Khoury glanced at the phone on the table. “Messages began coming from a new voice. British maybe. He told me I would have to drive the van. That you had another assignment. The honor of the thirteenth target.”
“And he told you Craig Archer was that target?”
“He didn’t say and I knew not to ask. He told me I had the twelfth and you would give me instructions. To make sure I did as I was told he said you had Zaina and Jamila.” A sob caught in his throat as he spoke the names. “Please. I’ll do whatever you ask.”
“And your target and the others. Have they changed?”
“Of course not.” Khoury’s face suddenly became wary. “You don’t have them, do you? You don’t know. You’re not Mullins!”
With a power beyond his small stature, Khoury shoved the table away from him. The edge caught Mullins across the chest, toppling him over in the chair. His head cracked hard against the floor molding. White sparks flashed in his eyes. When his vision cleared, he saw the table above him and heard Khoury running from the house.
Mullins staggered to his feet and drew his pistol. Outside, the truck engine roared to life. Mullins ran through the kitchen and jumped from the back porch just as Khoury threw the pickup in gear. Tires bit into the loose gravel, pelting Mullins with stones as the truck sped down the driveway and disappeared through the pines.
Mullins shook his head in disgust. “Rookie mistake,” he muttered. “Holster your gun to build his trust. I might as well have handed it to him.”
He returned to the dining room. As he suspected, the cellphone was gone. But the insulin pen had rolled off the table and lay on a heating grate in the floor. Mullins picked it up with a handkerchief and slipped it in his windbreaker. The fingerprints could prove valuable.
He made a quick search through the rest of the house. On a nightstand by the bed he found a soft flannel bag. Inside was a copy of the Koran. Beneath it was a single photograph of Khoury standing beside a pretty woman and holding a darling girl of three or four. They were in front of their house in Florida. Zaina and Jamila, Khoury had said. Here was his family. The family someone held hostage. Mullins put the Koran and picture back in the bag.
On the dresser, he discovered an envelope. Without touching it, he read Fred Mack and the P.O. box Khoury had given the bank in Staunton. The letter was postmarked Miami. Mullins pried open the torn end with the back of his fingernail. Black hair spilled out. Using the handkerchief, he pulled the tresses and a folded scrap of paper free. “REMEMBER” had been scrawled in red lipstick across the ripped page.
He moved to the bathroom. The medicine cabinet held three more insulin pens, a box of disposable needles, and the alcohol wipes. Khoury had bolted without his medicine. He would have to find insulin somewhere.
The refrigerator contained a few slices of pizza, orange juice, and sandwich meat. Three-fourths of a loaf of bread was on the counter by the sink. Mullins searched through the drawers. The only other item that caught his eye was a receipt for a delivery of heating oil dated three weeks earlier. Khoury said he kept a journal and receipts but that someone had taken them the day before. Either this one had been overlooked, or, more likely, the rental agency had supplied a full fuel tank for the new renter.
Mullins left the receipt, the insulin supplies, the envelope, and the bag protecting the Koran on the kitchen counter. He walked to the shed and examined the door. The premium Abus padlock appeared new with no signs of weathering or tarnish. Mullins realized that his search through the house and Khoury’s belongings hadn’t turned up a key. Khoury must have kept this one on the ring with the truck and house keys.
But a new lock was only as good as the wood holding the screws of the latch. Three kicks and the door yielded. Inside, Mullins found a bare concrete floor with rakes and other garden tools hanging from hooks in the wall.
Part of the concrete had dark circular stains. Another area showed traces of gray dust. Mullins ran his finger across one of the stains. He sniffed the residue. Oil. Probably heating oil. Then he took a pinch of the dust. The texture was granular and the smell strong. Fertilizer. Oil and fertilizer. A bad combination if these were the supplies Khoury had been buying.
Mullins studied the circle stains again. The diameters were consistent with ten-gallon cans.
He left the shed and went to the heating fuel tank on the far side of the back porch. A rap on the metal generated a hollow boom. The tank was nearly empty, and yet the receipt for a recent delivery was in the kitchen. Mullins suspected Khoury had been buying up limited quantities of ammonia-based fertilizer so as not to raise any alarms. He probably traveled to local feed-and-seed stores scattered throughout the small mountain towns of southwest Virginia. Purchasing the oil wouldn’t have been a problem since the rental company ordered the delivery, but Khoury could also buy empty fuel cans during his shopping spree and siphon the oil out of the tank with a garden hose.
And Khoury said that the previous day everything had been picked up. A final countdown was underway, and Khoury, Mullins’ only connection to a van and a bomb, was on the run with a cellphone and a desperate need to protect his family.
Mullins knew he needed to contact Amanda as soon as possible. She was in a position to alert the government agencies that a terrorist attack appeared to be imminent. He dialed her office on his pre-paid phone. Voicemail. “We need to talk” was all he said. He didn’t want to leave any information that could be overhead by anyone other than Amanda.
Meanwhile, his best course of action lay in staking out the CVS in Staunton. With his prescription on record, Khoury might say he lost his pens and get a refill. As far as Mullins knew, there was no limit on a diabetic’s insulin supply. Khoury had no reason to suspect that Mullins knew which pharmacy would be filling his prescription.
Mullins collected the Koran and family photograph, the letter containing the note and hair, the insulin, and the receipt for the heating oil. He carried them across the field to his car. The drizzle had ended and the clouds looked like they would break up within the next half hour. He would try Amanda again when he was in position in the CVS parking lot.
He loaded his evidence in the rear of the Prius, removed his windbreaker, and took off his shoulder holster. He tucked the Glock under the seat.
As he neared the entrance to Khoury’s farmhouse, he slowed. The truck was parked on the driveway about thirty yards back from the main road. Mullins turned in and stopped, angling his car as a makeshift blockade. Khoury wasn’t visible in the cab.
Mullins grabbed the Glock, opened the door, and slowly approached the pickup. He raised the pistol when his eye caught sight of the shattered glass of the passenger’s window. Shards lay on the ground showing they’d been blown outward.
Mullins heard the buzzing. Khoury had fled not more than twenty minutes earlier, but that was enough time for the flies to find his body.
He lay across the passenger’s seat, amid blood and brains. The driver’s window was open. Someone had neatly and efficiently tied up a loose end, and Mullins had no doubt that whoever had murdered Khoury had tied him in as well.
Chapter Twenty-four
At ten-thirty Wednesday morning, Amanda Church raced down the hall from the conference room to her office, anxious to check her phone for any message from Mullins.
The meeting had run an hour over. Normally, she could have excused herself after updating her colleagues on her cyber-security projects, but Neil Osmond, the Fed’s security director, wanted her to remain for the discussion of the final arrangements for the upcoming Fourth of July Open House.
As part of the PR campaign to dispel its image of secrecy and closed-door dealmaking, the Federal Reserve was turning its exhibit hall and cafeteria into a celebration called “Our Glorious Fourth.” Photographs spanning one hundred fifty years chronicled the nation’s Independence Day festivities and made the not-so-subtle connection th
at nothing was more “American” than the Federal Reserve.
Next Saturday’s public event stood in sharp contrast to normal procedures for exhibitions at the Fed’s headquarters at 20th and Constitution Avenue NW. Groups wanting to tour had to call days in advance, give detailed personal information more in keeping with admittance to Fort Knox, and then wait for a security clearance. The one-time departure from the screening process meant extra personnel and scanning equipment needed to be in place. Amanda’s Secret Service background tapped her as a valuable asset for reviewing all aspects of the operation.
Ted Lewison, president of Prime Protection, had also been in the meeting. One awkward moment arose when Amanda’s boss asked whether Rusty Mullins would be part of Lewison’s detail. Osmond said Mullins knew the layout of the building as well as anyone.
Saddling Mullins with the assignment would ruin Amanda’s ability to work with him in pursuit of Luguire’s killer. She was ready to publicly question Mullins’ fitness for duty while Luguire’s death was still under investigation. If her doubts got back to Mullins, he would understand why she’d trashed his name. He needed to be isolated and insulated.
But Lewison had replied that Mullins was on vacation the next two weeks and unavailable. Mullins wasn’t mentioned again.
Amanda unlocked her office and went straight to her phone. The message light flashed.
“We need to talk.” Mullins’ voice sounded calm and restrained, but the words told her something had happened. She noted the message had been left at eight-ten. She dialed the pre-paid from memory.
“I’m on I-85 near Harrisonburg,” Mullins said. “A couple hours out of D.C.”
“I’m in the office.”
Mullins proceeded cautiously, not trusting the security of either his cellphone or Amanda’s line. “I found our person of interest.”
“You’ve talked?”
“Yes. But he won’t be saying anything further.”
Amanda understood Fares Khoury was dead. “You?”
“No. He abruptly terminated our conversation. Someone else got the last word. I wasn’t there. But now that we’ve got a pair, I think we’d better play our hand. The game’s not going to last much longer.”
Amanda realized Mullins wanted to bring in law enforcement. Things were too hot for him. He could now be linked to Craig Archer and Fares Khoury and the longer he stayed off the grid, the more suspicious his actions appeared. She would have to give him assurances. “Anyone else know?”
“I made a call.”
“What?” Amanda sat down, unnerved that Mullins had jumped the gun.
“A courtesy call to the locals. I didn’t take any credit.”
“Okay.” She breathed easier. Mullins had phoned in an anonymous tip, and she was confident he’d been discreet. The situation could still be controlled.
“Look,” Mullins said. “Something’s come up. Time is critical.”
Mullins’ normally calm voice bore an edge. Amanda could hear he was ready to go it alone. “I’ll take it to key people,” she said. “People we can trust. But first we need to talk.”
“I agree. Back to the beginning. At two.”
Amanda checked her calendar. “Fine.” She dropped the receiver on the cradle. Back to the beginning. Their meeting at Barnes and Noble would be at two. She’d be ready.
Mullins laid the cellphone in the cup holder between the front seats of the Prius. The traffic light at the bottom of the Shirlington ramp off I-395 was still red. He’d lied to Amanda about his location because he knew she’d want to see him right away. He needed time to think.
He reached in the pocket of his windbreaker and removed the envelope he’d taken from Khoury’s farmhouse. It held the scrawled word “REMEMBER” and the severed tresses of black hair. He remembered the pitiful wail in Khoury’s voice—“Please don’t hurt my family.” Those words were honest and heartfelt. Mullins thought about the photograph of Khoury and his wife and daughter tucked in the bag protecting the Koran. The happy family standing in front of their house. Before the foreclosure sign marred the yard. Before Khoury descended into some desperate scheme to get his home and life back. A scheme that left him dead in a pickup truck near Staunton, Virginia.
Mullins knew the local police in Staunton would be baffled. Hell, he was baffled. Khoury had grabbed only his cellphone and Mullins couldn’t find it in the pickup. Its log of Khoury’s calls was gone and Mullins had no way of tracing the number. Khoury said someone had come to the farmhouse the day before and taken his journal and expense receipts. Khoury thought it was Mullins, which meant there was a good chance he’d mentioned Mullins’ name in the journal as someone he was expecting. When and how that journal would appear worried Mullins. It linked him to a conspirator in a planned bombing of an unknown target. Mullins now sat on too much information and too much evidence. He and Amanda would have to trust someone.
“Laurie, I’m looking at this from the outside in and I don’t like what I see.” Mullins spoke to his wife as if she sat in the passenger’s seat. The words came so natural that at first he didn’t realize he was talking to a dead woman.
And then for the first time since he buried her, Mullins heard her voice ring clearly in his head. “Not outside in, but upside down.”
A horn blared behind him. He snapped back into the moment, drove through the green light, and headed home.
His landline had recorded one call. Probably a telemarketer, since most of the people Mullins wanted to hear from knew his mobile. But he’d had the cell turned off for more than a day.
Mullins hit the replay button and Sidney Levine said, “I know about Walter Thomson. Call me.”
Mullins felt the hairs on his neck prickle. How the hell did Sidney Levine get the same name that the Roanoke police used when they called his cellphone? Mullins guessed the police found the slip of paper on which he’d written the number, made a routine check, and decided he wasn’t important. He had no clue why they thought the number belonged to Walter Thomson. Sidney Levine knew something. Or had done something. Mullins used the landline’s log memory to find the call. Monday night. 9:08. After Craig Archer had been murdered.
“Call me.” Mullins could do better than that. By the end of the day, Sidney Levine would see him face to face.
Chapter Twenty-five
Curtis Jordan sat on a park bench and reviewed what he’d written. The story stood at a crucial point where he’d created the character motivations and relationships and only needed the trigger event to set the action in motion for his pre-ordained outcome. Most readers didn’t appreciate the skill needed to construct the set-up so that the climax was both surprising and inevitable. But their appreciation of story structure wasn’t his goal. The story either worked or it didn’t. He achieved the desired impact or he failed. No author could write an apology to the reader as the epilogue.
Jordan closed his journal and capped his fountain pen. He tucked both in his briefcase and tilted his head back to let the rays of the late afternoon sun warm his face. Unlike many writers, Curtis Jordan could work anywhere. The park bench in Luxembourg Gardens was a favorite nook. The sounds around him, the splash of the fountain, children laughing as they sailed boats in the decorative pool, the hum of voices in a multitude of languages, all these merged into white noise, wrapping him in a creative cocoon while simultaneously stimulating his imagination.
His phone rang, breaking through the self-induced reverie. Amanda. She’d be at work. It was a little before eleven in the states.
“Hi, dear.” Jordan shifted on the bench, angling away from the fountain.
“Mullins called.”
“I told you he’d check in. Mullins isn’t one to go rogue when he knows he can trust you.”
“He’s making progress. He found Fares Khoury.”
“Good. Mullins is a smart guy.”
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“He told me Khoury was killed as he tried to leave the farmhouse.”
“Did he see who did it?”
“No. He found Khoury’s body in his pickup truck at the edge of the property.”
Jordan picked up his briefcase and walked toward a more secluded section of the gardens. “What’d he do then?”
“He called the police.”
“What? I thought he agreed to work outside the authorities?”
“He called anonymously. But with three people dead, Luguire, Archer, and now Khoury, Mullins feels the pressure to bring in real law enforcement.”
Jordan stopped and looked at the flowers around him. “Doesn’t he know that would be turning loose a herd of elephants in a garden? Surely he’s worried about tipping off whoever killed Luguire, especially if he’s getting close.”
“I think Mullins wants to make sure the police have access to all the evidence without sharing how to interpret that evidence. He’s in a ticklish position.”
“So are you,” Jordan cautioned. “You’ve got your own career and credibility to think of. You want me to come home?”
“No, definitely not.” She laughed. “You’re like Mycroft Holmes, Sherlock’s older, smarter brother who could solve cases without leaving his armchair.”
“I prefer a park bench.”
“Then sit on it and think. I’m meeting Mullins at two and we’ll assess what to do from this point. I told him I’d be the one to take it up the ladder.”
“Good. See if Mullins is tied to Khoury in any way. I imagine he’s already a person of interest with the Roanoke and Arlington police departments.”
“All right. But he got the Khoury farmhouse lead from me, and Roanoke is looking for a Walter Thomson and a Mr. Brown, two people Archer spoke with the day he was killed. Mullins is off their radar. I think he still has room to maneuver.”
“He won’t if he talks to the feds, but he’ll understand that. What about the Arlington police?”
The 13th Target Page 12
