Connections. Corridan and Mears were both ex-Navy officers. Big damned deal. Different wars and a twenty year gap in their ages.
Dinmore was a bureaucratic hack, leap-frogging his way over the backs of other hacks on a rapid rise in the Treasury Department. He might have had contact with Senator Corridan through the appropriations or intelligence committees, but it was not obvious in any of this material.
And Lani Dixon probably knew Corridan and possibly even Dinmore, but that acquaintanceship, if it had happened, would have been social.
With the six sheets of paper side by side in front of him, Malone scanned across each. Outside of Corridan’s and Mears’ opposing politics and common military service, he found only one other link. Lani Dixon had been a freshman at the University of Arizona when James Mears had been a senior.
God, they were all fellow grads.
Which meant nothing. Malone graduated from the U of A in ’89. He was two years ahead of Mears, had never known him, and he was light years ahead of Lani Dixon. But hell, now he knew he was connected to beautiful Lani in a way he had never known.
And she had a house in Arizona. Family thing, maybe.
“Shit. I don’t want to go to Arizona.”
The lady at the end of the table looked up at him.
“Sorry.”
What he wanted to do was check into a hotel, and then go find a dinner that a rabbit would wrinkle his nose at.
Which is what he decided to do.
Taking a cab to the Hilton, he registered, took his suitcase up to the room on the seventh floor, then went down to the dining room for a baked potato swimming in sour cream and chives, a two-inch-thick sirloin, and a glass of heavy burgundy.
Malone was feeling better when he went back to his room at 10:00. There were people he should probably call since he was in town, people he had not seen in years, but he used the excuse of the late hour to put it off until morning. He stripped to his boxers, climbed between the cool and crisp sheets, and was asleep in ten minutes.
At 4:40 in the morning, he was shot.
Chapter Four – Thursday, June 13
Malone had long ago learned to sleep light, and the click of the door latch snapped his eyes open. The light from the hallway spilled into the room, immediately darkened by a heavy shape. He rolled to his left, falling off the bed, his right hand dragging the Walther off the bedside table where he had placed it, loaded with one in the chamber.
He heard the Phht! of the silenced weapon a split second before he felt the impact of the bullet in the meat at the back of his upper left arm.
And then he was on his back on the floor.
The second shot smacked into the bedside stand.
And then he was firing, pumping three unsilenced shots into the center mass of the backlit silhouetted man. The guy went down heavily on his back, halfway into the hallway. The echoes of the gunshots filled the room and rang in his ears, and the gunpowder aroma permeated the air.
Malone rolled onto his stomach and got his knees under him, used the bed to help pull himself to his feet. His left arm stung, felt numb. He was dripping blood down his arm and onto the carpet.
He didn’t turn on the light right away, but moved to the body in the doorway, kicked the fallen weapon to the side, and reached down to feel the carotid.
Nothing there. Just a body. Three bullet holes oozing blood on the front of his white shirt. He looked across the hallway and saw the blood spatter and gore on the opposite door and wall. The exit holes in the man’s back would be larger. He hoped his bullets hadn’t penetrated the rooms on the other side of the corridor.
He peeked both ways down the hall. There were heads poking out from most of the doors.
“It’s all over, folks,” he called.
He studied the face. Blunt, unremarkable. It was no one he had ever seen before.
Then he turned on the light. Conscious of the time span between when everyone down the hall heard the shots—looking at their bedside clocks—and when the call was placed, he went to the room phone, laid the Walther on the table, and dialed 911. No help for it. He didn’t like it, but he asked for cops and an EMT.
Fortunately, he was wearing his boxer shorts, and he barely had time to struggle one-handed into his suit pants before the first uniformed officers from the Metropolitan Police arrived. He grabbed a towel from the bathroom to clamp to his upper arm and once again studied the face of the man on the floor. Nope. He’d never seen him before. The quick arrival of the cops precluded an examination of the corpse’s pockets. He’d liked to have retrieved a wallet and a cell phone.
Oak leaned over the body to look down toward the elevator stack. The uniformed officers sidled down the corridor cautiously with good reason. They had their .40 Glocks aimed at the ceiling, and they kept telling the other guests to stay in their rooms.
“Sir? Sir, are you armed?”
“Not any more, Officer. Come on in.”
Malone backed into the room, and the cops followed him, stepping gingerly over the body which now had a pool of blood oozing from beneath. One cop checked for signs of life, and one went to look in the bathroom.
“My weapon is on the table there,” Malone said. “Three shots fired.”
Officer Jackson by his name tag realized there was blood dripping down Malone’s arm. “Have you been shot, sir?”
“It’s the reason I shot back.”
Twenty minutes later, Oak went over the whole thing with two homicide detectives while an EMT examined his arm and dressed it with bandages. Oak was sitting in the desk chair.
“Nasty gouge. You’ve got a furrow about a quarter-inch deep and two-inches long, Mr. Malone. Very, very lucky. Judging by your other mementos, you’ve been lucky before. No bones hit and no nerve damage I don’t think. I’ve pulled it together with Steri-strips, but you need to see a doctor as soon as you can.”
“I’ll do that. Thank you.”
“Do you want a painkiller?” the EMT asked.
“I’ll pass.”
The lead detective, a big black man named Ford with a shaved head and a really good suit, said, “You’re sure you’ve never seen him before?”
“Never. Got a name?”
“His license says Dean Mal, from Charleston, West Virginia.”
Malone shook his head. “Doesn’t ring any bells at all.”
“You think he was going to rob you?”
“Silencer. He came in shooting, so I don’t think he had robbery in mind. I think he must have had a key card because I only heard the latch. And with a key card, he knew what room he wanted. Unless it was a master card.”
“We’re taking a look at that,” Ford said. “You were very quick to return fire.”
They had already examined his permits for concealed carry. He was covered in almost every state. When they asked why he needed the concealed carry cards, he told them he sometimes transported client cash and bearer bonds.
“Yes, fortunately I was.”
“Mr. Malone, I can’t help but notice that you don’t appear to have much remorse over just killing that man.”
The body was still lying on the floor in the doorway. On the bright side, Ford was still addressing him as “mister.” Not trying to become buddy-buddy and elicit some kind of confession. Other than he’d just killed Dean Mal?
“The son of a bitch tried to kill me. I don’t feel bad at all.”
“How long have you been doing this . . . this international investigations thing?”
“About five years.”
“And before that?”
“Classified.”
The detective didn’t like that. He mulled it over as the crime scene and medical people started to fill the room. Cameras going off. The dead man’s pistol, which was a .22, and Oak’s 9 millimeter were bagged. He dearly wanted to tell Ford to compare the .22’s ballistics with a murder in New York, but they’d probably want to know how he knew about that one. The slugs that penetrated Dinmore and killed the bench were
probably lost causes, but the bullet that plowed ground in front of Malone’s face was possibly intact. They were going to have to figure it out on their own, though.
“I’m sorry about that, Detective Ford. You can check with the CIA and see how much they want to tell you.”
Ford just stared at him for a full minute, and then said, “You don’t work there anymore?”
“Not for five years.”
“Did you call anyone other than 911?”
“No. There’s no one who’s going to harass you.”
“Thank God for small favors. Are you working on anything that might encourage someone to want to silence you?”
“Ah, that’s a tough one, Detective. Without revealing any confidences, I could say that from time to time I’ve turned over some bad guys to Interpol or law enforcement in England, France, Germany, Israel, and some other places. Not in the U.S. Some of those disreputable people don’t hold me in high esteem.”
“Anyone specific?”
“Let me think about it and check around to see where they’re at now, if anyone’s on the loose. Anything pops up, I’ll call you.”
Ford’s expression said he didn’t like living with that condition, but he came up with a business card for Malone. His partner who had been recording notes in a small black notebook didn’t have a better expression.
“All right, Mr. Malone. First impression, your story holds up. I’m going to want results from ballistics and other forensic evidence before I know where to go with this. We’ll give you a receipt for the Walther. You may be called in for a hearing.”
“That’s all right,” Oak told him, “as long as I can wait for the hearing at home.”
“In Sausalito? Okay, as long as you don’t mind the airfare.”
It was almost 6:30 by then but Malone was allowed to have his cell phone back and he called the front desk. Someone down there may have been a little anxious about how the dead man obtained a key card and became dead in such a nice hotel. Litigation was easy these days so it wouldn’t hurt to coddle their nearly victimized guest. A new room down one floor was immediately located for him, and a bellhop came up to help him move.
In the new room, he took a shower around the dressing on his arm and shaved. His arm wasn’t as numb, but he was aware of the pain. Then he ordered breakfast from room service. He called Galway on her cell and caught her at home.
“What?”
Boy. When she recognized a cell number, she was the epitome of grace.
“I was just thinking about you. Where do you live?’”
“Need to know basis only.”
“I need to know.”
“Alexandria. Why?”
“It helps me to picture you. Besides, I’ve got to pick you up for dinner tomorrow.”
“Damn it, Oak. What are you up to?”
“Sitrep for you. And I’d like to know something about a man named Dean Mal, one “1,” apparently from Charleston, West Virginia.”
“Where is it written that I get pulled into your operation?”
Let’s see. Who started this with a referral? There was a hard edge to Bobbi these days that hadn’t been there before. Probably a result of the work she did as well as the loss of Bob.
“It’s not a requirement, Bobbi. You just know so much, I can’t resist asking.”
“Dean Mal? Why?”
“He can’t tell me anything because he’s dead.”
“Dead how?”
“I shot him. Three times, just to be sure.”
“Shit! What’s going on, Oak?”
“I’m trying to figure that out. That’s why I need your great mind helping me.”
“You know something, Oak? I get along just fine without sneaky compliments trying to change my mind.”
Malone told her the story quickly.
“So you’re not under arrest?”
“Not yet. I think this Detective Ford will let it ride, but he’s going to be bothered by the motive. Hell, I’m bothered by the motive.”
“You were shot. Are you okay?”
“Just winged me, as Roy Rogers would have said. I’m good.”
“I’ll see what I can find out. You don’t have anything more on Mal?”
“Maybe five-eight, maybe late thirties, in good shape. I didn’t have a chance to get more.”
“I’ll call you.”
“I’m at the Hilton. Looking around for a good lobster.”
*
The Institute for International Stability promoted moderation in global political and geo-economic affairs. The members, who could join for as little as $25 per year, numbered 1,647,876. Out of a true sense of idealism, most of them paid more than the minimum to get their embossed plastic cards each year. The annual revenue from membership dues ran close to 8 million dollars.
Then there was the annual fundraising drive. On average, that brought in another 10 to 11 million dollars each year. Not to be ignored was the federal match money that Senator Patrick Corridan had managed to get buried in the annual federal budget ten years before. Like National Public Radio or the Public Broadcasting System, a worthy cause was worth the support of the federal government. That was another 10 or 11 million dollars a year, important to the Institute, but a drop in the bucket for the government. Over the dozen years of its existence, the Institute had accumulated in its treasury, beyond its normal yearly expenses, a little over 120 million dollars. It was no secret. The Institute prided itself on its transparency and the members all received copies of the annual audit conducted by an outside accounting firm.
The Institute was almost as good at bringing in revenue as the National Rifle Association and the American Association of Retired Persons.
Policy for the Institute’s activities was set by a fifteen member Board of Directors, all of them celebrities in one arena or another—film, stage, sports, academia, business, and finance. The goals set by the Board were implemented by the Executive Director, Jeffrey Paxton, who pretty much had free rein to conduct business as he saw fit as long as he reported positive results to the Board.
The operations of the Institute were efficient since Paxton maintained only a small staff, composed of an information manager, a finance manager, an investment manager, an office manager, two technical writers, one computer specialist, four administrative assistants, and a core group of six lobbyists. Outside the borders of the U.S., Paxton had a stable of part-time lobbyist consultants brought into play for specific assignments. Those consultants had command of the languages necessary to work with politicians and influentials in countries such as Iraq, Saudi Arabia, Israel, Lebanon, Pakistan, India, Russia, and China. They were flexible and could be utilized in other countries as well. Two of them had been banned from Iran.
The tasks were fairly straight forward, and their successes were reported in quarterly newsletters or e-mails to the members. Primarily, the Institute attempted to persuade lawmakers and policy makers in the U.S. and around the world to refrain from engaging in rash acts that led to confrontations or violence. Toward that end, it was understood that in many areas of the world, a little baksheesh assisted in the persuasion. On the books of the Institute, this was reported as donations to one worthy cause or another.
Paxton was careful in his budgeting to never exceed annual membership dues, fund raising, federal match revenues or investment income in operating his office or supporting the donation enterprise. He continually added to the principal in the investment pool.
The executive director’s skills, knowledge, and expertise were all reasons why his information manager, Alicia Hampstead, idolized him. Not to mention that he was a nice five-eleven alongside her five-seven, had dark mysterious eyes that one could get lost in, and paid attention to the trim of his dark brown hair and matching beard. He was two years younger than Alicia.
If he wasn’t her boss, and if Paxton wasn’t such a gentleman, and if he wasn’t married with three offspring, things could get interesting. However, dalliance in the workplace was
something Alicia firmly believed should be taboo. Progress on that front was relegated to fantasy.
Her five-room office suite abutted the headquarters suite of the Institute on the sixth floor of the high rise building on Connecticut Avenue just off Dupont Circle. Her suite was protected by keypad security on the hallway door and on the door that adjoined the reception area of the Institute. Only Alicia, Doyle Katt, and Jeffrey Paxton had access. Hampstead and Katt took care of their own office maintenance.
Paxton came over at 3:00 in the afternoon. She heard the door open, and he came through the anteroom to tap on her doorjamb.
“Hi, Jeffrey.”
“Good afternoon, Alicia. Your e-mail said you had something new.”
“I do. Have a seat.”
Paxton settled into one of her yellow chairs while Hampstead withdrew a single sheet of paper from her middle drawer. She leaned across the desk to hand it to him.
“What have we got?”
“There may be trouble brewing in Doha, Qatar.”
“Tell me.”
“Background. The Al Thani family has ruled as an absolute emirate since the 19th century. The country gained independence from Britain in 1971. It was formerly a British Protectorate. Hamad bin Khalifa Al Thani became Emir in ’95 when he quietly deposed his father while the older man was on vacation in Switzerland. All of the government positions are held by family or close friends of the family. They’ve got beau ceau petrodollars and have made some progress with women’s suffrage, at least in municipal elections, and other more liberal policies.”
“Friend of the U.S., right?”
“Absolutely. Hosts the U.S. Central Command’s Forward Headquarters. It was a launch point for the invasion of Iraq in 2003.
“And the issue?” Paxton asked.
“It is listed on that sheet of paper, Jeffrey. A group of activists in Doha, unnamed as yet but almost certainly with ties to Al Qaeda, are promoting ideas of independence from the emirate. In my opinion, this could lead to some disruption in the relationship between Qatar and the U.S.”
“You’re certainly correct, Alicia. As you always are. Any names for us?”
“There are three names listed on the sheet, but at this point, they’re only possibles. Someone in the field will have to take a closer look.”
Solid Oak Page 4
