The Saracen Incident

by Jack Bowie

  Images of capture and detention flashed into his mind; cameras and lawyers and sensational publicity. He would be convicted before he set foot in a courtroom.

  He would not cower in a corner and wait to be discovered. There had to be another way.

  Sneaking back to Nicholson’s office Braxton looked out the window. The moon lit the grass and garden in the rear yard. Directly below the window, only one story down, was a small roof that jutted out from the rough stone wall of the townhouse. Braxton guessed it covered the rear entrance to the building. It would be a simple jump from the roof to the yard below. If he could just climb the ten feet between the window and the roof, he could get away while the cop was still searching the house.

  He folded the Lynch file in half and stuck it in his coat pocket. As quietly as he could, he opened the window and felt the face of the wall. The stones of the facade were rough and large, nearly one foot square. They were square struck, the deep set mortar providing ample room for solid foot and finger holds. He and Terrel had climbed rock faces a lot tougher than this.

  The sound of a squeaking door came from the floor below. It was time to get going.

  Braxton lowered himself out the window, grabbing onto the sill and searching for a foot hold. His toes found a solid edge and he shifted his weight from his arms to his legs. He moved off to the left, clearing the sill and avoiding the second floor window directly below him.

  He slowly moved down the wall one block at a time. At first, adrenaline masked the pain in his shoulder; it reasserted itself as he continued the descent. He was badly out of shape and the effort was exhausting him. His shoulder screamed whenever he stretched to get a new foothold.

  He had to stop halfway down to get his breath. His heart pounded; his breathing rapid and shallow. Sweat started to dampen his hands. All bad signs. Time was running out.

  He was opposite the window in the back guest room when a light flashed out of the dark interior. The surprise broke his concentration. He muffled a scream as his shoulder gave out and he lost his footing. His feet scrambling on the wall to get a hold, he hung by the fingertips of his right hand as the beam of light scanned across the back yard. His toes finally found a wide ridge and he clung to the wall in desperation. The light turned back into the room.

  He counted to one hundred to give the cop time to move out of the room, then restarted his descent. All he could hear was the rush of blood through his head and the pounding in his chest. His legs were trembling from the buildup of lactic acid. He made one more course of block before his strength left him completely. His fingers slipped and he slid down the remaining four feet of the wall.

  The roof struck him while he was still trying to remember all of the techniques for breaking falls. He pulled into a crouch and rolled. The slope directed him down, over the side of the entryway and into one of the flower beds.

  He hit the ground hard, nearly losing consciousness, but fought to keep control. Looking up, he was in clear view of the back of the house. He scrambled on his hands and knees back behind the structure.

  The fall had taken its toll; his trousers were ripped open, and his knees and shins were scraped and bloody. The pounding in his head had lessened but there was a sharp pain over his right eye. He wiped the sweat from his face with his arm and saw a red streak on the sleeve. Still, nothing seemed to be broken, and he hadn’t heard any reaction from the house.

  He waited another three minutes, then crawled along the side fence to the back of the property. The bushes were thicker and higher the farther he went. The fence suddenly stopped and just as abruptly the ground turned into sharp, painful gravel. It was an access road that tracked between two streets of houses. The end of the block was down to the right.

  He tried to brush himself off, gave up, and awkwardly jogged down the path.

  * * *

  Patrolman Loudon finished his search of the house at 11:20. When he found the open window in the rear office he looked down with his flashlight and saw dark stains on the stone and back roof. He called in a probable burglary and went downstairs to check out the rear yard.

  * * *

  Braxton saw the Camaro on the corner of Forsythe and Wisconsin. He crept up from behind and tried to get a look at the driver. Seeing Goddard, he breathed a sigh of relief.

  He knocked on the window and she nearly jumped through the roof. Her mouth moved rapidly and silently, he was just as glad he couldn’t hear her, then she reached over and unlocked the door.

  “What happened to you!” she cried as he climbed in the car. “I’ve been waiting for half an hour. I thought the police had found you.” She gasped as she looked at his appearance. “You look awful.”

  “That seems to be a common occurrence.” He patted the folder in his sport coat. “I think I found something interesting, but right now, let’s just get out of here.”

  “Where to? My place?”

  “No. Not after Nicholson found us. We don’t know who else knows about us. We’ll have to go to the motel.”

  “I get the greatest offers from you,” she said as she pulled away from the curb. “What did you find?”

  “We may finally have some proof. Nicholson had two cabinets full of personal dossiers. I took the one on your father.” He opened the folder and turned on the small map light. “Unbelievable,” he said a few minutes later.

  “What does it say?”

  “According to these documents, Nicholson and Potterfield had tried everything they knew to get something they could hold over your father. When all the investigations turned up empty they created a fictitious kickback scheme. There are copies of private correspondence and records of payoffs to bank employees and real estate lawyers. They did one helluva job.”

  “Then we have enough to clear my father!” Goddard nearly took her hands off the wheel to hug him. “Where can we take this?”

  “We can’t. That’s the problem. Nicholson was right. No one will believe anything we have. They’d just say we made it up.”

  Braxton’s mind was racing. They now knew what had happened but no hard evidence that could directly tie Nicholson to the actions.

  “The police are looking for me, and you’re now an accomplice. We need some kind of corroboration for this file. Unless we can make a direct connection between Nicholson and the deaths of Ramal and Chamberlain, we’ll still be fugitives.”

  “Then what can we do?”

  “We have to break the encryption of Chamberlain’s journal.”

  Chapter 58

  Vienna, Virginia

  Sunday, 7:15 a.m.

  GODDARD KNEW THERE was no use in trying to sleep any longer. She rubbed the haze out of her eyes and turned to her right. Her partner-in-crime lay on the far side of the bed. A fear that he might have died in the night shot through her, but the slow swell of the blanket betrayed Braxton’s peaceful state. He had fallen immediately asleep when they had returned from the adventures of the night before.

  How could he sleep like that? It’s just like a man.

  She, on the other hand, had been a jangle of nerves. Exhaustion had finally overcome her three hours into a Troy Donahue cinema extravaganza being shown on channel 53, but she still had tossed in the small double bed most of the night.

  She carefully slipped out of bed, showered, and was finishing getting dressed when a movement from the bed caught her eye. An arm emerged from under the covers followed by a mass of dark, greasy hair.

  “What time is it?” Braxton mumbled.

  “It’s time for you to get up. It’s 7:40. I’m taking the car.”

  He stretched and sat up against the rough plywood headboard. “Where are you off to this early?”

  “I’ve got some research to do, remember? I want to get to the library before all the study cubes are taken. It’ll be a lot more private.” She pulled her hair to the back of her head and tied it neatly in place with a deep blue elastic scrunchy. “Anything else you want me to do?”

  “We ought to call Fowler some
time, but I don’t want to do it from here. I’ll call him later. How are we doing on cash? I’m pretty low after the clothes and the room.”

  She walked over to the dresser and checked her purse. “I’m down to about thirty dollars. We probably could use some more. I’ll go up into Maryland and use my bank card.” Goddard closed the purse, threw the strap over her shoulder, and turned for the door.

  “That sounds okay. Just be careful. Before you go, I’ve been thinking . . .”

  She jerked her head back to face him. “What now, Adam? I’ve got to go.”

  “Hey, don’t jump on me. I thought we were in this together?”

  She sighed and recognized the return of the fear and anger that had driven her for much too long. “I’m sorry. I’m just so scared. Mostly for you. We’ve got to get some evidence on Potterfield.”

  “We’ll get it. All I need is my password and decryption software. You’ll see.” He managed a smile. “I am a hot shot consultant after all.”

  This time Braxton’s enthusiasm couldn’t break her concern. “But you can’t stay at GW. They’ll eventually trace the connection.”

  He nodded. “That’s the problem. I can’t just sit there trying to decrypt the drive. It could take hours.” Suddenly his smile turned into a devilish grin. “Now if I had a good laptop, I could come back here and …”

  Goddard’s mouth dropped open. “You want me to buy you a computer?”

  “Can your credit line handle it? It would make it a lot easier to work on the drive and to talk with Flanagan at CERT.”

  “I think I can do it.” She picked up her bag and shook her head. “You are not a cheap date, Adam Braxton.” She had managed a weak smile but it had disappeared by the time she reached the door. “Please be careful. I want to see you back here this afternoon.”

  “Guaranteed,” he replied with another grin. “Good luck on your search.”

  As she was closing the door she heard a yell from the bed, “Oh, and we might need a printer too.”

  * * *

  He lay in the bed another half hour watching the Sunday morning news programs. Nicholson’s death was a top story, but there was no report on a break-in at his townhouse. The incident was being described as a fatal mugging. Braxton’s name was never mentioned.

  His own condition could not be described quite so positively. He felt like he had been rolled in a wet sandbox. Dirt and caked sweat encased his body. The cuts on his arms and legs were red with inflammation and a purple bruise on his forehead was tender to his touch. He had also torn some of the freshly healed tissue on his shoulder. It was time to get cleaned up.

  He showered, trimmed his beard, and smeared antibiotic ointment on the wounds. Breakfast was a handful of aspirin. The preparations didn’t take the pain away completely but they were the best he could do at the moment.

  He grabbed a pair of jeans, an oxford shirt and a rugby pullover from the sacks on the floor. His trip to Wal-Mart the day before had been limited to the basic necessities: underwear, toiletries, and a couple of changes of clothes. Not a lot, but enough to get through the next few days. And who knew what would happen after that?

  Still worried about his financial state, he checked his wallet and found a lone twenty dollar bill. More than enough to get to GW and back.

  He walked to the Vienna Metro station, picking up a couple of donuts and a cup of coffee on the way, and took the train to Rosslyn. Back up on the street, he found a pay phone in a convenience store and dialed Fowler’s home. The detective’s wife answered and gave the phone to her husband.

  “Fowler,” said the sleepy voice.

  “Good morning, Detective. It’s Adam.”

  “Braxton? Where are you? I thought you were driving in today?”

  “There was a change in plans. We got in last night. I need you to check on something.”

  “Hey, slow down. You need me to do something? I need you to tell me what the hell’s going on. What else are you involved in?”

  Braxton didn’t have time to dance around his problems with the detective. “Did you hear about the Nicholson murder last night?”

  “Yeah. Senator Potterfield’s aide. Jesus, you didn’t have anything to do with that did you?”

  “I’m afraid I did. He tried to kill us.”

  “And the break-in at Nicholson’s home?”

  “That was me too. That’s what I need you to look at.”

  “Why would Nicholson want to kill you? What would the aide to a Senator have to do with your network problem?”

  “Everything. Nicholson and Chamberlain were working together. They were using Century computers and the Internet to gather blackmail information. Ramal accidentally discovered their network mole and they killed him. They’ve been after me ever since.”

  “Look, Adam. You’ve got to give this up. It’s gone way too far. I can’t follow all this conspiracy stuff. Tell me where you are and we’ll talk. Anywhere you want.”

  Braxton could tell the detective didn’t believe a word of what he was saying. He would’ve hung up but he needed Fowler’s help one last time. “Can’t do it, Sam. I‘ve got Chamberlain’s journal. It’s encoded on a thumb drive. If I can read it, it may explain everything.”

  “Great, Adam. Why not give it to me? I’ve got friends that know how to do that sort of thing.”

  “I can handle it, Sam. Thanks anyway. But I do need you to check out something. I found cabinets full of blackmail material in Nicholson’s townhouse. You’ve got to go over there and get them. They’ll show what Nicholson and Potterfield were up to.”

  “Potterfield? So he’s involved in this too?”

  “Yes . . . we think so.” The detective was confusing him. It was so clear last night.

  No, they were right. He would have to make the detective understand!

  “We? What about Goddard, Adam? Is she okay?”

  “Yes, dammit! She’s fine. She believes me. Why the hell can’t you!” He was screaming into the phone.

  “Calm down. Let’s all talk, Adam. The three of us.”

  “Tomorrow, Sam. We’ll talk tomorrow. Noon, the same place as before. But you’ve got to get the files at Nicholson’s. Okay?”

  “Sure. I’ll check that out today. But Adam, where can I . . .“

  Braxton hung up before Fowler could finish. He walked back to the Metro station and down to the trains. GW was a straight shot on the Orange Line.

  * * *

  What a colossal screw up! Greystone had received Nicholson’s email at seven the night before and had immediately tried to stop him, but he had been gone by the time Greystone had called. The executive had waited until midnight to hear a result, then had gone to bed and struggled to sleep, dogged by a premonition of disaster.

  The CNN news report at eight that morning had confirmed his fears. His initial shock was quickly replaced by a blinding fury at his flamboyant colleague. Nicholson had gone after Braxton and Goddard alone and gotten himself killed in the process.

  Stupidity! How could he have jeopardized their plans with such an attempt?

  Nicholson always thought he could take care of everything himself: he had to plant the leaks on Lynch, he had to track down his anonymous blackmailer. If it hadn’t been for Greystone, he never would have identified Goddard in the first place.

  “Unknown assailants” the CNN report had said. Unknown bullshit. Braxton and Goddard had killed Nicholson. He was sure of it. Now another of his partners was dead and they were loose in D.C.

  First Chamberlain and now Nicholson. What could he do to control the damage?

  Greystone stalked the hallway between his living room and kitchen. A once expensive dark green Bokara lay on the floor, now rendered nearly worthless by a furrow worn down its middle from its owner’s obsessive behavior.

  He had to get rid of Braxton and Goddard and stop the publicity. Nicholson’s death would only make matters worse. Hajima and Flitterman were both worried that he didn’t have control of the Potterfield Bill. If the
re were any more disclosures, Hajima will pull out and Flitterman will certainly terminate the alliance plan.

  He had to see Potterfield.

  Greystone didn’t know how the old war-horse would react to the death of his aide. If he could get the Senator alone he might be able to head off an intemperate response.

  He stopped at an ornate Louis XIV writing desk and called Potterfield’s home. After a long and only marginally intelligible conversation with the Senator’s heavily accented housekeeper, he determined that the Senator had rushed to his office earlier that morning after being contacted by the police. She didn’t know when the Senator would return.

  Greystone slammed the receiver down. Another obstacle thrown in his path. He considered calling Potterfield’s office but knew he would never get past his secretary. The situation required a face-to-face encounter.

  He grabbed the phone and dialed Santana.

  Chapter 59

  George Washington University, Washington, D.C.

  Sunday, 8:45 a.m.

  BRAXTON ARRIVED AT GW and immediately went to the basement of Science and Engineering Hall. Instead of taking a right at the bottom of the stairs, however, he turned left into the Computer Information Resource Center. Past the doors, the narrow basement corridor opened in a wider hallway, decorated with the latest information on user procedures, student helplines, and campus freeware.

  Along both sides of the hall were classroom-sized “Student Laboratories”. Large windows between the hall and the rooms gave Braxton a clear view of the interior of each lab. They were filled with long tables and personal computers, arranged to accommodate both personal use and group instruction. In his college days, these would have been called “terminal rooms”; simple time-sharing terminals had now been replaced by much more powerful personal workstations. The Resource Center provided convenient computer access for those students who didn’t have their own equipment; a category that fit Braxton to a tee.

  This early in the morning, the rooms were nearly deserted; one lone student in a lab to Braxton’s left was typing furiously into a word processing program. He paid no attention to the arrival of the gaunt, bearded newcomer.