Hour of the Assassin

by Matthew Quirk

  “Believe?” She sounded shocked. He’d managed to make himself sound guilty. “Aren’t you?”

  “Yes,” Nick said. “You weren’t trying to conceal a crime. You did nothing wrong. You can do whatever you like, but right now I can’t be sure those people are who they say they are. Just sit tight.”

  No answer.

  “Delia!”

  “I’m here,” she whispered. He could barely hear it.

  Nick parked illegally on the corner and climbed out. The sedan in front of Delia’s apartment was an unmarked Chevy Impala with cop plates, DC 5930, and the low-profile trunk antenna of a detective’s cruiser. It certainly looked like legit police, but he didn’t trust anything or anyone anymore. If the people behind this were powerful enough to kill a former CIA director, they might have cops on the payroll.

  He shielded his eyes from the sunlight and looked through the glass doors of the lobby. It was clear. He punched the code into the call box and entered. Delia’s apartment was to the right on the second floor, so he went left, toward the farther stairs.

  He raced up the stairwell, eased the door open, and slipped down the hall. The corridor came to a T and he leaned out. Two men in suits stood in front of her door.

  If they were police, he couldn’t imagine how they would have a search or arrest warrant for her. That was the only way they would break down the door. He watched and waited, heard them talk in low voices, the words indistinct.

  If they went for that door, breaking it down or picking the lock, or if they went for their guns, he was going to stop them. He slipped his pistol out, held it by his thigh.

  One man slammed the side of his fist against the door five times.

  Nick’s pulse drummed in his ears.

  The man’s shoulders fell.

  They waited another thirty seconds, then turned and walked away.

  35

  The elevator dinged around the corner. The doors opened and closed. Nick waited until he heard the quiet hum of its descent and then walked down the hallway.

  They were gone. He went past Delia’s door to the end of the hall and a narrow window that overlooked the front driveway.

  The Chevy pulled out. He didn’t want to scare Delia with more knocks so he messaged her: “It’s me. They left. I’m in the hall.”

  Her door opened as he approached it. She scanned the hallway, then led him in and locked the door.

  It was a neat studio apartment, though in DC for some reason small units like this were often called “efficiencies,” apt for a city of young strivers like Delia. The door was eight feet from the head of her perfectly made bed and the nightstand next to it, draped with a silk printed scarf. Her memories were arranged on top of the fabric: a blue-eyed charm from the old country to keep the evil away and a photo of her as a toddler with round cheeks and a two-toothed smile in the arms of her late mother.

  The sounds of traffic filtered through the windows. With no bedroom or hall, the space felt public, exposed.

  Her right hand rubbed her left, and she turned toward the kitchen. “I need some water. Do you want some?”

  “I’ll get it,” he said, then went and filled a glass for her. When he came back, he saw her touching the lock on the front door, then pacing toward the window like a tiger in a pen.

  He handed her the water, and she took a sip. The glass shook in her hand, ripples racing across the surface.

  He went to her, steadied the glass, and placed it on the nightstand. She hugged him. He felt her breath even out, a trace of relief.

  Nick had helped Delia’s family resettle in the US. When he was in the marines, he had worked with her father, an Iraqi Army captain, and then sponsored the family’s visas. Her mom and dad had passed away when she was in high school, and Nick had looked out for her. He had helped her put together her application for Carnegie Mellon, where she had finished her undergrad and master’s in four years.

  Despite everything Delia had been through, or perhaps because of it, she was a perfect overachiever, a scholarship kid. She never let the cracks show, never dropped the smile. Everything—the war she’d lived through, leaving behind all she’d known and starting over in the US in middle school—was an essay in the making, a challenge to be overcome and learned from. But now all of this threatened to take her life out at the knees.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I never should have brought you into this.”

  “I brought myself into it.”

  She’d had a hard-ass father, two older brothers, and a mind to prove that she could do anything the boys could. The toughness was a kind of armor as well. Her family had been under threat because her dad worked with the Americans. Militias had come looking for him one night, knocking on the compound gate while the family fled out the back. Delia had been a happy American kid, but she was also a daughter of war, with that middle-of-the-night fear woven into her nerves forever.

  She sat on the edge of the bed and studied her hands for a moment. She took long breaths, seemed to savor the air. She was coming down off the scare. “I’m sorry, but this is just . . .”

  He waited as her attention went to the door, then back to her hands in her lap, her nails. She felt like she was letting him down.

  “Delia. You have nothing to feel bad about.”

  “Were those men really the police?”

  “I think so. I will find out.”

  “But they could have been working for the people who killed Widener?”

  “I’m not going to take any chances with that, Delia. You don’t owe me anything, and I couldn’t have gotten through this without you. If your dad could see you now . . .” Nick let the pride show.

  That lifted her eyes up, and a hint of a smile touched the corner of her mouth.

  “Thank you.”

  “I’ve had some time to think about it, in the daylight. I’m going to call Jeff Turner. He’s done a lot more forensic work. He knows all the defense attorneys. I’m going to get some counsel on this. We’ll make sure you’re safe.”

  She nodded.

  “Once I get the lawyer piece sorted out, I’ll find someone for you to talk to, as well,” he said. “I’ll take care of everything.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Please. It’s the least I can do.” He put his hand on her shoulder. “Are you okay?”

  “Sure,” she said. “I have everything I need here. It’s just . . . the door.”

  “I know.”

  Delia took a drink of water and ran her thumb along the side of the glass. “You said you’ve got something.”

  “Don’t worry about that right now.”

  “What is it, Nick?”

  He went over what he had learned from Hopkins, how Emma Blair might have been a witness to a decades-old crime, possibly a murder.

  “I found a lead on Ali Waldron,” Delia said. She went to her desk and turned the laptop screen toward him. “I wasn’t able to track her cell, but I have this.”

  A black-and-white photo of Ali stared back at him, though she appeared about ten years younger. She was looking at the camera out of the corners of her eyes with a knowing smile.

  “Is that a headshot?” Nick asked.

  “I think so. She’s an actress.”

  Playing a part. Of course. He looked over the windows on the computer. Delia had gone through everything—Google, Pipl, LexisNexis, TinEye, Facebook, LinkedIn, Instagram, Twitter—feeling for this woman’s life through its online traces the way you would take an impression from an old grave with paper and pencil lead.

  “Where did you get it?”

  “It was a cached image. Google saved it as it crawled the web.”

  She clicked a link. The browser showed an error message. 404: Page Not Found.

  “The original is gone. Someone pruned Ali Waldron out of existence.”

  “This is great, Delia. At least we have a good photo.”

  She opened another window and showed him a list of addresses and banks, real-world connections to the a
nonymous shells.

  “This is what I came back with on the truck registration and the shell companies. I was able to connect it to two lawyers so far, one in Grand Cayman and one in New York. They both have a specialty in corporations, structuring all these shells, setting things up offshore as necessary.”

  “Any clue about who the clients are?”

  “No. Everything leads to another corporation, another veil.”

  He looked over the names. The lawyers who could do that kind of thing were hard to find. Their clients had to place great trust in them and would often go to them with other sensitive matters.

  Nick thought about the kind of people who would have been at that party, the kind of people who lived and died by their reputation and would do anything to keep a secret. He thought of Ali Waldron, running toward the Capitol, and those black trucks. He thought of Emma in his home, looking at those photos on his wall of the politically well-connected, how that set her off, and made her think maybe she couldn’t trust Nick. Political campaigns and committees needed to document their spending. They reported it all to the Federal Election Commission.

  “Can you run those lawyers against FEC reports?” Nick asked. “I think they’re all online. I want to see if they connect to any politicians.”

  “I can search it against all of the addresses and names I found, do a pattern match.”

  She chewed her lip and looked up at him, the concern back in her eyes. “Federal elections,” she said. “How high up do you think we’re talking?”

  Federal meant congressmen, senators, presidents. “I don’t know,” he said.

  “What if they’re untouchable, Nick?”

  He crossed his arms. What would it mean? He thought back to Hopkins’s house, the fear he’d put in that man. How far would he go?

  “One step at a time,” he said. “I’m going to do this the right way.”

  36

  Gray parked his truck in an empty space in the underground garage, walked around, and opened the passenger door for Ali.

  Nick Averose had escaped him on Capitol Hill, but that was fine. Gray had nearly let the rush of the hunt get the best of him. Killing Nick on the street would have raised too many questions. He didn’t need a Lee Harvey Oswald on his hands. The plan from the beginning had been to kill Nick in that house with Malcolm Widener.

  There was a certain story that had to be told. He wanted to take Nick cleanly, carefully, and needed to be able to stage his death just so.

  It was difficult, but Gray had the advantage. Nick thought he was running from trouble, but he would get nowhere. The more pressure they put on, the more certainly he would fall into their hands.

  As Ali walked just ahead of him, Gray’s hand went to his pocket. Through the fabric, he touched a steel cylinder filled with a sedative. That would hold her if she panicked, give Gray time to prepare, to bring her out to the mountains and the place where people went away. Ali didn’t know it, but she was here to audition for her life.

  A door at the end of the garage opened. It led into the lower level of the house. Blakely stood there in a trim navy suit and an open-collared shirt.

  Gray ushered Ali inside, and they followed David down the hall and then upstairs into a living area decorated with abstract expressionist canvases and streamlined bronze sculptures.

  The blinds were already drawn. Two fireplaces commanded either end of the room. A white granite bar and a billiards room stood off to the side.

  “Do you need anything, Ali? A drink?” David asked.

  “Coffee, please.”

  David went to the espresso machine on the bar and started brewing two shots into a porcelain cup. Gray directed Ali to one of the couches. She sat as David returned with the coffee.

  “Thanks,” she said.

  David put his hand on her shoulder. “You’re safe now, Ali. We won’t let Averose hurt you.”

  His eyes went to her bag. It was full, the change of clothes inside plainly visible. He could tell she was on the move. “Were you going on a trip?”

  She took a sip, then looked up at him. “I didn’t know what was happening. And after last night, everything with Malcolm Widener, I wanted to get someplace safe. I stayed with a friend.”

  “What about last night?”

  “Sorry?”

  “How did you know last night that something happened? It just hit the news.”

  “I drove by the house,” she said, matter-of-fact. “I saw the police.”

  Gray’s hand slipped into his pocket. David Blakely was careful with the company he kept. It was why he sought out women like Alexandra, no connections, no clout, a never-was actress with no family. No one would miss her.

  “Ali, did you talk to anyone about the work you did for us, about trying to get close to Emma Blair, finding out what she knew?”

  “Come on,” she said. “No.”

  “Did you talk to anyone about how you approached Nick Averose yesterday?”

  “Of course not.”

  “You can tell us. We look out for our people. We can protect you.”

  She put the cup down.

  “Listen,” she said. “You can stop talking to me like I’m some damsel in danger. You don’t have to dance around it or try to see if I can handle all this. I know something went down last night. I don’t need to know what exactly. I don’t need to know what’s going on with Averose. I just know he’s a threat to you and to me, and we need him gone. Whatever it takes.” Her eyes went to Gray. “I’m in.”

  Ali sat back and looked from one man to the other.

  David tilted his chin up slightly, appraising her like a piece of fine art.

  She reached forward and finished her coffee. “Is there a place I can wash up?” she asked.

  David pointed to the side of the bar. She walked over and went inside the half bath. The sound of running water came through the door.

  David gave Gray an impressed look as he approached. Gray could tell that David liked her. She was hungry, an outsider like he’d once been. Alexandra was powerless, but her survival instincts were strong. She had been around long enough to know that if she tried to cross a man like David Blakely, he would destroy her, and the world would shrug. Her only choice was to double down.

  “I didn’t think she had it in her,” Gray said quietly.

  “I always hoped she did.”

  “And . . . ?” Gray said.

  “We don’t need to do anything precipitate right now.”

  Good, thought Gray. “What should I do with her?” he asked.

  “We can use her. I’ve gotten her close to MacDonough,” David said. “She can lower his guard, help us make sure he’s not cracking.”

  The bathroom door opened, and Ali came out, her face clean and damp.

  She moved toward them with light steps, like a boxer crossing the canvas. “So?” she asked.

  David put his arm around her shoulders.

  “I want you to reach out to Sam. He’s under a lot of strain. I need to know if he’s handling it. Keep your eyes open. Let me know who he talks to. Do what you do.”

  37

  Nick stayed at Delia’s apartment until he was sure she was okay. They started looking for information on Catherine Wilson, the woman who had died at that Fourth of July party. He needed an obituary, and wanted to know the names of everyone else who was likely to have been there and how they might connect to Malcolm Widener and Emma Blair.

  It was four in the afternoon. Delia forced him to eat something and heated up two trays of chicken tikka from Trader Joe’s.

  Once she was set up on the searches and had reassured him that she was fine, he headed out for Jeff Turner’s office.

  He left the car two blocks from Jeff’s building and moved closer on foot. Jeff’s Range Rover was in its usual spot. As Nick approached the building, he saw a sedan parked in a red zone out front, an Impala with the telltale bump of an antenna on the trunk. Jesus. The cops were swarming him, talking to everyone who might have known
where he was.

  He thought of calling Jeff, but that wasn’t a good idea if the police were in there. Better to wait and catch him in person. Nick turned the other way and ducked into a luncheonette. It was the last old-Washington building on the block, a four-story brick dump sandwiched between two shimmering towers. It would let him stay out of sight of those cops and still have a good view of Jeff’s building.

  He took the end stool and ordered a cup of coffee. The TV at the end of the counter showed a news helicopter shot of the scene at Malcolm Widener’s home and then cut to something about a spending deal in Congress.

  The murder was now public. He’d heard it on the radio on his way over, seen it playing on TVs through the windows of bars and restaurants as he walked. That was DC: news over the bar instead of sports, people rushing through solo meals glued to phones that surely were now ringing with Times and Post alerts about the death of the former CIA director. Nick’s name and photo hadn’t gone public yet, but that could happen any moment.

  The waiter brought him a cup of bitter arabica, a comforting memory of every diner and every gas station he’d ever stopped in on the road, while he kept his eyes on Jeff’s building.

  The cops pulled out, two of them in the Impala.

  He put a five down for the coffee, nodded his head by way of thanks, and left. Through a window he saw Jeff walk out of his office, heading for the rear exit. That would work.

  Nick needed to talk to him, but he wanted to do it so that as few people as possible saw him and knew he was there.

  The street was clear in both directions, as far as he could tell, but there still might be people watching.

  He turned and started toward the alley.

  38

  Jeff Turner hauled open the door of his Range Rover and climbed behind the wheel. He started the engine and pulled out of his spot, a rented parking space behind a low-rise apartment building.

  He turned right onto a one-way street.

  “How long have you been waiting back there?” Jeff asked.