Yuri's eyes widened. "I wonder, could they be preparing to use the neurotoxin I read about in Kiev? The C/B weapons my brother was storing included both nerve gas shells and what was called an experimental neurotoxin. It would temporarily induce fear and erratic behavior in people exposed to it. The report said it was in powdered form stored in canisters."
"Damn," Burke murmured, drawing it out into two syllables. "If you're right, they must have rigged up something to spread it all over the place by just driving down the street."
"It has no permanent effect," Yuri added. "But it can last two or three days."
Burke cocked his head as Roddy's voice came through the headphones. "One of the guys just drove the truck back into the shop. Looks like they're all getting in the van. Are you anywhere near the car?"
"Negative," Burke replied. "Yuri and I are at a street corner about a block from you. There's no way we can follow them now. We'll meet you back at the car."
It was about ten minutes later when the three of them piled into the Honda. Before heading back to Falls Church, Burke drove up to Dulles and retrieved his Buick from the parking lot. The other two would follow in the Honda. After Burke paid at the ticket booth and pulled out onto the access road, the attendant lifted the phone in his booth. He had just detected a change in the sound of a steady hum that came from the small radio leaning against the glass. It was a sound worth half a C-note.
When a voice answered, he said, "This is Dulles. The Buick just left."
They sat in the Brackins' recreation room at a white wrought iron table with chairs that appeared to have come from an old ice cream parlor.
"Now that we know where the weapons are," said Rodman, toying with a half-empty soft drink bottle, "why don't we give the police an anonymous tip and let them move in? That gets around the FBI."
Burke sat back with arms folded, a thoughtful frown on his face. "First, we think that's where the weapons are. We don't know for sure. And second, the cops wouldn't go storming in there on the strength of an anonymous phone call anyway. Whoever runs the place probably has good contacts with the police. They would call him first and say we got this weird call, okay if we come take a look?"
Roddy nodded. "And by the time they got there, Romashchuk and his goodies would be long gone."
"Right."
"Why don't we go in late tonight," Yuri Shumakov suggested, "and look for the weapons? If we find them, we remove them."
"Good thought," Burke agreed. "But getting into that place could be as bad as trying to break into Fort Knox. Besides the usual burglar alarms, they probably have highly sophisticated motion detectors, infrared sensors, every high tech gadget in the book. Without the codes to bypass them, we'd be out of luck."
Yuri shook his head in dismay. "I cannot believe this is happening in America. Surely there is someone we can tell, something we can do."
Burke got up and walked over to the pool table, picked up the cue ball and sent it spinning into the triangle of balls racked at the other end. There was a sharp crack, followed by a chain reaction of clacking noises as balls bounced back and forth. It was an effort to do something, anything, to take some action however trivial, rather than just sit around helplessly. Yuri was right. There must be someone. They had to do something.
He turned around, leaned back against the pool table and looked from Roddy to Yuri. Their lives had already been threatened once. Now there was a faceless hit man after him. Clearly their knowledge of Major Romashchuk's operation had left them all marked men. So what could they do about it?
"It appears to me we have two options," he said quietly. "Number one, we can mount a stakeout of Advanced Security Systems, follow the Major the next time he shows up and try to trap him. The odds wouldn't be too favorable if he was with more than one of his guerrillas."
"What about number two?" Roddy asked.
"I could resurface in Washington, go to the Metropolitan Police and report my suspicions that a terrorist group was preparing weapons at the Advanced Security Systems compound."
"Would they believe you?"
"With my reputation, I think they would have to seriously consider it. But what if the weapons weren't there? What if Romashchuk has them stored wherever he's holed up? The police would probably turn to the FBI, then McNaughton or Pickens would quickly destroy my credibility. And if I go public, I'm an open target for this assassin called Max."
"There's no need for you to endanger yourself like that," Roddy said. "Let's get on with the stakeout. We don't know when he might be back."
"We would need a place of concealment," Yuri ventured.
Burke nodded as he walked over to the bar, where a telephone sat atop a directory. "I noticed a sign in front of the building next door to the small appliance shop. It advertised an office for rent. I didn't catch the phone number, but it showed a firm named Vintage Realty."
He thumbed through the directory and found the number.
"Vintage Realty. How can I be of service?" a bright female voice answered.
"I noticed one of your office for rent signs," Burke said, giving the location.
"Yes, that's Latrisha Grammer's listing. Please hold."
A few moments later, a lower, slower voice spoke. "This is Ms. Grammer. You're interested in the Brabson Building? That's a great little office. Great location, too. Not many minutes away from downtown."
In a fast car, Burke thought. "Is it on the front of the building?"
"Yes, on the second floor. Has windows looking out onto the street. There are two rooms, total of about three hundred and fifty square feet. If that isn't big enough, we have some nice larger offices—"
"Sounds just right for me. What about parking?"
"There's parking in the rear. I'd be happy to show it to you if you'd like. What was your name?"
"Mr. Douglas. Steve Douglas. No need to show it. It's in the right place and I don't have time to waste. I got fed up with the people I've been renting from and moved out this morning. They wouldn't do any maintenance."
"We take excellent care of our properties," Ms. Grammer said.
He smiled, recalling the faded exterior of the converted two-story house. "With the holiday coming up, I need to move in this afternoon. I'll be out of town after that."
"Well, we would need to check out your application first," she said, a reluctant note indicating she didn't relish the idea of missing a chance to close a deal on this marginal location.
"What if I gave you four months rent in advance?"
The change in her voice was miraculous. "What time did you want to meet me?"
"I can be at your office in half an hour. Have the papers ready."
Just as they left the Brackin home, taking both cars, a panel truck rolled into Falls Church, a directional antenna tuned to the steady tone emanating from a tiny transmitter fixed to the underside of Burke's Buick.
68
The early wave of flextimers was already filling the outbound lanes of Arlington Boulevard. The main rush from the Pentagon and offices across the Potomac would soon flood the artery, but the rust-colored panel truck was heading in the opposite direction, toward the backside of Arlington National Cemetery. The traffic was moderate. The driver, a crusty-looking former Navy radioman with a bristly, graying beard was listening through a pair of headphones.
"He's not too far. Wait a minute." He adjusted the directional antenna. "Turned right, probably on Washington Boulevard. Sure as shittin' he's headed for the District."
The passenger was a tall, lanky man with a near-smile seemingly fixed to his gaunt face. Called simply Max, he had large, deep-set eyes that gave him a hollow look, appropriately close enough to pass for the Grim Reaper himself. Hardly an imposing physical specimen, he avoided close combat and would hardly have frightened anyone but old women or small boys, who could instinctively detect the sinister aspects of that fixed grin. His specialty was the remote dispatch of his victims. Every new job was a challenge, but the subject's background gave th
is one some special qualities. He had worked feverishly since morning to track down his quarry. He would soon know how successful he had been. After that would come the really interesting part. A man who took great pride in doing his job efficiently and effectively, he utilized every available resource. The old sailor, Sparky Pitts, was a recent acquisition, a rough-edged character with a natural bent for electronics and explosives. His major shortcoming was that he didn't know when to shut up.
"See if you can't get this old bus in high gear," Max chided. "I'd like to eyeball him before he hits the river."
Pitts shrugged. "Ain't no problem. I was just lollygagging along so we wouldn't attract no attention from the fuzz." He pushed on the accelerator and swung into the passing lane. The signal kept shifting to the right until he turned south on Washington Boulevard, then it was dead ahead and getting louder. As they approached I-395, he followed the tone left onto the ramp.
"That must be him up ahead of that Honda," Max said as he got a clear view near the Pentagon. "Where's your field glasses?"
"In the pocket. They're kinda smudged. Hope you can see through 'em."
Max opened the glove compartment, pulled out a heavy pair of binoculars and scanned ahead. They were one lane to the left of the Buick. When he spotted the license plate, he knew he had his man. "That's him. Don't let him get away."
They followed the brown car across the Rochambeau Bridge, where it jogged right at East Potomac Park and took the Southwest Freeway. When it swung onto the South Capitol Street exit, Max frowned. "Looks like he's got company. The Honda's on his tail."
After a couple of blocks, the car slowed, then pulled to a stop in front of a low building bearing a "Vintage Realty" sign. The Honda parked next door and Pitts slowed as they drove past. When the driver stepped out of the Buick, Max recognized Burke Hill from the photograph Adam Stern had left for him at the gun shop.
"Turn around at the end of the block," Max instructed. "We'll come back this way and park in front of that vacant store. I want to get a look at his watchers."
Sparky Pitts did as instructed, backing in at the front of the store to provide Max a clear view of the cars across the street. He accompanied his maneuvering with a steady stream of adverse opinions about drivers in general and the deplorable habits of Washington drivers in particular. The sun was dropping toward the horizon directly in back of the truck, leaving it in the store's shadow. The other side of the street caught the full force of the slanting rays, making it a virtual cinch that no one over there could get a decent look at the pair in the rust-colored vehicle.
Max poked the binoculars’ lenses into the hollow sockets of his eyes and checked out the Honda. "They don't look like cops," he said. "Bodyguards maybe?"
"Pretty stupid if they are. They don't look too interested in what's going on around here."
Hill came back out of the real estate office in barely more than five minutes. He walked over to the Honda and spoke to the driver.
Max looked around with a twisted grin. "Maybe I'll give the Parson a bargain. Three for the price of one."
"Follow me," Burke told Roddy. "We'll go in the alley and park behind the building. I've got a key to the back entrance."
The location was not far away. They soon filed into the narrow alley, then turned beside a dilapidated wooden garage to which a "Brabson Building" sign and an arrow had been nailed. Most of the former backyard had been graveled for parking. There were a few trees, mostly along the side lot line. The lack of any other vehicles told Burke the place was probably empty. On the eve of a major holiday, no one was likely interested in burning any midnight oil. He lifted an olive green sport bag off the seat beside him and stepped out. As he did, he noticed he had swept out his copy of the office lease and Latrisha Grammer's business card, which had fallen onto the gravel. He tossed them back onto the seat and locked the door.
Inside the building, a lighted hallway ran from back to front. Burke walked toward the front stairway past walls of a dull, industrial gray. Closed doors bearing plastic numbers and nameplates identified the offices and their occupants. He led the way upstairs and stopped at "Suite 200," a designation that appeared somewhat ostentatious, he thought.
He unlocked the door and looked inside to find a darkened, empty room about fifteen feet square with two windows covered by miniblinds. The only illumination came from slivers of sunlight that filtered through the nearly closed blinds, sparkling on dust particles stirred by the draft from when he had come in. Another door on the back wall led into a smaller room.
"Let's leave the lights off," Burke said as he walked over to partially open one of the blinds. He looked out. "Couldn't ask for a better view."
Shumakov stood beside him and gazed across at the storage yard. Their second floor vantage point offered clear sight lines to most of the Advanced Security Systems compound. "So now it is a game of sit and wait," Yuri said.
Rodman shrugged. "Or hide and seek." He had brought along a sack with three bottled soft drinks, since coffee wouldn't be available. He set it on the floor near the wall, then frowned. "We forgot one thing."
Burke's head snapped around. "What?"
"Chairs."
"Oh. Yeah. Would be handy, wouldn't they?"
Yuri plopped onto the floor beside the window. It was tall, with a bottom sash that came within twenty-four inches of the floor. "I can see fine from here."
"Okay," said Burke, "we'll take turns keeping an eye on the place. You might as well go first, Yuri, since you're already in the catbird seat."
He opened his sport bag and emptied out the contents. There was a pair of binoculars, which he handed across to Shumakov. Next was a small emergency light, a battery-operated device that would put out only a soft glow when turned on. He plugged it into a nearby wall outlet. The other equipment included the portable cellular phone, a battery charger, two small transceivers, a flashlight and a 9mm SIG-Sauer P228 loaded with a thirteen-round magazine. The gun was in a holster which he hooked to his belt in back.
Sparky Pitts had parked the panel truck at the back of the driveway to the small appliance repair shop, which ran between the two buildings. Though sheltered by trees and partially hidden by the old garage, they still had a good view of the two cars parked near the rear entrance to the Brabson Building. While Max watched silently, as intense as a hungry hawk on the lookout for his next meal, his bearded sidekick appeared oblivious to the grim business they were about. Sparky chattered like the town gossip holding forth in a barbershop. What his seagoing recollections lacked in authenticity, he made up for in graphic detail. He had a tale for every occasion. With the windows partially lowered because of the heat, Max continually cautioned him to keep his voice down.
"Know what this reminds me of?" Pitts asked, obviously finding it difficult to manage subdued tones. "Reminds me of a time over in the Philippines when we was tied up at Subic for repairs. Had a bos'n's mate named Switzer, huge hulk of a man, was in love with this little whore called 'Estrellita.' That means `little star.' She had one of them Coke bottle figures."
Max shook his head as Sparky rattled on and on. At least it would keep him from dozing off. He wouldn't make his move until the sun went down.
It had been dark for an hour. The yellow-hued lights that ranged above the fenced enclosure across the street had come on automatically at sundown. Nothing had stirred about the compound other than a flurry of dust kicked up by the evening breeze. Everything was quiet but for the occasional bang or whistle of fireworks set off down the street.
Burke Hill had just finished his stint beside the window. "I know you guys are tired of hamburgers," he said, digging into the sport bag for the radios. "How about I get us some chicken? I'll take one of these and you can alert me if anything happens."
"Make mine extra crispy," said Rodman.
Burke walked down to the lower hallway and headed for the back door. The place was eerily silent, each footfall landing with an echo. He stepped into the darkness out back and noted
that, with the clear sky, the glow of the city lights lacked any reflective surface to brighten the night in this area. However, there was enough moon to outline shapes and give light-colored surfaces such as the whitewashed rocks that lined the parking area an odd luminescence. His eyes quickly adjusted to the darkness as he walked over to the Buick and stuck the key in the lock. He was about to turn it when a glimmer of light reflected off something beneath the edge of the car, catching in his peripheral vision.
Stooping down, he picked up what appeared to be a business card. He held the card high so that it would catch enough light to be read, squinted his eyes and made out the words "Latrisha Grammer, Agent."
His forehead rumpled with a quizzical frown. He clearly remembered tossing that card back onto the seat. What the hell was going on? The obvious conclusion was that someone had been inside his car and brushed it off the seat, just as he had. Reaching for the door handle, he pressed it carefully. Locked. People who stole from cars didn't bother to lock the doors after them, he reasoned. Then who could it have been, and what were they after?
The loud, explosive popping of a string of firecrackers set off not far away startled him. It also triggered a sudden, disturbing thought. Explosives! Could his car have been tampered with by the assassin that Murray Bender had warned about, a man known for using explosives? He had blithely ignored the warning, assuming that simply avoiding his home would ward off any pursuers. What a fallacy. He had used Stern to help locate Nikolai Romashchuk. There were too many ways someone could have tracked him down here.
He pulled the key out of the lock and calmly returned to the building, but the adrenalin had set him on edge. Idiot, he berated himself. You should have known better than to use your own car. You could have borrowed one from the Brackins.
Inside the building, he stood for a moment considering all the dire possibilities. A bomb could have been set to go off when he opened the door. It could be wired to the ignition to trigger when he started the engine. Or, probably the most reliable, it could have a radio-controlled detonator, in which case the assassin would be hiding somewhere nearby, watching and waiting for him to get into the vehicle.
Overture to Disaster (Post Cold War Political Thriller Trilogy Book 3) Page 43
