Ron leans over to Mrs. Kolfax and excuses himself to go to the restroom. She sits beside Justin on the curb and continues to point out characters to the delighted toddler.
"How the hell did this happen?" Solarez demands of the agent assigned to Ron.
"Sir, I was right with him,” Simpson nervously reports. “He went in, and then he vanished. I searched both inside and behind the building in the alley. He just up and vanished, left the other two right on the sidewalk. We questioned her and she had no clue. He must’ve been abducted, surely he wouldn’t leave them, especially the kid. The only lead we got is that he borrowed her phone earlier."
He gives Solarez the number.
“Where are the nanny and the boy now?”
"They're with Agent Dashiell, still watching the parade. Do you think we should extricate them?”
"Tell Dashiell and one other agent to take them back to Sherwood. You stay and supervise the ground search. Surveil for any suspicious activity within a quarter mile immediately. We’ll ask the county police to set up a perimeter no more than a mile outside Annapolis, and we’ll start reviewing surveillance footage of the highways. I’ll get back to you on the perimeter and the roadblock details. That’ll be all," Solarez practically shrieks, his voice an octave above his usual tone.
He thinks a moment, lowers the phone from his ear, then addresses the analyst seated in front of him in the FBI situation room. "Andrews, put agents on this immediately and coordinate with local law enforcement. We need the surveillance cams, license plate checks and a satellite feed. Send me some coordinates on that cell phone ASAP. We have a fluid situation here!"
Solarez pans his gaze along the various monitors arrayed before the other analysts. Who grabbed Michaels? Who could be audacious enough? And does it relate to the contacts he got from the Chinese double agent?
The man places the phone in the holster, holding the groggy animal still. He then steps cautiously away from it, and it trots away. He runs to the rental car parked along the park roadway.
Within minutes, the analysts are picking up pings from Kolfax's cell phone.
"Agent Solarez, we’re getting pings from Fort Belvedere Park.”
"Mobilize the SWAT team pronto and open a channel so we can communicate as soon as they're in position. Confirm when our perimeter is in place."
Within minutes, two FBI SWAT teams roar into the parking areas closest to the cellphone pings.
"Patch me into them," Solarez tells the analyst in front of him.
“You’re live, sir.”
“Team, this is Agent Solarez. Let’s stage from both the east and west side. No telling what we're going to find. We have a very valuable government researcher who we believe was kidnapped by foreign agents. Do not shoot to kill, we need this guy alive. We'll send you a headshot of him. No one else from our side should be there. Again, do not shoot to kill.”
The east and west teams, all in camo and equipped with GPS locators, coordinate their communications and begin entering the forested area. On the monitor, Solarez watches their progress as the cellphone pings move in an evasive zig-zag up a steep hill.
After both teams advance several hundred yards into the forest brush and patchwork of mature oaks and pines, the east team leader consults the feed being sent from FBI headquarters showing the location of the pings in relation to their approach.
"A hundred yards from target, sir," he whispers.
"Seventy-five yards from target," the west team leader adds.
"Any visual yet?" Solarez responds.
"Negative sir, east team."
"Negative, west team."
"Report when you get a visual on hostiles or the missing researcher.”
Suddenly the ping reverses direction and starts descending the hill.
"Target changing direction."
"Any visual?"
"Yes sir. It’s…an animal sir. I see the antlers, a deer," the west team leader reports hesitantly.
"Could be a decoy, disable it!" Solarez shouts.
The agent shoots a tranquilizer dart from a pistol and the large deer falls with a thump into a bed of leaves. With guns drawn, both teams warily approach the downed deer, fearing some kind of ambush. But nothing happens. They find a makeshift holster holding a cellphone strapped to the buck’s shoulder.
"Agent Solarez, we’ve got the phone, but still no sign of your researcher. No sign of any humans at all, actually. Looks to be a ruse, sir.”
"We've been taken for fools! They strapped the phone to a freaking deer. We've been wasting precious time!"
"We're still holding the perimeter, and we’ve been checking every suspicious vehicle," an analyst in the situation room tells the agitated Solarez.
"Fine. Any ideas on where we should be looking now?"
“Planes, trains, automobiles, the usual. Guess we can add boats too. With the hundreds of waterways in the area, they could slip him out virtually anywhere."
"Besides our perimeter, we’ve got nothing. I want surveillance footage of the roads leading out of downtown from one hour before he went missing. Get the manifests for all ferries and public boats in Annapolis and have an agent check them for suspicious activity.”
Solarez tries unsuccessfully to untie the knot in his stomach. It wouldn’t make sense for a foreign government to kill Ron Michaels, which is good news because that means he’s probably still alive, and bad news because they will torture him for his telomere research.
Chapter 48
The Axing
Franklin looks at his lunch, then his watch—1:05 p.m. Where is Ryan? A tap from behind startles him. He turns and sees Ryan standing behind the park bench facing the Washington Monument.
"Daddy, can we go all the way to the top?" a little girl asks a man pushing a toddler in the umbrella stroller past them, momentarily distracting Franklin.
The former SEAL walks around the bench and sits beside him.
"What’s so urgent? And why are we meeting here? Have you seen one too many spy movies?” Ryan asks, looking at the monument behind a pair of blue-tinted aviator sunglasses.
"It's Angie. She’s going to tell him."
"Michaels?”
Franklin nods.
Ryan scans the horizon and the people nearby—a couple laying on the grass 20 feet away, a guy flying a box kite. Ryan has a plastic cup for his chew, and Franklin notices the subtle bulge along Ryan’s right cheek.
"I hate to say it, but something has to be done, we have to protect ourselves. I slipped once and told her some details about how the government paid off Hemispheres. And I asked her to bug Michaels’ office and she turned me down."
"You just said 'we.' She doesn't have any idea who I am, right?" Ryan asks, eyeing Franklin.
"I'm not sure."
"Not sure? How the hell could she know who I am? Did you ever use my name?"
“No, not that I recall. But somehow she found out I was also, uh, involved, with a young female lawyer at my law firm. She said to never contact her again, but--….”
“Now I get it.” Ryan says, before spitting some chew into the cup. "What do you propose?"
"Is there a way to, uh, do this so it can never be traced to us?"
Ryan knew this was what Franklin would propose, but wanted to make him say it. After she risked her job and reputation for him, this spineless excuse for a man wants to knock her off. Better yet, he wants me to knock her off.
"It could be an unfortunate accident," Franklin adds.
"Or the suicide of a distraught lover?"
"Well my wife is bound to find out, if she doesn’t know already, and truthfully, I don't want to leave her. Suicide could make it look like I broke it off with her, which might help save my marriage.”
"What if it looks like she did it in your office while you’re out?”
"In my office? No way.”
They spend a few moments watching the tourists walking by, taking pictures of the pool and monuments.
“How about in t
he tub at her apartment? Too many pills or something?” Ryan suggests.
"That sounds better.”
"Be sure you have an airtight alibi. Sending emails from your office would be good. That way there’s a paper trail showing where you were.”
“Yeah, that’s good. But how will you get into her place? She never gave me a key.”
“The less you know, the better. Don’t text or call my cell on Thursday. I’ll give you a landline you can call from a payphone if necessary. Stay at your office at least until 8:00, and send an email every 15 minutes or so. Do you understand?"
“Yes. We can discuss your payment afterward.”
“That’s fine, I know you’re good for it.”
Chapter 49
Terrible Thud
Angie Tipton dips her spoon into the pint-size Cherry Garcia frozen yogurt while watching the 11:00 p.m. news.
“We have breaking news from the district. Paul Franklin, a local attorney, died tonight around 8:00 p.m. after what police are investigating as a possible suicide.”
“Oh my God,” Angie says out loud to the emptiness of her kitchen as she hears a spoon clatter to the tile floor, unaware she overturned the container. She leans on the kitchen counter, closer to the TV.
“It appears Franklin, a partner with Leftwish & Franklin, jumped from the 12th floor of his office building at 1873 K Street, N.W. His body landed on the corner, near 19th, in front of several shocked eyewitnesses. Our reporter, Paul Slocumb, is at the scene with some of them now. Paul?”
"Yes, this is eyewitness reporter Walt Slocumb, reporting from 19th and K Streets. You can see the police tape behind us where investigators are still examining the scene. With me is Mona Washington, who's employed at the G&C Electronics store right across the street from where the victim fell. Ms. Washington, can you tell our viewers what you witnessed?"
The camera shot widens from Slocumb to include the eyewitness.
"I was out on the sidewalk, pulling in a cart with some of our display items, and I heard a terrible thud in the street. I looked over and I saw the guy right after he fell. A couple of cars stopped right away and I ran out there to see what was going on. Jesus, it was the worst thing I've ever seen. There was blood all around his head. I think he was still alive when I first saw him cuz his eyes were open for a few seconds. I leaned down close, but he didn’t say anything. Then an ambulance pulled up and I just backed away to let them do their job. It was horrible. Oh, and then someone pointed up at the building and there was a hole in the window on the 12th floor.”
“Thanks Ms. Washington. I’ll provide updates as we receive them."
The anchor at the studio continues the story.
"Forty-eight-year-old Paul Franklin gained some notoriety in defending Hemispheres Airways when one of its jets crashed in Quarryville, Pennsylvania, and had recently filed a lawsuit against the U.S. and D.C. attorney Andy Michaels, alleging a secret payoff to Hemispheres airline by the government. Franklin leaves behind his wife and two teenage children. We will keep you posted as we learn more about the victim and any possible motives.”
Angie grabs a tissue from the box in the guest bathroom and sobs, wondering who she can call. Ultimately, she decides it would be best not to call anyone. She curls up on the couch where she finally falls asleep until about 3:00 a.m., when she awakens and groggily changes into her nightshirt before heading to bed.
Part 3
Chapter 50
Mobilization
Solarez calls together his lead analyst and 10 other FBI counterintelligence agents. They gather in a lopsided semi-circle around him in a large situation room full of half-wall dividers and non-descript desks scattered with monitors, printers, keyboards, and scanners. Large flat-screens hang on several walls, as well as a whiteboard where Solarez stands, dry-erase marker in hand.
"Listen up. Whatever you’re currently working on has to wait. This investigation is now your highest priority. A government biologist was working under an assumed identity at the Sherwood lab when he vanished at a parade in Annapolis this afternoon. His name is Ron Michaels, the public believes he was killed in the Hemispheres plane crash, but he wasn’t on the doomed jet. He’s the father of Amanda Michaels, the sole survivor of the crash. Also, an attorney named Paul Franklin committed suicide by jumping from a window at his law office today. We’re thinking the two are connected because Franklin was the guy filing the lawsuit on behalf of Hemispheres against the government and Andy Michaels.”
“Yesterday we received credible intelligence that the one-year-old boy Michaels has been raising at Sherwood is not his biological son. We aren’t sure how his real son was kidnapped, or where he is, but we think it happened in the first minutes after he was born in Canada and that the boy is being used as some sort of bargaining chip.”
One of the analysts raises his hand and Solarez acknowledges him.
“Why was he born in Canada?”
“That’s not important. Let’s focus on what is. The surrogate was a French-Canadian named Odette something—her last name’s in the file. We’ve got to find her, and if we can’t, we need to review her parents’ email and phone records and interview them. Next, we’ll investigate everyone involved in the delivery—doctors, nurses, aides—to see if any of them were paid by a foreign intelligence agency to help in the kidnapping. Michaels may have figured out the boy wasn’t his son and decided he would try to find him, without our help. Or, it could be the kidnappers are extorting him and he went to pay them off. Or maybe they took him too and are promising they’ll reunite him with his real son if he researches for them. All theories are plausible until proven otherwise.
“As far as the suspects in Canada, I discussed the operation with the Canadian Security Intelligence Service in Québec, where the baby was born. They are giving us access to the computer and phone data for Odette, her parents, and everyone involved in the hospital delivery.
“I’m pretty sure this baby and Michaels are alive because frankly, if they’ve been kidnapped, they’re worth more alive than dead. Oh, and since this work is in Canada, we will team with CIA operatives because it’s out of our jurisdiction.”
A question from another analyst, this time a young female. “What type of research was he working on?”
“All I can say is it was being done under a highly classified White House directive. This case is your number-one priority. Jones, Epstein, divide the available agents. Jones team focuses on Ron Michaels; Epstein’s team on the boy, Justin. That’ll be all.”
Chapter 51
Done?
Thursday, 7:50 p.m. Paul Franklin hits the send button on another alibi email.
A man makes his way down a back hall and looks at his watch: 7:52 p.m. He notices the light under the closed door to Franklin’s office. When he turns the doorknob with his gloved hand and enters the office, he startles the already on-edge attorney. Ignoring the two client chairs and Franklin, he strides past the mahogany desk to the floor-to-ceiling glass windows allowing the city lights to twinkle into the room.
"Is it done?" Franklin asks, standing slightly behind him.
No answer. Instead the other man simply stares out the windows toward the White House, visible between two high-rises. Beyond is the dome of the U.S. Capitol to the left and the Washington Monument to the right.
“Why won’t you answer me?” The redness of Franklin’s face now extends down his neck. He takes a few steps toward the windows to see what his visitor seems fixated upon.
“It’ll be done soon,” Ryan finally whispers.
Franklin turns toward him angrily.
"It’s still not done? How could you delay this? I’ve hardly been able to function for the last couple days, let alone work!”
With lightning speed, Ryan sweeps a small hammer-like tool from his rear pants pocket and strikes the window. The tempered glass shatters into thousands of tiny pieces. Franklin throws his hands up instinctively to protect himself from the shards, simultaneously Ryan donkey
kicks Franklin in his midsection. Franklin's body bends into an unnatural u-shape as the inertia propels him through the remaining stalagmites and stalactites of glass. His shocked face, still facing toward the inside of the building, emits a blood-curdling scream that fades as he falls from the upper floor of the office building. Then it abruptly ends.
Ryan picks up the tool and shoves it back in his pocket. He surveys the room, confident he hasn't touched anything, before placing the suicide note—typed on Franklin’s computer the day before through remote access—on the blotter. He fishes out the hammer Franklin kept in his desk drawer and puts it on the floor by the gaping hole in the glass, which allows the soft night wind to blow into the room. He drops one of the earrings he stole from Melanie Franklin’s jewelry box earlier in the day near the opening surrounded by jagged glass shards, then walks out.
Retracing his steps through the interior hall to the stairwell and back up to the fitness center, he avoids all surveillance cameras. In a bathroom stall of the locker room he changes into a disguise drastically different from the grungy dreadlocks he wore when entering the building earlier. He stuffs the other clothing along with the adhesive plastic pieces he placed on his shoe soles to disguise his footprints back into his gym bag. His new lawyerly disguise consists of a black trench coat, tortoise-rim glasses and wing-tipped shoes. Last, he stuffs the gym bag into a black rolling briefcase before exiting the building.
Joining the growing crowd of rubberneckers, he silently exhibits his horror while thinking to himself that the street is only a temporary barrier to Franklin’s further descent to hell. Another falling man, remindful of the photo in the 9/11 museum.
Targeting the Telomeres, A Thriller Page 14
