Pray for the Innocent

by Alan Orloff

  Locraft’s men had found King’s cell phone in the men’s room toilet, but Locraft had instructed them not to pursue King or Hemingway too closely. With King’s GPS microtransmitters in place, they could follow him at a distance, without risk of detection. King and Hemingway would think they had gotten away clean, not suspecting for a moment that they were leading the way directly to Dragunov.

  Locraft swiped his hand across his tablet, and a map repositioned itself on the video wall. When it had finished moving, a red blinking dot was smack in the center. “There he is,” Locraft said, more to himself than to the others working around him.

  “Good,” Slattery replied. Of all the people Locraft worked with, he trusted Slattery the most, probably due to the man’s even-keeled efficiency. But it went beyond that. Slattery had the killer instinct—and the balls to act upon it—that many people feigned but few really possessed.

  They’d taken turns napping in two-hour stretches, and now they were both back in the Ops Center. Fatigued and stressed, but not entirely dead. The situation reminded Locraft of his early days in the service where they taught you to sleep, eat, and shit whenever you had the opportunity, because you never knew when your next chance might present itself.

  It was obvious from their conversation with Dragunov that King and Hemingway knew they had been bugged and followed to the Super Sav-Mor. And they’d thrown Locraft a curveball by not mentioning the exchange point. If they had, Locraft would have seized the two men. Now they had to switch to plan B—track them and intercept them when they met Dragunov. Not the worst plan in the world, but it left too many variables out of Locraft’s control for him to feel comfortable. And the tremendous crowd of people gathering on the Mall to celebrate the nation’s birthday was the biggest complication of all.

  They had to nail Dragunov, or the day could turn into a massive bloodbath.

  “Will, tell the tactical teams to stand by. Feed them location information from King’s GPS coordinates. And let’s get the rest of the men working on data discovery.”

  “Sir?”

  “I want to beat King there so we can get everyone in place ahead of time. To do that, we have to know where he’s going.”

  “But only Amanda and King know that.”

  “Oh, Will. You need to have some faith in our tools. I want every scrap of historical data on King and his daughter fed to PAM, the more personal the better. Birthday parties, family trips, transcripts from interviews, speeches, essays. Everything. I want all their visits to anywhere in the DC area coded and input. Send some men to Amanda’s and King’s houses. Look through photo albums, ticket stubs, diaries. Any mention of anything—no matter how seemingly inconsequential—gets uploaded. We’ll overlay King’s changing GPS coordinates and let PAM sort it all out every which way to Sunday. If all goes right, she’ll spit out a dynamic list of Amanda’s favorite places, ranked in order of highest probability. That’s why we built her, right?”

  “Absolutely,” Slattery said.

  “I want a complete recalc every two minutes.”

  “Yes, sir,” Slattery said.

  “One more thing.”

  “Yes?”

  “As soon as you get all the techs in line, I want you to take the chopper and provide intel to the tactical crew. There’ll be a car waiting at the Pentagon. I’ll run the show from here; you coordinate from there.”

  “Yes, sir,” Slattery said as he bounced out of his seat to relay Locraft’s orders to the techs. Locraft simply stared at the blinking dot moving slowly toward DC. What did it say about him, a bold, confident leader of men, when he put his faith in a computer program named PAM rather than in his own gut? Was he evolving, getting smarter, trusting in modern technology? Or was he using it as a crutch, abdicating the responsibility that comes with authority to a faceless, soulless machine?

  Only time would tell.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  There was a lot of junk in Amanda’s closet, and Emily didn’t know where to begin. Like looking for a specific needle in a giant stack of needles, as her father used to say. With a sigh of resignation, Emily reached for the first box labeled “Keepsakes.”

  She wiggled it out of the stack carefully to avoid setting off an avalanche and plopped down right on the closet floor. She flicked off the top. Inside was a tangle of stuff ten inches deep: a flower ironed between two sheets of wax paper, a key chain made from beads, a plastic cup with a picture of a devil on it, a pair of earrings in a Ziploc bag, a few campaign-style buttons. Two plastic leis, one orange, one blue. Some postcards.

  A teddy bear in a red-and-white-striped shirt missing an eye stared at her forlornly, and Emily remembered the fedora-wearing stuffed dinosaur she’d had as a child.

  She pushed aside the top layer of crap. Buried underneath, she found six diaries, covers in a variety of designs and colors, tied together with a purple ribbon. She started to undo the ribbon, then paused to contemplate her actions. Again, Emily pressed on, knowing that if she was in danger, she’d be thankful if someone took the time to help her out, even if it meant an invasion of privacy.

  That was her story, and she was sticking to it.

  She opened a diary and noted the date on the very first entry on the very first page. Evidently, Amanda had been good about dating her entries, which elicited a smile from Emily. She was always conscientious about dating her own diaries and journals. Then Emily shuddered, thinking about some stranger sitting in a closet, in the future, reading her innermost thoughts.

  Emily began to skim the diary. From the date and writing style, Amanda must have been about ten or twelve at the time. Not surprisingly, most of the entries talked about Amanda and her friends. The things they did and the things they did to each other. Young kids had a unique perspective on life. Emily flipped the pages faster, searching for something that might be useful, something that might have a connection to the present day.

  She kept reading, but nothing popped out. There was a touching entry describing a sightseeing trip Amanda had taken with her father down to the National Mall. Emily had gone into great detail about all the things they’d done, as if it was a rarity that she got to spend an entire day with her father. They’d gone to the Smithsonian, followed by a ride on the carousel. Then it was off to an art museum, and then the Botanic Garden, and then the Capitol. And some other “fancy buildings” she couldn’t remember.

  Emily finished the first diary and started in on the second. More entries about her friends and about school. About ballet class. She came to a well-written passage—five solid pages—recounting another trip to DC she’d taken with her father. Emily glanced at the date. A year after the first sightseeing trip. In just one year, Amanda’s writing had improved noticeably, and she’d included a lot more opinions about her likes and dislikes—concerning the sights they’d seen as well as thoughts about her father. Judging by some of the caustic statements about his actions, it seemed to Emily that Amanda had entered her teenage years a little early.

  Emily had just opened the third volume when the faint sound of a car door slamming grabbed her attention.

  She dashed to the bedroom window and peeked out, hoping to see Amanda, an overnight bag slung on her shoulder, coming up the front walk. Instead, she glimpsed three men wearing dark suits and serious expressions.

  Something told her they weren’t Jehovah’s Witnesses looking for a convert.

  Emily ducked away from the window, hoping they hadn’t spotted her. Too late to run, her only option was to hide.

  The sound of the front door being jimmied sent her mind racing. Where could she hide? She didn’t think she could get downstairs before they got in. Another room? She started to leave Amanda’s bedroom, but the front door opened, and the sound of voices, deep and urgent, sent her into overdrive.

  No. They’d hear her footsteps in the hallway. She needed to hunker down, right there. In two seconds, she’d boiled her choices down to the closet, under the bed, or the bathroom.

  In the c
loset, behind some clothes? No, they might search the closet.

  She heard footsteps on the stairs and voices, getting closer.

  Under the bed? Couldn’t fit.

  No other option but the bathtub, behind the shower curtain.

  She dashed back into the closet, threw the lid on the open box, and shoved it to the side. Then, still clutching the diaries, she darted into the bathroom and hopped into the tub. As quietly as possible, she drew the curtain closed, praying the plastic curtain rings didn’t screech or rattle. She got herself hidden just as the men entered Amanda’s bedroom. She didn’t know what these people wanted, but as long as it wasn’t shampoo, there was a chance they wouldn’t discover her. And if they did, she could pretend she didn’t speak English.

  She tried to calm herself using logic. Why would they search the bathroom, or more importantly, the tub? Unless they knew she was there and they were after her specifically, there would be no reason. And if by some wild chance they were looking for Emily Phan, graduate assistant, they’d keep searching until they found her, and it wouldn’t matter what nook or cranny she’d hidden in.

  She held her breath and didn’t move a muscle.

  The men entered Amanda’s bedroom. From the location of sounds and their steps, she figured there were two men; the third one she’d seen was probably still downstairs.

  “Check the closet. I’ll look in here,” a raspy two-pack-a-day voice said.

  “Okay,” a deep voice answered.

  Two men. Searching for something.

  “Address book, calendar, photo album, diary, random pictures. Anything at all,” the raspy voice said. Drawers opened and closed, and from the sound of things, Emily didn’t think the men were being very careful with Amanda’s stuff. Nor were they trying to hide their actions.

  “Here’s a box of old pictures,” the man with the deep voice said. “When she was a kid, right?”

  “Yeah. Locraft said pictures in DC are what we’re looking for. Stuff a little girl would like. We’re looking for her favorite place on the Mall.”

  A silent moment passed. Then another one. Emily was shaking so badly, she wondered why the men couldn’t hear her bones vibrating against the tub. She brought the diaries to her chest and squeezed, as if she were giving them a bear hug, trying to calm herself.

  She’d seen too many movies where the girl hiding in the bathtub was eliminated with a bullet to the forehead. Ironically, she remembered a scene just like that from one of the Attack on America sequels.

  From the other room, the raspy voice called out, “Bingo. Pictures of the girl with her dad in DC. At the Washington Monument. Lincoln Memorial. Near the White House. A museum, the one with the elephant in the lobby. At a merry-go-round. On some marble steps someplace. In a garden. By a hot dog vendor. All kinds of places. How is Locraft going to narrow it down?”

  “That PAM thing he’s batshit about. He thinks it’s the Wizard of Oz, Carnac the Magnificent, and the Oracle of Delphi all rolled into one. I’ll call him, let him know what we’ve got. You keep looking.”

  “Okay.”

  Emily heard their entire conversation as clearly as if the men were standing just on the other side of the shower curtain. She knew all of those landmarks, of course, but had no idea what that PAM thing was. Sounded malevolent.

  “Colonel, this is Stafford. We found some photos. Yes, sir. Typical Washington tourist stuff, I’d say. Uh, hold on. There seem to be a lot of a merry-go-round. And a lot of nature pictures, trees and shit, but those could have been taken anywhere. Statues, sculptures, paintings. Also a lot of museums. Most are of her posing next to something, but there are a fair amount of the girl posing with her dad.” There was a pause, and Emily pictured some white-haired guy—the colonel—taking detailed notes about what Stafford was saying. “Yes, I will. Okay.”

  “Bishop, let’s take a quick look around, then get back. Locraft seems to think Amanda’s favorite place in DC is that merry-go-round on the Mall.”

  “He can tell that from a few photographs?”

  “Who the fuck knows how that computer program works? He’s convinced that’s where Dragunov is going to exchange the daughter for the dad. I know for an absolute fact that Locraft isn’t going to let that sick bastard get away, hostage or no hostage. As he would say, ‘Sometimes a sacrifice must be made for the greater good.’ Too bad for the daughter, though.”

  “Better her than a dozen other innocent people, I suppose.”

  “Wouldn’t be surprised if he takes some of his anger out on that writer, too. Poor schlub.” He punctuated his thought with an evil laugh. “We’ve got our orders. Let’s get going.”

  Squeaky footsteps on the bathroom tiles sent Emily into another spasm of trembling. She hugged herself tighter, fingernails digging into her triceps, jaw clenched tight. She froze completely and held her breath, unblinking, afraid the man might hear her eyelashes move.

  The medicine cabinet opened and closed. The squeaky shoe seemed to turn in her direction. A shadow fell over the center of the shower curtain.

  One sweep of the shower curtain, and it was curtains for her.

  “Come on, Locraft wants us to fax these photos to him. We got what we needed.”

  “Coming.” The squeaky shoes retreated, first from the bathroom, and then from the bedroom, and then the footsteps descended the stairs. Emily waited thirty seconds before slowly letting her breath out and unclenching herself. That Stafford guy wasn’t quite correct. They didn’t have everything that might be useful to locate Dragunov.

  They didn’t have the diaries in Emily’s hands.

  She hadn’t read all of them, but she’d read enough. She had a good notion of Amanda’s favorite place in DC. And if she hurried, she might just be able to get there in time to help.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  “Pull off here,” King said, pointing to a sign for Nutley Street in Vienna, Virginia. They were traveling east on I-66, toward Washington. So far, King had been vague about their rendezvous point. After the first few tries to get him to divulge the exact spot, Hemingway had given up.

  “Why?” Hemingway opened his mouth, then closed it. He followed King’s directions off the ramp and toward the nearby Metro parking garage. “We’re taking Metro? Are you sure that’s a good idea? It’s the Fourth of July, maybe their busiest day of the year.”

  No, “they” weren’t taking the Metro.

  King was. And he was counting on the crowds to provide cover for him.

  If Locraft had been able to track King’s phone, then it made sense they’d planted a GPS tracking device on Hemingway’s car. By parting ways with Hemingway—and his car—King could throw them off the trail.

  And if Hemingway was working for Locraft, it was better that King parted ways sooner rather than later. If they were still together when they reached the rendezvous site, Amanda would be in far greater danger.

  “Over there.” King pointed to the Kiss & Ride entrance, and Hemingway turned in, slowing to avoid sideswiping the row of taxicabs lined up, waiting for their fares. “You’re going to pull up in front of that bus for a second. I’m going to hop out. Then you’re going to meet me at the exchange point.”

  “Which is?”

  “The carousel. On the Mall. Amanda always used to love going there.” Partially right. He dragged her there because he thought that’s what little girls wanted, and she’d put up with it, trying to please her daddy. It wasn’t until years later that he learned the truth.

  “That’s where you’re going to make the trade?”

  “If Dragunov can be believed, yes.”

  Hemingway nodded, slowly. “Good. A public place. Out in the open.” Hemingway slowed the car. “I don’t see why you need to go by—”

  “Look, Locraft probably has someone following us, right? If I sneak out here, then you can try to lose them. Take them on a rollicking tour of Fairfax County as you make your way into the District. If you can’t shake them, then at least I’ll be able to make i
t there alone.” King unlatched his seat belt. “As soon as I get out, you take off.”

  Hemingway pulled in front of the yellow, white, and red Fairfax Connector bus and hit the brakes, but he didn’t unlock the car door. “Look, I didn’t want to alarm you, but I haven’t been able to get in touch with Peter today. I’m afraid something’s wrong. I’d feel better if we talked to him before proceeding. He’d never forgive me if something happened—”

  “He knows I’m stubborn. He’ll understand.” King unlocked his door. “Thanks for breaking me out. See you at the carousel. Now, get going.” King opened the door, hopped out, and headed for the entrance to the Metro station. He melded into a group of people, then did an abrupt about-face, staying low. He duckwalked ten steps sideways, then climbed aboard the bus. After fumbling in his pocket for some money, he stuck it into the fare box and grabbed the first seat. With a sigh, he slumped down, ignoring the curious looks of the other passengers. It wasn’t every day they saw an old overweight guy with a heavy metal T-shirt duckwalk onto a bus.

  He slouched and scowled, trying to appear like just another haggard bus rider, but he kept his eyes open and alert, just in case one of Locraft’s men came on board. If he did, King wasn’t quite sure what he’d do, but he figured it would involve a lot of yelling and finger pointing.

  Nobody suspicious got on, and after a few minutes, the bus rumbled off. As soon as it left the parking lot and turned onto the main road, King jumped to his feet and called out. “Stop. Stop. You have to stop. I left my grandson in the car!”

  The bus driver glanced in the rearview mirror, then eased the bus to the side of the road. He turned around and fixed King with a nasty glare. Shaking his head, he opened the bus door. “Go on. Get out.”

  King hopped off with a thank-you wave, despite hearing the driver calling him an asshole under his breath. He started back toward the station in a jog but stopped along the side of the road as soon as the bus was out of sight.