Tomlinson leaned back and rubbed his neck. “Chin knew Tolen would be in one of the rooms. He just didn’t know which one, so he had to tap them all in advance of Tolen’s arrival.”
“Perhaps,” Vakind said. “Tolen said that Chin did something else that was very strange. When he attacked Tolen in his hotel room, his first shots were fired at Tolen’s left side. One bullet even grazed Tolen’s left arm. The next time Chin fired, he went for a head shot. It was a pattern that suggested two things: One, Chin believed Tolen was wearing a Kevlar vest. Otherwise, why not go for the easier shot to the chest? Two, he thought Tolen was left-handed. That’s why his first series of shots were at Tolen’s left arm. He wanted to render him defenseless by taking away his shooting hand. Both assumptions were wrong. Tolen was not wearing Kevlar, and he’s right handed. For a man who had devised such an intricate plan to kill the president’s daughter, profit handsomely in the stock market, and point the blame at millionaire Arnold R. Bowman to occupy the authorities until he could leave the country, Chin had very poor intel on Samuel Tolen. As an analyst and not a trained killer, you’d think he would have done his research to give him every advantage. Then, again, maybe he was fed incorrect information; just like Chin fed us incorrect data.”
“The man wasn’t perfect. What’s your point, Vakind?” Tomlinson asked, looking at the man suspiciously.
“It was your recommendation that Tolen stay on the fifth floor at the Korgo Suites Hotel since you had been there last year and knew that the fifth floor rooms all had balconies that were conducive for surveillance work, correct?”
Tomlinson nodded. “That’s right.”
“Bar analyzed security video of the hotel front desk. A Dr. Walter Mitchell and a Dr. Sing Lee checked into the hotel three weeks ago. Except for Lee’s beard and Mitchell’s mustache, the two men look surprisingly like you and Chin. We confirmed that both you and Chin were out of the office for four days.”
Tomlinson’s office door opened. Samuel Tolen walked in accompanied by two men in dark suits.
“Wh . . . what the hell is going on?” Tomlinson stammered. “Tolen! I thought you were dead?”
“It was when you and Lee stayed at the hotel in disguise three weeks ago that you bugged all the fifth-floor rooms because you needed to hear me,” Tolen continued Vakind’s story. “I suspect it’s also when you broke into the arena and set up the voice command device and wired the row of seats where Jessica Fane sat to the electrical junction box. You also placed a communication scrambler underneath a nearby seat in case anyone tried to contact the Secret Service agents guarding her.
“You concocted the scheme, knowing that I’d take the bait. You knew I’d been after the arms dealer, Jung Lu, for some time. Anyone else at the CIA would have wanted to see the proof of the planned meeting of Arnold Bowman shorting the stock market, but because we were friends, I took your word for it without scrutinizing your facts.”
He paused, looking Tomlinson directly in the eyes before he continued. “Then you decided to take Chin out in the process so that you would get all the money. You double-crossed him; gave him incorrect information about me by telling him I was left handed and that I would be wearing a bulletproof vest. Chin was set up when he attacked me. I assume you convinced him that rigging McReynolds’s room with explosives would add confusion to the investigation, buying you and Chin more time, when someone finally went inside the room and triggered the explosion. You probably told Chin it would represent further evidence of McReynolds’ involvement in some plot when authorities found his body. That also explains why Chin killed McReynolds by poisoning him. Shooting him would make determining a cause of death too easy. The plan you and Chin devised was all about stalling for time.”
Tomlinson squirmed in his seat, visibly uncomfortable as Tolen continued. “But that wasn’t the real reason for having Chin set the charges, was it? It was your failsafe to kill me after I killed Chin. You knew we’d find out about McReynolds’ hotel room, and you knew I’d go to investigate. Just one more way you played Chin, and me. Then to further implicate Chin, you set up a stock account in his name, shorting the market for fifty grand. You planted the paperwork in Chin’s office to prove he had altered Bowman’s bank statements to falsely show massive wire transfers to stock brokerage accounts. As an analyst, Chin would have never left that kind of evidence lying around. Nor would he have left a record of the emails blackmailing McReynolds.”
“You can’t prove any of this,” Tomlinson snapped with a smug grin on his face. “What’s your motive?”
“It took awhile,” Tolen responded, “but Bar found the joint account with survivorship that you had established with Chin at a Spanish securities firm. You siphoned nearly a million dollars from an FBI fund you had access to and shorted every bit of it in the stock market, just as you and Chin wanted us to think Bowman had done. Bar confirmed that you secretly put the funds back in the agency’s account this morning. With the failed assassination attempt, there was no reason to lose your job over embezzlement charges, huh Royce? How am I doing so far?”
Tomlinson’s face reddened, but he remained quiet.
“What we couldn’t figure out was how you knew Jessica Fane would be in attendance at the McCartney concert. My friends here with the Secret Service,” Tolen acknowledged the men standing at his side, “went to excruciating lengths to ensure no one knew Jessica would remain behind in Sri Lanka after her mother left on Air Force One. They used a Jessica lookalike, a young actress that they transformed into a mirror image of the president’s daughter, who flew in to Sri Lanka and boarded Air Force One when the president left the U.N. meetings two days before I arrived.
“There was no leak with the Secret Service, and President Fane surely didn’t tell anyone. That only left one option: Jessica. Although under a gag order by her mother, she did what any 16-year-old would do: she told a friend. It just so happens that Jessica and your daughter, Rita, go to the same private school in DC. It was during summer school when both girls were there to gain extra credit, Jessica told Rita. That’s how you knew over a month ago, Royce, because Jessica told Rita she was attending the concert in Sri Lanka, and Rita mentioned it to you. Jessica even told Rita her row number. That’s why the entire row was rigged for electrocution. Just like you didn’t know which hotel room I would stay in, you didn’t know Jessica’s exact seat; only the row. You were willing to kill everyone sitting in that row in order to take out Jessica Fane: all 26 people. With the death of Jessica Fane by electrocution, the U.S. stock market would crash, if only temporarily, and with Chin gone, you would cash in and head for some foreign country to live out the rest of your life as a billionaire.”
* * * *
Samuel Tolen and Morris Vakind left the FBI building after Royce Tomlinson was taken into custody and escorted away by Secret Service agents. Tolen had seen it happen many times: greed could take over a good man’s soul, yet it still hurt to lose a friend to it.
The two men strolled the sidewalk toward the parking lot in silence. In his mind, Samuel Tolen returned to his father, his hometown, and his past.
Vakind’s voice brought him back to the present. “I still can’t believe you’re alive.”
Tolen stopped. He stared at Vakind, who also paused in his tracks. Tolen had a distant, almost reflective look in his blue eyes. “Morris, do you ever question—?”
Vakind’s cell phone rang. He studied the number and held up a finger to pause Tolen as he answered. There was a moment of silence. Then, without a word, he handed his phone to Tolen. “Someone would like a word to express her gratitude for saving her daughter, and to make you a very unique offer.”
SECRET CHAPTER TO OUR UPCOMING NOVEL
“INDISPUTABLE PROOF”
This chapter will not appear in the novel.
SECRET CHAPTER
“INDISPUTABLE PROOF”
August 24. Friday - 9:44 p.m. Vinton, V
irginia
Aaron Conin pushed brusquely between a couple standing on the street corner as he stared absently in the direction of his apartment building two blocks away. The slight man’s thoughts were consumed elsewhere, and he never heard the vulgarities and threats coming his way from the man and woman. He breezed by a series of brownstone office buildings, forging along the empty sidewalk robotically. Other than the couple still spewing expletives in the distance and a few cars coasting by on the two-lane road, the street was empty. Most people were already in for the night.
The last light of day had faded, and darkness shrouded the small town of Vinton located several miles east of Roanoke, Virginia. Even at this hour, the humidity was staggering; the air thick and coarse and smelling faintly of engine exhaust and cooling pavement. He licked the moisture from his upper lip as he hurried on. His black bangs were matted to his forehead; glued in place by sweat. Every few steps, he nudged his drooping glasses back up the bridge of his nose with his free hand.
Conin had parked his Acura near Rudolph’s Diner half a mile away. He was more concerned with reaching the privacy of his apartment than trolling around the streets for a closer parking spot. Now his sweaty hand anxiously gripped and re-gripped the briefcase he carried as he labored along. If confirmed, the information he had in his possession would send a shockwave throughout humanity unlike anything ever experienced.
He had been forced to stay late at the lab waiting for everyone to leave. That goddamn Mira Nichols had worked until nearly 8:00 p.m. dawdling over some blood analysis a physician had requested STAT. Those damn MDs treated him and most lab technicians like second-rate citizens. If it had been up to Conin, the physician would have gotten the analysis in the morning. Nichols, on the other hand, had remained to finish the work, seeking suck-up points from their boss. The woman was a Grade A brown-noser, and Conin loathed her for it. To ensure that he did not arouse suspicion, Conin had been forced to do real work while he waited for Nichols to conclude her analysis. He took the opportunity to huff down several bags of stale chips from the vending machine to tide him over until he got around to eating dinner.
When Mira finally left, Conin had printed the laboratory results, saved the files to his flash drive, and deleted the files from his computer log along with all evidence of the program analysis.
Even now, his head was still swimming with the information on the report. The test results were extraordinary. It was quite possible—no, probable—that he had misread the data. He had, in fact, only gotten a cursory glance before the security guard had quietly entered the lab and scared him half to death. Conin had tucked the paperwork in his briefcase as he raced out of there. He would study the analysis thoroughly in the privacy of his own home without fear of being caught or interrupted.
It was a 15-minute drive to his apartment, yet during this brief time, the anticipation of what he might confirm was almost unbearable. Now, as he walked briskly on the sidewalk, Conin found himself giddy with the possibility that what he had read was accurate. He could almost smell the money from the book deal and movie rights that would surely follow.
Ahead, the streetlights soaked the desolate sidewalk. A car whizzed by, causing a stir of hot air that met Conin head-on as he crossed the alley. Somewhere on another block, a car alarm briefly shrieked then went silent. The unremarkable, dull-gray façade of his apartment building loomed before him, and his grip momentarily slipped on the handle of the briefcase as he reached for his keys. He closed his fingers even tighter around the handle, fearful that someone would try to snatch it from his hand at any second.
He bounced up the brick steps to the entryway two at a time. There was the strong smell of paint; the hand railing still felt tacky from a recent application. When he reached the top step, he thrust the key into the keyhole, turned it, and swung the glass door inward, barging through. Inside, he was enveloped by lukewarm air. At best, it was marginal relief from the outside temperature. The 1950s office-complex-turned-apartment-building smelled of hot varnish and dust.
Conin approached the elevator and found it was still out of service. He muttered his discontent as he paused inside the poorly lit foyer. For four days, the elevator had not worked. The apartment manager, who lived on the first floor, obviously felt no sense of urgency. Resigned to the inevitable, Conin lumbered up the stairs, his briefcase occasionally knocking against the wrought-iron banister railing. The wooden stairs creaked and protested with each step. On the third–floor landing, the light was burned out. He sighed at the deplorable condition of this building as he continued upward through the musty darkness, his focus causing him to ignore the usual apprehension he would have otherwise felt passing through the unlit corridor.
He reached the fourth–floor landing huffing and puffing and pressed onward down a long, carpeted hallway adorned in 1970s plywood paneling that had been coated white and smelled of Kilz. He arrived at the last door on the left, jammed his key in the lock, and fumbled with it until the door sprang open.
Conin nearly fell inside. A cool blanket of air washed over him, and he was suddenly aware of how much he was perspiring. His less-than-stylish clothes were damp. He laid the briefcase on the living room coffee table, quickly stepped into the bathroom, and threw a handful of water onto his face. His long-haired cat, Custer, sauntered between his legs affectionately, all but ignored. Conin toweled off, pushing his soggy black hair back over the top of his head. He neatly folded the towel, placed it meticulously back on the rack, and returned to the coffee table, leaving the confused cat to wander off. Conin was so swept up in his excitement that he considered clearing the top of the coffee table with one swoop of his hand, but his obsessive compulsion stopped him. Instead, he collected the items—candles and cheap ornamental coasters—and arranged them neatly on the end table to the side of the couch.
Conin took a deep breath, tempering his excitement. He spun the briefcase around and dialed the three-digit code for each side lock. His coworkers made fun of him for his old-school briefcase in an age when most people toted laptop bags to the workplace, but he had found the space these cases contained, along with the combination locks, a more secure way to carry paperwork to and from the office; especially when it needed to be done without the company’s permission.
Conin took a deep breath. More than anything else, he hoped that he had glimpsed the results correctly. An unanswered question remained, though, and it was a thorny issue that continued to prick at him: Where the hell did the sample come from? The client had been reticent to divulge his source. Conin prayed that, with luck, this riddle, too, might soon be solved by the quantitative data in the report. Then, if forced to apply leverage to the client, he would have the necessary information to do so.
Conin popped the locks open; first the left, then the right, as was his habit. He swung the lid up, took another deep breath, and grabbed the sheaf of papers. He leaned back on the sofa, propping his elbow on a soft pillow, and began to read.
In a back room, Custer let out a hearty meow. It was dinnertime, but with Conin already ensconced in a stack of printouts, the cat would not eat for awhile.
* * * *
At 1:18 a.m., Aaron Conin found himself sealed in the bathroom. The locked door handle rattled and shook violently. He had not planned for an escape and had instinctively retreated to the nearest door for protection.
Now he was trapped.
This had not been the reaction he had expected. The client had lost his mind when Conin pressed for answers about the test sample. Conin’s hypothesis, which must have been right on the money, had struck a nerve. He had severely misjudged the client, never considering that violence would ensue from their discussion.
The door rattled harshly, and a steady stream of barely muffled words indicated that the anger outside was reaching a crescendo.
The discovery was monumental. There was enough credit to go around. All Conin was asking was to be part of it; to sha
re in a small portion of the money to be made. There would be interviews, speaking engagements, television appearances, and so on. Instead, he was trapped in his bathroom in mortal fear for his life.
Conin was not a fighter. If the client got to him, he knew his life was over. The door continued to shake violently. His heart was pounding in his ears as beads of sweat broke out on his forehead. He desperately looked around the bathroom for a weapon. He saw toothpaste, toothbrush, deodorant stick, dental floss, Vaseline, a bar of soap, and his electric shaver, which might be the only viable alternative. Yeah, because many skinny guys have fended off an attacker armed only with an electric shaver, he thought.
He forced himself to think amid the constant banging and frenetic noise that echoed in the small bathroom. He was not ready to die and would not concede the possibility.
Then all went quiet as the door suddenly stopped shaking. From the other side of the locked door, the client’s threatening words seeped into the bathroom. They were no more than a whisper, but arrived with authoritative coldness that caused Conin’s blood to chill: “Father, forgive me for what I am about to do to this man.”
In a moment of terror, Conin saw the door handle jiggle. It partially turned one way, then the other, and he could hear the tink of metal being inserted into the lock hole. It was being picked.
He pivoted his eyes around the room, landing on the bathroom mirror. He momentarily stared at his own reflection; at his horrified, ashen face. How had this nightmare become his reality?
He was going to die.
His knees turned to jelly, and his stomach flopped as he heard the metal continue to ply from the other side of the door. He swallowed a lump that slid down his throat with an ache. His entire body shook uncontrollably.
THE FOLLOWING ARE THE FIRST FIVE CHAPTERS OF “INDISPUTABLE PROOF,” WHICH WILL BE AVAILABLE IN E-BOOK FORMAT ON SEPTEMBER 4, 2012
Before the Proof Page 4
