by Jay Giles
“Mr. Lohse, how are you going to separate the kidnappers from the fake calls?” A reporter called out.
“Only the real kidnappers have Jens. When I talk with him I will know I am not dealing with fakes.”
“How much is the ransom?” A reporter shouted.
“I’m not going to say a number—”
“Does the FBI have suspects?” Another reported yelled over other questions.
Hanna answered quickly. “Our first concern is getting Mr. Beck back safely.
Once we’ve accomplished that, we’ll pursue the kidnappers.”
“Are arrests imminent?”
“Only when we have Mr. Beck back will the investigation move into the next phase. Again, our concern is for his safety.”
“How does Mercedes feel about this?” A woman in the back called out.
“The company is sad this has happened,” Lohse answered. “Jens did nothing to deserve this. It is a sad commentary on the world in which we live when these things happen.”
“Has Beck’s family been contacted?” The same woman shouted.
“No.”
“How can you be sure the kidnappers will contact you?” A reporter for the local ABC affiliate asked.
“If the kidnappers want to be paid, they must contact me. I am the only one—you understand—the only person authorized to pay.”
The local CBS affiliate wasn’t about to be outdone. “Do you think Beck is still alive?”
Hanna saw Lohse’s face harden. “I don’t know,” he said with a brittle smile. “I hope these people wouldn’t take Jen’s life for nothing.”
“Does the FBI have any leads?” A reported from The Herald Tribune shouted.
“Yes, we do,” Hanna said as convincingly as possible. “The Bureau won’t elaborate on them during an ongoing investigation, however.”
The questions continued machine-gun style for the next half hour. Then—like guests at a party who don’t want to be the last to leave—the media departed at once.
Hanna felt drained. Lohse looked tired, as well. “You want to get a cup of coffee and debrief,” she suggested.
Lohse, who seemed to be looking for someone, nodded.
“There’s a little restaurant—”
Lohse held up his arm, waved. “Heather,” he called out loudly.
That got the attention of a dark-haired woman with a clipboard tucked under her arm who had been talking to one of the news personalities. She looked their way, a smile appeared on her face. She made her way over to them, said, “That really went well. You were both excellent.”
“Yes, I thought it went well, too,” Lohse said. “Thank you for all your hard work on such short notice. Daimler will take care of you for this.”
Heather beamed. “Our pleasure. Anything you need, you know who to call.” She took a sheet of paper from her clipboard, handed it to Lohse. “That’s a list of the media in attendance. You’ll be on every Sarasota station’s news at 6:00 and 11:00.”
“Excellent. Again, thank you, Heather.”
She strode off.
“This restaurant,” Hanna began again, “is—”
“Miles,” Lohse called out. To Hanna, he said, “I want him to join us.”
Fifteen minutes later, the three of them were seated at a table in the Banyan Tree restaurant on the Ringling grounds. They made polite chit chat until their waiter, an older bald man with gold-rim aviator eyeglasses, wearing a light-blue oxford shirt and white pants, served Hanna and Lohse coffee, Miles water with lemon, and departed.
Hanna took a sip of her coffee, put the cup down, asked the crucial question. “Miles, did you see anyone suspicious? Anyone you thought might be connected with the kidnappers?”
Miles shook his head. “Afraid not.”
“How about the camera system?” Lohse asked. “Where you able to ID anyone?”
“Not in real time. The crew would have signaled me, if they had.” Her gaze traveled from Lohse to Marin, back to Lohse. “Why don’t you give me half an hour to get a viewing organized at our offices and we’ll review the footage together.”
“The sooner, the better,” Lohse said grimly.
• • •
At the next table in the Banyan Tree Cafe, Tom Ruhl listened as he studied his menu. He couldn’t help smiling. This was going to be easier than he’d expected.
CHAPTER 39
Miles waited for Lohse to finish his second cup of coffee, pay the bill, before the two men left the Banyan Tree for the twenty-minute drive to FBI headquarters.
Miles climbed into the driver’s seat, clicked his seat belt, looked over at Lohse. “What’s your prediction? Think the FBI will have anything?”
Lohse buckled himself in as Miles shifted the Jeep into gear, pondered the question. “It’s possible they will have something.” He rubbed his face with his hand. “I’m not counting on it.”
Miles watched an Mercedes M-class pass by, tried to see if he knew the owner, couldn’t get a good enough look. He pulled the Jeep into traffic behind it. “When do you think the calls will start?”
Loshe’s cell rang, answering for him. He laughed, raised it to his ear, turned serious. “This is Werhner Lohse. Yes. Yes. No, that could not possibly be Jens Beck. Thank you for calling.” He closed the phone, looked over a Miles. “This is the part I dislike, the crank calls.”
“It can mess with your head, for sure.”
The cell rang again. “This is Werhner Lohse.” He listened, his face hard. “Then put him on the phone.” More listening. “Then I’m ending this call. Thank you.” He closed his cell, scowled. “Opportunists are the worst.”
“Can’t the FBI help sort those calls?”
Lohse was watching the mirror again. “No. This is something I must do. The actions of the kidnappers when they make contact will be revealing.”
• • •
Tom Ruhl, wearing tan shorts and a dark blue polo shirt, opened a tin of Altoids, popped one in his mouth, slipped the tin back in his pant’s pocket. His hands shook slightly. He’d driven like a banshee from the Banyan Tree to be in position prior to Lohse and Marin’s arrival. He was wound-up, so jazzed he could feel the blood beating in his ears.
• • •
Marike Silber was dressed in a white tee-shirt, gray sweat pants, Nike running shoes. Her hair was tucked up under a blue ball cap with the words Go Nols in orange. Her eyes were hidden behind a pair of dark-rimmed sunglasses. On her right wrist was a running watch. Over her shoulder, she carried a large straw bag with the word Florida and a picture of Oranges on it. The bag could have been purchased at any souvenir shop. It contained one heavy item.
Silber was positively tingling with anticipation. She gave her watch a quick check—9:51. Watched the approaching traffic.
• • •
Miles pulled the Jeep into the small surface lot across the street from the FBI’s building, found an empty space, parked. He climbed out, waited while Lohse finished a call. The two men had to wait for traffic to cross the street.
• • •
Silber saw the Jeep pull into the lot. Right on time. Her gaze shifted to Ruhl, who nodded he’d seen the Jeep, too. Silber watched the man in the Jeep finish his phone call, saw them wait on traffic before crossing the street. She began walking down the sidewalk toward them, her pace even, unhurried. She knew her path would intersect the men’s at the building’s entrance.
Ruhl began walking, too, approaching them the opposite direction. He watched as they finished crossing the street, stepped onto the sidewalk. “Hey, aren’t you the great Werhner Lohse?” He asked in a taunting voice.
• • •
Lohse’s head swung to the left, his gaze on the face of a man he didn’t recognize. “Who are—” He started to say, realized it was a diversion, looked to his right, saw the gun in the woman’s hand, used his left arm to push Marin away.
• • •
Silber met Lohse’s gaze. In his eyes, she saw the rage of a cornered
animal. It made her smile as she pulled the trigger, fired point blank at Lohse’s face. The bullet entered his left eye, blew out the back of his head. There was no doubt he was dead. She turned the gun on Marin. The way he was falling a head shot was iffy. She took the heart shot, saw the impact slam him back. He fell over a low hedge of boxwood plants, landed on his back in a small patch of grass. Silber put the gun back in her bag. She and Ruhl walked calmly away.
CHAPTER 40
Hanna knew immediately it was gun shots she’d heard and close by. She peered out her window, saw a man’s body lying on the sidewalk in front of the building, blood pooling under his head.
She grabbed her cell phone as she ran for the stairs, called 911 first, a Bureau alert second. In the lobby, she began issuing instructions, telling Bureau personnel to form a crime scene barrier. “Get Milt over here, immediately,” she yelled to the receptionist.
Outside, she looked at the body. Recognized Lohse from what was left of his face. Her gaze swept the rest of the scene, spotted a leg poking out of the shrubbery, discovered it was Miles. Hanna felt for a pulse, was surprised to find one. He didn’t appear to be breathing, was starting to turn blue. Hanna pulled open his shirt, discovered a Teflon bulletproof vest with a noticeable dent right where Miles’ heart would be. Hanna hit him in the chest as hard as she could, trying to restart his heart.
“Hey, she’s hitting him,” she heard someone in the crowd yell. She couldn’t be concerned with that. She gave Miles another thump, didn’t see any change, began mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. As she worked, she was aware Miles wasn’t getting any bluer. She kept at in until the EMS team took over. She watched as the medics slipped an oxygen mask over Miles’ nose and mouth, started an IV in his right arm, loaded him on a stretcher.
She scanned the scene. FBI personnel were keeping the gawkers back. She spotted Tom Crandell, an analyst. “Tom,” she called over to him, “Take charge. Keep the scene intact until Milt gets here.”
Crandell looked white. “Where are you going?”
Hanna was already following the stretcher to the EMS vehicle. “I’m going with him. He may have seen the shooter.”
The stretcher was loaded in. Hanna climbed in after the tech. He slammed the doors shut. The siren wailed as the vehicle pulled away. In the cramped ambulance, Hanna kept watch over Miles, two questions running through her mind: Why would anybody kill the money guy?
And why would they do it at the FBI’s front door?
CHAPTER 41
As Tom drove, he handed his cell to Marike in the passenger seat. She hit speed dial, put the phone to her ear. She heard the Ping, even before she heard his voice. “It’s done,” she said.
“Excellent. Any Ping complications?”
“None.”
“Good. I’ll contact you when we move to the Ping next phase.”
Marike pressed the end button, handed the phone back to Tom.
He looked over at her, took it, grinned.
Marike’s face was flushed, her eyes wild. She’d almost had an orgasm after she pulled the trigger, still felt highly aroused. “He never suspected, never saw it coming. I pointed the gun in his face, pulled the trigger and—poof—the great Wernher Lohse is history.”
“And the other one? The salesman? The one you thought was cute?”
Marike shook her head. “He was cute.”
CHAPTER 42
Hanna perched on a little jump seat, her knees almost touching Miles’ shoulder. She tried not to be in the medics’ way as the EMS van sped to Sarasota Memorial Hospital, tried to tune out the noise of the siren, the rattling of equipment inside the van. Her eyes were focused on the rise and fall of the oxygen mask over Miles face. She watched each breath, measuring it against the last, trying to find improvements. Miles twitched. His body moved spasmodically. “Why is he doing that?” She shouted over the din.
The closest EMS tech, a black man with a shaved head and large gold hoop earrings, looked at Miles, hollered to her, “His body’s fightin’ back. That’s a good sign. He’s trying to come out of it.”
Miles gave a violent twitch, Hanna thought she saw his eyes open for a second.
“Five out,” the other tech, a heavy-set, middle-aged woman, yelled.
The minutes counted down. The van stopped, the rear doors were flung open, the gurney rolled out. They moved quickly into the ER. Hanna held her FBI badge in the air.
Triage nurses worked on Miles as the gurney went down a hallway. It never slowed until it came to rest in a small, curtained bay. Nurses gave way to doctors, who barked orders, talking in code. As she had in the van, Hanna kept watch on the oxygen bag. She was startled when she saw Miles’ eyes open.
“He’s conscious,” one of the doctors called out. Immediately, they put a light in his eye to see if there was evidence of concussion.
“Clear,” the doctor pronounced after looking at both eyes.
Another doctor listening to his chest with a stethoscope, said, “Heart sounds good. Lungs are good. Let’s see how he breathes on his own.”
The mask came off and Hanna held her breath, trying to see how Miles would do. His breathing was choppy, sounded raspy.
“Look at the discoloration on his chest already,” one of the doctors said, “he took a hell of a hit.”
“Get him to x-ray, see if anything’s broken.” Off they went again. Down the hall. Up an elevator. Through two sets of doors. Down another corridor.
This time, Hanna walked by the head of the gurney, where Miles could see her. His face showed pain, but when their gazes met, he tried to smile.
She showed her badge at the entrance to X-ray. They stopped her anyway, wouldn’t let her go beyond the waiting area. She watched him disappear beyond double sliding doors. As soon as the doors closed behind him, Hanna focused on the waiting room wall chock, watched each minute tick by.
Thirty-eight ticks happened before they brought him back through the double doors. The attendant told Hanna, “He’s very badly bruised, but nothing is broken. They’ll take him to a room now, let him recover.”
Again, Hanna walked where Miles could see her. In the room, as they moved him from the gurney to the bed, his face contorted in pain. When the pain subsided, he opened his eyes, said to Hanna in the barest of whispers, “Thanks for staying with me.”
“I’ll be here,” she said back.
His eyes were already closed. She wasn’t sure he’d heard her.
CHAPTER 43
A voice prompted Dennis Casper’s return to consciousness. “Mr. Casper, wake up. Can you hear me?” He forced his eyes open, saw Kirby the kid doctor standing over him. “One artery was 90% blocked, the other 70%. I was able to stent them both. No complications, you’re going to be fine.”
Casper mumbled a thank you, felt his stretcher start moving. In his room, they carefully transferred him from stretcher to bed, paying special attention the sandbag pressing on this groin. “What’s that?” He wanted to know.
“It’s keeping pressure on the hole in your artery where they put the wire in,” the male attendant told him. “They’re going to want it there eight to twelve hours. So make friends with it.”
Casper nodded, slipped into a twilight sleep, vaguely aware of sounds and movement around him. At one point, he heard a voice say, “—the man shot and killed in front of the local office of the FBI has been identified as Wernher Lohse—”
Suddenly awake, Casper searched for the source of the voice, realized it was coming from a television in a room across the hall. He found his remote, turned the TV on, found news. “—in breaking news, two men were gunned down just yards from the front door of the FBI. One man is dead, one man taken to the hospital, no word on his condition yet. The dead man was identified as Wernher Lohse. Earlier in the day, Lohse, a representative of Daimler AG, made an appeal for the release of kidnapped associate and Mercedes marketing executive, Jens Beck. The FBI has cordoned off the area where the shooting took place but has not yet released a statement. It
is believed the shooter escaped. Beck, the—”
Casper clicked it off. The announcer’s voice still playing in his head: Two men gunned down just yards from the front door of the FBI.
It might as well have been him.
CHAPTER 44
Hanna paced in the hospital corridor outside Miles’ room. She’d been on her cell multiple times, talking with the crime scene team. When her phone rang this time, Hanna saw it was from a D.C. area code.
She lifted the phone to her ear. “This is Agent Chance.”
“Deputy Director O’Neill,” an angry voice said. “The news is reporting a shooting? Why was I not told? Why am I not able to speak with Agent in Charge Casper? Where is he? No one seems to know.”
Hanna looked at her watch. 11:02. The jungle drums beat fast. “Sir, there was a shooting—”
“Don’t tell me what I know. Where’s Casper?”
“I’m not certain, sir,” she said honestly.
“What do you mean? He didn’t just disappear.”
“Agent Casper texted me that he was attending to an urgent matter, later I got another text that he wouldn’t be at the press conference. That’s all—”
“You don’t know what this other matter involves? Or where he is?”
“No, sir.”
“If you have contact with Agent Casper, have him call me. Immediately. That’s an order,” O’Neill barked. “Agent Chance, I expect a complete report on this shooting emailed to me by end of day.”
“With all due respect, sir, I’m at the hospital with the other person who was shot. My time might be better spent working with him, developing an ID of the shooter.”