The Tangled Webb

by D. P. Schroeder

He removed a knife from his pocket and lingered over her. She stared up at him, squirming. His face broke into a crooked grin. He then cut the ropes that bound her. Ready to leave, he whispered in her ear.

  “You have great lips.”

  Alone now, Tiffany huddled in the corner of her bedroom, clutching her knees to her chest. She sat there for a long time. Her head throbbed.

  Then the fog began clearing. She recalled her value, at least in the eyes of the Deacon.

  He will take care of me. It’s worth it, she told herself.

  Repeating the mantra again, then again and again, she finally became convinced. For in her mind, the words began to acquire a ring of truth.

  CHAPTER 25

  James climbed aboard Thomas Lynch’s Challenger 605 outside a private terminal at Dulles International Airport. The sun had set and the pilots navigated the sleek craft into the crisp night air, carrying their “invisible” passenger, someone who did not exist, for this flight, anyway.

  He threw back a few whiskeys from the minibar and soon dozed off to sleep.

  A few minutes before eight in the morning the Challenger touched down at the Charles De Gaulle Airport outside Paris, France. After an eight-and-a-half hour flight, the pilots parked the jet in front of a private terminal where a customs official did a cursory inspection of the plane.

  A taxicab drove up and pulled alongside before James loaded a suitcase and some gear in the trunk. He climbed into the backseat and the driver spun away, heading into the heart of Paris and to a narrow avenue nestled in Montparnasse, a neighborhood in the southern part of the city known for its lively nightlife.

  He stepped out of the cab and onto the sidewalk wearing a lightweight backpack, a disguise and casual attire to blend in. He walked along the narrow, cobbled street before ducking into the stairwell of a five-story apartment building and moving cautiously to the fourth floor landing. A few steps down the hallway he saw the door to 4B; the studio apartment of the Baer's girlfriend.

  Quietly, he took some gear out of his backpack and placed a thermo-imaging device against the wall. In the small screen, he saw the heat signatures of two people on the other side of the wall. A woman stood at the sink in the kitchenette, and a man lay on a bed just to the right of the entry.

  James carried a 9mm pistol and an extra clip with fifteen rounds of ammunition, believing this to be adequate firepower because he didn’t feel like shooting up the neighborhood.

  He spent five minutes picking the front door lock and deadbolt; neither of the occupants detected anything.

  James took a few deep breaths.

  The door swung wide and he moved over to the bed, aiming his gun at the man’s head. In the kitchen, the woman’s expression was one of shock and confusion.

  “What the hell?” James said.

  The guy on the bed, a man in his late-fifties, was definitely not Max Baer. James yanked him to his feet, hauled him into the bathroom, zip-tied his hands and feet, and after covering his mouth with duct tape, closed the door.

  Then he crossed the room and confronted the woman.

  “What the hell’s going on here and who’s that man?” he demanded, motioning toward the bathroom.

  The woman spoke in broken English through a thick French accent. “I know not his name . . . I meet him three days ago.”

  “Where’s Max Baer?”

  Totally disoriented, she sputtered, “Me, I know nothing.”

  “When’s the last time you saw him?”

  When she hesitated, James lowered his voice.

  “Listen, if I don’t start getting some answers, you’re going over that balcony,” he said, pointing to a pair of French doors overlooking the street.

  “Uh, yesterday, no, the day before,” she blurted out.

  “Where is he now?”

  “I don’t know, he go somewhere else in the city.”

  She paused, crying.

  “Can you contact him?”

  She shook her head. No. “He see me at lounge, Casino de Paris. We never talk on telephone. He make love to me . . . he promise to come back. Two day. I no see him for two day!”

  Getting more agitated, she shouted at him. “You find him, tell him I think he is pig.”

  James stepped to the doorway, then he turned to her.

  “Sounds like a real stormy romance.”

  He walked out, closing the door behind him.

  In the street, he hailed a taxi and the driver continued north and into the city’s Right Bank where James checked into a standard room at the Hotel du Casino. He showered, changed his clothes and walked onto the floor of the Casino de Paris, carrying photos of Max Baer. He showed them to employees, hoping someone would recognize the man. Eventually, he came across a dealer who remembered him.

  “He’s a high roller,” the young man said.

  “Really? Go on.”

  “Has expensive taste in clothes, wine, everything,” he told James, slipping cards to the players around his table. “He likes to gamble, big stakes, and he loves the ladies.”

  “Anything else?”

  “He talked fondly about France.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “When the wine flowed into the late hours …” The dealer smiled. “He went on about France being his adoptive country, and how he felt safe here. I often have these conversations with my customers. It’s one of the perks, listening to their stories.”

  “You’ve been helpful, thanks.”

  “Anytime,” the Frenchman said. “Good luck.”

  James came out of the casino and into the street where he strolled along the sidewalk toward the river Seine. He stood against a railing at the water’s edge, carried away by his thoughts.

  Max Baer, once you turn men like him loose, they’re difficult to stop, which is exactly what Kate and I need to do. This trip, has it been worthwhile? Definitely. We know he’s in Paris. Terrific, all we need to do now is to find someone who’s hiding out in a city of twelve million people. But half of them are female, which reduces the odds to one in six million.

  CHAPTER 26

  Back in D.C. the air was crisp and James gunned the throttle on his motorcycle, the powerful machine surging forward onto the George Washington Memorial Parkway. A few miles into the ride, he felt a pang of apprehension wash over him. He slowed and turned to look.

  An unsightly gash along the tree line poked out where the grisly car wreck had taken the lives of Senators Hill and Nelson, and left Daniel in a coma. Shaking off the feeling, he rode a few more miles and got off the parkway at an exit ramp. The bike curved around a loop and he drew closer to a security gate near a sign.

  CENTRAL INTELLIGENCE AGENCY

  He was cleared through the back gate and rode up to a parking lot, dismounted the bike and walked to a lobby entrance where a middle-aged man approached, presenting himself in a friendly, professional manner.

  “May I help you?”

  “Yes. I’m James Webb. I’ve got a four o’clock appointment.”

  “Oh. Mr. Webb. I’ve been expecting you. Please follow me.”

  All visitors to the CIA compound in Langley, Virginia must be accompanied by an escort. No exceptions. James was not an employee—not officially. The agency needed to maintain the option of disavowing him if he became compromised in the field. Accordingly, he was handled as a visitor. He walked a couple of steps behind the man who ushered him to the elevators. They rode up to the third floor and emerged in a reception area. Here the escort addressed a woman in her late-fifties who sat behind a desk.

  “James Webb to see the Director.”

  “Thank you,” she replied, and the man turned to leave. “It’s nice to see you again, Mr. Webb.”

  “And you, Ms. Henley.”

  “If you’d be so kind as to have a seat, I’ll let Mr. Reardon know you’re here.”

  “Thank you.”

  James was a few minutes early—a gesture of respect. He waited until Ms. Henley summoned him. When she opened the door into t
he Director’s office, he was already on his feet and advancing toward them.

  “Thank you, Ms. Henley,” he said, and she closed the door, leaving the two men alone.

  Spacious and nicely appointed, the office had a large desk on one end, situated before a row of windows looking out across a lawn whose backdrop was a tall wood line that stood between the compound and the Potomac River. The other end of the space had a casual seating area, two sofas and a coffee table between them.

  The Director extended a hand to shake.

  “James. How are you?”

  “I’m well, sir, thank you.”

  “Please have a seat.”

  Each settled on a sofa and faced the other. Director Reardon buzzed his assistant, asked her to bring in a coffee service. He turned to his visitor.

  “So, what’s on your mind?”

  “First, sir, thank you for agreeing to meet on such brief notice.”

  Reardon waved off the remark. “I can normally create a hole in my schedule when I need to. Besides, this nation owes you a debt of gratitude for your service.”

  “I’ll get right to the point. I want to discuss the Senate murders . . .” Then James caught himself. “Uh, deaths.”

  “It’s okay. At this point, we can assume they’re homicides.”

  Reardon added, “This meeting was cleared an hour ago by the FBI. Director Edwards was gracious in letting us speak candidly. They probably need all the help they can get. Carter’s hit a wall, no solid leads so far.”

  “That’s why I’m here.”

  “Go on.”

  “As you know, conventional law enforcement has no chance of keeping up.”

  The Director sighed. “This is a unique set of circumstances. Three deaths in less than a week, and not a shred of evidence.”

  “There’s a simple explanation.”

  “I’d like to hear it.”

  “This plot against the Senate is being orchestrated by some highly sophisticated, well-financed perpetrators. And they haven’t left a trail. Well, close to none.”

  Reardon studied James as he held his cards close to the vest.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’ve been through hell in the past several days,” he began. “The night of the crash on the parkway, I foiled an assassination attempt on Daniel Baylor. And while I’d prefer not going into a lot of detail …”

  “ … I think that would be wise. For both of us.”

  Ms. Henley appeared with a coffee tray, placed it on the table and filled two cups, asking James if he preferred cream or sugar. “I take mine black. Thanks.”

  Reardon picked a file from the coffee table and set it on his lap. A furtive glance told James the Director knew more than he was letting on, a lot more. Reardon peered over his reading glasses at James.

  “These operatives would need some sort of a money-laundering conduit and military-style coordination.” He glanced at the papers on his lap. “James, have you heard of a man named Alec Specter?”

  The Director locked eyes with James and searched his expression.

  His face still as a millpond, James said, “Who hasn’t? His meltdown was all over the television.”

  Reardon went back to the documents on his lap. He put the folder and his reading glasses on the table and leaned back on the sofa.

  James then asked, “Sir, in terms of getting help from the agency, where do you stand?”

  A silence.

  “James, as you know, we’re prohibited by law from operating inside U.S. borders.”

  “But not overseas. I’ve picked up a trail in France …”

  “Listen, this is difficult, I know, but the French authorities would not take kindly to our rooting around in their country.”

  James just looked at him as he spoke again.

  I’m afraid you’re on your own.”

  “I understand, sir.”

  Then James heard the door open behind him.

  Ms. Henley crossed the room and handed the Director a note. Reardon thanked her and stood up.

  “I’m really sorry. I have to take this call.”

  Reardon walked him out to the elevators where they stood for a moment.

  “It was good to see you again.”

  They shook hands.

  “And you sir.”

  Reardon turned and walked to his office, and James waited for an escort to usher him back to the lobby.

  A chill ran up his spine.

  The Director’s words haunted him.

  You’re on your own.

  CHAPTER 27

  The hotel bar at the Hay-Adams was humming with activity, and when the hour approached six o’clock, the richly paneled lounge filled to capacity with powerbrokers and guests.

  Earlier in the day, on Capitol Hill, telephones rang in the offices of Senators Lucas Dekker and Ian McKenzie. Their assistants had promptly rearranged the Senators’ schedules to accommodate a request from Philip Harrison, the CEO of a large bank in New York City. The executive asked the senators to join him later for cocktails and dinner.

  The bank and the individuals within its sphere of influence were the Senators’ largest source of campaign contributions. Both were members of the Senate Committee on Banking, exercising a lot of power over the regulation of financial institutions.

  Senators Dekker and McKenzie had already been seated in the lounge at the Hay-Adams, looking forward to cocktails, followed by a meal with Harrison at The Lafayette restaurant upstairs. They pictured themselves power dining in the elegant surroundings, backslapping with the banking CEO and soaking in a view of the White House.

  As they sipped Martinis, a young woman dressed in a courier’s uniform approached their table. Caught by surprise, the men exchanged a puzzled look.

  “Mr. Harrison won’t be joining you this evening,” she informed them politely. “I’ve been instructed to present these for your review.” She placed two identical manila envelopes on the table. “Have a nice evening, gentlemen.”

  As the woman pivoted and disappeared into the crowd, she passed a male patron who sat at the bar nursing a club soda. He had been keenly observing the two Senators at their table.

  Curious and confused, the Senators turned their attention to the envelopes. Removing the contents, they found each contained a file.

  They began to scrutinize them.

  Moments later the man at the bar noticed as beads of moisture began to accumulate on the forehead of Senator McKenzie. Meanwhile, his colleague, Senator Dekker, dug deeper into the documents, feeling an onrushing anxiety as he did so. His pulse quickened and the muscles of his neck and upper back suddenly became tense. McKenzie shifted nervously in his seat. His pupils grew larger as he eyes tore through the material.

  A long silence followed.

  The Senators were dumbstruck. They struggled to fathom how anyone could have acquired this information, for the documents they held in their hands were potentially explosive.

  As he skimmed another page, Senator McKenzie mumbled to himself.

  “How in the hell?”

  The files summarized events the two Senators had been involved in. They had helped to bury banking bills boils under an avalanche of cash that was poured into powerful lobbying firms.

  By helping the greedy executive, McKenzie and Dekker had put their thumbs on the scale of justice. In so doing, they tipped the balance in favor of Harrison by accepting illegal payoffs in exchange for their influence.

  Senator Dekker tugged at his tie, attempting to increase blood flow to his brain.

  The accounts are offshore. The money is in a trust. It’s not even in my name, Dekker thought.

  Panic and fear set in. Obviously, someone had gone to a great deal of effort and expense to acquire the damning information.

  The financial safeguards were supposed to be foolproof, thought McKenzie.

  And yet fools they were.

  “Would you like another, sir?” the bartender said, eyeing an empty glass of club soda near the s
trange-looking man. The request was ignored. He much preferred to watch and gloat as the senators squirmed.

  Dekker tugged at his tie again. The knot felt like a noose. His mind raced as the reality struck. Someone had bribed their way through a blind trust, and individuals had been paid off, threatened even, to talk. Perhaps Harrison had caved as well.

  His attention was then diverted to a miniature tape recorder inside one of the envelopes. It now sat on the table. A piece of paper taped to the top had typewritten words on it.

  PRESS PLAY

  As McKenzie did so, a person began to speak, his voice in the form of an electronic vocal signature.

  “I PRESUME YOU’VE HAD AN OPPORTUNITY TO LOOK AT THE DOCUMENTS. CLEARLY, DISTRIBUTION OF THESE MATERIALS TO THE MEDIA WOULD OCCASION YOUR RESIGNATIONS AND IMPRISONMENT. OUR DEMANDS WILL BE ARTICULATED BY SENATOR WARD. GOOD DAY, GENTLEMEN.”

  As he stood at the bar, Boris removed a secure phone from his pocket and punched in a speed dial number.

  A man answered.

  “Yes.”

  “It’s done.”

  “Excellent.” The Deacon was pleased. “Good work.”

  CHAPTER 28

  Located in a neighborhood of D.C, every nook and cranny of the home was filled with darkness except for the study where the faint glow of a lamp cast the silhouette of Henry Ward.

  It was now past midnight and Mrs. Ward had gone to bed a couple of hours earlier.

  Staring at a secure phone on his desk, the Senator worked up the courage to hang on.

  It won’t be long now.

  The phone rang, shattering the silence, and his heart skipped a beat.

  “Hello.”

  “Good evening, Mr. Ward,” a man said.

  He tried to steady his voice.

  “It’s good to hear from you, Deacon.”

  “What do you have for me?”

  “I met with Dekker and McKenzie earlier this evening. I must say, they were badly shaken.”

  “I’m not surprised. One never knows when the past will return and haunt him.”

  “As you expected, they were eager to accommodate our wishes,” declared Ward.

  “Splendid. Two more are captive to our demands.”