“But you’ll find him?” Katie was worried.
“I don’t know. Maybe. He better hope so.”
“Why?”
“Depp doesn’t collect if he walks away. My guess is he’s out there looking for Donald Witherspoon while I sit around with my thumb up my ass.”
“Oh, Mister Roarke, such talk,” she joked.
But Roarke wasn’t in the mood. He headed toward the door. “Look, pull your things together. Call Davis at the FBI. Tell him you need a ride.” He wrote down the number. “You can say your hello’s here, then go back to our place.” He didn’t say where, for fear that the room had ears. “Don’t leave with anyone Davis can’t personally vouch for.”
“Yes, sir.” She saluted. “You mean I’m still under house arrest?”
“Damned straight. Until Witherspoon’s put away.”
Roarke left, but only for a moment. “I forgot something.”
“What?”
“To kiss you.” He took her with both arms and pulled Katie close so their lips met. The kiss took her breath away, and he lowered her slowly to the ground. Before leaving, he softly added, “Be careful.”
He was well down the hall by the time she whispered, “You, too.”
Witherspoon casually talked to his new friend. If Roarke enlisted the police, which he may have by now, they’d be keeping an eye out for a man on the run, not two businessmen engaged in a spirited conversation.
The farther they walked, the more at ease Witherspoon became. The man touched his back at an intersection: a friendly way to say let’s cross. His hand lingered longer than necessary. It felt good. Witherspoon relaxed more. This is going to be just fine. He was certain that he was in good hands.
The two men rounded the corner onto Broad Street. Terry gently nudged Witherspoon onward with his arm around his shoulder. “Here we are.”
Witherspoon had been in the Wyndham Downtown Boston for meetings with clients. It was convenient for the trade, just two blocks from the wharfs, three from Government Center, and only a few minutes’ walk from work.
The Wyndham was actually a converted office building: Boston’s first skyscraper. Redesigned as a hotel, it blended the original 1928 art deco decor of brass, rich woods, and brick with modern touches.
The lobby was spacious and, fortunately, fairly empty. Still, Witherspoon walked as close to Terry as he could, hoping to hide from anyone who might recognize him. Mycroft steered him toward the Caliterra Bar & Grille, then stopped, allowing his companion to look in.
“A bit crowded, I’d say.”
“Yes.” Witherspoon backed away. “Is there any place a little quieter?”
Mycroft checked his watch. “High time for breakfast. I’m afraid we’re going to find this everywhere.” He paused and read his companion’s face. “Of course…” he stopped in mid-sentence. “We could take the lift upstairs and order room service.”
Witherspoon nodded. “That would be fine.”
“Oh, wait. I’m sure the maid hasn’t had a chance to tidy up. Why don’t you give me a few moments. Then you can join me.”
“No, we can go right up,” he said, having no desire to wait in public.
“Then up it is.”
They walked to the elevator. Mycroft politely held back, allowing Witherspoon to press the button. Ten seconds later, the doors of an elevator to their left opened.
“Here we are. The gentleman first,” Mycroft said. “Eighth floor.”
Witherspoon did the honors. When the door opened again, Mycroft led Witherspoon to the right. Number 823. “Are you sure you wouldn’t like to wait while I straighten up?”
Witherspoon laughed at the double entendre, not his first. “No, I’m ready now.”
“Very good then.” He fumbled with his electronic pass card. It dropped on the floor. “How clumsy of me.” He was slow to bend down.
“Allow me,” Witherspoon offered.
“Thank you.”
Witherspoon inserted the card into the slot and turned the handle when the green indicator flashed.
“Thank you again, Donald. Just go right in.”
Witherspoon led the way. The room, a mini-suite, was immaculate. “Well, look at this. The bed is made already. Bravo.” It was as if no one had slept in it overnight.
Witherspoon smiled as he let his hand glide over the bedspread on the way to the windows. “Very nice,” he said, looking out onto the harbor.
“Quite so, but I think we can close the shades, don’t you?”
Witherspoon saw his smile reflected in the window in front of him. This is the best place to be for now. As he drew the drapes over the reflection, the room got darker. His back was still to the Englishman. Witherspoon sensed his presence. He turned around and faced him.
Witherspoon felt Mycroft’s hands brush his crotch. “Well, breakfast did sound good, but….”
“My sentiments exactly.” Mycroft said softly. He pushed closer. Witherspoon responded by pressing right into his companion’s hand. He let out a quiet sigh.
“Why don’t you lay down on the bed like a good boy?”
Witherspoon obeyed.
“Just relax. Well, not completely. And I’ll be right with you.”
Mycroft went to his suitcase, which lay on the stand provided by the hotel. He opened it up, with the top blocking Witherspoon’s view. “I’ve got a little surprise for you, Donald.”
“Oh?” Witherspoon leaned forward on the bed a little.
“No, back down you go. I want you to be perfectly still.” Mycroft busied himself. “What’s that on your neck? A little cut?”
“Yes. Shaving this morning.”
“What a shame. Such a pretty face, too.”
Witherspoon was feeling very comfortable and safe. He all but forgot that he was running for his life less than thirty minutes ago.
“What do you have, Terry?”
“You’ll see,” the British visitor said seductively.
Witherspoon thought he heard the sound of something being screwed together.
“What is it?” he repeated.
“Something to die for, Donald.”
Witherspoon flashed on a funny notion. Everything Mycroft said had been provocative and sexy. But not this time. An uneasy feeling came over him.
Mycroft’s hand rose from behind the suitcase. Something long and cylindrical emerged.
“Something naughty?” Witherspoon asked.
“Naughty indeed,” Mycroft replied in a soothing voice. A fraction of a second later, he pulled the trigger on his 9 mm Heckler & Koch P7 pistol. The MX 12 Reflex Suppressor stifled the sound of the bullet, which created a hole directly between Donald Witherspoon’s rather dead eyes. It produced less blood than Witherspoon had shaving.
Mycroft returned the gun to the suitcase and closed the top. He wore thin leather gloves, which he’d slipped on before attaching the silencer. He’d keep them on until he was far from the hotel. There would be no fingerprints, and no trace of a Terrence Humphrey Mycroft. He never stayed in the room. It was merely a backup.
He’d intended to take out Witherspoon with less fanfare, but the encounter with the Secret Service agent required a change in venue. And the assassin was always prepared.
Chapter 45
The White House
Monday, 2 July
“Can you possibly visit Boston without killing someone?” the president asked.
Roarke shrugged off a laugh. Yes. Two men in two years. Both hired killers, both dead because they were after Katie. But now Witherspoon was also dead. This one went into Depp’s column, not his. “You can’t blame me for Witherspoon,” Roarke said.
Roarke explained how a hotel maid discovered Witherspoon’s rather ventilated body late in the day when she went in to turn down a bed. Police were all over the room in a matter of minutes. The victim definitely was not the woman who had checked into the Wyndham. They quickly ID’d him as a Donald With
erspoon, resident Back Bay, Boston. But the woman? The police sent out an APB for a 35-year-old, lanky blonde from Sante Fe, New Mexico, who checked in with a MasterCard. They couldn’t have known that they were looking for someone who didn’t exist.
Roarke learned about Witherspoon’s death shortly after his plane landed at Reagan National. Earlier in the day, he had alerted the Boston Police that someone may try to kill Witherspoon. Someone did. They told him what happened and where, but that they were looking for a woman. Roarke tried to set them straight, but the hotel clerk was insistent that the guest was a woman.
“So why was it necessary to kill Witherspoon?” Taylor asked.
“Because he colored outside the lines. And because Depp can’t walk away from money.”
“But why?”
Roarke explained his theory. “Witherspoon probably learned she was helping me again. With or without—and I’m inclined to believe without approval—I think he ordered a hit on her. It failed.”
“Thankfully,” Morgan Taylor added.
“Thankfully,” Roarke sighed. “But the secret got out. Somehow. Not me. I kept it out of the news. I even stuck Katie in a safe house for a couple of days in Lexington. Still….”
“Haddad,” the president said to himself.
“Who?”
“A name. Go on.”
“So Witherspoon steps out of line, and whoever the hell he’s working for finds out.” He picked up a pen on the president’s desk and worked it through his fingers. “Just like he finds out about everything,” he continued. “And in comes our friendly assassin to clean up the mess. This time he posed as a coffee grinder in a Starbucks opposite the law offices.”
When Roarke finished telling the story, Morgan Taylor let out an exhausted breath. “Oh, Jesus.”
“We’ve got to find this guy,” Roarke said. “He’s positively incredible. He can turn into anybody—a man, a woman. And fast.”
“A real chameleon.”
“A viper. He sheds one skin and puts on another. All different. All distinctive. And all believable.”
“Like an actor?” Taylor asked.
“Someone with phenomenal acting skills.”
“And a killing machine,” the president said.
“Effective, professional, efficient,” Roarke said. “He knows how to complete a mission.”
Neither Roarke nor the president had taken seats since their conversation began. They were barely two feet from one another. No microphones, like the ones used by Nixon, were there to record the next part of the conversation.
“I’m going after him, boss. I swear to God I’m going to hunt him down.”
“That’s still going to leave the man who is making your assassin very rich. He’s the one we really need to find.”
“Have Mulligan do that. I want the killer.”
“Maybe you’ve forgotten how I like to do things,” Taylor scowled. “Everybody’s going to work together. No Lone Ranger shit. Do you have that?”
Roarke nodded.
“Good. There’s enough crap flying around here now. I don’t need you off doing your own thing. You report everything to me.”
“And you tell me what you know?”
The president was taken back by such a direct comment. “What?”
“The name. I believe it was Haddad.”
Morgan Taylor let a slow smile spread over his face. He snorted and took his seat, and motioned for Roarke to sit from across the desk.
“Okay, smart-ass, sit down. I’ve got a little time to kill before I head out to Andrews.”
“Where’d we get his name from?”
“Not pertinent to this discussion.”
Roarke knew not to press. If Taylor had wanted, he would have told him. “Does he have a full name?”
“Matter of fact he does. Haddad. Ibrahim Haddad. Miami, Florida. Of late, but not recently.”
“What a surprise.”
Chapter 46
Andrews Air Force Base
Suitland, Maryland
Colonel Peter Lewis had the credentials. And he had the stomach. The credentials required him to have more than 2,000 hours in the cockpit, an unimpeachable career record, and worldwide flying experience. The stomach prepared him for being called at the last minute to fly the President of the United States anywhere at a moment’s notice.
It had been quiet for a while. Too long, thought the pilot of Air Force One. He liked being in the air better than on the ground. He felt in control there. He walked around the great plane with the 89th Airlift Wing’s chief maintenance officer. “We’re wheels up at sixteen fifty-five. We looking good, Rossy?”
“Always,” answered Lt. Eric Ross. He cocked his head toward the twin 747 some 200 yards away. “Same for two-niner,” indicating that SAM-29000, the twin 747 in Hangar 19, was ready as well. “We’ll roll her out in thirty minutes.”
“You swap out the nose tires on our bird?” Lewis hadn’t liked the feel the last time he landed Air Force One.
“Yes, sir. You’ll be riding with the Michelin Man. Smooth and comfy.”
When Colonel Lewis heard it from Rossy, he believed it. The lieutenant was the best. He ran system checks twice a day and again right before any flight. What he couldn’t personally get to, his men did. The next full review was scheduled for 2010, when the twin planes logged twenty years in service. But as far as Lt. Eric Ross was concerned, 2010 came each and every morning.
Still, Lewis kicked the tires. Old habits die hard for the colonel of Air Force One. “It’ll be good to have Top Gun back aboard.” Top Gun was the handle the Secret Service gave to Morgan Taylor, in honor of his years as a fighter pilot.
“Yes, sir.” Ross was just as surprised by Taylor’s return to the White House as everybody else. He knew the president had more than a basic understanding of Air Force One.
Lewis turned the page on the clipboard he held in his hand. “This is not a social visit. We’re in and out of Honolulu in four hours.”
The flight plan was set. Rossy had been briefed on the itinerary, the number of passengers, and any special requirements for the trip.
“Pretty light in the cabin.”
“Right. No press. Just…” Lewis turned two pages to the manifest, “…the chief of staff, sec defense, the press secretary, and J3.”
J3? thought Rossy. That stepped up the importance of the flight another notch. J3 was an extremely well-respected and important member of the president’s team: a holdover from Taylor’s last administration. J3 was the nickname of General Jonas Jackson Johnson. The general, the biggest, toughest officer he’d ever encountered, headed USASOC, America’s largest command component of SOCOM, U.S. Special Operations Command. SOCOM answered to the president. It had a wide range of worldwide activities, from covert counterterrorism activities to highly visible military operations.
“Any idea who they’re all meeting with?” the lieutenant asked. It was an out-of-line question.
“Not for me to reason why.” The colonel stopped himself from reciting the rest of the phrase.
“Four hours.”
“Real fast. We’re back by twenty-two oh five tomorrow. Just a warm-up. Taylor’s got a bigger one coming up soon. Sydney’s on the schedule for August.”
Lt. Ross glanced up at the underbelly of the jet, hardly giving the comment a second thought. “Yeah, I saw that, sir. I’ll be ready.”
Katie’s apartment
Boston, Massachusetts
that night
“I can’t ask you. And I won’t,” said Roarke over the phone.
“Won’t what?” Katie asked. The bugs had been removed.
“I won’t ask you to look at Marcus’s old phone files or his computer,” Roarke said.
“You’re right, you can’t ask that.”
“I didn’t. I can’t.”
“Good. Just so long as we’re clear on that,” Katie added.
“Completely
. Because it would violate your company’s lawyer-client privilege to see if Marcus ever spoke to an Ibrahim Haddad who lived in Fisher Island, Miami.”
Katie rested the pewter Jefferson cup she was drinking from on her coffee table. Now with Witherspoon dead, she was back in her own home. For safety’s sake, an FBI agent still guarded her building from a car on Grove Street. She cradled the phone on her neck and rummaged through her briefcase for a yellow pad and clicker pencil.
“Absolutely a clear violation, even though the lawyer in the relationship is dead,” she said while writing the name down. Abraham Haddid.
“Well, it’s a good thing you’re not checking. Because I’d be wrong to ask, and you’d be wrong to check on any Ibrahim, with an I, Ibrahim Haddad. H-A-double D, A, D.”
She crossed out what she had written, getting the correct spelling this time. “No matter how you spell it, it would be unethical.”
“And I completely understand that, even considering he may have been involved in a seditious act, punishable under Federal law. You just can’t do it.”
“That’s right. But it’s surprising no one thought of this before,” she offered.
“Yeah, you’d think,” Roarke added.
“Of course, you know it would take a court order. The firm would have to vet the files, making sure only the pertinent ones were pulled. All of that could take a great deal of time.”
Katie created a quick chart with arrows.
HADDAD — Marcus/Witherspoon
She looked at it and decided somebody else was needed. The somebody on Scott’s mind. She added it at the end.
HADDAD — Marcus/Witherspoon<—ASSASSIN
Finding Haddad might help him find the assassin. “I’m glad you understand the law,” she stated.
“That’s why I wouldn’t ask you to consider this,” he responded. “Anyway, where could Marcus lead us? He’s dead.”
“Exactly.” She circled the word ASSASSIN.
“Then we understand each other?”
“Precisely. We’re in complete agreement on this, Agent Roarke.”
Executive Treason Page 30
