Five hundred thousand for that kind of judgment, resourcefulness, and loyalty was a small price to pay, especially when he revealed the precautions he had taken to back up his demand for a bonus. Jericho was CIA, and it would have been foolish to make demands of them without some sort of protection. Despite Jericho’s reassurances, the hacking of the computer system at the VA had him edgy. If he needed to bolt suddenly, he would need a solid escape plan and the money to make it work.
True, he could not come up with that much incriminating evidence to put in the safe-deposit box he told them about. But they had no way of knowing. True, he had no idea who Jericho was, but he did have the photos and the names of the men he had turned over to them, as well as the reasons for his suspicions that Jericho was a unit within the CIA. A tape of the conversations with his contact would have been nice to have, but assuming it was the CIA, they had ways of telling when they were being recorded. The bottom line was that his Jericho contact seemed impressed enough with the steps he had taken to ensure they didn’t mess with him, and that was all that mattered.
Humming an off-key rendition of “God Bless America,” MacCandliss maneuvered his dented and rusting Subaru Impreza through D.C.’s downtown stop-and-go afternoon traffic, en route to the designated meeting place, a room at the Crescent Hotel. The car needed a new timing belt and the transmission fluid was leaking, but that didn’t matter now—at least it wouldn’t in a little while. His first move with the money would be to replace his junker with something sexier—much sexier.
Money was power and he was about to have a lot more of both. A half a million dollars, by his accounting, would net him many thousands more given how he planned to invest it. How he was going to hide this newfound wealth so his ex wouldn’t get her grubby paws on any of it was a detail he had yet to work out. But he would.
MacCandliss had been warned that the Crescent was a dump—rooms by the hour. But such a place meant no security cameras. Once inside the seedy hotel lobby, he proceeded to the front desk as per plan. He was carrying an empty duff el bag.
“May I help you?” the attendant asked.
The man behind the dimly lit counter had a cherubic face and a hapless, burnt-out smile.
“I’ve misplaced my room key.”
“Not a problem. Name and room number?”
“Phillip MacCandliss. Room seven-twenty-seven,” he replied, citing the room number provided him by his contact. MacCandliss then handed the desk attendant his driver’s license and, just like that, he had a key to the hotel room that supposedly he had already procured. MacCandliss chuckled to himself while waiting in the lobby for the elevator to take him up to seven. These guys just couldn’t get enough spy shit. It was all a game to them—a big game.
As he marched along the threadbare corridor carpet, he wondered why they bothered going through the missing key bit. Wouldn’t it have been just as easy if he made the reservation himself and then checked in to the room before the meeting? The ruse made him only a little curious. They had their reasons. His expertise was in selecting perfect candidates for Jericho. Theirs was in playing spy games.
There was a do NOT DISTURB sign around the handle of Room 727. MacCandliss removed it and slipped his electronic key into the slot. Payday, he thought. He entered the room, putting the sign back where it had been. The television was on. Probably something connected with the illusion Jericho was creating that he had checked in earlier. The door connecting with the adjoining room was locked. The bathroom door was ajar, and the light was on. Except for half of the stall shower, which was covered by a featureless plastic curtain, he could see no one was there.
“Hello?” he said, tentatively. “Anyone in there?”
Feeling suddenly ill at ease, he flipped on the light. The room was as he had expected—gloomy and tawdry, with frayed curtains and a faded bedspread. It was impossible not to wonder how many sexual engagements had been consummated on the queen-sized bed over the years. He lifted the hem of the spread. The mattress was up on a wooden platform.
With a sigh designed to slow his pounding heart, he rounded the bed and stepped into the bathroom. The toilet and rust-stained sink had to be at least fifty years old, and the tiny institutional hexagonal tiles were probably even older than that.
“Hello?” he said again.
A tidal wave of apprehension swept over him as he grasped the edge of the curtain and jerked it open. The stall was empty except for a black overnight bag sitting on the drain. The money, he thought excitedly. Goddamn game players!
MacCandliss felt his tension begin to abate, and actually managed a tight smile. Then, as he reached down for the bag, he realized that it was his—name tag and all. Not a replica—his, taken from the hall closet in his apartment.
Damn them! Give him the money he had asked for, but make sure he never took them for granted. Good move. He had to hand it to them. A really good move. He hefted the bag up, reentered the bedroom, and gasped.
His heart stopped completely, then decided to beat again.
A man was standing at the foot of the bed—tall and well built, with a narrow face and dark hair swept back. He was dressed completely in black, wore wire-rimmed glasses, and was carrying a black briefcase.
“God, you scared the shit out of me.”
“Sorry for that,” the man said. “I knocked, but there was no answer.”
“You what? I didn’t h—”
The man tossed the briefcase onto the bed.
“Here’s your money.”
“Then what’s in here?”
“What do you think? This is a hotel.”
“With what I have on you, you guys are real jerks to play a stunt like this. Whoever broke into my apartment and took my stuff out ought to be canned.”
“Actually, that was me. Name’s Koller.”
“Like the toilet,” MacCandliss snapped.
“Different spelling,” Koller said with an unsettling grin.
MacCandliss opened his bag and pulled out clothes for an overnight stay, toiletries—his toiletries—and an inch-thick packet of photographs, secured with a rubber band. He snapped the elastic getting it off and stung his fingers. Cursing, he let the photos—colored snapshots and black-and-white professional jobs, pristine and well-worn—fall out onto the bed. Then he shuffled them around. They were all of children, dozens and dozens of naked boys and girls, from toddler to teen, all races, in all manner of poses and postures and angles, many of them quite unsettling.
“What the—?”
“Not yours?”
“No, they’re not fucking mine. I’ve never been into this sort of thing.”
“Oh, my mistake,” Koller said, happy to see MacCandliss touch a number of the pictures. “Let me make it up to you.”
He snapped open the briefcase and flipped up the lid. Hundred-dollar bills—stacks of them.
“That’s more like it,” MacCandliss said, greedily snatching one of the stacks.
Beneath the single hundred, there was only blank paper.
“You can count it,” Koller said calmly. “It’s all there.”
Before MacCandliss could straighten up, he felt a sharp jab at the base of his neck. In that same instant, with just a small amount of pressure, the succinylcholine was in his body.
Koller’s powerful arms had him before he could even mount a struggle. Less than twenty-five seconds later, restraint was unnecessary.
“You’re a very stupid man,” Koller said.
MacCandliss, terrified, felt the muscles in his body begin to quiver as though insects were burrowing below his skin. The man let go of him and he dropped to his knees, then toppled over onto his back.
“What have you done to me?”
“Did you really think your little safe-deposit box would protect you? It took me ten minutes to find the key you taped under your bureau drawer. Ten minutes. Your lawyer’s name was all over papers in your desk. We’ll have no trouble getting him to cooperate with us when we reason with him and h
e learns about the perversions you’ve been involved in.”
MacCandliss was wide awake and alert, but nearly helpless. His chest was tightening, squeezing on his heart.
“I’m dying . . .”
Did he say that aloud, or just think it?
“You’re not dying, but you will die,” Koller said. “I didn’t inject enough sux to overdose you. I wouldn’t want you to miss your fall. You see, you’re going to jump out this hotel window and splatter. I do hope nobody is underneath when you land.”
MacCandliss’s lips felt like stone, unmovable. The quivering of his muscles had stopped.
“Why?” he mouthed before he could no longer move his lips.
“I love it,” the killer said. “It never fails. Always the same question from you guys. Why? Well, hell, I honestly don’t know why somebody paid me to kill you. But I do know why you will kill yourself. You see, although you don’t know it, you called the help desk at work yesterday and had your laptop sent to the IT department for some routine maintenance. Shame on you for having so much kiddie porn on it. Gruesome stuff, really. Somebody tipped you off about the find. There’s an e-mail to that effect, which you apparently read last night, so you know the noose around your neck was starting to tighten. They were going to bag you on child porn. Do you know what they do to short eyes in prison?
“So you checked into this hotel last night. Brought only a few of your things, which you’ve already seen here. Nobody is going to question why Phillip MacCandliss jumped out the seventh-story window of the Crescent Hotel. The sux will already be metabolized, so your autopsy won’t show any drugs. ‘And he had two little girls,’ everyone will say. ‘Such a shame.’ ”
Nearly effortlessly, Koller lifted MacCandliss off the floor and turned so that his mark could get one last look at the money.
“Easy come, easy go,” Koller said. “My advice is to just relax and enjoy the ride.”
Phillip MacCandliss felt himself being maneuvered over the windowsill. For a moment, as he hung down, his lids fell open, giving him a view of the scene seven stories below. Then he felt hands pushing on his bottom, and he began to slide forward.
It’s not going to happen, he thought.
But it was.
He slid off the sill and was instantly airborne. The wind whipped past his face as the world rose up to meet him. Despite what he had read on several claim filings from vets who had near-death experiences, his demise wasn’t painless and beautiful, or filled with a warming, beckoning light. There was only pain, brief and beyond excruciating. Nearly every bone in his body shattered at once. His skull erupted against the hood of a parked car. Fragments of his brain exploded onto the windshield like a spattering of bugs.
Seven stories above, Franz Koller mussed the bedspread, scattered the pornographic photos about, set the toiletries on the sink, and left Room 727 through Room 725, pausing only to check that the door between them was locked.
Nicely done.
CHAPTER 38
“If there ever was a DVD recording of the Aleem Syed Mohammad operation, it’s gone now.”
Saul Mollender sounded bewildered, but also more energized than Nick had ever heard him.
It was nearly half past midnight, and the Mole had just returned the call Nick had left on his machine at seven, giving him details of Jillian’s meeting with the nursing school dean. Patient volume on the four-stop Baltimore loop had been unusually light, and Nick and Junie were already parked on the street by her house, nearly done cleaning up the RV.
“Does that make any sense?” Nick, now slouched in the driver’s seat, asked Mollender. “We’re talking about one of the most high-profile cases that Shelby Stone has ever had. Since they had the capability to do so, how could it not have been recorded?”
“I don’t have any record of the surgery in my database either.”
“That’s crazy.”
“But there’s more. When can we meet?”
“Now?”
“Of course now. Do you want to know what’s happened here or don’t you?”
Nick rubbed at the gritty fatigue stinging his eyes. The day had started early, and the ecstatic exhaustion from his time with Jillian had never gone away.
“You can’t tell me over the phone?” he asked.
“If I wanted to tell you over the phone, I would have told you over the phone,” the Mole said, suddenly sounding like his old testy self.
Junie, who had finished restocking, waved that she was done, and motioned Nick to lock up.
“Jillian won’t be off duty until one,” he said after Junie had left. “I want her to be there.”
“Does she have my plaque?”
“If she does, she’ll bring it.”
“I don’t want to meet in or near the hospital.”
Are you going weird on me? Nick came close to asking.
“Okay, we’ll meet wherever you want,” he said instead. “But remember, I have to drive in from Baltimore.”
“Should be fun without any traffic for a change. There’s an all-night coffee shop, Mike’s, on South Dakota near Eighteenth. One thirty?”
“Make it two,” Nick said.
Just as he hung up, Junie startled him with a knock on the passenger side door.
“This folder was on the kitchen table with a note from Reggie for you,” she said, passing it over.
“He’s an artiste on the Internet,” Nick replied, “so I asked him to do a little research for me. Thanks.”
“Next time, ask him to do some homework. Good job tonight.”
Junie winked at him and headed to her house. As the quiet closed in, Nick flipped through the articles Reggie had put together, then closed the folder and sat staring through the darkness at nothing in particular. Quickly, his thoughts homed in on Umberto—clear images of the man as he was at FOB Savannah, working in the base clinic during his off-hours, taking vital signs, straightening up the waiting room, smiling and joking with the patients. Always smiling. Always joking.
What in the hell had become of him? Why was Mollender suddenly acting so secretive? What was the connection between Belle and Dr. Nick Fury? Had she really crossed paths with Umberto, or did she hear the name from someone else?
Hopefully the answers to those questions would not remain elusive for much longer.
Finally, with a prolonged stretch and a deep sigh, Nick flipped open his cell phone and called Jillian.
“Hope you can stay awake a little longer,” he said. “We’ve been summoned by the Mole.”
IT SEEMED as if the owners of Mike’s L.A. Diner and Coffee Emporium had tried and failed any number of times to find an identity for the place. There was neon and more neon, framed black-and-white glossies of Bogie, Bacall, and Betty, and a grease-stained menu that was a cross between a railroad car diner’s and Starbucks’. There was also, at almost two in the morning, a decent-sized crowd that included college students from nearby Catholic University, street people, and a few affluent suburbanites, but did not, to this point at least, include Saul Mollender.
While waiting for the man, Nick ordered a black coffee and Jillian an iced tea, fries, and a grilled cheese sandwich. There was no overt discussion about their afternoon lovemaking. Both felt comfortable simply being together, holding hands underneath the table, and proposing Different theories that would fit the bizarre, truncated medical record of Umberto Vasquez, and the absence of any videorecording of the Aleem Syed Mohammad operation.
“Maybe they didn’t record it for security reasons,” Jillian suggested.
“Possibly. But I would think the CIA or whoever was in charge of questioning the dude would have wanted to show the world how enlightened and compassionate we were, even to one of the archenemies of our country.”
“Any idea why Mollender would have said he wanted to meet us out here?”
“I still don’t know him well enough to say. He sounded a little, I don’t know, disconnected on the phone. Sort of squirrelly—sensitive and tuned in one mome
nt, brash and confrontational the next.”
“The keys to everything are the hospital records and the video of that operation, Nick.”
“Then I guess we’ll just have to wait and see what the Mole found.”
“Hopefully we won’t have to wait long.”
She gestured behind Nick. Saul Mollender approached their table with his head down and his gaze shifting from side to side as if he were part of some clandestine operation. He skipped the formality of shaking hands and quickly sat himself down on the empty chair across from them.
“People have been talking,” Mollender said.
Nick thought the man seemed agitated and anxious.
“Talking? Who’s talking? What about?”
“About me,” Mollender said. “One of my two employees noticed I was doing some research for you. He spoke to the other of my employees and they both started asking questions.”
“About our investigation?” Jillian asked.
“Heck no,” Mollender snapped. “My team doesn’t gossip. That’s against my policy. But the two of them are wondering if I’ve turned over a new leaf and decided to become more helpful to people—God forbid, friendly even.”
Nick shook his head in disbelief.
“You made us come all the way out here at two in the morning just so you could protect your reputation of being a grouch?”
Mollender remained tight-lipped and serious.
“Do you know what would happen if word got out that people could just barge into my office and not only demand attention from me, but actually get it? By the way, do you have my plaque?”
Suppressing a smile, Jillian passed the framed calligraphy across, mentally adding the records room head to the list of the most eccentric people she knew.
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