by A P Bateman
He turned onto Shore Drive and counted the house numbers. The house he was looking for was a ranch-style single storey with a wooden porch and a small garden front and back. The silver Mercedes E320 Coupe was parked on a chipping drive to the side of the property.
Stone parked just past the plot and took off the helmet. He hung it on the handlebars and opened his jacket. The FN pistol was within easy reach. He looked all around him, studied the cars in the street for drivers and passengers, the driveways for anyone watching him. The street was deserted. Behind the houses opposite he caught glimpses of the sea, sailboats and rigging. Seagulls calling and swooping up and down.
The house did not look well maintained. Although many houses had a chic shabbiness about them – whitewashed, faded blue accenting paint, washed-out wood stain – the other houses had better lawns, tidier plant beds. This house had overgrown grass and the windows were encrusted with salt and dust. The longer Stone studied it, the more out of place it seemed. He climbed the steps to the deck and porch. He could see the mail on the hall table. Someone was here, recently. But not long enough to open the letters. He tried the door, but it was locked. He walked around the deck and made his way past a few overgrown vines to the rear. The door was ajar. It seemed wrong somehow. Stone had the pistol in his hand and was checking his side and rear. He looked back at the door and gave it a gentle push with his toe. The door creaked open and he eased his way into the kitchen. There were coffee cups and a plate with toast crumbs and a smear of butter on the edge of a knife. He reached out and touched the kettle. It was warm, close to hot.
Stone had no idea of the provenance of the house, but he suspected it was the computer and internet expert’s bolt-hole. The area would have indicated that perhaps it had been a parent’s home and he had inherited it. The street looked child-free, sedate. A place where people with a little means came on vacation or lived out retirement. It wasn’t The Hamptons, but it was certainly more exclusive than Jersey Shore. The Chesapeake was a sailor’s dream, and elderly people had the time to sail and play with boats. It would explain why the property hadn’t shown up in the man’s background search. Edwards most likely had not properly sorted out the deeds, or perhaps another family member owned it.
Stone had a bad feeling in his gut. He had felt it before. It was seldom wrong. He raised the pistol and trained the sights on the doorway to the corridor. The motion was slow and careful, measured. He knew what he was going to find. At least the context of what he was going to find. Edward’s car hadn’t moved and the man had been off the radar for some time. Kathy couldn’t find him and had unanswered questions, needed the information he had. Now Stone could see a picture building. Who better to find someone than an agent with unlimited resources and the weight of the Secret Service behind him? He felt played, as he had done after last night. Only then, he’d had a happy ending. Or two. There was no gain here.
He rounded the doorway and tentatively stepped through onto the wooden boards. It wasn’t laminate, these were old fashioned planks. Most likely reclaimed timber from a ship or an old foundry. Dried over hundreds of years. The result was they creaked. Badly. Anyone waiting for him to show himself had prior warning and lots of it. A continuous announcement of his direction and his intentions. Stone upped the ante and ran. He swung the pistol into the first room on his left. It was the master bedroom. Edwards, or at least Stone assumed it was him, was lying face down on the floor. There was a bullet hole in the back of the man’s head. He was dead, or at least beyond help and that’s all Stone looked at. He backed away, kept his weapon up and ready and checked out the rest of the house. It took another five minutes – the house was a three bedroom and fairly compact. But Stone took his time, he had learned the hard way once before. He walked back into the master bedroom and looked at the body. The blood had yet to congeal, indicating that it was minutes rather than hours since Edwards had breathed his last breath. The blood had pooled on the wooden floor, filled the gaps between the planks. Stone realised they had to have been modern tongue and groove, to have filled and not simply butted up to each other. He noticed things. Not all of it relevant. Still, they matched the older planks of the hallway well. He holstered his pistol and squatted down beside the body. There were two bullet holes under his left shoulder blade. A professional. Both had plugged the heart after the initial headshot. There was little blood around these two holes, indicating the man had already been dead. They were grouped well, but the distance would have been less than eight feet. Still, a good display of marksmanship. He looked up and saw the exit hole of the initial headshot in the stucco wall. There was splatter across the bed and on the window pane. Stone could see boats outside, through the crimson mist on the window. He conjured a picture in his mind. Edwards walking into the bedroom unaware. He would have to have trusted the person behind him. Or been keen to get to know that person better. The promise of sex would have done it. Maybe there had been some kissing to build the excitement, heat the passion. Full of anticipation, pulse raised, leading the way into the bedroom. Then, a single shot to his head, two follow-ups to his back, straight through the heart.
Had Kathy found Edwards after all?
Stone pulled the body over and ran his finger across the cadaver’s cooling lips. He dropped the head back onto the floor and looked at the colour, the waxy smudge on his fingertip. He sniffed it. A distinct smell of summer fruits, of cherry and raspberries. Stone wiped his finger on his knee, rubbed until all trace had gone. He had smelled and tasted the same lipstick on his lips last night.
24
Stone looked around the house. He searched using a tier system. First he looked for the obvious. Edwards was a computer expert and there was no way the man would be here without tech. There was nothing. No smartphone, no tablet and no laptop. There would always have been a smartphone.
The next level of the tier was sideboards, drawers and cupboards. The wardrobe, the airing cupboard and also the bathroom cabinet. Finally, Stone removed his jacket, rolled up his sleeves and took off his tie. He was going into the backs of the kitchen units, taking out the drawers and moving the bed. He would remove the bath panel, check the toilet cistern. After an hour, he was convinced there was nothing here. He would speak to Agent Yates and see if the man could get a team in to removed floorboards and get a thermal imager and x-ray machine onto the walls.
Stone checked the body over. He ran his hands over it, delved into the pockets and came back with a tear-off of white lined paper, no bigger than a post-it note. It had been folded twice. There were a series of numbers on it. 0900 8000. He looked at it, then took out his cell phone and dialled. There was a little delay and then the dial tone went blank. Perhaps it was a bank account number. There were specialists in the treasury who could check. But it was a single line, and without the bank code or bank name he didn’t hold out much hope. He tucked it into his pocket and finished patting down. There were car keys, but no wallet. Stone took the keys and headed outside. The car was new but you wouldn’t know it from the inside. There were empty fast food wrappers in the rear foot wells, cigarette cartons in the door pockets. The passenger seat was littered with papers, and receipts. The glovebox looked the same, only full. The car smelled like a miasma of tobacco and greasy meat, of stale sweat and old coffee. The upholstery was stained and the leather scuffed. Stone bunched up the papers and took them back to the kitchen where he spread them out across the table. He had a flashback to his father at the end of the tax year. An accountant for small businesses, the house was always full of receipts and files as business owners had left it too late and Stone’s father barely slept for the week leading up to the tax deadline. This wasn’t quite in the same league, but Edwards had certainly been far from organised.
He scanned most of it, piled the receipts, turned everything over – he’d learned long ago that people often write important things on scraps of paper, and unimportant things on the back of items of huge importance. He stopped when he saw the simply scribbled name –
Kathy, followed by a telephone number. He recognised the area code. He picked up his phone and scrolled to Kathy’s number. The two numbers were different. Stone dialled Max and paced over to the window while he waited. There was a glimpse of sailboats and blue water, but he had to peer between two neighbouring houses to see. He wondered how much more expensive the seafront properties would be. Most likely they didn’t come up for sale that often. The neighbourhood looked well-established. Everybody probably knew each other.
Max answered on the fifth ring. Stone felt sure it was about to divert to voicemail. “I need sleep.”
“Later. I have another number for Kathy,” Stone read it out and waited for Max to get a pen. Finally, he confirmed he had it. “Look, see if you can get a location on it. I think it’s a cell, the code is…”
“West Virginia,” Max interrupted. “I’ll check. Have you thought any more about what I said?”
“What?”
“I left a voicemail message.”
Stone’s blood ran cold. “Look, my phone has been compromised. I’m picking up another when I get back. What was it?” He hoped Max had not divulged too much.
“The house you met Kathy at is a rental. But not by her. It’s been vacant, like the neighbouring property for six weeks. Those houses aren’t too popular. The developers attempted to recreate a wilderness and that’s what they got. With cell masts and train links. There’s a serious Lyme disease issue out there, caused by deer with ticks. Plus; many houses have been hit with termites. Like eaten through. Word has spread and there’s a glut of empty properties all through the valley. Nobody’s buying and landlords don’t want any comebacks. And let’s face it – Lyme disease isn’t pleasant for anyone, let alone the kids needed to fill those family homes.”
“So Kathy wasn’t meant to be living there,” Stone mused. “And the neighbours were never there, for anything more than appearances, that is.”
“Weird.”
“You could say that,” Stone mused, then added, “I found Edwards.”
“Cool.”
“Not for him,” Stone said. He turned back from the window, folded the piece of paper with the telephone number on it and leaned against the countertop. “He’s dead.”
“Oh.” There was a pause, then Max asked, “Did you get his laptop?”
“He didn’t have one. No tech at all. Not even a smartphone.”
“That’s bogus. If he’s a geek, he’s connected. End of story.”
“That’s what I thought,” Stone sighed. “But there’s nothing here. They’ve cleaned house.” Stone could tell Max was working on something, the sound of keys tapping and a mouse clicking. “What are you doing?”
“Got that number. It’s a cell and it’s not a million miles from you.”
“Where?”
“Calvert Cliffs. It looks remote. It’s around twenty-five miles down the coast. I’ll send you the address…”
“Don’t!” Stone snapped. He softened his tone. “My phone is rogue. Don’t text me on it and for goodness sake don’t leave a voicemail. Now, give me the address and zip code and I’ll write it down.” Stone scribbled on a sheet of tattered paper. He read it twice, then folded it and put it in his pocket. “Do me a favour. Call Agent Ernest Yates on the reaction desk and get a CSI team out here. Then call the local cops and ask them to secure the scene.”
“I will. What happened to Edwards?”
“Shot. Up close, professional.”
“Well, be careful. There’s nothing much out where you’re heading but woods, sand dunes and dirt track.”
25
Night was looming. Stone felt exposed, the white shirt didn’t help. It was as opposite to camouflage as you could get. Unless you were in snow. But it seemed to be part of the game, and he knew if he played along he would discover more. He felt good with the M4 assault rifle in his hands, the pistol on his belt. It made him feel secure, more secure than the spear had at least. But the best thing about his discovery was the luxury of socks and shoes. His feet were covered in tiny cuts and scabs and he hadn’t realised how slow his progress had been barefoot until he had taken his first few confident steps with his shoes.
He had finished the water and fruit, but had kept both the empty bottle and plastic bag, squashing the plastic bottle flat and tucking it into his trouser pockets along with the clear plastic bag. Both were handy for carrying water. He had no idea where to go, or whether he was being watched, but he was confident that his progress was being monitored. The neat pile of clothes, and the fact that his own weapon and ammunition had been with them, meant that there was a protocol of some kind. He would know soon enough.
His side still hurt. The bruising was coming out and his hip was sore against the fabric of his trousers. He could not remember the injury, but he appreciated from the bruising that it had been recent, and that meant it had happened shortly before he had found himself here. He looked at the track marks on his forearm. There were five or six holes running into one another and they were raised and swollen. They itched too. For the first time he gave thought to what they meant. Obviously some kind of drug had been administered to render him unconscious. He had little knowledge of drugs, but either that, or something in addition to it had played havoc with his memory. He had no swelling, lumps or pain to his head, and no symptoms of a concussion. Some kind of drug had been used. But what of the other needle marks? How many types of drugs had been administered? Everything he had been remembering pointed towards an organisation with experience, resources and an agenda. What if they had used a truth serum? Sodium Thiopental was effective. It contravened the Fifth Amendment but he had heard of it used by the CIA against Taliban fighters in Afghanistan and on terror suspects in Guantanamo. Chloral-hydrate or Ketamine would have knocked him out, but the dosage would have to have been large, and he was probably lucky to be alive. He’d been taken to the edge for sure.
He felt the chill run up his spine, linger at the nape of his neck. What if he had been coerced to talk? To compromise the President’s security schedule or operating procedure? Is that what this was about? Suddenly Stone had more reasons to leave. Until this point, his strategy had been to survive. That was all he intended to achieve. Play the long game and make it back to safety and civilization. Take few risks, plan well and adapt. Don’t rush. Think. That was the way to survive. But now? Now he wanted to get out of here as soon as he could. Get word to the Secret Service; counter any damage done by his possible coercion. Career-wise, he was finished. If he had talked; he was done. If he couldn’t be one-hundred percent sure that he had not talked; he was done. Past victories and triumphs only went so far, and never truly put the account in credit. But Stone cared about national security. He cared about the Secret Service, and he cared about the President and the man’s family. He wanted to pull up the shutters, put down the barriers. He would risk it all, like he had before, to get the job done. And right now, the job was to get out of here and raise the alarm.
He looked at the orange sunset behind him. Another hour and it would be dark. He needed to hole-up somewhere. To his left, he saw a belt of pampas grass and a circle of trees. Behind him, that same kind of circle ringed the pond with the caiman. Perhaps this was a similar pond. He imagined in the rainy season a string of ponds would join together, the banks swelling with rain. There would be less competition for fish or turtles or frogs, or whatever they sustained themselves on when one-hundred and seventy pound murderous men weren’t tossed in for lunch.
As he approached, he noticed the eyes of the fruit bats again. Only now, after everything he’d seen today, he wasn’t convinced. He walked under the canopy of trees and looked up at the eerie glow. It was so obvious now. He would have shot one down, had he not wanted to waste a bullet. He could see the glow, and in the half-light of dusk, he saw the box. Dark coloured, probably green or brown in the light of day, and no bigger than a paperback. The plastic unit emitted a beam of infrared light, invisible to the naked eye, that the camera saw by at night.
From directly head on, the glow of the infrared lights was visible. The more Stone looked, the more pairs of glowing ‘eyes’ he saw. He had seen these cameras before – originally used by hunters to monitor the patterns and behaviours of game like wild boar and deer – they were now increasingly used for covert security surveillance. The units downloaded onto an SP card or a USB stick, but Stone would have bet his life that these units were wireless enabled and that somewhere a router was picking up individual feeds where they would be displayed on a monitor.
26
The Ducati didn’t like the sand. The road was largely worn asphalt patched at irregular intervals with cement, which had expanded or contracted in winter frosts and the summer heat, and had separated and crumbled. Stone supposed a well-meaning resident had patched the potholes with cement not realising that it would break down as the pliable asphalt expanded and contracted around it. Maybe this had been done back in the recession. One of them. But it was the sand that was most hazardous, the onshore wind had whipped up the sand from the grassy dunes and spewed it onto the road. Sheltered from westerly winds by a thick belt of trees to his right, the sand had nowhere else to go. Maybe the same well-meaning resident occasionally shovelled it back onto the shore side, but they hadn’t been busy lately.
The Ducati was a powerful beast and shod with a set of smooth road rubber. It was a planted machine, capable of leaning to within inches of its frame through a corner and powering out onto the straight on a wave of torque. It was heavy and had not been designed to go off road, and each time a patch of deep sand drift lay in his way, Stone had to throttle back, keep a high gear and almost freewheel through at a crawling pace. He would then accelerate until the next drift and slow down again to repeat the process. It took all of his concentration. And Stone liked to concentrate on more than merely the road ahead. He needed to be aware of a situation, aware of escape routes, of threats, of distractions. The road was becoming his entire focus. The last time he had felt this way, an IED had taken out his artillery unit on his first tour in Afghanistan. Stone had been the sole survivor and seriously injured.
