The Hunted

by Alan Jacobson

“Hey, you going to be long?” Chambers asked, trying to allow some of the urgency to pervade his voice.

  “A few more minutes,” the youth said, keeping his face glued to the screen.

  Chambers glanced around. He waited another few seconds, then leaned over the teen’s shoulder. “Look, I need to log on, get a message out. It’s real important.”

  “Hang a second, dude, and I’ll finish my surfing. Just checkin’ the scores. ESPN just posted the—”

  “That’s great. But this is urgent. I need to get online.”

  “If it’s that important, why don’t you just use your phone,” the kid said, brushing the long, stringy hair off his face.

  “Why don’t you?”

  “Don’t have a data plan.”

  Chambers looked around, back toward Dillard’s, to make sure the search for him wasn’t spilling into the mall. “Me, either.”

  “Whatever. It’s yours.” The youth stood and shuffled off, his baggy jeans rubbing against themselves as he headed away from the kiosk.

  Chambers settled into the seat, held his breath, and swiped Ellen Haskins’s card. A few seconds passed. He suddenly became aware of his heart thumping as he peered around the edge of the kiosk, expecting to see security guards heading his way.

  Just then, an acknowledgment popped up on the screen. The GlobalNet homepage came into focus and he clicked on the Hotmail ad banner. He zipped through a series of welcome and registration screens until he was confronted with the field that asked for his name and a user ID, which would become his e-mail address. He thought for a second, then chose lost_in_virginia@hotmail.com as his address.

  Finally, he was logged in as a registered user. He hit the COMPOSE MESSAGE link and waited for the screen to appear.

  With his fingers poised over the keyboard, he took a second to glance around the mall. Two men in dark suits were a little past Dillard’s, their heads rubbernecking back and forth.

  Walking in his direction.

  No doubt looking for him.

  11

  Douglas Knox was pacing his expansive suite at FBI headquarters, one of several offices in the high security area known as Mahogany Row, so named because of its wood paneling.

  Up six steps, back six steps. Before turning, Knox would glance out his window at downtown D.C., then spin and resume his pacing. Each time, the same number of steps. A path had been worn into his carpet twice in the past two years, and it was scheduled to be replaced again by building maintenance once the current crises were resolved.

  As he made another pass in front of the window, his phone buzzed. He pressed the intercom.

  “Agents Waller and Haviland to see you, sir.”

  “Send them in.” He put his hands on his hips and barely waited until they had passed through the door. “Well?”

  Haviland cocked his head a bit, shot a glance at Waller, and shrugged. “HP LaserJet, standard Hammermill copy paper, probably purchased—”

  “On the fucking East Coast in a Staples office supply store. Yeah, I know that shit. Anything I don’t know?”

  “Aside from your prints, it was totally clean, sir,” Waller said. “No saliva on the stamp or envelope. Must’ve used a sponge.”

  “Must’ve used a sponge. That’s all you can give me? The best fucking crime lab in the world and you tell me the perp used a fucking sponge?” Knox punched the intercom button on his phone. “Liz, I want to see the Lab Section chief in my office in ten minutes. And the deputy assistant director.” He slammed the handset down and turned back to Waller. “What kind of sponge, what trace elements were in the damn water they used to wet the sponge? You understand what I’m saying? I can’t believe none of this was done.”

  “It might have been, sir. I’ve only got a preliminary report. The tests are all run sequentially—”

  “Don’t try to cover for the section chief,” Knox ordered. “Just give me your report.”

  “Alternate Light Source has been completed,” Haviland added, “without result. Questioned Documents is scouring every sixteenth of an inch of the paper for indented writing and anything else that’ll tell us who sent it.”

  “If there’s a speck of dirt embedded in the fibers, I want to know the origin of the mineral composition of the goddamned dirt.” Knox paused for a moment, then started to pace again. “What about the postmark? I want the postal inspectors flown in from California. Am I making myself clear?”

  Waller nodded. “Postal inspector is en route, sir.”

  “Anything back from Division Six?”

  “BAU just completed their threat analysis,” Haviland said, referring to the Behavioral Analysis, or profiling, Unit. He handed Knox the hastily prepared report. Knox took it and tossed it on his desk.

  “And, what’s their risk assessment?”

  Haviland cleared his throat. “They concluded that it’s extremely valid. Based on all known information, they gave it a rating of Good credibility and a High level of risk. The fact that they had your home address, gained access to your yard, and had accurate and detailed knowledge of Mrs. Knox’s personal habits all indicated a high degree of preparation and sophistication.” Haviland paused, but Knox’s pacing continued without a break in stride.

  “On Division Six’s recommendation,” Waller said, “we’ve initiated a full-scale investigation. As we speak, I’m having the phone records and list of visitors to Anthony Scarponi pulled, which should—”

  “Scarponi?” Knox stopped pacing and faced the agents.

  “The Viper,” Haviland said, “the international hit man—”

  “I know who he is, Agent Haviland.”

  “Sir,” Waller said, “with all due respect, we believe there’s a strong indication Scarponi is behind this. Word on the street is that Scarponi put a contract out on Harper Payne six years ago. Payne’s the only one who can hurt him. He gets rid of Payne, his problem’s solved.” Waller stopped, no doubt allowing his comments to fester a moment on the director’s brain.

  Knox turned and looked out the window at the city. “I agree with your assessment. But keep your eyes open. Scarponi may be the most obvious, but I don’t want to ignore other possibilities. Am I clear?”

  “Yes, sir,” Waller said.

  “Scarponi’s gotta be under surveillance,” Haviland said. “I can check with the marshal, find out who’s in charge of his case, see who he’s called. That might help us rule him in or out as a suspect.”

  “I’ll handle it,” Knox said.

  “Sir, you don’t need to be burdened with that. I can—”

  “I said I’ll handle it, Agent Haviland,” Knox said.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I won’t let them have the upper hand. Regardless who it is, I’m not giving them Payne.” Even though Knox knew that was the proper response, his voice wavered slightly, as if he might actually consider trading the life of Harper Payne—a man he had never met face-to-face—for the life of a member of his family. He wondered for a second if the two agents had picked up on the slight unevenness of his voice. “Not that I have Payne to give them, even if I wanted to.”

  “No, sir,” Haviland said.

  Knox turned to face them. “Status.”

  “After our initial contact two days ago,” Waller said, “we’ve not been able to locate him. There’s a report of someone possibly matching his description at Virginia Presbyterian, and SAC Lindsey has sent a contingent of agents over. That’s our only lead.”

  “Have Lindsey get four agents from my security detail over to my house, separate cars, round the clock. My wife leaves, I want two of them with her. Get another two on my daughter. She’s a sophomore at GW. And get every available agent on this investigation. I want answers and I want them fast. Lindsey has a problem, have him call me—no, have ADIC Maguire call me.”

  Waller was nodding. “Yes, sir. Do you want Metro PD alerted—”

  “No, I want this handled internally.” Knox was aware that it wasn’t every day that two special agents were cal
led into the director’s office. They didn’t have any new information of substance to offer him, and they certainly didn’t have the answers he wanted. Knox knew they were shitting in their pants. But he didn’t care. He wanted information, answers, results.

  Control.

  He turned back to the window, sighed deeply, and bowed his head. “I’m making you two personally responsible for finding Payne.”

  “Yes, sir,” they answered simultaneously.

  Waller cleared his throat. “Sir, about Scarponi—”

  “If he’s involved, I will personally see to it—” Knox stopped, focused his eyes on the cars crawling along Pennsylvania Avenue, seven stories below. “If he’s responsible for this letter, he’s declaring war, gentlemen. Witness Protection or not, Harper Payne is still one of ours.”

  Five minutes after Waller and Haviland had left his office, Knox turned away from the window. He reached across his desk and hit the intercom button. “Elizabeth, a moment please.”

  Seconds later, Knox’s assistant, Liz Evanston, entered with pen and pad in hand. She was a thick woman of sixty, silver hair coifed and trimmed to perfection, just like her work. Liz had been the FBI director’s personal assistant since 1968. Having started her employment under J. Edgar Hoover, she knew the ins and outs of how to find information within the Bureau, and because of that she was an invaluable resource. As each director came and went, she was one constant that maintained continuity and helped keep the director’s office running smoothly.

  “Find out what you can on Agents Jonathan Waller and Scott Haviland. They’re out of WFO,” he said, referring to the Bureau’s Washington Field Office. “SAC Lindsey should be able to tell you everything you need to know about them.”

  “With all due respect, sir, I disagree.” It was the exact language and tone she had used with each of the prior directors, and it always seemed to work.

  “Who do you think you should speak with?”

  “Their squad supervisor, Sam Gardner.”

  “Gardner. Yeah, you’re right. He’d have a better feel for these two than Lindsey would.”

  “And he’ll tell me a lot more than SAC Lindsey.”

  “You’re too good, Liz, you know that?”

  “Yes, sir, I do. I’ll have that information for you shortly.” She turned and walked out, a smile hovering at the corners of her mouth.

  An hour later, after having met with the Lab Section chief and deputy assistant director, Knox was still pacing by the window, running his fingers through his hair. First the left hand, then the right. When he finished one stroke, he would start again with the other hand. He had a trump card to play, and he was thinking hard about using it. Two men, Hector DeSantos and Brian Archer, members of the elite Operations Support Intelligence Group—known as OPSIG—were at his disposal should he need them. But timing was everything. And in this case the big question was when to bring them on board.

  Just then, his intercom buzzed. “I have that information for you, sir.”

  “Bring it in, Liz.”

  She walked in and headed for the window, positioning herself in Knox’s path, as she always did, to prevent him from pacing. “According to Mr. Gardner,” Liz reported, “Agent Waller has an impeccable record. He heads up the division’s Fugitive Squad. He’s dedicated, bright, committed, and very driven.”

  “And off the record?”

  She glanced down at her notepad. “He can sometimes be a little volatile, get swept into the emotions of a case and take it personally. If it’s a case he feels strongly about or gets frustrated with, he has a tendency to disregard procedure.”

  “To the point of jeopardizing the success of the mission?”

  “He’s never crossed the line, at least according to Gardner. No reprimands have made it into the file, so Gardner is either telling the truth or he’s handled it internally.”

  Knox turned and again looked out his window at the cars moving along Pennsylvania Avenue. “What about Haviland?”

  She consulted her notes again. “More cerebral and by the book than Waller. He takes his work seriously and doesn’t take chances. Gardner likes to partner them up whenever possible because Haviland has a calming influence on Waller. My take is that Haviland keeps Waller in line when he’s dangerously near the edge of crossing over it.”

  “So why did Lindsey send these two over?”

  “Mainly because Agent Waller heads up the Fugitive Squad. His specialty is tracking down difficult-to-find people. Also, according to Gardner, they knew Agent Payne fairly well. They worked with him for a while before he went undercover.”

  Knox nodded, turned, and began to pace in the opposite direction. He had heard enough, and it was his way of telling Liz that he did not require her presence anymore.

  “Fugitive Squad or not, Agent Waller may not be the right person for this assignment,” she said.

  Knox stopped and looked out over the District again. He remained there for a moment, stoic and silent. Liz took the hint and placed her notes on the director’s desk.

  “Nice work,” Knox said to the glass.

  “Yes, sir. Let me know if you need anything else.” Liz closed the director’s office door on her way out.

  After hearing the lock click, Knox walked over to his desk and picked up Liz’s notes. He made one more run through the information, then shoved the pages through the shredder.

  12

  “Shit.”

  Michael Chambers broke out into a cold sweat. If the men in suits were indeed coming for him, he didn’t have much time. He turned his attention to the keyboard and began tapping out a message.

  Rose—

  I need your help. I was in a car accident and I can’t remember who I am, where I’m supposed to be, or even who you are. For some reason your name kept popping into my head, and then I remembered what I think is your email address. Can you tell me who I am? There’s not much I can tell you about me, other than what I look like. I’m about six feet tall, medium build, dark brown hair, and hazel eyes I think. My waist is a 33.

  He paused, glanced back to check on the approaching men. His eyes found them, no more than thirty yards away now. But they didn’t have the appearance of store security personnel, and they obviously were not the cops who had been searching for him in the hospital.

  Maybe they weren’t looking for him after all.

  I’m in Virginia, in a mall near Virginia Presbyterian Hospital. If you know who I am, please write me back ASAP.

  —Lost in Virginia

  Chambers entered a few other variations on the “rose” theme of the e-mail address in case his jumbled memory was incorrect. He quickly scrolled down, hit SEND, and received the MESSAGE SENT confirmation.

  He logged off and peered around the edge of the kiosk. The men—whoever they were—were now a few strides away. He pulled the bill of the hat lower on his face and slid out of the seat, strolling casually down the other side of the mall, in the opposite direction of the men.

  He had walked no more than twenty paces when he realized he had left Ellen Haskins’s MasterCard at the GlobalNet kiosk. He stopped and turned to look in the direction from which he had just come and noticed the two suits huddling over the Internet terminal.

  Okay, store security. All they want is the credit card. Slap on the wrist probably. I’ll explain the amnesia and that’ll be that.

  Chambers turned and headed off in the direction of Dillard’s, where he would leave the mall and grab the taxi that was waiting for him. He had gone another five yards when two other men in navy blue suits suddenly stepped out in front of him. As one of them held up a two-way radio to his mouth, Chambers spun and ran off, back in the direction from which he had just come.

  Within seconds, his path was blocked by the original two men, the tall one holding Ellen Haskins’s credit card in his hand. The shorter man locked eyes with Chambers and pressed the button on his two-way.

  “We’ve got him.”

  13

  Chambers cou
ld feel his heart pounding in his ears. This was not mall security. This was trouble. Big trouble. Those instincts he had had in the hospital emergency room kicked in again, and he instantly felt he had to find a way out.

  To his immediate right was the flower stand he had passed earlier. It was now his only means of exit. With a store to his left and the men in front of and behind him, there was no other choice. He bolted right, jumping and grabbing on to the post of the ornate display wagon. Under all his weight and momentum, the cart started to tip over. With a huge crash, the potted plants and floral arrangements spilled across the floor behind him, blocking the entire walkway.

  Chambers darted down that side of the mall, the two men who were not blocked by the downed cart in close pursuit. They were frantically shouting orders into their radios, no doubt attempting to line up coverage in and around the area in anticipation of their suspect’s next move.

  Chambers turned and headed into Dillard’s, suddenly becoming aware of the pulling pain in his thigh. Limping slightly, he moved in an irregular, weaving manner through men’s sportswear, suits, and casual wear. Angles and distance, he told himself, were the most effective ways of eluding a pursuer. But how did he know that?

  He fought off a swell of dizziness, then dumped the baseball hat, grabbed a windbreaker off a hanger, and ripped off the tags. After slipping the jacket on in one motion, he moved left toward the exit—and slammed into a man in a suit. They both fell backward, Chambers landing against a display table of jeans, on his left, sutured thigh. He let out a low grunt, then realized he was in trouble as the man parted his suit coat.

  Is he reaching for a gun?

  Chambers leaned back on the table and fully extended his right leg in a swift uppercut, his tennis shoe connecting hard with the man’s jaw. The man reeled backward, striking his head on a coat rack before crumpling to the floor. Blood oozed immediately from a gash on the left side of his face, where Chambers saw a coiled wire connected to an earpiece that had become dislodged.