by Gayle Lynds
He slumped into the chair at his desk, closed his eyes, and shook his head to clear it. He had already collected information about her—Elizabeth ("Beth") Convey, J.D.—her parents and childhood, where she worked, a client list, her publications, the heart-transplant episode, the names of her various doctors, her home address, even her unlisted phone number. If you knew where to look and the databases to tap, and if you had contacts in key places, you could usually find what you wanted. For reporters and a few less savory professions, resourcefulness was at the top of the job description. Hammond was good at his job, and so far he had fooled everybody. No one at the Post guessed the truth about him.
He stared at the half-dozen new Post-it notes that hung from his computer screen and lamp shade, all asking for more information and opinions that would help prepare his fellow reporters for the coming event:
"Okay, Hammond, what's so important about Murmansk?" He scribbled, It's the biggest year-round, ice-free port in the Russian Arctic. That's where the navy has mothballed most of its nuclear fleet, which is rotting faster than anyone wants to admit.
"So what is Ekstra? I read it's one of Putin's favorite drinks." A domestic brand of vodka, sometimes affectionately called tank fuel, which tells you how strong it is.
Hammond worked through the other notes, quickly addressing questions about the Duma, toasting customs, folk dances, and Leningrad State University, from which Putin had graduated in civil law. They were important to his colleagues and the paper, which made them important to him. But as he worked, pleasant scenes came back to him—a late summer afternoon as chestnut trees ripened along the Kiev esplanade . . . the broad Moscow River . . . the soaring spire of Spassky Gate, where Napoleon had dismounted to walk his horse into the Kremlin to show respect.
He shook his head to clear away those nostalgic images. Was he going soft? Losing the drive that had set him on this course? Thinking too much of the past, and, maybe, an empty future?
Angry with himself, he picked up his telephone and dialed. She would never know it, but Beth Convey had given him what he needed—Stone Point, West Virginia—and he was not going to quit now.
The afternoon sun shone sharp and bright where Beth sat alert in her Mercedes. Then she saw Jeff Hammond's profile again, this time driving up out of the Post's parking garage in a vintage 1960s Mustang convertible with the top down. He paused the sports car at the exit to the bustling street.
She sat up straighter. Now she saw how he had hidden his long hair. She should have guessed it: As he must have last night, his ponytail was tucked up into a Baltimore Orioles baseball cap, creating the exact profile she had glimpsed in the dark outside Meteor Express. Even as she fought to repress another wave of fear, she felt an odd surge of excitement, almost exultation. It was the thrill of danger, and she knew instantly that before her transplant she never would have felt such a reaction, certainly never would have been sitting in her car right now, waiting for a killer.
Today she had threatened the employees at Renae Trucking, told off her boss at the law firm, quit a job she had been convinced she loved, and with cavalier pique made impossible her longtime dream—partnership in Edwards & Bonnett. And she felt unhappy about none of it. In fact, she was relieved and eager, as if a tremendous weight had been lifted from her aching shoulders. As if she could do anything she had to now.
Emotions washed through her—fear, eagerness, confusion, doubt, enthusiasm. She understood none of it. The truth was . . . she no longer understood herself. She was adrift, and she did not know even at this moment what she was going to feel or think or do next.
From where she sat parked between two cars down the block, she studied Hammond's rugged face as he eyed the street for an opening in the traffic. His features were grave, his jaw set, and his eyes masked by a pair of wraparound sunglasses. Over his blue work shirt he wore a herringbone tweed jacket, which gave him a hip, professorial air. Why would he have killed Yurimengri? For a moment she worried she might have played some unknowing role in his murder. She hoped not. Still, by dialing the phone number that had harried her throughout the year, she had stumbled onto the murder of an émigré whose name she had been very close to guessing. In fact, a man from her nightmares.
With an abrupt burst of speed, Hammond drove his Mustang into the street and entered traffic. She watched him pull away, knowing she now had to decide. Should she follow, or should she go home and try to put her life back together the way it was before? It would be smart to go home. Far safer, too. She remembered the implied threat in Hammond's "advice:" If you're right, the killer could go after you, too. You could end up dead.
She shook her head. She could not quit, because she could not forget. Whoever she had been before her death in the courthouse and rebirth in the transplant center was gone. She was a different person with a different emotional makeup, and—apparently—"memories" she neither recalled nor understood.
Suddenly it was no longer a hard decision, and whether it was risky seemed irrelevant. With a steady hand, she flicked on her ignition and drove off, following Jeff Hammond at a distance through the congestion that crossed the Potomac and funneled toward what was now called Ronald Reagan airport, but to locals would be forever enshrined as "National," its name for more than a half century. With its soaring domes and glass-and-steel walls, the airport was a favorite of congressmen, government officials, and lobbyists because of its closeness—just fifteen minutes across the river—to Capitol Hill.
Although she had never tailed anyone, she followed Hammond back into a private section of the sprawling airport with only a few mistakes and one heart-stopping moment when she lost sight of his convertible. When he parked outside a fence and pushed through a mesh gate, she cruised past, her gaze averted.
Oddly, she felt comfortable with these new tasks. But when she looked back at the tarmac, she had a shock: Hammond was gone. Vanished. She gazed frantically around. Mentally she shook her head. No. He must have entered the small building that stood next to a series of hangars.
She was right, because he was out again, trotting across the tarmac with the muscular ease of a halfback in his herringbone jacket and jeans. As jet engines screamed in the distance, she parked, rolled down her window, and watched. A soft spring breeze cooled her hot-cheeked face. And then she jumped out of her car. He was climbing into a single-engine plane. It was a Cessna, according to the designation on the outside, and the propellers were rotating.
She ran across the road, in through the mesh gate, and looked around for help as he taxied the Cessna away toward a runway. The plane had obviously been waiting for him, ready to fly. Either he or someone else had phoned ahead. She spotted a battered rectangular sign on the small building out of which he had run: OFFICE.
She stood motionless, frustrated, thinking quickly. She wanted to know where Hammond had gone, but she had no clout to make an employee reveal that sort of privileged information. In the past, she would have made phone calls, reaching contacts until she found someone who knew someone who had the power. But there was no time for that. She had entered a brand-new world where the rules were different, if indeed there were rules, and she had to adjust. She repressed another shiver of fear and then the same shock of excited pleasure. The strange, cool confidence she had sometimes felt in her nightmares kicked in, followed by her brain. An idea occurred to her. She took a deep breath. With luck, it might work.
She pushed open the door and walked rapidly inside, as if on a vital mission. There were three desks, but only one was occupied. Computers stood on each, surrounded by papers. An ivy plant sat in a corner, brown and dying. Various plaques and awards hung from the rough wood walls, honoring the small private air service whose headquarters this was.
She reached into her big shoulder bag and hurried toward the only employee, who was sitting behind the desk closest to the door. She infused her voice with urgency. "I have legal papers from the newspaper for Mr. Hammond. Has he gone?"
"In that Cessna out there." The
man at the desk was about forty, with thinning, rat-brown hair. Dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, he leaned back and shot an appraising look at her breasts, her waist, and her thighs. He was unmoved by her show of urgency.
She ignored him. "Can you call him back?"
"Nope." His gaze did another sweep of her.
"Okay, then tell me where he's going. I'll have to fax the papers ahead."
"No can do. The boss won't let us give out that kind of information."
She made her voice hard and cold, "Then I'll deal with your boss."
He laughed and shook his head. "He's out of town. Sorry."
He was the kind of irritating person who, given small authority, enjoyed being diffifcult.
"Really?" She raised an eyebrow. "I'm from the Post's legal department. These papers are important."
"Hey, that's your problem, lady. My hands are tied."
"Too bad." She made a show of pushing a sheaf of papers back into her bag. "Tell me . . . how did Mr. Hammond pay you?"
He seemed puzzled by the question. "Credit card, what else?"
"Naturally. He'll use the receipt for reimbursement from the Post."
He did not know where she was going, and that worried him. "Yeah, I guess."
She nodded. "We usually do pay that way. The paper does a lot of business with your boss, but I expect our publisher will be so mad that I'll have to recommend we go elsewhere in the future. I'm sure you can explain to your boss why he lost us, and then he'll back you all the way."
His smile vanished. "Hey, you wouldn't do that."
"Try me."
He glared and ran his hand through his thin hair. Sullenly he reached into a rack of folders on his desk and threw one in front of her.
She opened it. The flight plan was on top. For a moment, her eyes glazed. She should have guessed: Jeff Hammond was going to Stone Point in West Virginia, the same town that had been on Yurimengri's dying lips.
Earlier that day, fired up after his meeting with National Security Adviser Cabot Lowell and the deputy attorney general, Eli Kirkhart had reclaimed his parking space across from The Washington Post. From that vantage, the mole hunter had spotted Jeff Hammond walking out of the main entrance in the company of a tall, stunning blond. What had made him come to attention was neither her beauty nor her height, it was that he had never before seen her with Hammond.
Kirkhart grabbed his Leica camera and snapped a series of shots as the pair walked along the sidewalk. He tried to read their lips, but between the pedestrians and the heavy traffic, which included many tall trucks, it was hopeless. From their expressions, the conversation looked like no lovers' tête-à-tête. Eventually they returned to the building, where Hammond pushed back inside, and she walked on to a handsome Mercedes, parked nearby. She unlocked the expensive car, climbed in, and drove off.
Kirkhart had to make the same decision he had last night, and this time decided to stay with Hammond. He had the license number of the Mercedes and snapshots of the woman, so he could find her later. He moved his car, preparing to begin a long, tedious wait. He was settling in, when the Mercedes—the blond at the wheel—appeared from the other direction and slid into a parking space three cars ahead of him.
Her surreptitious return had removed the tediousness of Eli's surveillance, and when Hammond's car emerged from the depths of the garage, and the blond drove off after him, Kirkhart gave them a good head start and followed.
Now he watched as the woman exited the charter company's office and hurried back to the Mercedes. He picked up his phone and relayed the Mercedes's license number and a description of the woman to his team with instructions to find out who and what she was. Satisfied that he might be on to something useful, he marched into the office to find out where Jeff Hammond was going this time.
12
Afternoon had sent a sleepy warmth across Colonel Caleb Bates's vast timbered hunt club in West Virginia, but it had not slowed the Keepers. Sweat-faced, they worked doggedly, cleaning and checking arms, practicing martial arts, and fighting in the exercises Bates designed to keep them focused.
As activity infused the camp, Colonel Bates returned to his cabin, went directly to his locked gun case, and chose a 9mm SIG Sauer. He balanced it in his hand, savoring its compact, efficient design, then he snapped in a full clip and slid the pistol into the leather holster under his armpit. His tension relaxed a fraction. For him, there was nothing quite so comforting as being armed, especially with a fine weapon like the SIG Sauer. It would do the job in more ways than one.
He put on his tan bush jacket, which concealed the pistol nicely, and went to stand in front of his mirror. As he looked at his burly face and meaty frame, the product of expert makeup and padding, he had the odd sensation once again that he was losing whoever he might have been.
With an act of will, he shook off his unease and concentrated on his plan. He had three problems, any one of which could destroy the operation on Saturday, just three days away. This worried him, but not overly much. One of the prime reasons he had beaten and outlived most of his enemies was his uncanny ability to foresee problems. And, as always, he had a plan.
He slid a small leather pouch into his hip pocket and buttoned the flap for security. He looked out his window. His Humvee had arrived and was parked in front. With a short smile, he strode out into the mountain air and climbed behind the wheel, feeling reenergized, just like his old self. As he sped the Humvee toward the gate, he was already considering contingencies.
Marty Coulson was in love. The West Virginia hardwood forest was greener, the mountain sky bluer, and his young heart so full it seemed near bursting with happiness. On the Honda motorcycle he had temporarily swiped from the motor pool, he coasted away until he was certain he was out of hearing of the club. Then he stopped the big bike near a stand of hemlock, jumped the starter, and roared the rest of the way down the wooded mountainside into Stone Point.
He was wearing jeans, a short-sleeved sweatshirt, and a motorcycle helmet. When he hit the brake in front of Lila's house on the south edge of town, the wheels spun clouds of dust up from the unpaved road. He pulled off his helmet, tucked it under his arm, and ran up to her front porch.
She slammed open the screen door. "You made it! Oh, Marty. How did you get away?"
She was in his arms, and he was kissing every bit of skin he could find. He loved the peppermint toothpaste on her breath and the cologne he could smell rising up from between her small breasts. She had long auburn hair that was as straight and silky as meadow grass.
He slid his fingers through it, crooning her name. "Lila, Lila, Lila." He pulled her into the house, and the screen door banged behind them. "Are they gone?"
"Sure. They're at work. I didn't think you'd come, Marty. I thought you said Colonel Bates wasn't going to let anyone leave. But I waited and waited. I just knew if anyone could sneak out, it'd be you. Oh, Marty. I took a shower and made myself pretty for you. Do you think I'm pretty?"
"The prettiest girl ever." He dropped his helmet and maneuvered her toward her bedroom, his legs pressed against hers. "Not just the prettiest girl I've ever seen, but the prettiest one was ever born. That's you, Lila."
"Why do you work for that man Bates? What do you do up there on the mountain all day long? I don't see why I can't visit."
Marty stopped maneuvering her toward the bed. He stroked her hair and looked into her lilac eyes. She had eyes that were old already, but they had nice thick fringes and he liked the color. "I don't work for the colonel. I work with him. Don't say anything bad about him, Lila. I can't stand that. He's going to straighten out the world, and then you'll be glad for all the sacrifices we're making. We'll be a real nation again. We'll stop giving away our jobs and our money and everything we know. Everything that's precious. America's for Americans. It's the only right thing, the way God intended. You're just going to have to trust me and not say or think anything mean about him again. Promise?"
When she nodded solemnly, he laughed with
delight. He kissed her long and deep, and now it was her turn to pull him toward the bed.
In another life, the man who called himself Colonel Caleb Bates had helped to lead the most elite, most dangerous force in the world. So when it came time to locate a dirty little shack on the edge of a nothing town, he could have driven directly to it. But that would not accomplish his goal. Instead, he pulled the Humvee off into the forest, covered it with brush, and melted through the trees, heading south on foot, until he spotted the motorcycle the boy had taken from the club. It was parked directly in front of the shack. A dead giveaway. He sighed. People—especially young people—were so predictable.
Resisting the pressure to close the chase, he surveyed the dirt street with its border of reedy trees and junk-strewn yards. At last the few people who were outdoors went into their houses. When the street was empty, he trotted out from cover and sped across to the shack. He did not like the looks of the porch. It was old and would surely squeak. He reconnoitered around the structure, peering in windows, until he came to an open one where he heard voices.
"Do it again." It was the laughter of a young woman. "Kiss all my toes. I put sexy pink polish on them just for you."
Bates took out his SIG Sauer and screwed on the silencer.
"Hey, what about me?" It was Marty Coulson's voice. "How about my toes? Don't you think I should get the full treatment, too?"
Carefully Bates raised up and peered in the open window. It was a girl's bedroom. The boy and girl were naked on the bed, partially covered in cheap floral sheets. There was a used condom knotted on the floor. The girl rose to her knees, and the sheet fell from her breasts. She grabbed the boy's foot and playfully opened her mouth wide over his toes—
And saw Bates at the window. She screamed. The boy jumped up and looked wildly around for what was wrong.
Bates fired. He put the first bullet through the boy's heart because he was the more dangerous of the two. Immediately he fired a second through the girl's forehead at midpoint. The silenced gun made pop-pop sounds. Blood sprayed the bedroom, fell onto the sheets in scarlet pools. The boy and girl were propelled back, the power of the 9mm bullets sending their bodies half off the bed.
