Pray for the Innocent

by Alan Orloff

  Finally, King spoke. “Okay, let’s split up. But if you spot them, be cool. Don’t scream, and whatever you do, don’t approach them. We don’t want to spook him, especially when he’s got Amanda. Just text me, okay?”

  Emily stared at him.

  “Emily? Okay?”

  She opened her mouth, but King pointed his finger at the bridge of her nose. “I’m not fooling around here. This is one time when you’re going to listen to me.”

  For a second, she sulked, then she nodded. “Okay. Professor. You’re right. I won’t do anything.”

  “Promise?”

  She glared at him, followed by a small nod. “Promise.”

  “Okay.” King gave her the number to his prepaid phone, and he punched hers into his phone. “If I recall correctly, this place is essentially two concentric circuits, with a jungle room in the middle. You go left, and I’ll go right. Let’s start on the outside and work toward the middle. Meet halfway through to check our progress. Got it?”

  “Roger, Professor King.” Emily tapped her phone once with her knuckle and set off to reconnoiter. King watched her go for a moment, then began to wade through the crowds in the exhibit hall, searching for the terrorist he’d created.

  And his hostage, Amanda.

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Dragunov struggled to maintain an outward appearance of serenity as he stood near the Capitol Reflecting Pool. His mental confusion had flared up again, and it had taken longer than ever to ease. Truthfully, it hadn’t really eased all that much. He wondered if he was being foolish, attempting to kill Nick Nolan before completing his final, brilliant act of terrorism, but it seemed like an ideal opportunity, one too tempting to pass up. Besides, it was almost as if he had been born with one overarching purpose, an even more powerful driving force than his mission to destroy America. Namely, to kill Nick Nolan.

  Although the temperature was in the upper nineties, Dragunov didn’t use the device he carried in his hand, a personal misting fan similar to the ones he’d seen many tourists using to keep cool.

  Congratulations on purchasing your MR. SPRAY MISTER personal cooling device! Keep yourself comfortable at the pool, at the beach, or while watching your favorite sporting events! Easy to use! Simply remove the battery cover and insert two AA batteries. Then fill the reservoir with water. Handy trigger activates high-speed fan! Ergonomic handgrip. In a variety of colors! They make great gifts!

  Dragunov had deviated from the stated directions. Instead of filling the reservoir with water, he’d used a solution containing Bivex-N14. He’d also made a few minor adaptations to the misting device to improve its efficiency.

  To effectively disseminate biological agents, they must be dispersed in one to ten micron particles, without suffering adverse environmental effects. To avoid the extreme physical conditions associated with explosive dissemination (heat, light), spray devices are indicated.

  After Dragunov finished off Nick Nolan, he was going to empty his four vials of Bivex-N14 into the wind, right there on the Mall, as hundreds of thousands of Americans watched the fireworks. And he was planning to start by standing on the Capitol steps overlooking the West Lawn behind him and unleashing the first vial just as the National Symphony Orchestra began its concert later that night.

  From there, he’d make his way down the Mall, past the Washington Monument, all the way to the Lincoln Memorial, spraying his mist of death into the gentle breeze. He just hoped the antidote he’d given himself would last long enough to allow him to empty his entire store of nerve agent.

  Dragunov shook off another wave of confusion and headed for his destination, stopping for a moment to admire the topiary out front.

  So this was the Botanic Garden? Nice building, if a little overdone.

  #

  The conservatory was a maze of different greenhouse rooms, each with a different theme. Deserts, orchids, jungle plants, medicinal plants, a children’s garden. Going counterclockwise from the Garden Court, King passed into a small room highlighting endangered species, then into an exhibit describing plant exploration. No sign of Dragunov. He continued into the back corner, alert for any sign of his quarry.

  King entered the orchid room, and the fragrance hit him—the sweet, cloying smell of tropical flowers, of orchids, and his mind went first to his high school prom, then it went straight to a vivid memory of Amanda. Orchids were her favorite flowers, and if he had to guess, this room was her favorite, despite the game she played with him, switching favorites every visit.

  The room was small enough that King could see the entire walkway as it wound through the room, taking visitors under a veritable canopy of flowers. A fake fallen log covered with vines and moss stretched over the walkway, eight feet above the floor. A wooden bench stood right inside the entrance.

  The memories flowed back. This room was where they’d spent the most time. These flowers had captivated Amanda, and he pictured her smiling face as she smelled every flower she could get her nose close to. She even asked him to hold her up so she could smell the flowers out of her reach.

  He checked the room again, but there was nowhere for Dragunov to hide in there. King left the orchid room, still completing his first circuit, hustling through the exhibits, not paying one iota of attention to the exotic plants all around him. He was focused squarely on the people as he searched for Dragunov. Most of the visitors could be dismissed with a quick glance. Dragunov was a little over six feet tall and sturdy looking, which ruled out much of the population. For those men who did fit the bill—at least from a distance—King would stop and take a closer look at their faces.

  He reached a small flora-free area, back by the restrooms and water fountains, without finding anybody who even resembled Dragunov. Emily was there, waiting for him.

  “No luck, Professor? Me neither.” Her shoulders slumped. “Maybe we should call the guards now. Or the police.”

  “The police?” King knew they should call somebody. But he feared the same thing he feared would happen if Locraft had gotten involved. The “shoot first, mop up the mess later” approach. And what would Dragunov do if cornered? Kill Amanda? Or worse, kill Amanda and then kill hundreds in a shooting rampage?

  That’s what the Dragunov he created would do, if his back were against the wall.

  King was convinced he could reason with Dragunov precisely because he’d created him. In many ways, King was Dragunov.

  In many ways, he was also Nick Nolan. “Let’s keep looking awhile longer. It’s not quite four o’clock. If we don’t find them soon, then we’ll get the police involved. Now, complete your circuit, then wait for me at the front. Unless you spot him first, of course.”

  “Okay, Professor. Good luck.” With a determined nod of her head, she brushed past him and set off to explore the inner rooms.

  King watched her go. He hated lying to Emily, but he had no intention of calling the police, not before he knew Amanda was safe. Until he held her in his arms. He’d do anything to save his daughter, and that included lying, cheating, and stealing.

  Or killing. He reached down and patted the knife in his pocket.

  King resumed his hunt, passing into another exhibit area full of lush green foliage. As he wound around a curve in the path, a hand gripped his upper arm. “Dr. King. Nice to see you here.”

  Chapter Forty-Three

  King spun around to face Will Slattery. “What the—?”

  “Any sign of him?”

  “Huh?” King gathered himself and tried to squirm out of Slattery’s grip, with no success. “Not yet. Why are you here?”

  “Same reason you are. Safe return of Amanda. Uneventful apprehension of Dragunov.”

  King stared at him for a beat, then glanced around. “Where’s the rest of your gang?”

  “Don’t worry about them. You’ve got me. That’s all you need. I was a pretty damn good soldier myself. Still am, in fact.”

  “You let me escape from the safe house, didn’t you?”

  “O
f course. Who do you think you are, Nick Nolan?” Slattery laughed.

  “Where’s Peter?”

  “Peter’s dead. Dragunov killed him. Let’s try not to follow in his footsteps.” Slattery pulled King over to an alcove, away from the traffic near the center of the path. “Look. We both have a similar goal. To apprehend Dragunov and get your daughter back safely. You can believe that.”

  King didn’t know what to believe.

  “Colonel Locraft put me in charge, and we’re doing things my way. I prefer subtlety over force. Dragunov is not mentally stable, and he’s becoming more unstable with every passing moment. All I need to do is get close enough, and I’ve got a tranquilizer that should render him harmless. But first, we have to find him. He is here, isn’t he?”

  King shrugged. This was Amanda’s favorite place. But maybe she had remembered things differently, or maybe she’d lied to Dragunov in an attempt to somehow protect her father. “Is that what your PAM computer program thinks?”

  “Crock of shit. As is Locraft. He’s not your friend. He’s the one who implanted GPS trackers in your shoes. His plan was to move on Dragunov at first sight, hostage be damned. Of course, I’m not really your friend, either, but at least we have similar goals with regard to your daughter.”

  They’d been tracking him this whole time, like lions on the trail of some African wildebeest? They’d played him for a sucker, all right. “So where is Locraft? He must have called out the entire army.”

  “Let’s just say Colonel Locraft has been removed from service.” Slattery showed some teeth. “It’s just me, but that should be enough. I know what I’m doing. Now, where do we stand?”

  King told him he’d already checked half the conservatory, but he didn’t mention Emily. With luck, Slattery would never know she was involved.

  “All right. So Dragunov hasn’t made his move yet. But he will. Where do you think that will happen?”

  “Where? How would I—”

  “You created him. Who else would know? Pretend you’re writing this scene. Where would Dragunov strike?”

  King started to argue, but in some sense, Slattery was right, so he let his mind wander back to the days when he orchestrated some very intricate plots with a lot of moving parts. It had been a while, but the ideas came back quickly. “It’s too crowded here in the main exhibit hall areas. Too many variables come into play. Too much randomness. Dragunov is smarter than that. Seeing the crowd, he’d shift his strategy slightly, move to somewhere along the periphery. Someplace quieter. Someplace where he’d be able to make a quick getaway.”

  “Okay, then.” A trace of a smile tugged at Slattery’s lips. “Come on, let’s go find this son of a bitch.”

  King wasn’t sure exactly who Slattery was, but he must have been high up on the food chain. For the past five days, since this whole thing started, King had the distinct—and persistent—feeling he was being lied to, manipulated, and used. And that feeling hadn’t been stronger than it was right now. But what choice did he have except to go along with Slattery until they’d found Dragunov?

  #

  Instead of going to the front entrance, Dragunov turned right and walked through the garden, around the conservatory building to the back. He had to assume that the Americans had put out the alert for him, and he had no intention of walking directly into their trap. Even a stupid security guard—with a gun—could get lucky.

  At the rear of the building, Dragunov entered a small bay containing a few vehicles, a dumpster, and some assorted pieces of equipment. He pushed through a set of double doors to his right and found himself in a maintenance area.

  “Hey. What are you doing?”

  Dragunov spun around. A stocky guy in a chambray work shirt squinted at him. A name tag that read “Cory Charles, Architect of the Capitol” was pinned to his chest.

  “I asked you what you’re doing.”

  “Maintenance check.”

  “Yeah, right. I’m sorry, buddy, but you’ll have to go wait in line at the front like everyone else.”

  Dragunov unhooked the spray mister from his belt and set it down carefully, then took a step forward. The man countered by widening his stance and shifting his weight onto the balls of his feet.

  “Actually, Cory, I’m with the inspector general’s office, and I’m following up on an incident report. I . . .” Dragunov stopped midsentence and clutched his chest. Made a face as if he were about to croak and started to wobble. The man shot forward to catch Dragunov before he fell, and Dragunov rammed the heel of his palm up through the man’s nose, reaching for the back of his skull. The man crumpled to the ground, and Dragunov quickly stripped off the dead man’s shirt and put it on, complete with name tag. For the next half hour, Dragunov would be Cory Charles, Architect of the Capitol. Whatever that meant.

  Dragunov hauled the body back out to the service bay and tossed it into the dumpster. Then he picked up his spray mister, slipped it onto his belt, and made his way through the back rooms of the conservatory.

  Another man stood over a workbench and stopped what he was doing as Dragunov got closer. “Do I know you?”

  Dragunov tapped the Cory Charles name tag pinned to his shirt. “They sent me over to check on some systems here.”

  “Who’s they?”

  “The capitalist pigs, of course,” Dragunov said, then drove his fist into the man’s larynx. He stumbled, and Dragunov shot forward, grabbed the man’s neck, and gave it a vicious twist. There was an audible snap, and the body went limp.

  Dragunov dragged the dead guy through an inner door, across a short stretch of hallway, and deposited his body behind a pallet stacked high with shrink-wrapped boxes.

  Then Dragunov found the door to the main exhibit areas. Time to find Nick Nolan.

  #

  Emily stood by a banana tree in the Garden Court, shifting her weight from one foot to the other as she waited for Professor King. So far, there had been no sign of Dragunov or Amanda. Just a hatchet-faced guard who’d passed by a few minutes ago.

  She’d been tempted to run up to him and spill her guts, but she’d refrained, heeding Professor King’s request. The last thing anyone needed was some kind of commotion that would scare Dragunov away—and possibly get the professor’s daughter killed.

  In the time she’d been standing there, dozens of people had strolled by, taking their time admiring the unusual plants. But despite the crowds, it wasn’t a pushing-and-shoving match like at a concert, or even the gentle jostling at a reading by a famous author. Everything was very serene and orderly. Maybe it had something to do with the calming influence of nature, or maybe the visitors to the garden were just a lot more subdued—and patient.

  Emily was anything but patient. Her nerves were vibrating like a thousand tuning forks. Standing around and waiting was killing her.

  Part of the solution.

  Emily abandoned her spot and headed for the West Gallery, where signs indicated there was some sort of special exhibit involving large-scale agriculture, but she practically skidded to a stop right before she reached the door. A man dressed in some kind of uniform caught her eye as he walked by. He had a cleaning bottle on his hip, but from the way he moved, Emily didn’t think he seemed like a maintenance man. His stride was too purposeful, too cocky. She stared for a moment, and he stared back, and Emily felt her knees turn to licorice sticks. After a long moment, she tore her glance away. Professor King had showed her a picture of Dragunov, and she couldn’t be sure, but that guy fit the bill. When she mustered the courage to look again, she saw him receding into the crowd of people at the far side of the Garden Court, heading toward the East Gallery.

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Emily pulled out her phone and started to text Professor King, then froze. Was her mind playing tricks on her? Was she seeing somebody who wasn’t there simply because she wanted to see him so badly?

  She tucked her phone away and chased after him, bumping and elbowing her way through a sea of patrons—most of who
m seemed to be going in the opposite direction—mumbling a continuous loop of “Excuse mes.” Where had he gone?

  She entered the East Gallery, then rounded a corner. She hit the brakes right before she slammed into someone. A split second later, as she recognized the face, her breath whooshed from her lungs.

  Dragunov grabbed her. “Don’t scream or I’ll kill you.”

  Emily didn’t scream; she was too terrified to even open her mouth.

  “I saw you speaking to Nick Nolan earlier, didn’t I? Outside the front entrance?”

  Emily’s eyes went wide, but she remained mum.

  “You’re looking for me, aren’t you?” A creepy smiled formed on his face. “Well, you found me. Come on, let’s get this done. I’ve got a date with half a million people.”

  #

  King and Slattery left the jungle room, heading for a quieter section of the conservatory. According to a map on the wall, the East Gallery was as likely a spot as any—in one corner, out of the general traffic flow.

  They’d just stepped over the compass rose in the center of the Garden Court when King’s phone buzzed with a text from Emily. Professor?

  He texted back immediately. Where r u?

  Outside. In Rose Garden. Please come.

  Using complete words and proper punctuation wasn’t Emily’s style. King’s pulse quickened, and it took him a moment to type his response with his fat thumbs. Is D there?

  No answer.

  “What is it?” Slattery asked. “Who are you texting?”

  King saw no further reason to keep Emily a secret, so he explained her presence to Slattery. And his suspicion that Dragunov was the one behind the texts.

  “Oh Christ. Just what we need, a civilian.” He shook his head. “Do you think Dragunov’s got her?”

  “I’m not sure. Come on.” King hustled out the front door and jostled his way ahead of two people at the information desk. “Where’s the Rose Garden?”