“That’s why I called.”
Jordan glanced at his wristwatch. Ten past midnight. “Are you still at the office?”
“Yes. On my line. I wanted to tell you about my meeting with Mullins.”
“Is he coming in?”
“No. He’s staying clear. He agrees with me that there’s got to be someone involved in the conspiracy from the inside.”
“Did he say who?”
“No. He even said he’s not so sure of me.”
“That’s being suspicious to a fault. If he doesn’t trust you, how’s he going to make any progress?”
“He was kidding. He knows I wouldn’t have told him about Luguire if I were involved. Besides, he’s figured out all twelve Federal Reserve Banks are being targeted by terrorists.”
Jordan sat up and grabbed his pen and journal. “And he’s telling you to sit on that information?”
“No. He told me to get a meeting with Rudy Hauser. Mullins trusts him and he knows I do as well.”
Jordan jotted down Hauser’s name. “Does Mullins want to be there?”
“No. He’s concerned if he’s under surveillance any approach he makes to a government agency could spook the conspirators. He understands we’re walking a fine line to keep them unaware that we’re on to their plot.”
“Mullins knows there’s not much time.”
“Khoury told him there’s a thirteenth target, and I told him it must be the Fourth of July event at Washington headquarters. I urged him to come with me because by then we’ll have no more need for secrecy.”
Jordan thought a few minutes, giving time for any workings of his creative subconscious to bubble up. “Okay. Is Mullins expecting you to report on your meeting with Hauser?”
“He wants to stay clear of me too.”
“Then how are you arranging communication?”
Amanda hesitated, and Jordan sensed she was holding back. “Amanda, I don’t want you out on your own with this.”
“I know. It’ll be Friday night. That’s our plan. Everything should be set by then.”
Jordan gripped his phone tighter. “Remember, you’re the only one with official responsibility. If Mullins does an end-run around you, the questions will be, what did you know and when did you know it? Washington’s favorite mantra for skewering a scapegoat. You need to keep Mullins close and you need to keep him accountable.”
“I will. Don’t worry.”
“And give him a report on the meeting with Rudy Hauser. He’ll want to know what steps are being taken. He’ll expect the counter-terrorism measures to be completely imperceptible so he’ll count on you as his source for the government’s plan.”
“I’ve got it. I understand how important Mullins is.”
“All right.” Jordan sighed. He had no more advice to give her. “Now that an investigation is moving into official channels, we’d better limit our calls. I don’t want you accused of sharing confidential information with me. Maybe telephone me on your cellphone with some chitchat that can be tapped without raising suspicions.”
“The good wife checking up on her husband?”
Jordan laughed. “On second thought, maybe I should be the one checking on you.” He hung up before she had a chance for a comeback.
In Washington, D.C., Amanda dropped the receiver in the cradle and got up from her desk. Had her husband’s last comment been a joke, or had he given her a warning? The man had uncanny insights. The traits that attracted her to him were also traits she saw in Rusty Mullins. For that reason alone, she wanted to stay close to Mullins. As close as necessary.
Curtis Jordan went back to his writing desk. He reviewed the paragraph he been re-working, but instead of continuing, he let his thoughts roam free. What he wrote next wasn’t a sentence but a heading. “Rogue Characters.” He underlined it, and then centered one name beneath it. “Russell Mullins.”
Chapter Thirty-one
Sidney Levine realized he shouldn’t have had the fourth beer. Or he should have had something to eat. When Sullivan cut him loose from the station, he’d been shaken. Shaken by the bank video, shaken by the detective’s accusations, and shaken that he hadn’t seen how events could be turned against him.
As a reporter, he took pride in not just uncovering a story but also analyzing its impact and implications. That’s what had drawn him to the Federal Reserve, an institution cloaked in secrecy and wielding unparalleled power over the United States and the world as well. But the links Sidney tried to forge in his investigation of Luguire’s death had ensnared him instead. And Mullins was either out there as a potential murderer or a potential victim whose body was yet to be discovered.
Sidney got up from the table and felt the room tilt slightly. He left a twenty under his last bottle of Heineken and negotiated his way through Clyde’s bar scene without waiting for a bill. The staff all knew him. His waiter waved good night and then hurried to the table before the twenty disappeared.
Outside, the muggy air refused to cool. Despite the heat, streetlights illuminated throngs of young professionals and summer tourists on the Georgetown sidewalks. Sidney wanted to get lost in a crowd and so he went with the flow, aimlessly drifting up Wisconsin Avenue.
He’d left his car halfway between Clyde’s and his Q Street apartment. When the physical exertion and heat had sweated out the beer and cleared his head, he realized he’d walked beyond both his car and his address. The car would be fine for the night. Sidney headed straight for his apartment, anxious to get on his computer and float Craig Archer’s name as someone who had possible dealings with Paul Luguire and was now dead. Sidney knew no reason other than Mullins’ visit to the banker as to why there should be a connection. But that was the beauty of the Internet, making anonymous speculation without a shred of evidence.
Sidney stopped in the hall outside his apartment and listened. No music. His heart rate surged. He’d left the FM station playing when he’d gone to meet Sullivan. Then a gentle swell of orchestral strings broke the silence. He put the key in the lock and opened the door.
Without turning on the light, he hurried to his desk and opened his laptop. The screensaver, a quill pen smashing a sword, came to life as the device woke from hibernation.
“Don’t turn around.” The gruff voice barked the words from behind.
Sidney’s knees weakened. He gripped the back of his desk chair to keep from collapsing. “What do you want?” The question came as a strangled whisper.
“Who is Walter Thomson?”
“Mullins?” The name was both an answer and a question to the intruder.
“Sit down.”
Sidney rolled the chair from the desk and nearly fell into the seat.
“Now, swivel around slowly.”
Sidney twisted the chair to face the man. The glow of the computer screen revealed a murky figure standing against the far bookcase. He held something in his right hand. A dull black tube extended toward the floor. Sidney shivered at what he saw as a gun with a silencer.
The man raised his right arm and snapped on a small flashlight. The brilliant halogen beam struck Sidney squarely in the eyes.
“Who is Walter Thomson?”
This time Sidney clearly recognized Rusty Mullins’ voice.
“You, I guess. The name you used when you met with Craig Archer.”
“Who told you that?”
“The teller. I went in the bank after the bomb scare. Said I was supposed to meet you. The teller phoned up to Archer’s office and was told the only appointment of the morning had been with Walter Thomson.”
Mullins studied the reporter’s eyes. No signs of shifting, just a frightened deer-in-the-headlights gaze devoid of cunning and calculation.
“You gave her my name?”
Sidney nodded. “I was hoping they could tel
l me where you’d gone. As soon as I understood you used a phony name, I left. I thought maybe you were working undercover.”
“And why did you leave that message on my home phone?”
“I didn’t have your cell, and I didn’t know where you were. I was trying to force you to make contact so I could find out what was going on.”
“Who else did you tell?”
Sidney glanced away for a split-second.
“Don’t lie to me.”
“I’m not. I’m thinking.” Sidney was afraid to say Detective Sullivan, but maybe that was his only chance. If Mullins was a killer and he thought Sidney hadn’t said anything, then he might silence him permanently. “Detective Sullivan.”
“Anybody else?”
“Not from me. But Sullivan knows I’m trying to reach you. If something happens to me, he’ll know you did it.”
“You know what happened to Archer?”
Sidney’s voice failed. He nodded.
“Is that why you told Sullivan?”
“I didn’t tell him about Archer. I just said I’d overheard you say you were going to Roanoke. I didn’t want to implicate you in anything you weren’t involved with.”
“And you didn’t want me getting away with murder if I was guilty.”
“I figured Sullivan would learn about Archer’s death on his own.”
“So, now he thinks I killed Archer?”
“No. I don’t think he believes you saw Archer. He thinks I killed him and that I’m trying to frame you.”
Mullins considered both the story and the man telling it. He laughed. The dumpy reporter was as likely to be an assassin as he was to score the winning touchdown in the next Super Bowl.
Anger replaced the fear in Sidney’s eyes. “You find that funny?”
“I do.” Mullins crossed the room to the light switch and turned on the overhead. “More importantly, I believe you. Now why doesn’t Sullivan believe you?”
Sidney took a deep breath and tried to stop his hands from shaking. “He saw me on the bank’s security cameras and he didn’t see you. I lied to him while he thinks you’ve played straight. He’s concerned you’ve disappeared. He didn’t say it, but I’m afraid he thinks you’re dead and that I might have killed both you and Archer.”
Mullins sat down on a worn sofa next to the bookcase. “What were you planning to do next?”
Sidney nodded toward the computer. “Log on. Post a few inquiries about Archer and wonder about a connection to Luguire. See if the viral tide washes anything up.”
“Has Sullivan told the Roanoke police about me?”
“He hadn’t when I saw him. Like me, he didn’t want to screw up something you had working.”
Mullins glanced at his watch. Nine-thirty. “Was Sullivan pulling second shift?”
“I don’t know.”
“When did you see him?”
“Around four. He left me a voicemail earlier about a break in the case. That’s what lured me into the station.”
“Call him.”
“Now?”
“No,” Mullins snapped. “On Christmas.”
Sidney brought up the list of recent calls, recognized the Arlington Police Department, and punched callback. “What if he’s not there?”
“Then tell the duty officer to find him. You’ve got information you’ll only give to him.” Mullins got up and stood beside Sidney’s chair. “When he comes on the line, give the phone to me.”
Sidney expected Sullivan to be out, but the officer who answered put him on hold and in less than minute, Sidney heard the familiar voice.
“Sullivan.”
“It’s Sidney Levine. Hang on a second.”
Mullins took the phone. “This is Mullins. Don’t say my name out loud.”
“Okay. Where are you?”
“Where are you?” Mullins demanded.
“At my desk. Alone.”
“We need to talk face to face.”
“All right. Come on in.”
“No way,” Mullins said. “We need to sort things out first.”
“Have you got blood on your hands?”
“No, but three people were killed within hours of being with me.”
Sidney moaned and rolled his chair away.
“Three?” Sullivan asked.
“Yeah. And I’m afraid there might be more.”
“So people die who are with you and you want to see me face to face.”
Mullins had to laugh. “Yeah. But you’re a cop. You don’t count.”
“How about the reporter?”
“Sidney’s fine. He’s not a hostage, if that’s what you’re thinking. A hostage has to be of value to somebody.”
“Thanks a lot,” Sidney muttered.
“All right,” Sullivan said. “It’s your show. Where do you want to meet?”
“There’s an apartment on Q Street. I’ll give you the address.”
Sidney jumped from the chair. “He’s coming here?”
Mullins waved him to be quiet, and then gave Sullivan directions.
“I’ll be there in less than thirty,” the detective promised.
Mullins handed Sidney the phone. “You expecting company?”
“No. My girlfriend’s working tonight.”
“Okay.” Mullins pointed to the computer. “Don’t post anything till we talk to Sullivan.”
“Sure.” The shock at Mullins’ break-in had transformed into excitement. Sidney didn’t know Mullins’ game, but right then he didn’t care. He was a player.
As if reading the reporter’s mind, Mullins said, “Sullivan might not want to talk in front of you.”
“I’ll keep this meeting off the record. I swear.”
“But if he’s adamant about it, you might have to take a hike.”
“This is my place. I have a right to be here.”
Mullins stepped closer. “You don’t want me as your enemy.”
Mullins may have been ten years older, but Sidney knew the man could take him without breaking a sweat.
“You’ve kept your head so far,” Mullins said. “I appreciate that you didn’t go for an easy headline tying me to Archer. You knew there was something bigger going on. Well, it might be so big that you won’t just be writing a story, you’ll be writing a book.”
Sidney felt the adrenaline rush he thought was gone for good.
“That’s if we play it right,” Mullins added. “Play it wrong, and you’ll be writing my obituary, assuming you’re still among the living.”
Chapter Thirty-two
Kayli Woodson thumbed through the current issue of Entertainment Weekly, but her mind wasn’t on the “who’s in/who’s out” gossip of Hollywood. She had problems of her own. Ten o’clock and no word from her father. To make matters worse, her husband Allen missed their seven o’clock call, and Josh refused to go to bed because he hadn’t said good night to either Daddy or Paw Paw.
She finally got Josh down an hour late and read his favorite stories till he fell asleep. She wanted to go to bed, but her mind kept racing. She hadn’t seen her father so keyed-up since her mother’s illness, and at least then, she’d been able to share part of the burden.
Her cellphone vibrated on the end table beside her chair. The caller ID read RESTRICTED.
She grabbed it. “Hello.” She heard the sound she hoped for. Silence. The line was dead for a few seconds.
“Hi, babe. Sorry I missed the call.” Lieutenant Commander Allen Woodson sounded exhausted.
“You okay, honey?” Silence again as the communication routing delayed both ends of the connection.
“Yes. We had an all-nighter.”
Kayli knew her husband couldn’t talk about his work, espe
cially over a POTS line. As an O-4, he supervised a UAV squadron—unmanned aerial vehicles—and Kayli assumed most of his operations occurred during daylight. But with high-tech, infra-red, and only God and the Pentagon knew what else, Allen had a twenty-four-hour job.
“You’re good to call. If it hadn’t taken forever to get Josh to sleep, I’d wake him.”
“What was wrong with him?”
“He misses you. So do I.”
“I miss you both. Maybe we’ll have a better connection Saturday. If you can work me in around the Washington Nationals.”
Kayli laughed with delight. “It’s a deal. I’ll let you know the TV time.” Her spirits rose at the prospect of seeing her husband face to face. In that brief exchange, she learned Allen would be docking at Bahrain on Saturday—the matching port to the Washington Nationals. Before he deployed, they had assigned Major League teams to all the possible ports of call. TV meant Skype, the video connection he wasn’t allowed to use at sea.
“Sounds good,” Allen said. “Sorry the time is so short.”
“That’s all right. I know you have a lot to do.” Kayli understood he was telling her the port destination had come up suddenly. Usually orders were posted several weeks out and their coded exchange might allow the chance for her to meet him.
“Anything new with your dad?”
Kayli’s brief respite of joy ended. “I haven’t heard from him in two days. Not since he called on his way to Florida. That’s not like him.”
The silence on the phone was longer than the transmission delay.
Finally, Allen asked, “Is he working with anyone?”
“Not that I know. I called Prime Protection this afternoon and they said he was on vacation.”
“Anyone at Federal Reserve?”
“He has a former colleague from Secret Service, Amanda Church, but he hasn’t mentioned her. I’m not sure what department she’s in.”
“Don Beecham might know.”
Kayli thought a second. “Dad and Don took the boys to a T-ball game Saturday. Dad could have said something.”
“Maybe. But your father’s tight-lipped about his work.”
The 13th Target Page 15
