by Vince Flynn
“I would be willing to bet that they have already found them.”
Karim shook his head. “Not possible. We are fine. All we need to do is wait for nightfall and then fill up on fuel. With your device we will no longer be lost.”
“Why wait until nightfall?”
“We only have cash and that means we must go into a store to pay. They will see our faces.”
The man was an idiot. Hakim asked Ahmed for the backpack, and after digging through a pocket for a second he pulled out a small billfold. It had a Texas driver’s license, cash, and a few other things. Hakim held up a credit card. “We can get gas now.”
“Where did you get that?” Karim asked with derision. “How do I know it is safe?”
Rather than answer the question, Hakim began tapping away on the keyboard. A moment later he’d pulled up the website of the Iowa City Press Citizen. It was the closest big city to the farmhouse. He found what he was looking for at the very top. “Double homicide,” he announced and turned the screen so Karim could see. “The bodies have already been discovered and it has been ruled a murder.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“You are a stubborn fool,” Hakim said without passion. “The Americans work fast. I’m sure somebody will recall seeing an RV driving away from the farm at about the time of the fire. The police will call other departments and ask them if they’ve seen an RV that fits this description. Before you know it they will receive dozens of calls that it was seen wandering back and forth between Illinois and Missouri for most of the day.”
“You give them too much credit.”
“And you obviously don’t give them enough. They will alert all of the law enforcement in the region. It is standard procedure. Did you burn the barn down as well?”
Karim and Ahmed shared a quick look. Ahmed said, “We think so.”
“You think so?”
“It burned down,” Karim said with forced confidence.
Hakim could tell there was some disagreement between the two. “You saw it burn down?”
“No,” Ahmed said, sheepishly.
“The house caught fire faster than we expected,” Karim said. “People were bound to come. The RV was in danger of catching fire.”
“So the barn didn’t burn down?”
“We used some of the extra fuel and poured it on the ground between the house and the barn. I’m sure it caught fire.”
“The fuel cans were yellow,” Hakim said.
“What does that matter?” Karim asked.
“It was diesel fuel.”
“So?”
“Diesel fuel is combustible, not flammable.”
“It still burns.”
It did, but not anywhere nearly as easily as gasoline. Hakim didn’t have the energy to explain. The fuel had likely soaked into the ground and dissipated before it could give off enough vapor to ignite. “What did you do with the extra provisions?”
“There wasn’t time to deal with them,” Karim said. “But I am sure they are destroyed.”
He really was a pigheaded idiot. “And if they haven’t been destroyed, they will find the motorcycles, weapons, ammunition, food, fuel, passports, cash, and the two backpacks that I prepared for each of you.” Hakim tried to shake his head, but it hurt too much. “If the FBI isn’t already there, they are on their way.” He handed Karim the hand-held GPS device. “Head west. Stop at the first gas station you see and then take Highway 54 South. We need to get moving. And remember . . . only diesel fuel. No regular petrol.”
CHAPTER 35
WASHINGTON, D.C.
SENATOR Lonsdale wasn’t entirely sure why she was going, but as she entered the lobby of the Watergate Complex South apartment building there was no turning back. Harry the doorman had already seen her and was on the move. From the outside she looked put together and ten years younger than her fifty-eight years, but inside she felt fragile, vulnerable, and beat. Even so she continued across the lobby on a course that would carry her toward the elevator bank and Harry, who was now waiting for her with a sad expression on his face.
“Good evening, Senator.”
“Evening, Harry,” Lonsdale said without much energy.
“Sorry about everything,” the doorman said sincerely. “I know you lost quite a few friends.”
Lonsdale was on her fourth day in a row of funerals and wakes. The pain of watching families torn apart was difficult, to say the least, but Lonsdale had to carry the additional burden of knowing that it was her hounding of the CIA that had more than likely opened the door for the terrorists. “Thank you, Harry. And my condolences to you as well. I know Senator Safford cared a great deal for you.”
“I’ve been here eighteen years, and he’s been here the entire time.” Harry choked up a bit. “I’m going to miss him something fierce.”
“We all are, Harry. We all are.” Lonsdale patted him on the arm. “You take care of yourself.”
“You too, ma’am.”
Lonsdale took the elevator to the sixth floor, and when the doors opened she stepped out and stopped. She looked to her right and didn’t move. She almost got back in the elevator, but the doors closed behind her and then the apartment door to her right opened. Senator Carol Ogden poked her head out and said, “Darling, you weren’t thinking of leaving, were you?”
Lonsdale looked at her fellow senator’s hot pink velour sweat outfit and put a fake smile on her perfectly lined lips. “Not at all.”
“You could have fooled me,” the senator from California said. “And you look like you need a drink.”
“Twist my arm,” Lonsdale said as she entered the apartment. There in the living room were two other women, Fran Burton and Amy Pringle, both United States senators. Together they were the Four Gals. That was the name their sexist colleagues in the Senate had given them sixteen years ago. In that time their ranks had grown to seven seats, but the fifth, sixth, and seventh female senators were all from the other party, so it was decided to keep their little group at four. Schedules were tough, but for sixteen years they got together at least one evening a month.
In the beginning, they played cards, smoked, and drank. Lonsdale figured it was their way of showing the men that they had no problem keeping up with them. Both Burton and Pringle had given up smoking about ten years earlier and that coincided with their starting a book club. That lasted a few years and then petered out after they realized they all liked different kinds of books and none of them were about to change the other’s mind. Lately they’d gone back to cards and drinking chardonnay. Mostly, though, they got together to network, to make sure they were watching each other’s back and offering support where it was needed.
Ogden handed Lonsdale a glass of chardonnay and in her smoky voice said, “Harry told me you seemed a little down.”
Lonsdale took the glass. “I think we all probably are . . . aren’t we?”
Burton and Pringle were starting a game of Thirty-one. Burton started dealing cards and said, “I haven’t slept more than an hour or two each night. I keep waking up feeling like I can’t breathe. Like I’m being suffocated.”
Pringle picked up her cards and said, “Me, too. I keep thinking . . . what was it like for them? What did they feel? Were they buried under the rubble and then slowly suffocated, or worse, burned to death?”
“I’ve wondered the same thing.”
Pringle said, “I was supposed to meet Greg Givens from the Sierra Club there for lunch, but canceled at the last minute. He and his wife and their kids all came over this weekend to thank me. We all sat around and cried.”
Ogden shot Pringle a look that could kill and then jerked her head toward Lonsdale. Pringle, who wasn’t always quick on the uptake, realized what she’d done. While she had canceled lunch and saved a man, Lonsdale had decided to skip lunch and condemned a man by sending her chief of staff to take her place. “I’m sorry, Barb. I wasn’t thinking.”
Lonsdale nodded, took a massive gulp of chardonnay, and then lost
it. She had a full-blown meltdown. Ogden took her wine from her, afraid that she was about to spill it all over the carpeting, and steered her to the nearby couch and had her sit. The other two put their cards down and huddled around their bereaved friend. After a few minutes Lonsdale got her breathing under control and managed to say, “I feel so guilty.”
Ogden countered by telling her it was nonsense. “There was nothing you could have done. This was fate and nothing else. You’re a survivor. You always have been a survivor.”
Through sniffles, Lonsdale said, “And I have survivor’s guilt. I sent Ralph to his death. He was my best friend and he tried to . . .” She couldn’t finish the sentence and once again began sobbing.
Ogden patted her on the back a bit too roughly. She looked more as if she were trying to get her to spit out a piece of meat than to comfort her. “This is foolish. Ralph, of all people, would not want to see you like this.”
“Ralph tried to warn me,” Lonsdale said through tear-filled eyes. “He thought it was foolish the way we hounded the CIA and Mitch Rapp. He tried to get me to see who the real enemy was.”
Ogden frowned. “Ralph was a prince of a man, but he was . . . shall we say, morally inconsistent.”
“He was right,” Lonsdale countered.
“Well, I’m not so sure about that.” Ogden took a couple of steps back and placed her hands on her ample hips. “What I’m about to say does not leave this room. Do you understand me?” After all three women had nodded, Ogden said, “This whole thing is wrong to me. The timing . . . everything. You were supposed to be at lunch that day, Barbara, and so were you, Amy. You’re two of the Senate’s most outspoken critics of the CIA. Just minutes after the explosions, Mitch Rapp and this Nash thug just happen to stumble across some immigrant who has the IQ of a Labrador, and then they proceed to beat a confession out of him.” She shook her head emphatically. “I’m not buying it.”
“What are you trying to say, Carol?” Pringle asked.
“I’m saying this thing stinks, and I wouldn’t be surprised if that conniving bitch Irene Kennedy and all of her mercenary pals aren’t behind it.”
“You’re not serious?” Lonsdale asked. “I was there. I was at the National Counterterrorism Center when it was attacked. Rapp and Nash were shot at.”
“And neither one of them was scratched, and oh, by the way, all six terrorists who attacked the NCTC were thrown out the window and their bodies were conveniently destroyed by the suicide vests they were wearing. It’s all a little much.”
Burton, who was sitting on the far side of Lonsdale, looked up at Ogden and with a frown asked, “Have you been visiting those whacky conspiracy sites on the internet again?”
“No,” Ogden snapped. “I haven’t worked it all out yet. It’s complicated, but I’m warning the three of you,” she pointed at each of them, “don’t fall into this trap and forget the sins of the CIA. They are the reason our friends were killed last week. We need to hold them accountable.”
That was the last of the conspiracy talk for the next few hours. Three more bottles of wine were opened and Burton insisted they hold a miniwake of sorts. Pringle then made everyone agree up front that they couldn’t say anything negative about their deceased colleagues and friends. Ogden broke the rule twice but each time was shouted down, and Lonsdale only had one more major breakdown and a couple of minor incidents.
All in all, though, it was good for the soul. Especially the laughter. Ogden told the story about her first year in office when they went on a fact-finding mission to Brazil. One night in the bar they were all tanked and everyone was dancing when Senators Safford and Sheldon decided to make an Ogden sandwich at the bar. She was the meat, and they were the bread. Safford got a little too into it and decided to grab the left breast of the new senator from California. Ogden in turn placed Safford’s left testicle between her thumb and forefinger and squeezed it like a grape. Safford dropped to his knees and had to be carried to his room. Upon hearing the story for the first time, Amy Pringle nearly wet her pants.
Lonsdale helped clean up. She was glad she had decided to show. Both the laughing and the crying helped. When she finally left, Ogden was saying her good-byes and reminded her about the NARAL ProChoice America event they were cohosting on Saturday night. “You’re the keynote speaker.”
“Oh, God,” Lonsdale moaned. “I don’t know if I can.”
“You can.” Ogden rubbed her arm. “I’ll write something up for you just in case. Remember, we’re honoring the life of Dr. Smith.”
Lonsdale nodded.
“And stay tough on this CIA thing. Don’t give in to them. Let me do some poking around.”
Lonsdale didn’t have the energy to fight with her, so she let it go. “Thanks for the laughs. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
As Lonsdale waited for the elevator she thought about the NARAL event. They were going to honor the work of an abortionist who’d ended more lives than anyone dared count, and Ogden wanted to destroy a man who had devoted his entire career to protecting his country. Lonsdale suddenly felt as if she were trapped in a Lewis Carroll novel. “We’re all mad here.” Washington was a very strange town.
CHAPTER 36
SOUTHERN MISSOURI
HAKIM drank some orange juice and popped four extrastrength Tylenols. He was propped up in the bed with three pillows behind him, staring at his laptop, trying to figure out what to do. Logistically things were perhaps more straightforward than one might imagine. It was as simple as riding down the Mississippi River in a raft. There were twists and turns, but eventually everything made its way south and dumped into the Gulf of Mexico. They weren’t following the river, however, they were working the state highways and county roads of Missouri in a gamble against time.
Looking back on the day it was almost impossible to believe what had happened. A single rash decision had led to a string of them, each one limiting their options and exposing them needlessly to capture. He and Karim could spend the rest of their lives debating the wisdom of deciding to kill the father and son, and they would never agree, but it was undeniable that the act had set in motion a series of bungles. One rushed decision had led to another, and now they were on the run with no idea how close the law was on their trail.
Hakim pecked away at his laptop searching various news sites for most of the evening as they worked their way down Highway 54, through Jefferson City, and then Lake of the Ozarks, and finally the turn for Springfield at Highway 65. Hakim decided not to take Interstate 44 over to Oklahoma. He had labored over that decision for quite a while but eventually decided they might be too exposed on the interstate. He made the decision to head for Branson. It was a major tourist destination that also catered to RV enthusiasts. He determined the smartest move would be to lay up for the night in a big lot with other RVs and wait until morning. Then, depending what they found on the news, they would either dump the RV or fill up on gas and make a sunrise-to-sunset dash to Houston.
Somewhere north of Branson, Hakim wasn’t exactly sure where, he felt the RV begin to slow and then sway as they turned off the highway. He pulled back the rear shades an inch and stole a one-eyed glance, half expecting to see the twirling emergency lights of a police car. There was nothing. Not a car in sight. Hakim looked to the front of the RV just as it came to a complete stop. He watched as Karim unbuckled his seat belt and came to the back.
Karim pulled the privacy curtain back completely, hesitated for a long moment, and finally said, “I am worried about something.”
“You are always worried about something.”
Karim exhaled his frustration and lowered his voice so Ahmed couldn’t hear. “For a minute, could you try not to be so difficult?”
Hakim nodded his consent.
“I have been noticing more RVs as we get farther south.”
“I know that. Branson is like a Bedouin watering hole for RVs.”
“Well . . . they are all old.”
“The RVs?” Hakim asked.
&nb
sp; “No, the people driving them. Every time I pass one they wave.”
“And that bothers you?”
“It doesn’t bother me,” Karim scowled, “but I have not seen another RV in nearly an hour.”
Hakim suddenly saw why he was concerned. “They are stopping for the night.”
“I think so. I passed a truck stop a few miles back and there were at least ten of them lined up with the big trucks.”
Hakim thought about it for a moment. “Maybe we should go back. Park there for the night.”
Karim shook his head vigorously. “There must be a charge of some sort. Someone you must check in with.”