Mako imagined the wall of monitors in TJ’s gaming room in Key Largo, also known as the War Room. One would certainly be showing a map with his position; the others, probably combined together, would display the floor plan.
“Ten feet down and to the right,” TJ said. “There’s a storeroom there.”
TJ had been able to access the plans for the latest remodel from the city, but without the originals to overlay they were worthless. Undocumented changes were always possible, but government contractors made their money on change orders. In order to get paid, everything would have been documented and updated.
Mako entered the storeroom, shut the door, and turned on the light. Steel shelves loaded with boxes of files lined all four walls. Bureaucracies ran on redundancy and there was plenty on display here.
“Where now?”
“Southeast wall about a third of the way in.”
Mako walked over to the shelving and started removing boxes. Once the rack was clear, he carefully pulled it away from the wall and slid it across the linoleum floor, exposing a virgin piece of sheetrock. Mako removed his billfold. He needed a tool to cut through the wallboard, and his carbon-fiber money clip had been designed to pass through security undetected. He removed the credit cards and a few lonely bills and placed them in his pocket, then used the tool to score the wall.
In minutes he had created a hole between two steel studs, just big enough to see the original wall behind them. Mako hadn’t expected such substantial construction. He had no choice but to risk some noise. Lying back, he used his feet to smash through the lath and plaster and soon the hole was large enough to slink through. With his phone’s flash lighting the way, Mako crawled back in time—into the fifties. Whether the room had been intentionally sealed up to keep the files secret or just was unneeded with the new floor plan, Mako didn’t know. What was important was that he had found it. The room looked much like the one he had just left, but on steroids. The steel shelving alone was probably heavy enough to build a new truck. Scanning the shelves, he compared the box number he’d stored on his phone to the labels. Finally he found the one he was looking for and removed the lid.
Mako paused to listen for any sounds that the men had found him. Hearing none, he scanned the faded file folders. “Got it.”
Mako had no idea exactly what the files contained and didn’t have time to look. Knowing he’d never get another chance at recovering Hoover’s secret files, he could only pause to take whatever he could carry. At some point, and to someone, the files would be worth something. He grabbed a handful and stuffed the sturdy manila folders into his waistband at the small of his back.
Back in the storeroom, he replaced the square of drywall he had removed from the outer wall and pushed the rack back into place. Once the boxes were loaded on the shelves, the cuts in the wall behind were close to invisible.
As Mako moved to the door and started to leave the room, he heard raised voices.
“I need another way out. Quick,” he whispered into his mic.
He could hear TJ and Alicia talking through his earpiece. Without the luxury of time, he decided his best chance to evade his pursuers was to leave the room, rather than try to hide in it. He slowly pressed down on the lever handle and opened the door. The corridor was clear and he slid out.
“Fire escape to your right.”
With the advent of internal fireproof passages, in new construction externally mounted steel fire escapes had become obsolete. In this old building, rather than create secondary interior emergency egresses, the architects had elected to keep the old but effective solution. Mako spotted the superstructure outside a window at the end of the hall. His worry was that it was inoperable, like in most renovated buildings, proved unwarranted. The window slid open and he dropped onto the steel grate anchored to the building.
Mako shut the window to conceal his route and started down the steel steps. Swinging around each subsequent landing, he reached the first floor, where he found a vertical ladder in its retracted position. Mako freed the mechanism holding it above street level and slid down the slick rails.
The second his feet hit the pavement, Mako started a fast walk. He wanted to run, but knew that blending in was the better option. He rounded the corner and stopped short. Despite his efforts, the men were pros. One of them had remained outside the building.
Mako turned and ran toward the Potomac River, not as much for its escape possibilities as that it was downhill.
“You have a plan?” TJ asked.
Mako didn’t want to admit he had no plan. By heading to the river, he hoped to put space between him and the two men, but he knew escape options were limited in this direction. Hemmed in by the Potomac, the 395 overpass, and the East Potomac Golf Course a little over a mile away, he had few choices.
Mako reached the river, still searching for a way out. He had put some distance between him and the men, but they had radios, phones, and resources. TJ and Alicia might offer help, but he needed a real escape, one that only a creative mind and actually being onsite could fabricate.
Breathing heavily, Mako stood at the end of a street. Two restaurants with decks jutting out over the water blocked his view.
“To the right is a dead end,” TJ said. “395’s a clusterfuck.”
From where he stood, Mako could see the highway’s two bridges that connected the Capitol to Virginia. He expected there was a concrete abutment below. To the left was a marina. His options became clear. He needed a boat.
Without looking back, Mako sprinted for the pier. A gate capped the end, and when he reached it he saw a digital keypad. Alicia might be able to access the combination, but it would take too long. He turned away and scanned the water, where he saw a low dock lined with several rowing shells. In college he’d joined the crew team after hearing it was a good way to meet girls. With his long body, the coaches were eyeing him for a seat. It was all good until he found out the downside—the work. After several practices, he threw up on an erg machine and decided to take an easier path to meeting girls.
Mako ran toward the narrow catwalk, finding no obstacles in his way. As he stepped onto the slick surface of the dock, he hoped his college muscle memory was still intact. The floating dock had a mind of its own and took its time adjusting to his weight. Mako didn't hesitate. He might not have been as strong or had the endurance of some of the other crew, but he had a catlike mobility. Adjusting his balance, he reached one of the shells.
The seat and oarlocks were in place. Mako grabbed a pair of oars and tried to remember the sequence to enter the narrow cockpit without capsizing. As he knelt down to slide the shell over the edge of the dock, the files stuffed down his pants rubbed against his spine, reminding him of their existence, and how disastrous a swim would be. Slowly he sat on the dock and slid his butt onto the seat. He pulled his legs in and strapped his feet to the foot rests.
A call from the street alerted him to the men’s presence and forced his hand. He placed the oars in the locks and extended them to full length. Using the outboard oar to brace against the water and leaving the inboard oar on the dock for support, he dropped into the seat. The foot pedals were of course too close, but the time to adjust them had passed. Using the straps, he locked his feet into place just as the men reached the dock. Mako tried to push away with the inboard oar, but one of the men grabbed it.
The man had all the leverage, though he didn’t know it. He could easily have unseated Mako by pushing the oar forward or back. His hesitation gave Mako the time to ship the oar, tearing it out of the guy’s hand. With the inboard oar useless, Mako fought to pull away from the dock with the single oar in the water.
Inches turned into feet, which turned into yards. Within seconds, Mako had enough space to set both oars in the water. Leaning forward, he pulled hard, using the sliding mechanism to engage his legs into the motion. The old feeling came back quickly and he pulled away from the dock, making a sweeping turn and heading upriver, where there would be more opport
unities to escape.
As he passed the dock, he ducked when he saw the barrel of a gun pointed in his direction. He flinched, but no shots were fired. The wind carried the voice of the man who had pushed his partner’s weapon down.
“We’ll lose what he’s got if he goes in the river. He gets away, we’ve got insurance.”
Mako wasn’t sure what he meant, but it couldn’t be good. The best he could do was continue on. He pulled hard toward the open water ahead.
3
Georgetown, Washington, DC
Mako struggled to get into a rhythm. Rowing entails several levels of synchronicity. First is the all-important catch. The blade needs a solid bite in the water at the front of the stroke. Mako’s knees were in his chest, in the furthest forward position of the sliding seat. Setting the blades, he pulled with his upper body while pushing with his legs. If these phases were not coordinated, most of the power was lost. To complicate matters, the oars needed to be in the proper position at the exit or the shell would crab and capsize. It took some time to get the old feeling back, but as Mako passed under the second bridge, he was moving nicely across the water.
Leaving the protected Washington Channel, he entered the lake-like tidal basin. Wind waves rippled the surface, but didn’t give him much trouble and he found his groove as he rounded the Jefferson Memorial. Ahead lay the skinny pass under the Ohio Street Bridge and the unprotected Potomac River. Mako pulled hard through the channel and snagged an oar as he tried to turn. He suffered a moment of panic before the oar came free and the boat righted itself.
Between the adrenaline rush and the effort, Mako was sweating hard. The file folders lay between his butt and the small of his back. Mako felt his skin being scraped with every pull, and blisters weren’t far off. Awkward movements in the narrow shell, which was already being buffeted by the wind waves, could only lead to bad things. He had no choice if he wanted to be able to walk once he exited the craft. With his feet strapped into the mechanism, he splayed his knees and used them to brace against the gunwales while he removed his jacket and pulled the folders free. Tossing the jacket in the space behind the seat, he lifted his butt and placed the folders underneath. They would at least be safe there—unless he capsized, and then it didn’t matter where they were.
Setting his sights on the water ahead, he pulled past the Lincoln Memorial and under the Memorial Bridge. Every few seconds, Mako peered over his shoulder at the empty waterway ahead. Because of the rear-facing position in the shell, he could easily see behind him, and his confidence grew that he was not being followed. With the Roosevelt Bridge his next obstacle, Mako needed to think about where to ditch the boat.
Georgetown was the easy answer. The shopping and dining hub was just off the river and would give him plenty of options to blend in. Mako relaxed as his body acclimated to the rowing movement. Ten minutes later, he spotted several racks of shells at the side of the river. Figuring it was either George Washington’s or Georgetown University’s facility, he eased up to the low dock and reversed the process he’d used to get in. With one oar solidly on the dock and the other braced against the water, he slid out of the shell. Mako grabbed the files from the seat, tucked it under his arm, and slung his jacket over his shoulder.
He was soaked with sweat and his first few steps were wobbly, but Mako quickly regained his land legs as he made his way to the street. The cool air helped evaporate the sweat as Mako trudged up the slope. Wisconsin Avenue led directly from the water to the heart of Georgetown, and before he reached the bridge over Rock Creek, he was dry. Mako carefully stuffed the folders into his waistband and put his jacket back on. The stiff folders dug into all the wrong places, but there was nothing to be done for it now. With every step, he could feel where his skin was abraded from the thick manila folders rubbing against it.
“Going for a drink. Maybe you can arrange the drop,” he whispered into his mic.
“Thought you got lucky, old man. All we heard for the last half hour was heavy breathing.”
“Not so much, but I could use that drink.”
Needing to do something with the files besides keep them in his pants, Mako noticed a leather goods store on the right. Checking his rumpled reflection in the storefront, he stepped inside. A coed greeted him from behind a counter. She was a very pretty girl, but Mako drew the line at twenty-somethings. He preferred woman who already knew what they wanted. He pointed to a leather satchel. The price was high, but Mako couldn't walk around with J. Edgar's files hanging out in plain sight. He handed over the company credit card, knowing he Alicia would be all over him about the charge.
The relief was immediate as he stepped back onto the street.
“Do you have a meet set?” he asked into his mic.
"Working on it. Your trip up the river kind of threw the geography off."
Originally the drop had been scheduled for a bar on Capitol Hill. From where he stood, it was a three-mile straight shot down Pennsylvania Avenue to the Capitol, but that didn’t account for the late afternoon traffic if his contact was coming by car.
He could still walk to the Foggy Bottom Metro Station and take either the orange or blue line to the Capitol, but he felt safer here in Georgetown. There had been no sign of pursuit since heading out on the river and, second only to high-price stores, Georgetown had plenty of bars.
Mako found a small place and entered. He eased his sore butt onto a barstool where he had a clear view of the entrance and street beyond. Sitting with his back toward the wall, he ordered a beer, then added a shot of Glenfiddich—he’d earned it.
As he waited for Alicia and TJ to set up the meet, he scanned the bar, checking out several female prospects. Some of the women smiled back, but he put off any dalliance until he had completed the transaction. Working on his second round, he was getting antsy.
“Any word?”
“Just keep warming that barstool. Your contact is stuck in traffic.”
Mako just shook his head and ordered another round, thinking anyone driving in this city was a fool. Almost a half-hour later, he watched as a tall woman passed by the plate-glass window. She turned, caught his eye, and walked toward the entrance.
“You didn’t tell me she was hot.”
“Need to know, old boy,” TJ said.
Alicia broke in. “Just don’t screw it up. You don’t need to sleep with her.”
Just as the door was opening, Mako cursed under his breath as he glimpsed the two men who had followed him earlier. They were standing across the street watching the woman. He had successfully evaded them, but she hadn’t.
“The contact is compromised.” Mako watched as the two men crossed the street.
“The files are the priority. Get out the back.”
“Right.” Mako walked quickly down the long bar, following a sign for the restrooms. Like most of the businesses in DC, the bar had been built in a converted townhouse. It was a typical layout. Bar upfront, restrooms, and kitchen in the back. Mako spotted the emergency exit/receiving door and pushed through. He had just stepped into the alley when his phone vibrated.
“No time for that,” Alicia muttered in his earpiece.
Mako glanced at the display. The screen showed a Bethesda number that wasn’t in his contacts. He was about to refuse the call when something nagged at him. His father, John, lived in Bethesda.
The old spy was officially retired, but to the ire of the Agency still dabbled in contract work, often with Mako and Alicia. It wouldn’t surprise Mako if his dad was calling from a burner phone. He ducked behind a dumpster and answered.
“Mr. Storm?”
Mako thought of his father and was about to say no, when it dawned on him that she might be asking for him. “This is Mako Storm.”
“I’m calling from Walter Reed Medical Center.”
Mako froze. He and his father had an interesting relationship. With his mother passing young and his father constantly on assignment overseas, as a child Mako had been shuttled around to his more-
than-willing aunts. It wasn’t until the last few years that a real bond had developed between father and son.
“Is something wrong?”
“Your father, John, has been involved in an accident. He’s in critical condition.”
John Storm caused accidents—he wasn’t involved in them. Mako recalled the man at the dock saying something about insurance. Now he suspected that “insurance” was John.
“He’s been asking for you.”
Mako heard the back door open and ducked into a nearby alcove.
“I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
Mako leaned out just enough to catch a glimpse of the two men near the exit door. The alley probably didn’t see much sunlight at any time, but this late in the day the shadows were dark and long. Mako stayed put while the men talked. They appeared to reach an agreement and split up.
Mako ducked back into the alcove. The man who had set off in his direction passed by. Mako waited a long minute before stepping out of the shadows. When he did, he found himself face to face with his contact.
“Going somewhere?” she asked.
Mako felt the barrel of a gun in his side. “Interesting way of doing business,” he said, to alert Alicia and TJ that something was wrong.
“Looking for CCTV feeds,” TJ whispered.
Mako knew the woman lacked experience from the pressure she was exerting on the gun barrel. He wasn’t in a position to see which model she carried, but many models were forced out of battery when the muzzle was depressed. The uncertainty was enough for him to respect the threat. With the barrel drilling into his side and two men looking for him, Mako was in a bind.
“We need to get out of here before those two men come back. You know they followed you here,” he said, hoping to throw her off guard.
“I just need the files. Then we can go our separate ways.”
Mako heard footsteps coming toward them. He needed to confer with Alicia, but couldn’t risk being overheard. Mako rose slightly onto the balls of his feet. He had learned at an early age how to use his height to influence people, although his advantage was small over this six-foot-tall woman. Their eyes locked and she blinked. Whoever she was, she was no pro.
Storm Clouds Page 2
