Veil. Part 17

Robert motioned to the agents and showed them the note. They frantically yelled into microphones hidden in their lapel pins and sleeves.

"Abort! Abort!" one agent called into his sleeve, ordering the President back to the White House.

Thorne ran onto the stage.

"Fiona, did you see anything?" asked Robert.

"No, Nothing! A waiter put the tray down only a few minutes ago."

"What waiter?"

"He was just standing over..."

Fiona, shocked and bewildered, pointed towards the camouflaged kitchen door.

Robert told Thorne to take Fiona home. Surrounded by agents, they left the stage.

Robert ran through the kitchen, several agents on his heels. The banquet staff, some handcuffed, others spread eagle on the floor, mumbled and screamed in terror.

"He ran out the door! We're innocent," a waiter screamed, his face pressed against a freezer door.

"Which way?" shouted Robert.

"The back door to the shipping dock," whimpered the waiter, now handcuffed and on his knees.

Robert burst into the receiving area, gun drawn. The two agents with him covered each side of the small warehouse, guns pointing up and down and side to side.

They ran into the alley behind the dock. At the far end, Robert saw only agents and flashing lights making their way toward him, searching every inch.

They sprinted back to the dock. Robert signaled each agent to cover opposite sides of the small warehouse, while he covered the center aisle.

Robert crept down the center aisle. At the end of the row, he spotted a foot to the left of the shelves. He slowly, carefully, turned the corner and pointed his gun down at a man sprawled out on the floor. Agent Sams, throat slashed, sat lifeless on the floor in a pool of blood.

"My G.o.d!" one of the agents gasped, walking up.

"Code blue! Code blue!" one of the agents shouted into his sleeve.

"Agent down in the warehouse off the dock area! We need immediate medical a.s.sistance! Code blue!" More agents ran inside, each shaken by the sight.

Almost immediately, an FBI forensic team arrived, complete with black bag laboratories, and enough photo equipment to shoot the Super Bowl.

Robert answered a few questions then hung back out of the way, wondering why the Bear allowed Fiona to live.

"This guy just doesn't know when to quit," said a female voice.

Marilyn London, in a short, cla.s.sy, midnight blue dress, stood a few clicks short of vampish, with one hand on her hip, the other clutching a black alligator handbag. He recognized her perfume, Paloma Pica.s.so.

"That seems to be the case," said Robert, agitated. "I hope we catch him soon. This was way too close."

"I agree. The bra.s.s and White House are furious."

"I never should've left the room, not even for a few minutes. She's my responsibility."

"Don't think the fellas up top won't let you know it. They never allow outsiders this much lat.i.tude in our operations to begin with. So for this to happen with you around...well, let's be kind and say you're the perfect scapegoat. Why'd you leave the room anyway?"

"I needed a private word with my partner."

"Oh, so she was also out of the room. You two make quite a pair."

"Look, there was a room full of agents, including several around the stage. I don't think we should shoulder all the blame."

"I don't think you deserve all of it either, but this is Washington.

Somebody has to take the blame. I'm simply pointing out the obvious."

"Didn't your people run background checks on all the workers?"

"Yes," said Marilyn. "But other than the usual illegal immigrants and petty infractions, they found nothing. I'm sure our Russian friend used a phony set-up."

Robert felt stupid for asking. "Of course."

"Mind sharing what you and Thorne were discussing? If it's important or pertained to the a.s.signment, maybe we can keep the sharks at bay."

Robert thought about Edward, Julie Rice, and the evidence. Having another hand on the plow didn't seem like such a bad idea, but he decided against it. "It wasn't that important."

"But important enough to leave your Supreme Court nominee unprotected."

"Then let's just say it's confidential. "

"No need to get abrupt with me, I'm on your side. You need to be ready when the big boys needle you. Was it another case you're working on?"

"Are you here to grill me, or investigate Agent Sams' murder?" Marilyn smiled. "So how well did you know Agent Sams?" she asked.

"As you know, we didn't get along that well," said Robert. "You do remember the incident back at the Weiss murder scene?"

"Ah yes, the slap from your partner. I remember."

"But we seemed to put all that aside to watch out for Fiona...Judge Patrick."

Marilyn's smile grew. "I see. Interesting." She pulled a small notebook and pen from her purse, and brushed by him on her way to the corpse. He followed, kicking himself for the slip of tongue.

They bent under the yellow tape. Robert examined the body again, while Marilyn had a members only conversation with her colleagues.

The throat wound looked smooth, no jagged edges. Why did Sams follow without backup? It doesn't make sense.

"Strange isn't it?" said Marilyn, standing next to him.

"What's that?"

"We never pursue a guy like this alone. Protocol is to radio in the suspect's location, keep'em contained, wait for back-up, and set up a perimeter."

"That's true," said Robert. "Maybe he tried to be a hero. He wouldn't be the first to play lone wolf."

"Oh, he'll be a hero all right," said Marilyn. "Only he won't know it.

Let me show you something."

Her sudden coldness surprised him. Unusual for someone looking at a colleague, dead on a warehouse floor. They knelt down.

"Now tell me, Mr. Veil," she continued. "Tell me, what don't you see?"

Robert looked close as a photographer's flash bounced off the walls.

"His weapon. It's still in its holster."

"You got it big boy. Looks like Agent Sams used incredibly bad judgment. What officer wouldn't immediately pull their weapon in a situation like this? Pure suicide."

"I admire your skills lady." Again, Robert considered telling her about Rothschild and the evidence, and again, he shook it off.

"They walked back to the dock area. Marilyn stopped a few inches from his chest, searching his face, smiling. He took back a step. Her smile widened.

"We really must get together again, Mr. Veil. You know, two professionals, sharing information, clearing the air. I know I can come off a little aggressive, but I'm playing a man's game. Sometimes being the house b.i.t.c.h is necessary. I hope you understand."

"No offense taken," he said. "But you will tell me about this dress when we sit down. Or is that standard FBI issue?"

"Oh, this little thing?" She pulled her coat back and showed more than she should have. "I was at a party when I got the page and didn't have time to change."

"Good thing you weren't in a hot tub."

Marilyn kissed his cheek. "I'll keep that in mind." Just my luck. Two amazing women at the wrong time. "Well, agent.

Let's hold that thought. I really must get back to the judge. Let me know if you come up with anything new."

"I'll share whatever we get," said Marilyn, tying her coat. "Make sure you do the same."

They shook hands on a promise Robert knew neither would keep. He watched Marilyn glide back to the crime scene, took another look around the warehouse, then headed for his car.

23.

Two miles from the hotel, walking fast, Andre heard the faint squeal of sirens in the distance. He took a left off M Street, stayed in the shadows, and melted into a splattering of homeless on Dupont Circle, striding down New Hampshire Avenue to a large empty house he cased a few days before.

He stomped up the steep driveway and slipped through a window, dropping down to the bas.e.m.e.nt. He bent over to catch his breath, closed his eyes, and smiled.

After the commotion started, sparked by his note, the Russian quickly exited through the dock area just as he intended.

"Andre, Andre. I need you to stop," said Sams, in a loud whisper.

Andre saw the agent's weapon tucked in its holster, stopped, and swiped his size thirteen across Sams' astonished face, spinning him around in a complete circle. Andre smashed his elbow under Sams'

nose, sending bone chips into his sinus cavity and skull. Sams flew backwards off his feet and crashed hard on the cement.

Andre pounced and mangled the vertebrae in his neck with one quick twist. Air wheezed and whistled morbidly from the agent's mouth.

Andre dragged the body out of sight and slammed it against a shelf. Ten seconds...nine...Pulled the hunting knife from his ankle...five...four...

and slashed Sams' throat with the smooth end of the blade...two...one.

He didn't stick around to see the spray of blood.

He sprinted down the alley to the street, and ran fifty yards to another off 22nd Street. Off came the uniform, fat suit, facial latex, and yellowed false teeth. On went a pair of stone washed blue jeans, a Georgetown University sweatshirt, Redskins cap and black leather jacket he hid there as a precaution, one of several spots in and outside the hotel where he stashed changes of clothing. He stepped onto the street a different man.

Andre opened his eyes, stretched, and grabbed a plastic bag hidden under the bas.e.m.e.nt steps. He traded the Georgetown sweatshirt for a blue, b.u.t.ton-down Oxford, slipped on a pair of black penny loafers, a navy-blue London Fog windbreaker, and gold-rimmed gla.s.ses, p.r.o.nounced himself yuppie and climbed back outside. He hit an empty New Hampshire Avenue and hailed a cab. "Georgetown," he told the driver, in his best American accent; Bostonian this time, his favorite.

The driver turned down M Street, back toward the hotel. Andre spotted a long line of slow moving cars up ahead. A roadblock. The cab driver, a burly black man, complained as though he and Andre were well acquainted.

"It's just like that sometimes, Nathaniel," said the Russian, reading the name off the cab license hanging on the dashboard. "Don't worry about it," he added, his enunciation pure Cambridge Ivy League. "I'm in no hurry."

They moved closer to the front. Andre rehea.r.s.ed an escape scenario in his head, mapping out what he'd do if the police got suspicious and asked him to step out of the cab. He examined his new drivers license and mumbled under his breath. "Bradley Stevenson, Portfolio Manager from Boston. Mutual funds. Fidelity."

They reached the head of the line, where two testy police officers stepped to each side of the cab. "We need to see identification for both of you," said the officer at the driver's window.

Nathaniel handed him his driver's and cab licenses. Andre pa.s.sed his I.D. to the officer on his side. He leaned inside and bounced his flashlight along the backseat and floor like a prison spotlight. The light hit Andre's face. The Russian dropped his mouth open and tightened his forehead, as though genuinely concerned. "What seems to be the problem officer?"

The officer focused hard on Andre's face and license. It took so long for the officer to answer, Andre thought he'd been discovered.

"Where're you heading tonight, Mr. Stevenson?" The officer didn't crack a smile.

"To J Paul's for a little dinner," answered Andre, pushing his gla.s.ses up on his nose. "I'm only in town for the night." Several more glances and the officer nodded to his partner. "No problem, Mr. Stevenson. Sorry about the inconvenience."

"Thank you," said Andre, feigning nervous relief.

Less than ten minutes later, the cab dropped him on the corner of 30th and M. He hoofed it through the crowd to one of his favorite restaurants, J Pauls.

College students, foreigners, business people and tourists, packed the restaurant like sardines, laughing, talking, and joking, unaware a brutal murderer stood only a few feet away. Andre headed for the bar, his usual spot, where he could watch the news report.

"What's up chief?" asked the bartender.

"Spicy shrimp," said Andre. "A double order. And a Guinness stout.

I've worked up an appet.i.te."

Americans. S o easily fooled, so easily frightened.