by Ace Collins
“The gunshots and the bomb,” Heather said. “They were just part of the cover. But why would she take the formula? Who has it now?”
Lije walked over to Janie, pulled her up from the couch, and leaned his head on her forehead as he held her shoulders. “I’m so sorry about all this.”
“Don’t be,” Janie replied. “Remember, I told you that you can’t tame a mountain lion.”
Lije nodded, his gaze dropping to the coffee table. Diana had left her cell phone. He picked it up and scanned the most recent calls, both received and dialed. One name was on both. He punched Send.
“What’s you need, Diana?” a deep voice asked.
“It’s Evans, and I need to talk to you tonight. I’ll be at your place in three hours.”
“Make it four o’clock. Come alone.”
78
LIJE WAS MORE THAN AN HOUR EARLY FOR HIS meeting. The “Make it four o’clock” bothered him. Why the wait? There had to be a reason. Was someone there?
Lije drove slowly past the impressive Lake Maumelle shorefront home of Barton Hillman. His Crown Victoria was in the driveway. An Impala with a rental car sticker in the back window was parked behind it. A meeting was under way. That was the reason for the delay.
After parking a half block from the house, Lije picked his way through a stand of trees and came up on the lake side of the yard. Retrieving Curtis’s phone, he scanned her directory. Curtis was methodical. She recorded everything she might need, and this time her compulsive habits paid off. Under Barton Hillman’s name were four listings. The first three were phone numbers, but the last one contained only four digits. Odds were pretty good it was a security code. Moving quickly to the back door, Lije noted the coded lock. He tapped in the four digits and heard the sound of a latch sliding free. The pad blinked. He opened the door, tiptoed in, and gently closed the door behind him.
There was enough light coming from an outside security pole to reveal that he had entered the kitchen and the tile floor in front of him was clear. He tiptoed through the room into a long, carpeted hall. With the outside light now behind him, it was time to employ Janie-style thinking. He stood completely still, slowing even his breathing, tilted his head, and concentrated on the sounds of the home. In a room to his right was a ticking clock. Behind the door on his left, a soft popping might be from a water heater. He moved forward.
Five more steps took him past two doors, one on each side. He stopped again and listened. At first he detected nothing, but then, just to his right, he heard voices. A room off the hall was dark, but on the far wall he saw light coming from a partially open door. Holding his breath, he tried to focus. He heard two men. One was Hillman.
He got down on his hands and knees and began to crawl forward, inching along, using his hands to quietly pat the areas in front and on both sides, feeling for any obstacles he couldn’t see. He moved around a chair, a table, a potted plant. Halfway across the room, there was now enough light from the half-open door to reveal his path was clear. Rising to his feet, he silently moved forward until he was close enough to listen.
“I didn’t come here for small talk. I just want to know if you finally have it.”
“I told you I’d get it,” Hillman replied. “And I’m a man of my word.” The ABI director tapped an envelope. “You know what people call me?”
“Does it matter?”
Hillman cleared his throat as if preparing to lecture. “I’m the Puppet Master. I pull the strings and things happen. I control my world. I orchestrate everything at the ABI. This—” He tapped the envelope. “—gives us a much bigger stage.”
“Us? Barton, I thought this was about your patriotic fever. Didn’t know you expected me to help you move to Washington and put you on the president’s payroll.”
“I’m doing this for the right reasons,” Hillman said. “I could prove very valuable to this administration. The man running the CIA is an idiot. I would do much better.”
“Let’s talk about why I’m here,” Lije heard the visitor say. “What you get for your services will come later. I need to see what’s in that envelope.”
Lije held his breath. Finally the man said, “And this is the only copy?”
“That’s the original. I know Evans made no copies and neither have I.”
Lije leaned against the wall next to the doorway and, shielded by the door, looked through the narrow slot by the hinges. The two were in Hillman’s office. The room was lined with built-in bookshelves interrupted only by a door on the opposite side. Hillman was sitting behind his desk. Lije had a side view of him.
The man examining the stolen formula was in a chair directly across from the director. The visitor appeared to be about forty, clean shaven with a military-style haircut. He wore a dark suit, white shirt. His nose looked as though it had been broken at least once and his square jaw revealed a deep scar.
“I trust you’re satisfied,” the ABI director said.
“If it is what you say it is, then I’m pleased.”
“Consider what this will mean,” Hillman said. “With this toxin, the United States can control the economic and political balance of the entire world. If we find a pocket of terrorists, we can use this toxin to eliminate them. When others see it work a time or two and word gets out that we have it, no one will challenge us.”
“It is great blackmail,” the other man agreed.
Hillman laughed. “It’s so much more than blackmail. It’s power. Nothing scares people like a horribly painful, drawn-out death. This formula redefines the word terror in ways even Edgar Allen Poe couldn’t imagine. Who knew Hitler would become our savior. This formula will maintain our status as the world’s lone superpower. It’s like holding all the aces. This will bring stability to the world.”
Lije was stunned. Hillman saw himself as the ultimate patriot. By giving their government the deadly formula, he’d actually believed he’d be saving lives and guarantee the U.S.’s position in the world. What he was trying to do was admirable, in a twisted way. But it was dangerous. Suicidal.
“What has the president said?” Hillman asked. He sounded like a kid at Christmas.
“Nothing. He doesn’t know.”
“He doesn’t know? You’re in the White House every day. Who have you told?”
“No one.”
Lije leaned back toward the crack between the door and the doorway. The balance of power had shifted. Hillman looked confused. He didn’t notice the door to his right slowly open or the man who stood in the doorway.
The face from the past had now entered the present. Lije recognized the man depicted in an artist’s crime sketch.
“You told me you had orders from the top,” Hillman said, rising from his chair.
“What I told you is unimportant.”
Hillman reached for his desk’s middle drawer.
“Don’t try it, Barton. Take a look to your right.”
Standing there, holding a gun, was a man Lije knew only as Smith—the man he was now sure had shot Kaitlyn. His mind racing, Lije waited for what would come next.
“What’s this all about?” Hillman demanded. Realizing he’d been caught off guard, he slowly brought his hands up and held them out with palms forward.
The guest smiled. “It’s about this: in my hand I hold the power of the world. It’s worth a fortune. Twenty years in public service netted me nothing. Smith’s boss is willing to pay a great deal for this one piece of paper. He’s eager to even a few old scores.”
Hillman was in shock. He had unwittingly played into the hands of a friend who had actually been an enemy. The Puppet Master was no longer pulling the strings. “What scores?”
Although his tone remained friendly, the visitor’s explanation was chilling. “My generous friend’s grandfather invented this formula and created the only batch. He oversaw its loading into bombs that were placed on planes bound for the United States. The planes were loaded onto a ship that came to be known as the Ark of Death. About the time the shi
p was launched, a man named Bleicher broke into the lab and stole the only copy of the formula, then burned the lab and all the notes. Before General Renfeld could duplicate his research, he was killed by the underground.”
Renfeld. Another piece of the mystery fell into place. That’s why the Schneiders had never heard from him, Lije realized. That’s why the order was never given.
“Renfeld’s grandson,” the visitor continued, “has tracked down his grandfather’s assassin. The name is Klasser. His son became one of the early freedom fighters for Israel. There are wealthy enemies of Israel who will pay for what the Renfelds can and will deliver. They’ll get revenge and make a profit.”
Now it all made sense, Lije thought. Renfeld’s grandson—the unknown foreigner and Smith’s boss—knew Schleter had worked with Bleicher. He figured if the formula still existed, it’d be in the hands of someone Bleicher trusted. That meant the best hiding place had to be on Schleter’s property on Swope’s Ridge.
Kaitlyn had died because of Swope’s Ridge, because she got in the way. Lije now knew the why. And Smith was the who. Finally he had the man just a few feet away.
“Barton,” the guest continued, his tone still unnervingly friendly, “you’ve made me a very wealthy man. Tomorrow night, on CNN, the sad news that I died in a plane crash over the Atlantic on my way to a diplomatic mission in England will air. Except I won’t be on that plane. And I’m telling you now because you’ll never hear that report.”
The visitor turned toward the man in the doorway. “Mr. Smith, the money?”
With his foot Smith pushed a large suitcase toward the middle of the room.
“I’m sure there’s no need to count it,” the dealmaker and dealbreaker said. “And here’s what you want.”
Smith took the envelope and slipped it into his pocket.
Like a circus ringmaster, the dark-suited visitor announced, “Time to turn the lights out on Mr. Hillman’s career. I’m sure the ABI will give you an incredible funeral.”
In his push for power and fame, Barton Hillman had put himself on a train to oblivion. He’d misjudged the temptations of money and power. As the signs of recognition traced their way across his face, he seemed to realize he was powerless. He had sold his morals and integrity. He had shamed his office and tossed out his values. He had rationalized it all to make himself into a hero, and now he found himself a fool.
In a way, Lije thought, this final scene was justice. This was the way Hillman should go out. Yet, there was that small inside voice demanding that Lije do something to change the ending. For a brief instant he fought answering that call, knowing Hillman would not have saved him. But doing the wrong thing had created this situation. It was why so many had already died.
Pressing his shoulders hard against the sheet rock, Lije eased his toe against the bottom of the door. He took a deep breath and kicked the door, causing it to fly open and bang against the wall. The noise diverted the visitors’ attention, giving Hillman just enough time to fall to his knees and jerk open his desk drawer. By the time Smith turned his attention and his gun back toward the director, the ABI chief had his gun.
Two shots rang out.
79
IN A DEFENSIVE TACTIC, SMITH HAD MOVED TO his left as he fired a single shot. His blast caught Hillman just as the director pulled the trigger. The ABI-purchased bullet found a fleshy target, but not the one for which it had been intended. Smith’s quick move had placed him directly behind his confused business partner. As the lead tore into his chest, the wealthy visitor fell to his knees and crumpled forward over the money-filled suitcase.
The deal was done, but not in the way anyone intended.
The round that caught Hillman had driven him against the wall. Obviously fighting pain, he lifted his gun and fired another shot. But Smith had regained his footing and was out of the room. The director’s round penetrated the door’s wooden frame.
As he rushed in, Lije’s eyes met Hillman’s. The director pushed toward the room’s exit and fell face forward. Quickly stepping to his side, the lawyer pried the gun from the wounded man’s hand and gave chase. Smith was beside his car and reaching for the handle when Lije burst through the front door. The killer quickly raised his gun. Too quickly. Lije’s weapon was still at his side.
Smith grinned as he measured his target. “Time to finish it. Your second chances are more than used up.”
The big man squeezed the trigger, but the only sound was a click. As Smith glanced down at his gun, Lije leaped from the porch and raced toward the demon he had been chasing for months. Covering the distance in three quick steps, he drove his shoulder into the big man’s gut, knocking him off his feet and to the ground. Smith cursed as his back hit the driveway. Dropping his empty weapon, he reached for Lije’s throat. As his fingers found their mark, Lije brought the butt of Hillman’s gun down on the big man’s forehead. Smith’s eyes stared in disbelief for a moment, then rolled back into his head, his hands releasing their grip as his arms fell to his side.
Lije took a deep breath before reaching down to Smith’s neck. There was a pulse. He was out, but not dead. Struggling to his knees, the lawyer slipped his fingers into the man’s coat pocket. He found the envelope and yanked it out.
This had always been what it was all about. This had taken his wife. This had led to his best friend’s death. This had caused Curtis to sell him, Janie, and Heather out. This was what had driven Hillman over the edge.
Tearing the envelope open, he carefully retrieved the onionskin paper. He studied the equation for a moment, then stuffed it into his pants’ pocket and moved back toward the house.
Retracing his route, Lije made his way into the office. While he’d been gone, Hillman had pulled himself upright and was leaning over his desk, holding his left shoulder.
“Need to call 911,” Lije said and reached for the phone.
With a swing of his arm, the director knocked the phone off the desk. “No. It’s not that bad.”
“Maybe,” Lije countered, setting the gun on the desk and pulling out his cell. “You’ve been shot, and your guest here doesn’t appear to be in good shape either. And Smith probably has a concussion at the least. Let’s get some medical help on the way.”
Hillman might have been injured, but his reactions were still flawless. In a split second he had the gun and was pointing it at Lije. “Put the phone down.”
His tone told Lije the director was serious. In no mood to challenge a wounded man, he dropped the cell into his pocket and waited for the next order.
“Go into the living room. It’s just through that door. Turn on the light. The switch is to the right. I’ll be a step behind you. Take a seat on the couch.”
Lije found the light and moved to the couch. Hillman followed and glanced out the window at the unconscious Smith before easing onto a fabric-covered chair.
“You got taken,” Lije said.
“Yeah,” came the admission. “I didn’t plan on Hoffman selling out. I figured him for a patriot.”
“Why?” Lije demanded. “For what?”
“Had to do it. If the United States had that power, just think of what we could do with it. How much good we could do. And thanks to you, we’ve got it.”
“How many wrongs?” Lije asked.
“What?” Hillman’s face showed his confusion.
“How many wrongs did you commit in order to try to create your flawed version of right?”
“I don’t understand.”
“You tossed your job to the side. You let an innocent man die in the execution chamber. McGee is dead. Janie was almost killed. And that’s just part of the list. How did you expect all those wrongs to add up to a right?”
“You’re an idealist,” Hillman barked. “You’d never even consider what I teach my agents—the proven truth that the needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few. I was trying to save America and keep her great. This was a way we could put everyone else in their place.”
“Yeah, using
the poison Hitler hoped would end America.”
“Hitler was a madman,” Hillman argued. “In the hands of our president, it would’ve been used for good.”
Lije almost felt sorry for him. He’d been so intent on creating his own version of what was right, he’d lost what had defined him as the director of the ABI.
“Good people do horrible things,” Lije pointed out. “They do them because they have selfish needs. You’ve seen it happen hundreds of times on your job. If you gave this formula to the leaders of our country, how long before one of them used it to satisfy a personal grudge or quench their lust for more power? How easy would it be for them to rationalize every wrong thing they did as being in the country’s best interests? Ever since you found out there might be something powerful on Swope’s Ridge, that’s what you’ve been doing. You’ve sold out everything you believed in. You rationalized it every step of the way.”
“I don’t need your sermons,” Hillman shot back.
“Maybe not, but you need to remember your history. Whenever you give a man the power to take lives or save them, you end up with leaders like Stalin and Hitler.”
“You know what Renfeld called the stuff?” the director asked.
Lije shook his head.
“The Genesis Project.”
“You need to reread the part in that book about the tree of knowledge. This formula might well be the devil tempting you and everyone else who believes it’s okay to play God.”
No longer fearing for his life, Lije got up, turned, and walked toward the door. Hillman placed the gun on the end table and stood. “Evans, where are you going?”
“To restart my life,” Lije said. “At least what’s left of it.” He reached in his pocket and pulled out a cell, tossed it on the couch. “Give that to Curtis. You taught her well.”
“What about the formula?” Hillman demanded. “This country needs it.”
“Ah,” Lije replied, “the forbidden fruit, the ultimate power, the answer to who is in charge.” Pulling the onionskin from his pocket, he studied it one more time.
