Tom Clancy's Power Plays 5 - 8

by Tom Clancy

  “Sure enough,” he said, and turned to enter the car, leaving Thibodeau to follow him through its open doors.

  There were two Sonoma police cruisers parked across the foot of the drive as Ricci’s VW Jetta approached in the falling rain. Pulled abreast of each other, the black-and-whites faced in opposite directions and had sawhorses erected on either side of them.

  About thirty feet west of the blockade, Thibodeau nodded toward the right shoulder of the road.

  “We might want to stop here, stroll on over to them,” he said, ending a silence that had lasted for their entire ride to the rescue center. “Be less apt to get their backs up.”

  Ricci said nothing in response, but whipped the car onto the puddled shoulder.

  They got out and continued toward the drive on foot, raindrops rattling hard against their umbrellas.

  The cops exited their cruisers in dark waterproof ponchos, walking around from either side as officers will do when strangers come toward them, cautiously, neither trying to hide nor be too conspicuous about the readiness of their draw hands, but keeping them just near enough to their holsters to exert a subtle, nonprovocational psychic weight.

  Ricci took note of their guarded stances with an evaluative eye. He had met unknown persons the same way on hundreds of occasions in his decade with the Boston force.

  The first cop came forward carefully.

  “Gentlemen.” A little nod. Calm, polite tone. “What can we do for you?”

  Ricci told him their names, flashing his Sword insignia card in its display case.

  “We’re UpLink private security,” he said. “You might’ve heard of us.”

  The uniform checked the identification. He nodded.

  “Sure,” he said. “Good things. I once checked out job opportunities on your Web site. There are some tough prereqs just to snag an interview.”

  Ricci did not comment.

  “Our boss’s daughter,” he said. “She’s your missing person.”

  The cop gave another nod. He had dropped his show-room face.

  “Julia Gordian,” he said. “This is a damn bad one.”

  “We need to take a look around the C.S.”

  The cop paused a moment. He wore his cap under the hood of the poncho and its bill shed droplets of water as he shook his head.

  “Not possible,” he said. “The area’s been secured.”

  Ricci stared at him.

  “We drove all the way from SanJo,” he said. “Make an exception.”

  Thibodeau tried to moderate Ricci’s harshness.

  “We understand you got physical evidence needs to be protected and want to feel comfortable,” Thibodeau said. “And we won’t give it no nevermind if somebody from your department sticks with us, make sure we don’t disturb nothing.”

  The cop gave him a curious glance. “Louisiana?” he said.

  “And proud of it,” Thibodeau said. “Didn’t think anybody could hear no accent.”

  A grin.

  “Went down for Mardi Gras once. Beats the hell out of me how you people can take eating that spicy food.”

  “Secret’s to line the gut with moonshine.”

  The cop’s grin enlarged a bit.

  “Look, I really wish I could do something to help, but we have rules about restricting access to unauthorized parties.”

  Thibodeau made his pitch. “No special considerations for fellas you hear such great things about?”

  “None I have any pull to give. You’d need to arrange for special clearance.”

  Ricci briefly let his glance range over the cop’s shoulder. A crime scene van and other police vehicles stood farther uphill. Small clusters of technical services and investigative personnel were everywhere. He noticed a plainclothesman in a raincoat moving between them on the drive. He was hatless, carried no umbrella, and had both hands in the pockets of his coat.

  He turned his attention back to the uniform.

  “Who’s the scene coordinator?”

  “That would be Detective Erickson—”

  Ricci cut him short. “Then stop wasting our time and call him over.”

  The cop managed not to look flustered. But his partners were drifting slowly over from outside their patrol cars.

  “Unless there’s some urgent reason, my orders are to see the investigation isn’t interrupted,” he said after about ten seconds. Rain bounced off the front of his cap. “I think the best way for you to proceed is leave your contact information so I can pass it up the line.”

  Ricci stared at him with cold intensity, ignoring the other three uniforms.

  “The detective in charge,” he said. “Call him over.”

  His expression no longer friendly, the cop looked about to react to the outright challenge.

  Then a new voice: “You two Ricci and Thibodeau?”

  Ricci turned and saw the man in the raincoat hurrying around from behind the crosswise-parked cars. His blond hair was wet.

  “Erickson,” Ricci said.

  The detective moved his head up and down, then flicked a glance at the uniforms. They backed off and returned to their black-and-whites.

  “Megan Breen just called on my cell,” he said. “She told me you were coming, explained you’d like to view the scene.”

  Ricci nodded.

  “She’s been very cooperative,” Erickson said. “There are certain restrictions on where you can and can’t go. You guys agree to abide by them, I’ll try to return the favor.”

  Thibodeau didn’t hesitate for an instant.

  “Be appreciated,” he said.

  Erickson nodded.

  “Follow me,” he said, and then turned to walk back up the drive.

  They followed.

  An eight-month stint in Antarctica had raised Megan Breen’s command of her patience to a sublime level, and she had done everything she could to keep herself occupied while awaiting word from Africa and Ashley’s callback. Whatever else was happening, she had a company to manage, as she’d had an ice station to run amid a wide spectrum of crises brought on by both man and nature throughout the polar winter. Her waking nightmare had begun today with two small-city detectives arriving out of the blue to deliver the most unexpected and shocking of messages. The tense, rapidly called huddle with Ricci and Thibodeau had followed without segue in Megan’s numbed mind. But the constant reminders that it was still a day at the office were among the nightmare’s most surreal components. There were matters she needed to track in every area of operation. Routine decisions to make, clusters of problems to address, requests to grant, deny, or put on hold. Many of them were duties she would have normally considered headaches but counted as blessings right now in her attempts to stay busy. She did not expect to give better than partial attention to anything in front of her, nor stop her fears about Julia from obtruding on her thoughts. Still, Megan could only believe that being partially diverted, maintaining even the flimsiest semblance of normalcy, was preferable to giving in to the sense of helpless, useless, agonizing despair that would be the sure and terrible alternative.

  When the e-mail arrived, she was at her office computer making an immense effort to focus on a contractor’s bid for the expansion of an UpLink optics and photonics R&D facility outside Seattle. On any other morning, she almost certainly would not have noticed the new inbox item for quite a while. Though she had never bothered to disable the sound notification option on her messaging program—default settings tended to remain in place on her machine out of casual apathy—Megan considered its bell tone an annoying nuisance given the large volume of electronic correspondence she received, and for the most part left her desktop’s speakers switched off. Typically, she would check for messages at semiregular intervals throughout the course of her workday—while having her morning coffee, before and after her lunch break, then again perhaps an hour or so before heading home.

  Today, however, was not normal. Not typical, no. Not regular or routine by any stretch of the imagination. Today Megan had
turned on the speaker volume control thinking she wanted to leave every line of communication open, and it was for this reason that she heard the chime that signaled a message had jumped into her queue. It was the tenth she’d opened in under an hour. Eight of the previous messages were work related. The last had been a nasty bit of junk mail that managed to squeeze through her software filters and, because she was distracted, trick her into opening it with a moderately devious subject line that would have been otherwise identified for what it was by her mental antispammers to prompt a quick delete. All nine were long-term or short-term ignorable.

  Until this one.

  This turned out to be the message Megan had sought and dreaded, and nothing could stop the cold slide of ice that began to work through her intestines the instant she read its subject, causing her to break into visible shudders as she opened it with a hurried click of the mouse.

  Much as she’d tried prepare herself, nothing.

  “Don’t think I have to reconstruct what happened back here,” Erickson was saying. “You can see for yourselves.”

  Ricci and Thibodeau stood with him outside the rescue center’s back door, studying its demolished lock plate and frame.

  “Somebody fired a lot of rounds,” Ricci said. “Wanted past the door in a rush, didn’t care about surprising anyone with the noise.”

  “Right,” Erickson said. “We can thank this rain for making the ground damp enough to give us some decent shoe impressions to photo and cast. There were four attackers from the looks of things, came around from either side of the main building in pairs. Your boss’s daughter must have left those kennels out behind us, seen them closing in, and hurried through this entrance to try and get away from them.”

  Ricci had closed his umbrella and crouched to examine the door frame.

  “You must’ve pulled a lot of slugs out of this,” he said, running a latex-gloved finger over the pocked, splintered wood. “What caliber?”

  “Nine mil Parabellum,” Erickson said. “The ammunition was fragged, but the spent cartridge casings we recovered told us right off.”

  Ricci glanced over his shoulder at Erickson.

  “Big, deep punch for nines, even fired up close,” he said. “There a brand name on those casings?”

  Erickson gave a nod. “Federal Hydrashok.”

  “Premium make.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Expensive.”

  “Right.”

  “You able to tell anything about the guns from the ejection pattern?”

  “Not definitively.”

  Ricci responded to the cop’s knee-jerk hedge with a look of overt impatience.

  Erickson hesitated a moment, exhaled.

  “Off the record,” he said, “I believe the weapons used outside this door were subs.”

  Ricci considered that.

  “Outside,” he repeated.

  Erickson nodded.

  “Were shots fired inside?” Ricci asked.

  “The shop seems a different story.” A pause. “Put on those booties from my kit and I’ll show you.”

  Erickson led the Sword ops through the entrance and back rooms to the area behind the sales counter.

  “Be careful where you step.” He motioned to several dark brown splatters on the linoleum that had been bordered with tape. “The stains were partially dry when I arrived yesterday morning. Maybe a couple of hours old. It was clear on sight they were blood, but I swabbed and did a Hemodent test to confirm.”

  Thibodeau studied them a moment, then raised his eyes to Erickson.

  “You know whose blood?” he said.

  The detective appraised his grave features, the cheeks pale above the dark beard.

  “Julia Gordian’s purse was left on the countertop,” he said. “She carried one of those Red Cross donor cards, and her type matches.”

  Perspiration glistened on Thibodeau’s forehead in the chill dampness of the room.

  “Une zireté,” he muttered under his breath.

  It is something atrocious.

  Erickson was still looking at him. If the literal meaning of the words eluded him, their underlying emotions were easy to translate.

  “I’m not saying anything for sure, but it doesn’t appear she was shot.” The cop knelt, pointed to the rust-colored stains. “The bleeding wasn’t that heavy—”

  “No spray patterns like you’d expect from a bullet wound, either,” Ricci said.

  Erickson glanced up at him.

  “Right,” he said. “From the way the drops struck the floor and their cast off angles . . . you see these streaky lines trailing toward the wall . . . I’d guess she fell back against it in a struggle and got cut or something.”

  As he spoke Ricci shifted his eyes to a much larger stain crusting the floor of the shop.

  “Must’ve been a more serious wound left that one over there,” he said, gesturing across the counter top. “You have a theory to explain it, too?”

  Erickson straightened and turned to him.

  “The main thing you need to know is that our tests fixed the blood group as different from Julia Gordian’s,” he said.

  Ricci regarded him curiously.

  “Any bullets or casings picked up in the storefront?”

  “No.”

  “Ideas how the blood got there?”

  “We’re still narrowing down the possibilities.”

  Ricci tipped his chin toward the front entrance without taking his eyes off Erickson’s face.

  “I can see from here that door got kicked in,” he said.

  Erickson nodded.

  “Wouldn’t have been hard for a strong man,” Ricci said. “It seems pretty lightweight.”

  Erickson nodded again.

  “Means there was probably a fifth perp,” Ricci said. “At least a fifth.”

  “Right.”

  “So maybe the blood stain was left by whoever came crashing through the door.”

  “I told you we’re looking at the possibles.”

  “You going to have more for us on them soon?”

  Erickson took a moment to answer.

  “We’ll see what develops,” he said. “Meanwhile, it would help if you could come up with the names of anybody who might have grudges against your employer, knowledge of his family . . . whatever you think is relevant.”

  Ricci’s gaze remained fixed on the detective.

  “Share and share alike,” he said. “I want to take another quick swing around the grounds before we leave. Got any problem with that?”

  Again Erickson was quiet.

  “I doubt you’ll find much that can add to what you know evidence-wise, but can’t see why not . . . with some stipulations,” he said. “The residence downhill is still being processed, and we’re considering whether to extend the crime scene to the woods. That puts them off limits.”

  “Howell off-limits, too?” Ricci probed.

  “Couldn’t stop you from talking to him if he were here, but he’s staying with family.”

  Ricci grunted.

  “Okay, what else?”

  “I stay with you,” Erickson said. “Acceptable?”

  Ricci nodded.

  “Come on,” Erickson said. “We’ll start out back, work our way down to your car. So I can do you two fellas the final favor of seeing you off.”

  The Sword ops showed no hint of amusement in their expressions.

  A moment later they all went out into the rain.

  “That e-mail, Pete. Did you get it yet?” Megan asked over his radio headset.

  In the bird chopping west from the hospital at Lambaréné, Nimec could hear a distinct tremor in her voice.

  “Hold on,” he said. “These goddamn gadgets . . . the co-pilot had to reset the display mode for me. Okay, it’s coming through now . . . I need a second to check it out.”

  Nimec stared at the helicopter console’s multifunctional readout panel. The message on its GMSS comlink display left no question about what had left Mega
n so badly shaken and stretched his own control to the limit. He felt a sick, lancing anger.

  Delivered to Megan’s computer from an anonymous proxy server, the e-mail now bouncing across uncounted miles of world to Nimec via satellite bore the subject line:

  Aria D’entrata—For the Life of Julia Gordian

  Nimec had opened it immediately and read the text:

  She wears freedom on her shoulder. A combination of ideographs discreetly tattooed on the upper left side. When she goes for a jog with her dogs, alternate mornings, the body art can be seen on her sleeveless arm, as green as her eyes and lovely against her white skin.

  The father’s dream on her shoulder.

  What we have taken we can return. The father is to make an announcement tomorrow on the Sedco oil platform. Its nature will be revealed to him in advance of the designated time. The words are to be honored or the daughter will be killed.

  Shi is the Japanese word for death.

  Its ideograph is

  The tattoo needle will apply it to her dead face twice, a black kanji symbol below each dead green eye. The arm that carries the dream will be cut off and discarded before her dead body is tossed into the waste.

  Defy us and the father will see all this and worse.

  Nimec finished reading it and took a deep breath.

  “Those first couple of words in the subject, Meg. You know what they mean?”

  “Aria d’entrata. Italian. I think it’s an operatic term for a vocal passage sung when a performer makes an entrance.”

  Nimec felt that white-hot spike in his gut again. They were being taunted.

  “The tattoo . . .”

  “Julia told me she was going to have it done,” Megan said. “It must have been the last time she stopped by the office. A month ago. Maybe more. I’m not even sure Gord knows about it yet. She made me promise to stay mum, wanted to spring it on him in person. You know how she likes to get a rise out of him, Pete—”

  “Meg—”

  “Yes?”