks.”

  “No, thank you,” said Boxer.

  Mac got himself a beer and slid into the banquette next to Celeste. I smiled, thinking it wasn’t taking him long to make his moves. If this had been more than a business meeting between Celeste and me, I would have had to take Mac outside for a talk.

  I brought Mac up to speed. Once we had the plan down pat and the conversation once more drifted to chitchat, Celeste rose to leave. Mac gallantly helped her with her coat and offered to see her outside. She declined, bid us goodbye, and left. Mac watched her go. “She’s beautiful and intelligent—not your type,” I teased.

  He wasn’t amused and snorted into his beer glass. “Dangerous combination, anyway.” Giving me a serious look, Mac shook his head. “You know Gates is not going to be too keen on this plan.”

  “It’s the only way to find out where Brandon is. There’s no time to plant someone inside or do a thorough investigation of the staff. I had to go with my gut instinct. This is a time-sensitive, barebones operation.”

  “The commander would never have sanctioned a mission so full of holes if we were back in Iraq or anywhere. What if the thief gives us the slip? Then the delivery is made and there’s no guarantee they release Brandon.”

  “You and I will have the place covered.”

  “Since you’ve met our prime suspect and have been seen in the building, let me tail him.” Mac leaned back and laid his arm on the top of the banquette. “If you’re spotted, you’ll spook him.”

  “Okay, I’m good with that.”

  Mac stared past me. Something was on his mind.

  “Any other concerns?” I asked.

  “Just one. What if Vilari is not your guy?”

  CHAPTER 21

  Robert Vilari sat at his desk, curtains drawn, trying to pour coffee from an empty urn. Did I drink the entire pot?

  It was late and he should have been home hours ago. He returned his attention to a presentation for the DOD on why the comprehensive approach ADL had taken was best. He found it difficult to focus, given that in two days he was going to steal Windstorm.

  Vilari rose and walked to the window. He parted the curtains. The road below, lit by the glow of streetlamps, was empty and glistened with moisture from intermittent rain. The bare branches of trees shivered in the wind. Vilari wrapped his arms around himself and longed for the island beaches of Aruba, where he and his family had spent what might have been their last vacation together.

  Maybe he won’t call. It would be a miracle if it were canceled. He sat at his desk and opened the bottom drawer. The burner phone blinked and vibrated. Shit.

  Vilari answered it. “Hello?”

  Abboud’s strident voice responded, “Is something wrong? You should have that phone available in the event I call. I have been trying to reach you for thirty minutes!”

  “I apologize. The phone was on silent while I was working. I wasn’t expecting to hear from you.”

  “We have moved up the schedule. You must be ready.”

  “Ready? When?”

  “Tonight.”

  Bile rose in Vilari’s throat and his body shivered with nerves. Tonight. “But why? I wasn’t expect—”

  Abboud cut in, “No questions, Dr. Vilari.”

  “But I don’t understand. I’m not prepared.”

  Vilari could hear Abboud’s impatient sigh. He was glad the man was thousands of miles away.

  “New developments dictate, and you have no choice but to be ready. Listen carefully. I don’t want to have to repeat anything.”

  “Yes, go ahead,” Vilari whispered.

  “Go downstairs, leave the building. Turn left. There is a black sedan. Under the passenger-side rear wheel is an envelope. Get it. Do it now and call me back.” Abboud hung up.

  That was the moment, Vilari would remember later, when the night closed in and dread choked him.

  ***

  Following Abboud’s instructions, Vilari retrieved the envelope and returned to his office. He shrugged out of his jacket and tossed it on the couch. Sweat bled into the cotton pores of his shirt. Ripping off his tie, he undid the top buttons.

  He took the crumpled envelope from his pants pocket and tore it open. A keycard fell out. The plastic ADL security card belonged to Alexander Hoffman. He remembered Holt’s questions about the lab technician and it made him uneasy. Upon closer examination, Vilari could tell the card was a duplicate. The image of Hoffman, who bore a resemblance to Vilari, was soft and slightly out of focus, as if someone photographed the original.

  Vilari wondered if the new technician was somehow involved. Perhaps another unwilling participant. Abboud never told him the entire plan, revealing pieces at a time, which added to Vilari’s pent-up stress. My blood pressure must be through the roof.

  The keycard was the next step. If anything were to go wrong, Security would look to Hoffman first, allowing Vilari enough time to make the delivery. But what about the cameras?

  The burner phone buzzed.

  “What took you so long?” Abboud hissed. “Did you get it?”

  “Yes.” Vilari wiped his damp forehead.

  He heard Abboud inhale and exhale. Vilari could almost smell the dokha. “Good. And the other item?”

  Vilari touched the zippered black tote. “I have it.”

  “Here is what you will do…”

  ***

  Mac was right. Gates hated the plan. Even though his grandson’s life was at stake, the commander struggled with a duty to protect ADL’s asset and avoid a national security disaster. Since Marnie was abducted, I had long ago learned to separate specific and greater-good obligations. When on a case to recover a kidnap victim, I sometimes had to work on the fringe of the law or take what might appear as imprudent risks to attain my goal. This was one of those cases, but I didn’t take the risks lightly. I had to have faith that Mac and I would be able to save Brandon and avert a catastrophe.

  We sat in Gates’s study, the commander on one side of the desk and Mac and me on the other. His opulent home aside, I was reminded of my tour in Iraq where we congregated in a makeshift office inside a tent and received our mission assignments.

  The commander entered his camouflage tent and six bodies jumped from folding chairs and stood erect.

  “At ease, men.” The chosen six sat silently and focused their attention on Gates. “At 2300 hours, the US Marines are going to take Kuwaiti Airport and chase those sons-a-bitches back to the hell they came from.

  “Our mission, and you don’t get to decide if you will accept it,” he said as soft snickers and smiles came from the men, “is to rescue the son of a Kuwaiti ambassador. He is seventeen years old, thin, and can be further recognized by a scar over his right eye. He is missing half his eyebrow. You’ll enter from the south side of the airport runway while the marines enter from the north. You go in at 2310. Sergeant Holt is in command. Any questions?”

  One muscular commando stood up. “Sir. Is this a search-and-snatch or do we get to kill some cockroaches? Sir.”

  “Where did you learn to talk like that, Mac? Just get the kid. If you want to kill cockroaches, I’ll assign you to the mess tent.”

  I smiled inwardly at the recollection and glanced at Mac’s serious face. No longer an overzealous commando eager for the kill, he listened intently to Gates’s words of caution. This wasn’t just any search and snatch. The commander’s own flesh and blood was on the line.

  ***

  Vilari obsessively checked his watch. He took the pages of his presentation, organized them, and moved them from the center of his desk to the left side. His mind raced, attempting to anticipate any flaw in
Abboud’s plan. He couldn’t find one, but it didn’t relax him. Vilari thought of Francesca. What would her life be like if Abboud made good on his threats? At times, he had wondered how he could be sure Abboud wouldn’t harm his family.

  How would I protect them? Hire security? Send them on an extended vacation?

  In the end, any solution he came up with seemed inadequate or faulty. He loved his family as much as he loved life. Vilari prayed they would all be safe.

  Eight-forty-five. It’s time.

  With his heart pounding in his chest, Vilari rose from his chair. He gripped the edge of the desk as he fell back into the seat. He closed his eyes, wiped his damp, clammy palms over his slacks, and breathed—deep long inhales and exhales. When the palpitations passed he rose again, leaning on the desk to maintain his balance. He stood still a moment to steady himself, grabbed the small black case, and left his office. All other ADL employees had gone for the day. No one stayed late without authorization. In his position, Vilari didn’t need permission.

  Timing was everything.

  Carrying the black bag, he used the keycard to access the stairs and took them down to the lobby so as not to alert the guard with the sound of the main elevator. He slipped into the restroom, and finding what he needed in a cabinet under the sink, he donned a white lab coat and wig. Vilari glanced at his image in the mirror and smiled. The change in his appearance was remarkable. He held up the fake ID. The resemblance was uncanny. Vilari slid the ID into his pocket along with a jar of petroleum jelly, two pairs of latex gloves, and the small, black fabric case.

  He bypassed the security scan. The guard was not within distance to see or hear Vilari enter the staircase down to the research labs.

  So far, so good.

  On the basement level, he eased open the door. Vilari stepped into a long hallway that turned at a forty-five degree angle, leading to the Science Center. Vilari thought the distance to the lab never seemed so great. He glanced at his watch.