BAD DEEDS: A Dylan Hunter Thriller (Dylan Hunter Thrillers)

by Robert Bidinotto

“It’s … unbelievable.”

  “Yet that isn’t the end of it. Before the manager could even open his mouth, Mr. Hunter raised the obvious matter of all the sales and gratuities that we would lose from those many displaced customers. So, to compensate us for that, he offered to pay the restaurant a sum double our average per-customer price for dinner and drinks. And he pledged to reward every member of the restaurant staff with gratuities in amounts that none of us could hope to earn during a busy week.” He nodded toward the entrance to the room. “I imagine that he is taking care of all of this right now with the manager.”

  “So you accepted his offer.”

  He shrugged. “How could we refuse such a grand gesture in the name of love—let alone his generosity to all concerned? I understand that one party scheduled to be in here resisted his offer at first. The manager told me that Mr. Hunter then ‘sweetened the deal’ substantially—he didn’t say exactly by how much. Anyway, they changed their minds. All of us have been buzzing about this for weeks, trying to estimate just how much he has spent for this evening.” He smiled. “For you.”

  He straightened. “As I said, I just thought you ought to know. Let it be our little secret, all right?” He winked at her.

  She could only nod, numb and mute, before he walked away.

  By the time Dylan returned to the table, she was trying to hold back tears.

  “What’s wrong?” he said, alarmed.

  She shook her head, looking at him in awe, laughing. “Nothing is wrong.” She raised her hand to touch his smooth cheek. “Everything is just perfect, darling.”

  His expression softened. “Not yet. But the night is young.”

  They began with the duck confit strudel baked with mascarpone cheese, cran-apple compote, and foie gras cream. At the waiter’s recommendation, he ordered a bottle of Pinot Noir Belle Glos.

  “You’re going to have everyone wondering how a lowly newspaper reporter has such extravagant wealth,” she said as they touched glasses.

  “I told the manager that I recently inherited a lot of money from a rich uncle, and decided to splurge on my lady love. He thought that was exquisitely romantic.”

  “So do I, she said,” saluting him with her glass.

  Warmed by the cheery fire, they laughed and chatted quietly, hands often touching, eyes rarely leaving each other’s faces. After a while, she thought to ask him about his progress on the first article.

  “The research is coming along, but slowly. These people hide their tracks pretty well.”

  “I’m sure.” But once the topic was broached, the feeling that she had harbored for days percolated to the surface again. “I hope everything will settle down. Now that we’re back home.”

  He was watching her. She knew those gorgeous hazel eyes saw right through her.

  “Don’t worry about them, Annie. They don’t know who or where we are. We left them, and any threat they pose, back there in the woods.”

  “I try to tell myself that. But I’m still having the bad dreams.”

  “I know.” He squeezed her hand.

  “Violence just seems to follow you everywhere, Dylan.”

  “Not anymore. From now on, my battles will be strictly journalistic.”

  She tried to make light of it. “Oh … the pen is mightier than the sword.”

  “Something like that.”

  She studied his face. Saw that he was keeping it blank—on purpose. That bothered her.

  “You say you want to walk away from all that.”

  “Of course I do.”

  “I don’t doubt you mean it. But the question remains: Can you?”

  “I need to. It’s no way to live.”

  He looked irritated. Then he seemed to push it aside and recapture the mood. He took her hand in both of his.

  “I want to build a normal life. For you, Annie.”

  She swallowed. “For both of us.”

  The entrees arrived. She had chosen the pork, he the rack of lamb. Their presentations and accompaniments were spectacular, and the wine pairing continued to work. Afterward, they ordered dessert—she a white chocolate pistachio specialty, he the carrot cake. The wait staff drifted away, giving them time and space alone. They relaxed in the warmth of the room and the meal, finishing off the bottle, watching the fire die down. The string quartet continued to work their way through a Baroque repertoire.

  “They’re superb,” she said. “I don’t recall ever hearing better musicians.”

  “Well, they’d better be good. They’re from the National Symphony.”

  “What?”

  “When I hired them, I promised that they couldn’t possibly have a more appreciative listener tonight than you. Nor one more beautiful.”

  He motioned their server over and asked for a bottle of Dom Perignon.

  “Dylan!” she protested. “I’m stuffed. I can’t possibly handle a bottle of champagne now.”

  “Oh, let’s just have a sip to cap off the evening. Besides, whatever we don’t finish I’ll have them cork, and we’ll take it home.” He grinned. “I’m sure we’ll find uses for it before we pass out.”

  They laughed. Imagining.

  The waiter materialized again, placed glittering cut crystal flutes before them, and uncorked the bottle with practiced flair. Dylan reached across the table for her glass. Slid it near him.

  “Why don’t you fill hers first?” he told the waiter.

  The two men’s eyes met. The waiter gave a slight nod. He bent to fill the flute, then poured Dylan his serving.

  “I’ll leave the bottle here for you, sir.”

  The waiter left. Abruptly, the string quartet swung into a modern standard: “It Had to Be You.”

  She remained silent, unable to find words equal to the occasion. Or to him. She found herself transfixed by the rugged contours of his face. The reflected glint of candlelight in the brown-green eyes. The cocky grin.

  After a moment she said, “Dylan, we’ve known each other only a few months. I don’t know how I deserve all of this yet.”

  “Yet?”

  She felt her face grow warm.

  “I mean, we’ve managed just fine—for these past few weeks. But what about …”

  She stopped.

  “What about longer?” he finished. “Much longer?”

  She dropped her eyes. Studied the polish on her nails. “I don’t know. I’m not sure of anything.”

  “I am. As for you, maybe the champagne will help.”

  He extended the flute to her.

  She reached for it, then her hand froze in mid-air.

  She saw what was in the bottom of the glass.

  Her heart began to pound.

  Never losing his cocky grin or his eye contact with her, he tilted the flute slightly, reached in with his forefinger, and lifted out the ring.

  And then Dylan was down on one knee before her and holding her trembling hand in her lap and she tried, tried very hard, to focus on every word he was saying as he stared up at her, his beautiful face serious now, his voice strong and steady. She was vaguely aware that somewhere lights were flashing and somewhere there was music but all she could see, really see, was that face staring up at her, and all that she could hear, really hear, were the words pouring from his heart.

  “Annie Woods, I have adored you since the first moment I saw you. You are everything I have ever wanted from a lover. From a companion. From life. We both know that what we have together is so rare, so special, that it seems almost impossible. We both knew it on our first date. We both knew it even at the times when we were hurting each other. And we both know it now.

  “It had to be you, Annie Woods. And it has to be us. We belong together. For the rest of our lives.”

  She was shaking all over now and the tears were flowing freely and she knew that of all the men that ever were, she would never find one better, or better for her.

  She watched him draw a breath. Let it out. Felt his hand, so big and strong and steady, tremble a lit
tle, too, as he said:

  “Annie Woods, would you do me the honor of becoming my wife?”

  She gripped his hand tightly. Looked around to anchor the reality of this moment forever in her memory. Noticed only now that the wait staff had assembled near the entrance, along with some smiling guests from other dining areas, and that the flashing came from their cameras. Noticed now that the strings were playing her personal Sinatra favorite, “Night and Day.”

  She tried to absorb it all—overwhelmed by the firelight and candles, by the flowers and music, by the antique furniture and relics, by the silver and crystal, by the beamed ceiling and the framed Currier and Ives prints on the walls.

  But most of all, by him.

  She rested her other hand on his head, ran her fingers through the softness of his dark curls, and whispered:

  “Yes, Dylan.”

  He closed his eyes. When he opened them again, she saw her future in them.

  Again, he raised her hand and kissed it.

  Then slipped the dazzling diamond on the third finger.

  SEVENTEEN

  Hunter finished moving the soiled dishes from the sink into the dishwasher. He looked around the counter, fetched a stray wine glass hiding behind the paper towel rack. Noticed the lipstick smudge on it.

  He smiled, remembering …

  He found himself whistling “Night and Day” as he went about the tasks of putting the apartment back together after her weekend stay. Luna, curled on the rumpled bed, opened her eyes and frowned.

  “Sorry, girl. You’re going to have to move.” He shooed her off the comforter. She thumped to the floor and scurried under a chair in the corner, where she turned and glared at him.

  “Plotting revenge, I see,” he said as he stripped the sheets. “Well, spare me your hairballs, and I’ll let you come back up here after I’m done.”

  He glanced at his watch. Just after nine. She’d be at work now. Probably in Garrett’s office planning their new mole-hunt. He’d call her in about an hour. He liked that she could connect with him by cell phone from inside the walls of the CIA, through a special coded relay—and by a special dispensation from the D/CIA. Garrett had made that unprecedented arrangement for her when he hand-picked her from the Office of Security to become his special assistant for counterintelligence. Rank had its privileges for the boss’s golden girl.

  He was just smoothing the comforter when he heard the cell in his office chirp. Only two people had the number for his latest burner phone. He hoped it was her.

  He saw on its screen that it was Wonk instead.

  “Hey, Wonk.”

  “Hello, Dylan. I thought that I would update you with the results of my weekend research. I have left material for you to peruse in our Option Two location.”

  He meant their private, encrypted cloud storage site. Their Option One location was a local dead drop, for physical items.

  “Thanks. I’ll check it out.”

  “Because of the sheer volume, I felt that I first should ‘give you the headlines,’ as you so often request.”

  Hunter slid into his desk chair. “Thanks. Go ahead.”

  “First, you asked me to learn more about the old ‘Technobomber’ cases and their modus operandi. I did find an intriguing discontinuity.”

  Discontinuity? Hunter wondered, not for the first time, what kind of home life Wonk must have had while growing up.

  “Further examination of the FBI files clarified the reason for their initial skepticism concerning Malleck, the student activist who was convicted for those bombings. Though he was a Marxist who belonged to violent groups that promoted ‘revolution’ against business interests, he was not known for an environmental focus. However, the construction of the bombs, and some of the messages left by the perpetrator, suggested that environmentalism was his or her central obsession.”

  “What do you mean, the bomb construction?”

  “As in the equally infamous ‘Unabomber’ incidents, this individual often included barium nitrate in his explosive devices. That compound serves no practical purpose; however, when ignited, it releases green-colored smoke. Also like the Unabomber, the bomber sent communiques to the media written in green-colored ink. Finally—once again in the manner of the Unabomber—the perpetrator mixed natural elements, such as stone chips and bits of wood, into the bomb shrapnel.”

  It set him back in his chair. So that explained the mysterious pebbles and wood splinters he’d found inside the pipe bomb …

  “Dylan, all of that suggests to me that Malleck may well have spoken the truth when he claimed that he had been framed by someone else. And if so, it also suggests that the FBI may have been premature in ruling out Boggs as a suspect.”

  “I think you could be right,” Hunter said carefully. It was hard—both practically and morally—to keep his friend completely in the dark about his past life and current activities. But it had to remain that way, to protect them both. “What else did you find out?”

  “I was able to determine that Boggs paid in cash for that bus charter. Because he does not maintain a bank account or credit card, his cash deposit was substantial—thousands of dollars. Nor was this the first such instance. Boggs as an individual and WildJustice as an organization often pay in cash for their transportation, equipment, accommodations, and provisions. Indeed, they never seem to be without considerable financial resources.”

  “Which confirms our hypothesis that somebody is funding him surreptitiously, just as the locals suspected,” Hunter said. “Probably out of pocket, too, to avoid being traced. And those pockets have to be deep.”

  He shuffled through a small stack of papers on his desk. Found the one with the large “mind map” he’d scribbled: a chart containing random circles, each bearing a name, and each of those interconnected with others. It looked like a giant spider web. The larger “hubs” of circled connections included Boggs/WildJustice; NLA; EPA; CarboNot; and Avery Trammel.

  “All right,” he continued, “let’s summarize what we know so far. We know that CarboNot’s Damon Sloan was working in Boston during the period when the Technobomber was active.”

  “Yes, Dylan. But of course, so were countless other individuals. And, except for the political alliances that have enriched his business career, Sloan is not known to be ideologically motivated.”

  “He does seem an unlikely ally for somebody like Boggs. Just another crony corporatist, cashing in on the ‘green energy’ fad. So let’s assume for the moment that his presence in Boston back then was a mere coincidence. We also know that Avery Trammel was there, too. And we know he’s been funding left-wing causes, including environmental ones, for decades. That included Nature Legal Advocacy while Boggs worked there.”

  “True. However, once again, a host of other individuals passed through the doors of NLA while Boggs was an employee. It serves as conduit for environmental activists into government agencies and departments, such as EPA, DOE, Interior, and Fish and Wildlife. Its donors, corporate sponsors, and political cronies are legion.”

  “Incestuous, isn’t it.”

  “That is my point. The overlap of Boggs and Trammel at that organization during that period does not constitute anything unique or unusual.”

  “Still, as I think about ‘deep pockets,’ I keep coming back to Trammel.” Hunter tapped the man’s circled name with his forefinger, pondering all the spokes connecting it to others. “That bastard has his fingers into everything. Leftist activism and media advocacy. Crony corporatism—masquerading as ‘socially responsible investing.’ He’s getting more directly involved in electoral politics, too. Did you hear that he’s announced his support for Ashton Conn’s presidential bid?”

  “Do you mean ‘Senator Sustainability’?” Wonk offered. A rare stab at humor.

  “That’s the guy … So far, we have only indirect links between Trammel and Boggs. But Trammel could fund WildJustice out of his pocket change.”

  “Given his staggering wealth, it is indeed possible.
Nor would he necessarily be unsympathetic to a direct-action organization. He has openly acknowledged his membership in revolutionary fringe groups back in the Sixties. However, Trammel long ago repudiated the violence of that period, stating that it had been counterproductive.”

  “So he says. But that could simply be an attempt to rehabilitate his past and build a new cover. Construct a new identity for himself.”

  Wonk laughed; his high-pitched voice made it sound like a giggle. “Dylan, you sound as if you have been reading spy novels.”

  “I suppose,” he said, keeping his tone matter-of-fact.

  “Incidentally, it is serendipitous that we should be discussing all of these individuals. Over breakfast, I scanned the Post. Are you aware that Damon Sloan and CarboNot are receiving an award from the EPA at noon today, outside of the agency’s headquarters? Senator Conn and Avery Trammel are both scheduled to speak.”

  When he stepped off the escalator of the Federal Triangle Metro this time, he sensed no one watching him. He paused to make sure. And to wonder, once again, who had been waiting to tail him the last time he was here. The guy had been a pro; he kept his distance so that Hunter never got a good look at him.

  But who sent him? He thought of the mind map on his desk. Too many possibilities to continue the useless speculation. At least he could relax today; this time they wouldn’t be expecting him.

  He headed toward the archway leading out into Woodrow Wilson Plaza—then stopped and hung back inside the arcade to take in the spectacle.

  A long, blockish van sat parked on the bricks. It reminded him of Adair’s data van, but this one was bigger and pale green. Full-color outdoor scenes of dark trees, blue waterfalls, sunlit skies, and furry animals decorated its polished length. Above these, large white letters announced the CarboNot company name and logo, as well as its tagline: For a Clean Green Energy Future. On its top, the van sported an array of tilted solar panels. From their midst, a small wind turbine rose on a telescoping post, like a sprouting daisy, its three white blades motionless in the still air.

  A speakers’ platform, about three feet high, had been erected in front of the van. It bore a standing row of what this town called dignitaries, but which reminded him of a police lineup of rich suspects. He spotted Weaver near the middle, flanked on one side by his flunky, Crane, and on the other by Senator Conn. Some of the rest he recognized from photos or TV.