by Nina Mason
Closing her eyes, she found herself thinking about her father. He wanted to make amends, to come back into her life, and she wasn’t sure how she felt about that. She only knew that some part of her wanted to hurt him the way he’d hurt her when he disappeared after the divorce. She was only five when he left and could barely remember what he looked like. But she sure as hell remembered all those nights she used to sob into her pillow because her daddy didn’t seem to love her anymore—assuming he’d ever loved her in the first place.
Over the years, she’d tried asking her mother about him, but all she ever got was that he was a good man who, like so many other good men, cared more about his ambitions than his family. She knew from her grandfather that Jack Hamilton had been a lawyer for some big Atlanta firm with clients in the entertainment industry. Thinking about it all now, she felt a hot swell of regret. Maybe if she ever got out of this alive, she’d give him another chance.
Her grandfather’s face floated into her mind, giving her pain. Where was he now? Was he still alive? Had he been tortured, too? She knew he’d survived being tortured at least once before, back when he was a university student in Pakistan. He’d gone to an anti-government demonstration, he’d told her, not because he was invested in the cause, but because a girl he liked had asked him to. Afterward, he’d been seized by the authorities and taken to an abandoned apartment building, where they’d locked him inside a casket for days, refusing to let him sleep.
A slamming door drew her attention back to the chamber of horrors. Was the tuxedoed man coming back? The mere thought of him made it hard to breathe. Who was he, why did he want the disk, and what part did he play in the Babylon scheme? Would she die before she learned the truth? And what about Buchanan? Where was he? Still alive? She prayed that he was. And that he would go ahead and break the story on his own.
Chapter 26
Friday
New York City & Washington, D.C.
Glenda Northam set her coffee on the desk, fired up her computer, and scanned the list of new e-mails. Her heart sparked with surprise when she saw one of them was from Thea Hamilton. That there was a story attached was even more unexpected.
“Well, well,” Glenda muttered to herself as she double-clicked on the little paper clip icon, “what have we here?”
Had Thea heard about the murder of Evan Wright? Did she have a line on the Zorro killer? That would be extraordinary, but strange things often happened in the news business.
She sipped her coffee as she scanned the copy, growing more astonished with every word. Incredulous, she squinted at the screen, double-checking the e-mail address. It was Thea’s all right. Was there any chance this outlandish story was for real? Pondering the possibility, she leaned back in her chair, tapping her temple as she thought it over.
It was an incredible story. Beyond incredible. But a few things didn’t quite add up. If Thea was working on something this big, why hadn’t she mentioned it on the phone last night? It was out of character for her to go rogue all of a sudden. On top of which, the style wasn’t quite right. It was almost as though someone was trying to mimic Thea, but missing the mark in subtle ways.
Glenda reached for her rolodex, pulled Thea’s card, and dialed the number of her cell, grumbling when it went straight to voice-mail. She waited for the beep, then started talking: “It’s Glenda. I just got something from your e-mail account that’s triggered some red flags. Thought I’d better check and see if it’s legit. Give me a call as soon as you get this, okay?”
She shook her head as she hung up the phone. Could this be for real? Were Azi Zahhak and his investors, including Milo Osbourne, masterminding a plan to take over the news media worldwide? Had they really been using Walter Lippmann’s theories to manipulate public opinion in support of a party line? It all sounded ludicrous, like something out of a comic book.
Maybe it was some kind of a hoax. Or maybe one of those Trojan Horses had hijacked Thea’s e-mail program. Still, something in the back of her editor’s brain was whispering in her ear: What if it was genuine? What if it was, in fact, the story of the decade? And, what if, by sitting on it, she was blowing the biggest exclusive of her career?
She reached again for the phone. Balancing it in the crook of her neck, she punched the extension for the research desk. It rang three times before a familiar female voice answered.
“Hey, Mary. It’s Glenda. I’ve got something here. It’s probably nothing, but do you think you could make a few calls for me to check the facts, see if it any of it pans out? As I said, it’s probably nothing but some crackpot’s idea of a joke. But you never know, right? I’m e-mailing it to you now.”
* * * *
Pale light was streaming through a crack in the curtains when Buchanan opened his eyes. Was it morning already? Blearily, he glanced at the bedside clock. The red digital display read 9:07. His eyes burned, his temples throbbed, and his mouth felt like a swamp. Groaning, he crawled off the bed and padded into the bathroom, where he splashed cold water on his face.
“You look like death warmed up,” he told his reflection, running his hand over his sandpaper chin, “like you’ve aged a whole decade in the last bloody week.”
But soon, he reminded himself, this would all be over. Soon, he could start rebuilding his life—a life he hoped would include Thea.
Thinking of her with a heavy heart, he went back to the bedroom, dressed, and looked around for somewhere to hide the disk. If they happened to catch him carrying it, he was as good as dead. And so was she.
He considered several possibilities before deciding that no place was safe if they should search the room. Stuffing it into his pocket, he returned to the bathroom, took last night’s soap wrapper out of the trash, and tore off a piece. After pushing the dresser aside, he went out, sticking the paper in the door as he’d seen Robert Redford’s character do in The Sting.
He hobbled down the stairs and hit the pavement, alert for any sign of the twins. The morning air was brisk, the sky gray and cloudy. There was a diner next door with a bank of newsstands out front. He stopped in front of the one for the News, praying he’d see a banner headline over the fold. There was a banner, but not the one he was expecting to see. It read: Zorro Killer Claims Third Media Mogul. The subhead underneath told him the victim was none other than Evan Wright, Quinn Davidson’s successor.
He bought a copy, took it inside, and parked himself at the counter. The place smelled of pancake syrup, frying bacon, and burnt coffee. As he scanned the story, he turned over the upside-down beaker at his place. The waitress—a willowy blonde in a form-fitting pink uniform and ruffled apron—appeared at once to fill his cup. Looking up, he saw the nametag pinned above her left breast.
“Thanks, Judy,” he said, picking up a pitcher of cream he hoped was fresh.
As he stirred it in, she hovered for a moment before walking away. He spread out the paper and scanned the front page as he sipped his coffee, growing more agitated by the second. How much longer could he sit around, doing nothing, waiting for others to act? As ridiculous as it might sound, in addition to Thea’s life, the future of democracy was on the line. He had to do something, he just didn’t know what.
Maybe, he began to consider, he should call Thea’s editor and try to explain about the story. Would she run it? He laughed to himself, half-amused, half-bitter. He already knew the answer, didn’t he? If they felt the story had merit, they wouldn’t run his version because he wasn’t a staff writer. They’d assign their own team of investigators to look into it, which might take days, even weeks. In the meantime, poor Thea would go on suffering the trauma of further torture or, gulp, even worse.
He pinched the space between his eyes, racking his brain for another idea. Suppose he set up a meeting with Zeus, offering to exchange the disk for Thea? He shook his head, knowing that even if Zeus agreed, he’d likely renege and kill them both.
No, the only way out of this was to stop Babylon. And the only way he could think to do that without Lap
dog or The News was to take matters into his own hands.
As soon as he set down his cup, Judy was there with the pot. After refilling his cup, she set the hot carafe on the counter, reached into the pocket of her apron, and pulled out her order pad.
“What can I get you?” she asked, pen at the ready.
“Nothing,” he replied. “Just coffee.”
“Where you from?” she asked, slipping pen and pad back inside her pocket.
“New York,” he said, lifting his cup and taking a cautious sip. Although the coffee tasted like swill, he tried not to make a face.
“No, I mean originally,” she clarified. “You’ve got an accent.”
“Edinburgh,” he replied, wishing she’d go away.
He couldn’t help wondering if she knew where Edinburgh was—or had ever even heard of Scotland—as he thought back on a video he’d seen once on You Tube. In it, some dumb blonde on one of those trivia game shows was asked to name the country whose capital was Budapest. She thought the answer might be France, but wanted to know from the host if France was, in fact, a country.
“What’s your name, Scotty?”
He winced. So she did know. That was something, at least.
“Alex.”
“And what are you doing here, Alex? I mean in D.C., not the diner.”
“Trying to stop a corporate takeover,” he said dryly, praying this inane conversation would soon end. He wanted to be alone with his thoughts—to come up with a plan—not waste time bantering with some ditzy waitress.
“You married?”
“No.”
He could have sworn her eyes lit up. He glanced at her left hand. No ring.
“A bachelor, huh? Are you in town for long?”
He could see where this was going.
“As long as it takes.”
“You must get lonely,” she observed, reclaiming the coffee pot, “being in a strange town, I mean. A strange country even, all by your lonesome. If you feel like having some company later, I get off at six. Maybe we could get a drink. Or I could show you around? The Jefferson Memorial is lit up beautifully at night. Have you seen it?”
“I’m flattered, but—” He stopped himself, getting an idea. Pulling out the disk, he set it on the counter and slid it toward her, forcing the sexiest grin he could muster. “Maybe we could hook up later. And maybe you would be good enough to hold onto this for me until then.”
She picked up the disk, regarding it with obvious interest. “What is it?”
“I’m a reporter. And it’s an interview.”
Best not to lie, he figured, any more than was necessary.
“Why are you giving it to me?”
“Think of it as insurance, eh?”
Giving him an approving smile, she dropped the disk in the pocket of her apron. “Can you meet me around back a little after six?”
He nodded before turning to have a look around. The diner was crowded, but there was no one who resembled the men he’d seen the day before. Were they lurking around somewhere, waiting for a chance to nab him? They had to be. He looked out the front window, but there wasn’t a soul on the sidewalk. Returning to Judy, he said, “Will you do me a favor?”
“Depends on what it is,” she replied.
“If for some reason I don’t show up, hold onto that disk for me. I’ll be back for it, eventually. Unless, of course, I’m dead.”
Buchanan left the diner, but wasn’t quite ready to return to his room. After wandering for several minutes, he found himself on the National Mall. He stopped, gazing right toward the Capitol, then left toward the Washington Monument. He stood there marveling for a moment before continuing. By and by, he came to the National Archives, which housed the Constitution and other founding documents. He considered going inside for a fleeting moment before deciding against it. What good could he do Thea inside a museum? Not that he was doing much good out here.
Spotting an empty bench, he moved toward it and sat. He lit a cigarette and smoked it with vehemence, racked with guilt over his uselessness. He crushed it under his shoe and got up, looking around. That was when he saw the man who called himself Zeus. Just a few yards away, striding purposefully toward the museums in the same black trench over a business suit. He appeared to be alone.
Buchanan set his hand on his Glock and limped after him. Fury smoldered in his heart as he thought about Thea. He prayed she was still alive and that she hadn’t been tortured, though he suspected, given what Jim had told him about Tartarus, that she probably had been.
“Hey,” he called out, but Zeus didn’t turn.
He picked up his pace, shortening the distance between them.
“Hey, Zeus. Wait up.”
Zeus stopped, turning slowly. When their eyes met, Buchanan saw a faint glimmer of recognition. Buchanan drew nearer, glancing around for the twins, relieved to find no sign of them.
“I have a few questions.”
“Oh? And how can I help?”
Clearly, he was pretending not to know who Buchanan was.
“Who are you? Why have you taken Thea Hamilton? Oh, and, just so you know, if you harm so much as a hair on her head, I’ll tear your lungs out with my teeth.”
Zeus laughed dismissively as he said, “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
The man regarded him like a two-way mirror. Clearly, he was a master of deceit. If Buchanan hadn’t known for a fact he was lying, the innocent act might actually have fooled him.
“Who are you?” Buchanan repeated. “What’s your real name?”
“What is it to you?”
“For starters, you’ve abducted the woman I love.” It felt strange, but also good and true, to speak the words out loud. “And, like I said, if you hurt her, you’ll be answering to me.”
“And, as I said before, I have not the slightest idea what you’re on about.” He began to turn. “So, if you’ll excuse me…”
“Not so fast,” Buchanan said, grabbing his arm. “Not until I get some answers.”
“You are either deranged or hard of hearing,” Zeus said coolly. “Now, kindly remove your hand from my person.”
Just as Buchanan let go, a man bumped against him, grunting an apology. Zeus walked away. The journalist started to follow, but stopped, unsure it was the best strategy. What good would it do to follow him if he refused to talk? Unless he planned to shoot him—a tempting thought, but one he wasn’t quite prepared to execute in the middle of the National Mall. Not knowing what else to do, he pulled out his cigarettes, cupping his hands as he lit one.
“Mr. Buchanan?”
The accented voice came from behind him. He dropped his cigarette and reached for his Glock. Panic surged when he found it wasn’t there. Fucking hell. The man who bumped against him must have taken it. He spun around. One of the twins, as expected, was less than a yard away, pointing the Glock at its owner.
Buchanan swallowed his fear. “Who are you? What do you want?”
“I think you know.”
“Honestly, I don’t,” he lied.
“The recording, Mr. Buchanan.” The twin aimed the gun at his crotch. “Tell me where it is or I shoot them off.”
Buchanan, though prickling with dread, tried hard to keep cool. “Like I said before: I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Really, Mr. Buchanan. Playing dumb does not suit you.”
It was an English voice this time. Zeus’. Right behind him. Before he could react, fingers closed around his arm. Fingers with an iron grip. The twin grabbed his other arm. He tried to fight them, but couldn’t break free. They jerked him toward the curb. A vintage Mercedes was there, idling. The other twin was behind the wheel.
Buchanan started firing questions: “Who are you? Why do you call yourself Zeus? What do you want with the recording? What’s your connection to Azi Zahhak? Are you the Zorro killer? What did killing those men gain for you?”
They slammed him up against the side of the car hard enough to knock the
wind out of him.
“I will ask the questions,” the Englishman hissed near his ear.
The rear door opened. Hands shoved him hard. He fell across the back seat. The twin climbed in after him while Zeus got in the front. As Buchanan struggled to sit up, he felt something smash against his skull. The gun. It hurt like a mother. Darkness began to descend. Zeus said something to the driver. The ringing in his ears was so loud he couldn’t tell what. Tires screeched. Again, the gun slammed against his head. He heard a crack, felt warm blood flow down his face. The next instant, he was back in the interrogation room of Saddam Hussein’s secret police, smelling Iraqi sweat mixed with French perfume.
Buchanan wasn’t sure what filtered first through his fragmented awareness—the snatches of hours he’d spent locked in this wretched chamber, the booming disco music, or the acidic odors of vomit and urine, or the relentless dull ache in his bollocks. Where was he? How had he come to be here? Why was he hurting? Memories started to take shape only to evaporate a moment later. He knew that at some point he had been in excruciating pain. He blinked hard, straining to remember. Had he told his captor about Judy? Given that he was still alive, it seemed improbable.
He struggled to clear his head. Little by little, the fog began to lift. Bits and bobs came back. The mod room with the peculiar smell…the Bond movie posters…the hammering music…the twins in outdated suits…the noxious perfume…the same bloody question over and over: “Where is the recording?”
He cringed as the image of his twisted torturer took shape inside his brain. A man in a classic tuxedo and eye mask who was cooler than a vigorously shaken martini.
“Where is it? Do not make me ask you again.”
Images from Bagdad had flashed behind his eyes. The black box reeking of his own waste. The room with the watering can. The blinding light. Gasping for air. Liquid flooding his nose and mouth. They had not broken him back then. Would he find that strength again? He had been younger then. And stronger. Now, he was older and damaged. His chest felt tight, he could barely breathe.
