WINNER TAKES ALL
A Dylan Hunter Thriller
ROBERT BIDINOTTO
Chester, Maryland
WINNER TAKES ALL: A Dylan Hunter Thriller
ROBERT BIDINOTTO
Copyright © 2017 by Robert Bidinotto.
All rights reserved.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.
Published by
Avenger Books
P.O. Box 555
Chester, Maryland 21619
Kindle ebook edition: December 2017
Published in the United States of America
Cover design by Allen Chiu
http://www.allenchiu.com
Formatting and interior design by Polgarus Studio
http://www.polgarusstudio.com/
To my patient, loving, supportive, and long-neglected wife,
Cynthia,
and to the other brilliant and beautiful ladies in my life:
Katrina, Doria, Enid,
and, of course, Luna.
Also to my family, my friends, and the fans of
Dylan Hunter:
You are far too many to name,
but far too important ever to forget.
My love and gratitude to you all.
Table of Contents
PART I ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
PART II FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
SIXTEEN
SEVENTEEN
EIGHTEEN
NINETEEN
TWENTY
TWENTY-ONE
TWENTY-TWO
TWENTY-THREE
TWENTY-FOUR
TWENTY-FIVE
TWENTY-SIX
TWENTY-SEVEN
TWENTY-EIGHT
TWENTY-NINE
THIRTY
THIRTY-ONE
THIRTY-TWO
THIRTY-THREE
THIRTY-FOUR
THIRTY-FIVE
THIRTY-SIX
THIRTY-SEVEN
THIRTY-EIGHT
PART III THIRTY-NINE
FORTY
FORTY-ONE
FORTY-TWO
FORTY-THREE
FORTY-FOUR
FORTY-FIVE
FORTY-SIX
FORTY-SEVEN
FORTY-EIGHT
FORTY-NINE
FIFTY
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
BEHIND THE SCENES
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
“I have never been able to conceive how any rational being could propose happiness to himself from the exercise of power over others.”
—Thomas Jefferson
PART I
ONE
“You sneaky bastard . . .”
Arnie Wasserman whispered the words, even though he was the only person in the office of his apartment. He leaned closer to his computer screen, staring in disbelief at what it had just revealed.
He knew enough now to be scared.
Multiple browser windows stood open, a diagonal stack descending across the screen. They displayed corporate financial statements, IRS Form 990 reports from foundations and nonprofit organizations, and lists of donations and grants.
Superimposed across them hovered a transparent “mind map” chart: a bewildering spider web of lines linking the names of the groups, corporations, and individuals. His previous keystroke had just caused all those lines and names to shift positions.
And at the very center of that web, the mouse cursor blinked on the name of a single individual.
Now he understood why the man had threatened him on the phone this morning . . .
“I have placed some inquiries about you, Mr. Wasserman,” the man had told him, his voice cold and clipped. “You do investigative work—not magazine features, as you pretended during your call to my secretary. So let us not play games. What, precisely, is your interest in my charitable activities?”
Realizing he couldn’t bullshit the guy, Arnie had cut to the chase. He told him he wanted on-the-record responses to three questions about contributions passing through the man’s foundation.
“And what questions would those be, Mr. Wasserman?”
The man had listened a moment, then interrupted in the middle of Arnie’s third question.
“You will soon regret you ever poked your nose into my business.”
He had said it softly, each syllable precise and distinct.
Then he was gone . . .
At that instant, Arnie knew he was on the right track.
But now, staring at his computer screen, he knew a lot more.
He knew he was looking at a conspiracy.
He knew who was involved.
He knew exactly what they were after—and just how high the stakes were.
And—except for them—he was the only other living person who knew about it.
That last realization sent a small, cold shiver through him.
2
The man closed the door behind him, locked it, then flicked on the light switch.
The spacious study within his opulent Watergate apartment was his sanctuary in the city. His architect had provided him a cherry coffer ceiling and built-in cherry bookcases. The latter were crammed with hardcover and leather-bound volumes of history, political science, law, economics, and reference works. A massive, intricately tooled desk, also cherry, dominated the center of the room.
He went there, reached under the desktop, and pressed a hidden latch. A side panel, disguised by ornate carving, popped open. Kneeling, he pulled it wide. Inside was a tall, narrow safe with a keypad lock. He tapped in seven numbers and opened its door.
On a stack of six narrow shelves rested items no one else knew about.
Four false passports and matching drivers’ licenses.
A Sig-Sauer P220 Carry in .45 ACP, and two loaded eight-round magazines.
Emergency cash—$25,000, in mixed denominations. A burst transmitter. A half-dozen cheap “burner” phones and batteries. An encrypted satellite phone.
He removed a burner, inserted a battery, let it power up. Then thumbed in a phone number and texted an eight-digit numerical code to it. By pre-arrangement with the recipient, the code meant: “Call me immediately on my satellite phone.”
He purged the phone’s history, removed the battery and SIM card, and returned it to the safe. Then took out the sat phone, powered it on, and waited in his red-leather office chair, near the window. The phone chirped three minutes later.
“Just got your message, sir,” said the man on the other end.
“Thank you for being prompt. Let me get right to it. A certain journalist is about to create significant problems for me. The threat he poses must be . . . mitigated.”
“Great!” The voice was eager. “And I gather this ‘certain journalist’ is—”
“No. Not him. This is another. An impetuous freelancer. He is making inquiries that seriously jeopardize my interests. I believe he will go public with his information at any time. And that cannot be permitted.”
“Oh.” The man sounded disappointed. “All right. Tell me about him.”
He did.
“So, how soon would you like me to take care of this, sir?” Ray Lasher asked.
“Before the end of the day,” said Avery Trammel.
3
By the late afternoon, Trammel could no longer stand the confinement of his study—not while awaiting the outcome with the reporter. He decided to do his waiting out in the
fresh air, overlooking the city.
Bringing the satellite phone, he locked the door behind him, then proceeded down the hall. He reached the large, lavishly appointed reception parlor—site of many Washington social events. He heard laughter in there—his wife’s voice.
From the entrance, he saw Julia was with two others, seated on the plush leather sofas before the fireplace, scrapbooks of her film roles spread on their laps. He noticed she had brought out and displayed her two Academy Award trophies on the mantelpiece; they stood at either end, like golden sentries, their color matching the hand-painted fluting and capitals of the flanking Corinthian pilasters.
He tried to slip past, but she spotted him.
“Oh, there he is! Hello, dear—we were just discussing you. I want you to meet Nikki Epstein of the Post, and her photographer, Bill Standish. They’re putting together a Sunday feature about—”
“Hello,” he interrupted, stepping into the room and forcing a smile. “My apologies, Julia. I would love to visit. However, I must return an urgent international call, and the reception for this thing”—he waved the satellite phone—“is poor in my study. Please excuse me.”
Her smile faded as he nodded at them.
From the wine cellar off the foyer he selected a good bottle, a glass, and an opener. Then he headed up the stairwell to the private rooftop terrace of his penthouse. He left the items he had brought on a glass-topped table, then threaded through the thicket of potted plants and flowers, to the wall at the roof’s edge.
Trammel gripped its cold brass rail.
Fourteen stories below, the Potomac River flowed, a waxen mirror of the slate sky. Across its expanse, the bare, ashen fingers of trees on Theodore Roosevelt Island groped for a fugitive sun. His gaze drifted south, past the pallid Carrara marble of the nearby Kennedy Center, to where the gray arc of the Roosevelt Bridge linked the nation’s capital to Virginia. A chill March gust stung his cheeks and knuckles.
The past month had been catastrophic. All that he had been working toward, for decades, now stood at risk.
Avery Trammel was not a man given to superstition. Yet he had a disquieting feeling of foreboding about his phone confrontation with the reporter—the sense that it signaled some sort of turning point.
4
Arnie suddenly realized that daylight was waning. He got up from the computer screen and went over to flip on the overhead light. It revealed the glittering cluster of framed awards hanging nearby on the wall.
For a moment, he stood there, seeking reassurance from them. His journalism degree from the University of Missouri. His FOI Award from Investigative Reporters and Editors. His finalist nomination for a National Magazine Award. And the other, lesser-known ones. These recognitions reminded him of just how good a reporter he was.
But this story—it was much bigger than anything he had ever tried to handle.
From this point, he would have to proceed far more cautiously. The sooner he could get this information into print, the safer he would be.
Returning to his desk, Arnie composed a brief, cryptic email to his contact at the Center for Advocacy Profiles, the main outlet for his investigative reporting. No details—these days, you never knew who was intercepting your email. He said only that he had a huge story about the Currents Foundation and had to discuss it with them at their next weekly meeting.
He hit the send icon.
Then immediately had misgivings.
This story was way too big for a small nonprofit outlet like CAP. It was a game-changer. It would affect everyone in the country.
And that made it worth a lot of money.
You have to stop thinking small. You need to shop this one around, to one of the majors . . . Maybe—
He was startled by the sudden ringing of his land line in the living room. He got up and trotted out there, following the sound across the room. He found the phone on the floor, hidden behind a footrest next to the sofa. He leaned over to read the Caller ID screen. His hand moved eagerly toward the receiver—then hesitated.
Sure, Wonk would be the ideal person to confide in. But he couldn’t risk revealing too much to him over an open phone line.
He picked up on the fifth ring. “Yes?”
“Hello, Arnold.” The voice was incongruously high-pitched for a man whose weight was north of five hundred pounds.
“Hi, Frederick.” Wonk didn’t like to be called by the nickname everyone used for him.
“You did not answer my text message, Arnold. Are we still on for chess at seven?”
“Oh! It’s Wednesday, isn’t it? Damn, I forgot. Look, I’m sorry, Frederick, but I can’t. Not tonight.” He hesitated, then blurted: “I’m working on a really big story.”
“I see.” The voice was disappointed. “What kind of story?”
“Political. As usual . . . Well, not as usual. There’s nothing usual about this one.”
Arnie settled down on the carpet, leaning back against the sofa. He tried to resist saying more, but felt as if he were on a slippery slope. And something told him he would be safe only if he shared this—at least, as much as could be said on the phone.
“You won’t believe whose money is being laundered through the Currents Foundation,” he said, “and where it’s winding up. I mean, this one’s a bombshell. It . . . has major implications for the presidential race. In fact, I think it’s going to blow the whole election campaign sky-high!”
“Really?” Wonk’s voice climbed another octave. “So tell me!”
“Not now. Not over the phone. Anyway, I’ve still got some details to figure out before I draft something. And I’ve been thinking . . . I may not want to break this one through CAP. I need a much bigger platform. Maybe the Post or the Inquirer . . . Oh, hey—somebody’s at the door. I’ll call you right back.”
“That is fine. Since we shall not be playing chess, I shall be here all evening.”
Arnie hung up, leaving the phone behind the footrest. Puzzled, he rose and headed to the door. He expected no visitors, and the mail had arrived hours ago.
The bell chimed again as he put an eye to the security peephole.
Outside, a big blond guy, chewing gum. A large pizza box resting in his hands.
“Yes?” Arnie called out through the door, watching the man carefully.
“Pizza Rossano.” The guy squinted down at a scrap of paper taped to the lid of the box. “Delivery for the Wasserman residence.”
Arnie frowned. “I didn’t order any pizza.”
The guy scowled and looked at the paper again. “Arnold Wasserman, Potomac Village Apartments—right?”
“Yes, that’s me. But I didn’t—”
“Says here it’s from ‘a friend.’ Doesn’t say who.”
“But—”
“Hey, look—somebody’s giving you a free pizza. If I have to take this back, I don’t get paid for the delivery, okay?”
Arnie sighed. Who in hell . . .?
The man outside looked tired and bored. Not at all suspicious. And it was free food. He hadn’t had anything since breakfast.
“All right. I’ll take it, then.”
He unhooked the security chain, flipped the lock, and opened the door.
The big guy smirked at him—then dropped the box and rushed him.
TWO
Lasher saw Wasserman’s eyes widen as he charged in. He grabbed the little guy’s shoulder and spun him, then snaked his left arm around his neck. Positioning the crook of his elbow against Wasserman’s throat, he used his bicep and forearm to squeeze the opposite sides of the man’s neck, compressing the carotid arteries. At the same time, he pressed his right palm behind the guy’s head for leverage. He didn’t squeeze hard enough to do any internal damage or leave bruises—just enough to temporarily cut off the blood to the guy’s brain.
He felt the scrawny body thrash and squirm for a few seconds, then go slack.
He eased Wasserman to the floor. He was glad it was hardwood: no chance of leaving his footprints
on a carpet.
The guy wouldn’t be out for more than a minute, if that. Moving fast, Lasher fetched the empty pizza box and the duffle bag he’d left in the hallway, then closed and locked the apartment door behind him. Keeping on his surgical gloves, he yanked off Wasserman’s T-shirt. Then lifted him in his arms, like a child, and carried him into the bathroom. He hoisted him feet-first into the tub, holding him upright.
The runt was just beginning to stir and groan in his arms when Lasher leaned forward and slammed the side of the guy’s skull down against the faucet and the rim of the tub.
Blood began to flow from the unconscious man’s scalp into the tub. Lasher finished undressing him in there, taking care not to get any of it on his own clothes or the rest of Wasserman’s, which he tossed onto the floor.
Then he turned the naked guy face down. Put in the drain stopper. Turned on both faucets.
Wasserman’s bleeding temple left rose-colored spirals in the water.
Lasher knew how to stage it to look like an accident. He’d done this very thing once before, in London, and had gotten away with it.
He saw a bar of soap and a bottle of shampoo on a rack at the foot of the tub. He took the soap and rubbed it in his gloved hands under the running faucet, to leave its traces in the water. He added in some shampoo, and the churning water began to boil up suds.
The water level slowly crept up Wasserman’s bony body. First it covered his small hands. Then it crawled up his cheeks. As water began to enter his mouth, the little man quivered, sputtered, and tried groggily to raise his injured head.
Lasher leaned over and pressed down on the back of Wasserman’s neck, holding him under. The thrashing wasn’t strong and didn’t last long. There were a couple of final spasms. Then nothing. He held the body under the rising water for a full minute, just to make sure.
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