"That would be a desperate move. He has too much to lose."
"True. But rage and greed make people do crazy things."
The room fell silent for a second as Emily considered what to do next. She picked up her phone and started dialing. After several rings and no answer, she set it down with a frustrated sigh.
"No answer?" Adriana asked.
Emily shook her head. "We were just there," she said, frustrated. "We have to get word to him that Foster might be the man behind the assassination plot."
"How?"
"I know we just got here, but we're going to have to go back to Washington."
"First things first," Adriana said. "We need to check the security cameras and see if we can figure out who redirected the calls. Get your people on that. I can fly back to Washington and warn the president. Give him a call, and tell his people to make sure they let me in."
"He knows you. Most of his team does. That shouldn't be a problem."
"I'd rather be safe than sorry," Adriana said. "With all that's going on right now, I don't want to take any chances."
Emily thought hard about the plan. She didn't like the idea of sending Adriana back up to Washington on her own. There was no reason to take any chances with something as dire as this.
"My people can handle things here and report back to me. I'm coming with you."
27
Washington
Porter let his phone ring four times before he answered. He recognized the number on the screen and wanted to make the man on the other end wait, mostly because of their previous exchange.
He picked up the device and tapped the green button. "Yes, sir?" he answered with a thick layer of snark.
"I sincerely hope you didn't have anything to do with what just happened."
Porter's lips stretched out to one side of his face. Of course, he knew what had happened. He was the one who'd orchestrated it.
He'd heard there was a shootout at the place formerly known as Mary Surratt's boarding house. He also heard one man was severely injured and had been apprehended. Reports said one man was dead. Porter assumed the dead man was the hitter his employer sent to take care of Wyatt and Schultz. Who'd been arrested, though, was still a mystery.
Porter hadn't reached out to his connections yet to get that information. At this point, he didn't care. If Schultz and Wyatt had somehow managed to escape, it was just as well with him. That meant they could still lead him to whatever treasure they were seeking.
"I'm sorry?" Porter said. "I don't know what you're talking about, sir. What happened?"
"The shootout in the Chinese restaurant. The man I sent to take out Wyatt and Schultz is dead. I was told a large man with tattoos came in and started shooting up the place. Before he went in, he cut my asset's throat and stuffed him in the back of his own car."
For some reason, the macabre thought nearly caused Porter to chuckle. He bit back the laughter, though, and defended himself. "Your man was killed? Any leads?"
His former employer remained silent for a moment. The only sound Porter heard coming through his phone's earpiece was an occasional breath.
"The man they arrested will not be a problem again. When the police arrived, they found him with two dislocated knees, which I'm certain would make it difficult to swim."
Porter didn't have to ask what the man meant by that. He knew. The cops on payroll must have taken their new prisoner to the nearest lake or river and dropped him in, probably with cuffs on just to make sure. Anhur would have sunk to the bottom like a lead balloon.
The thought didn't bother Porter. He had no personal affiliation with Anhur other than using him for the occasional assignment. His employer's disposal of the man actually made things easier for Porter, a fact he would keep to himself.
"Can't have loose ends, can you, sir?"
If his boss thought he was going to pry a confession out of Porter, the guy was dead wrong.
"Precisely. I would hate to think you may have had something to do with what happened."
There it was: the bold accusation. Porter expected the man to lead with that and not beat around the bush. Then again, he was a politician. It was in their nature to waste time, dancing around a subject.
Porter had seen it ever since he moved to Washington. It was a different way of doing things. Where he came from in West Virginia, they didn't have time to waste. Life was hard, and if you didn't take on every day like it was your last, you were doing something wrong.
His father's death in the coal mines taught him that at a very young age. His mother's suicide three years later reinforced it. Porter had no intention of ever mincing words, tap dancing around a subject, or worrying about the politically correct thing to say.
He got the job done as quickly and efficiently as possible, which made him a perfect killing machine. It did not, however, make for good conversation.
"If you think I had anything to do with that mess, you need to think again, sir. You told me and my men to sit back and wait for further instructions. You were taking us off the case. Now you have the guts to call me and ask if I had something to do with your little screwup? No. No, I didn't have anything to do with it."
He knew the lie would work. There was nothing linking Porter to Anhur. He'd paid in cash and left nothing in the way of evidence that could connect him to the attack inside the Chinese joint.
The man on the other end of the line exhaled audibly through his nose. What could he do? He didn't have any proof that Porter was affiliated with the tattooed guy who shot up the restaurant, especially since the shooter was probably dead at this point.
"One of my men is following Wyatt. He's heading out of town. I need you to rendezvous with my asset and follow Wyatt to wherever he's going. It is of the utmost importance that we stop these individuals before they can cause more trouble."
There it was, Porter thought: the ask.
His employer waited patiently on the other end of the line for Porter's response.
"I'm sorry, sir, but are you saying you want me and my men back on the case?'
He knew his boss had to swallow his pride to say it. Politicians like him weren't good at doing that. Most of them hated having to admit they were wrong, and while Porter doubted he'd get those words out of his employer, he knew the man was thinking it.
"I need you to meet up with my guy and take out Wyatt and Schultz. Eliminate them at all costs. I don't care what it takes. Just wipe them off the face of the planet. Okay? Understood?"
"Loud and clear, sir. I'd be happy to rendezvous with your guy. My only question is, when and where would you like me to meet your other guy?"
"He said Wyatt and Schultz are heading out of town. Looks like they're going southeast. I'll give you his number so you two can sort it out. He's on the road right now, trailing the marks."
Porter thought it interesting that he had another man on the scene at the Chinese restaurant. That meant his employer either thought he needed a backup plan or maybe he thought Porter might try to get involved. By using Anhur as his trigger man, Porter had avoided direct confrontation, which meant he still had plausible deniability.
"Sounds good, sir. Thank you for the opportunity."
The other man said nothing. No apology. No "glad to have you back on the case." Just an ended call followed shortly by a text message with his other asset's phone number
Of course, Porter would make sure that guy ended up dead as well. Like he'd mentioned to his boss, loose ends needed to be tied up. In the line of fire, all sorts of accidents could happen. Once the tail was eliminated, there'd be no one in Porter's way.
He'd follow Wyatt to the treasure, kill him, and then make his employer pay for his doubt.
28
Clinton, Maryland
Sean and Tommy walked toward the maroon nineteenth-century farmhouse. The wooden siding and fresh paint were a tribute to the constant maintenance done on the historic site to keep it looking as it may have in the mid-1800s.
T
he area surrounding the Surratt house was less than historic. Gas stations and small shopping centers lined the streets nearby, taking away some of the prestige of such an old building and making it instead look like an out-of-place relic.
The town of Clinton was originally called Surrattsville, named for the family that founded it. After the Lincoln conspiracy came to light, the name was later changed so that any association with that tragic event would be lost to history.
Sean's and Tommy's heads were on a swivel, turning one way and then the other to make sure no one was watching—or following. So far, they'd not seen anything suspicious.
"You don't look comfortable," Tommy said to his friend as they neared the front steps of the Surratt House. "Cold?"
"It's like thirty degrees out. So yeah, I'm cold. That's not it, though."
"What is it, then? We haven't noticed anyone following us."
"That's what worries me," Sean said. "It's been too quiet."
Tommy stopped short of the first step and gave his friend an incredulous look. "Sometimes I wonder if you prefer to have trouble chasing you around."
Sean didn't break his stoic expression. "It's just easier when you see it coming. That's all. The knife you don't see is the one you should fear most."
Tommy sighed. "All right, Sun Tzu. Try not to stress yourself out too much, okay?"
Sean remained silent as they climbed the short set of steps onto the front porch and passed the sign hanging on one of the wooden columns that read Surratt's Tavern.
They opened the front door and stepped into a room that time forgot. The old hearth, the tables, the kitchen, the chairs, and every furnishing in the place looked original. It even smelled old, giving off scents of wood and smoke. Fake logs rested in the fireplace, smudging the authentic feel of the room. The only other thing that didn't fit with all the antiques was the yellow paint on the wall. It appeared to have been done some time in the last decade.
A woman with golden curly hair was sitting at a desk near the door when Sean and Tommy walked in. She stood up and smiled pleasantly at them. "Hello. Welcome to the Surratt House. Can I help you?"
Sean's eyes shifted to Tommy, giving him a you wanna take this one glance.
"Yes," Tommy said. "I'm Tommy Schultz, and this is my friend Sean Wyatt. We work for the International Archaeological Agency and were wondering if we could take a look around your museum."
Based on the blank look on the woman's face, she had no clue who they were. "Would you like a guided tour, or do you just want to show yourself around?"
Sean noted the name on her tag. "Janet, is it?"
She nodded.
"If it's okay with you, we'd just like to have a look around. No need in doing a guided tour."
"Okay," she said with a hint of disappointment.
Sean figured she'd been sitting in there all day without a single visitor. Janet probably wanted to show them around just to break up the monotony.
"I'll be here if you have any questions," she said, returning to her seat with a dejected frown.
"Thanks," Tommy said, already wandering away from the information desk.
They made their way around the first room, inspecting every inch of floorboard, every brick, and every stone in the place. Their eyes scanned the walls, searching for a crack or a seam that might have been a hiding place for something secret.
After a short loop around the living room and the adjacent smaller rooms, the two still hadn't found anything that remotely suggested something might be hidden there.
"Is it okay for us to go upstairs and see the other rooms?" Sean asked.
"Certainly," Janet said. "The entire house is open to the public. You'll find the master bedroom and a few other rooms up there, as well as one room with several important artifacts on display."
"Great. Thank you."
Sean led the way up the creaky wooden steps. At the top, the room with the glass displays was straight ahead. Two rooms were on either side of the hall, and then another was back in the other direction. The open doors revealed the interior of every room. One looked like an old sewing room, another a spare bedroom, and the one at the end was the master bedroom.
"Take a look in these two rooms," Sean said. "I'm going to check out the master."
Tommy gave a nod and disappeared into the guest room while Sean meandered down the narrow corridor to the larger bedroom.
Inside the master bedroom, Sean found what appeared to be a queen-size bed. White linens and a comforter were tucked in tight. It looked like the bed had been permanently made. Another fireplace was set into the wall to his immediate left. A polished cherrywood dresser sat under a bright window, opposite the bed's beveled footrail. A matching armoire stood a few feet away, next to an antique rocking chair.
Whoever decorated the room contents had done an impeccable job. A tall, black top hat rested on the dresser, next to a bonnet and a few other items from the era.
On the right side of the room, a little desk with a mirror stood alone between windows.
Sean took a look back down the hallway and then hurried over to the desk. He pulled out the drawer but found nothing of interest inside. He then moved over to the armoire and the dresser, investigating the drawers and shelves of both, still finding empty space.
He put his hands on his hips and considered looking under the bed, but he decided against it. Had there been anything there, someone would have seen it long ago. Probably a custodian or one of the curators like Janet.
Sean heard footsteps and spun around again. Tommy was coming his way.
"Find anything?" Sean whispered so the lady downstairs couldn't hear.
"No," Tommy said. "Just a bunch of antiques they probably found at some flea market. Some of the stuff might be original, but not much of it."
Sean ran his fingers through his hair. They'd only been there for five minutes, and already the sense of dread had begun creeping into their guts.
"If you were hiding something as important as the map in question, where would you have put it?" Sean asked.
Tommy bit the corner of his lower lip and gazed up at the ceiling. "I'm not sure. In this instance, John Surratt knew the authorities were probably going to come around collecting evidence."
"Correct. Which means it would have to be even more difficult to find than a mere trinket."
"So, what are you thinking?"
Sean stared down at the floor. He was running out of ideas. They couldn't exactly tear the walls down and rip up the floorboards in hopes of finding a map that may or may not exist. Even if it did, that ridiculous notion wasn't going to happen.
As his eyes ran along the floorboards and came to the spot where stone surrounded a small fireplace, he noticed something unusual. His eyebrows lowered, and he cocked his head to the side. A moment later, he stepped over to the stone tiles and took a knee next to the corner.
"What is it?" Tommy asked.
"I don't know. Might be nothing. Take a look."
Sean scooted to the right so his friend could get a better view.
"Notice anything unusual about these tiles?"
Tommy rolled his shoulders. "No, not really." Then he saw it. "Oh yeah. The grout they used around this one looks a little lighter in color than the rest."
"Exactly."
Sean bent down closer to get a better look. He pressed on the brick surrounded by the different grout, but it wouldn't budge. He tried to dig a fingernail into the gritty bond, but it was too firm to dislodge.
"We need a screwdriver or something," Sean said in a hushed tone.
"Should I run back out to the car? I think I've got something in there that we could use to pry it free."
"If you do, she'll wonder what's going on."
"Not if I tell her I left my phone in the car and want to take some pictures."
Sean raised his eyebrows. "Good idea. Do it."
Tommy scurried out of the room and down the stairs. Sean heard him giving the explanation to Janet. A second later
, he heard the door creak open and close again. It only took Tommy a couple minutes to get to the car and back. He rounded the top of the stairs, and when Janet was out of view, pulled a socket iron out of his back pocket. One end was designed to loosen nuts on car wheels. The other end had a flat wedge.
"Good work," Sean said. "You want to start on the grout? I'm going to go downstairs and distract Janet."
Tommy looked puzzled. "Distract her?"
Sean stood up and brushed imaginary dust off his pants. "Yeah. Pretty sure if we start digging up this grout, she's going to hear something grinding through the ceiling over her head."
"Good thinking. I'll see what I can do."
Sean left the room and went downstairs. Tommy waited until he heard his friend begin a conversation with Janet about the history of the building. He chuckled to himself. With the woman eager to talk to anyone about anything, he figured that discussion would easily buy him enough time.
Tommy set to work on the grout, digging the flat end of the little iron into one of the long sides first. Initially, the wedge didn't do much to break down the gritty material. After a minute of applying some elbow grease, though, it started to crumble.
He couldn't hear the two downstairs anymore, and for a second worried he'd been too loud. Then he heard the faint sounds of their voices. They'd moved to a different room. Another smart move by Sean.
Convinced they were out of hearing distance, Tommy began grinding away again, this time with renewed vigor.
It took a few minutes to get the first side of grout stripped from between the brick and the floorboards. He found the short ends much easier, perhaps because he'd learned the trick of breaking it free.
Five minutes of hard scraping and pressure resulted in tired forearms and fingers. As he broke the last piece of grout loose, he felt the brick shift. Tommy froze again, listening for the others. Janet was still droning on about the kitchen and the furniture, so Tommy knew he was in the clear. She hadn't heard a thing.
The Sean Wyatt Series Box Set 4 Page 74
