by Jack Bowie
“Perhaps the ‘Citizens for Responsible Government’? I commend you on the use of the remailer. It had the Senator quite upset. Did you think of that yourself or did the consultant here help you?”
“Mohammed helped me you bastard! Why did you have to kill him?”
“That Arab helped you? What a strange coincidence. I really had nothing to do with him. He simply stumbled onto something he should have left alone. It was his own fault. Not unlike your bringing up old memories, Ms. Lynch. Some things should just be left alone.”
“How did you find us?” Braxton asked.
“Quite accidentally. I recognized Ms. Lynch’s new name when we were looking for you. I had her followed. Finding you with her is an added bonus. It makes things so much easier.”
“I suppose you killed Paul Terrel as well?” Braxton asked.
“Not personally. But I’m sure you’ve guessed we were after you. I promise I won’t make the same mistake they did.”
“You won’t get away with killing us.” Goddard said.
“Of course I will.” Nicholson’s voice was cold and emotionless. “I’d probably even get an award if I stayed around to take the credit. You’re so hypocritical, Ms. Goddard. You’re both wanted criminals. Mr. Braxton killed one of my friends. He will pay dearly for that.”
Braxton and Goddard exchanged confused glances.
“Killed your friend?” Braxton said. “I didn’t kill Warren, if that’s who you mean. I was set up. Didn’t you do it?”
“I don’t have time for these games, Braxton. It won’t change anything.” He straightened his arm and pointed the pistol at Braxton’s head.
Goddard pulled herself even closer and buried her head into his chest. The pinch he felt from his shirt pocket gave him an idea. It was a long shot but it was all he had. He only needed one moment of distraction.
“I would think you would want to know what we have learned first. Warren’s journal was very enlightening.”
Nicholson’s hold on the pistol relaxed. “Journal? What are you talking about?”
“Oh, you didn’t know that your partner Chamberlain had kept a computer journal of your exploits? It tells all about Senator Lynch and Senator Potterfield, all about the trapdoor in Century’s gateways. I designed that access point. Did you think I wouldn’t be able to recognize it?”
Nicholson hesitated. His smile disappeared. “You’re bluffing. Warren would never leave a journal.”
“He gave it to me just before he died. It goes all the way back to MIT. I know all about the cash too.”
Nicholson’s eyes opened wide in surprise. Then Braxton heard the roar of an engine behind him and suddenly the alley was again ablaze in light from the truck’s head lamps. Nicholson cried out and raised his arm to block the blinding glare.
Braxton saw the opening and reacted. One thing he had not told Goddard was that he had entered Boston College on a football scholarship; he prayed all that practice had not been in vain. He lunged at Nicholson like a linebacker, carefully leading with his right shoulder, lifting and driving him across the path. The surprised aide tried to keep his balance but couldn’t stop the younger man’s fanatical momentum.
Nicholson’s back hit the top rail of the guard fence and cracked like a shattered baseball bat. His gun, caught between the two hurtling bodies, exploded with a flash.
Braxton jumped back and saw Nicholson slide down the railing to the ground. Red liquid oozed from a dark hole in the raincoat.
Goddard muffled a scream and ran across the path.
“My God!” she cried as she saw the body. “Is he dead?”
Braxton reached down and placed his index finger on Nicholson’s neck. “I think so,” he replied.
“Are you all right?”
Braxton looked down at himself, almost expecting to see a hole in his jacket. He was so pumped full of adrenaline he doubted he would have felt the pain.
He patted his chest, shook his arms and replied with a quiet, “I guess.”
She threw her arms around him and squeezed so tight he thought he would break. After they both stopped shaking, he slowly pushed her arms away and stared down at Nicholson.
Now he really had murdered someone. It was self-defense but no one was ever going to believe them now. The police would know he was in D.C. and focus the search even tighter.
Worst of all he had involved Goddard.
“What are you doing?” she whispered as Braxton knelt down next to the body.
She turned her head and saw the truck driver getting out of his cab to see what had happened. “We’ve got to get out of here!”
“I need to find something first.” He searched Nicholson’s pockets and stuffed what he found in his jacket.
Glancing at the gun at Nicholson’s side, he shook his head. Better to leave it. Megan had been right. Guns do only bring tragedy.
“Now we run.” He grabbed her hand and they raced down the path to Wisconsin, eventually disappearing into the evening crowds on M Street.
Chapter 56
Georgetown, Washington, D.C.
Saturday, 10:00 p.m.
“THIS IS INSANE, Adam. You can’t go in there.”
They were parked along Forsythe Street in Georgetown. It was only five blocks from where they had encountered Nicholson, but felt like a world away. Forsythe was a quiet neighborhood of million dollar brownstones. The inhabitants were embassy staffers and upper level government employees who traded smaller homes than their Virginia and Maryland colleagues for proximity to the city center. The properties were well kept and exclusive, Rock Creek Park separating them from the urban dangers of the rest of the District.
They had picked up the rental, driven to Forsythe and spent the last half hour sitting in the car watching the house at number 2376. There had been no visible activity. When another car drove by they had either ducked out of sight or assumed an amorous embrace. So far no one had bothered them.
“Nobody’s going to come,” Braxton said emphatically. “I took Nicholson’s wallet and keys. They haven’t had time to identify him. I’m going in and look around. He must have some kind of records; something that will link him to Chamberlain or your father.”
“If you’re going, I’m coming too.”
“No you’re not. You’re going to stay here and keep a lookout. I’ll stay a half an hour. If anybody comes around, honk your horn and leave. I’ll get out and meet you on Wisconsin. Please, Susan, we’ve got to get some evidence or we’ll be running the rest of our lives.”
“All right, but take care of yourself.” Then she added, “I love you.”
“I love you too. See you in an hour.” He kissed her hard on the lips and jumped out of the car.
The row houses were close to the street; it only took him fifteen seconds to cross the street and dash up the five steps to get to the door. There were four keys on Nicholson’s key ring: one was imprinted with the distinctive Mercedes logo, two more were easily recognized government issue, the last was a heavy duty Schlage. He ducked into the shadows of the entry way and tried the Schlage. It turned easily and he went inside.
Street light filtered through the transom above the door and fell on a deeply carpeted hallway. Braxton groped along the side wall, found a light switch, and flipped it on. Above him a crystal chandelier filled the foyer with sparkling light; ahead and to his right a staircase spiraled up to the next floor.
A large room opened to his left. He gave it a quick look and verified that there was little of interest. It was a formal living room, appointed with expensive leather furniture and varied objets d’art. It had the warmth of a professional decorator. Braxton doubted that Nicholson spent much time there.
He moved deeper into the home going through an oak-paneled gathering room and entering the dining area in the back of the first floor. Arched windows looked out upon a small but well-manicured back yard and garden. He poked his head in the kitchen, then gave up on the first floor and started up the stairs.
&nb
sp; Braxton didn’t expect any trouble, he actually believed most of what he had told Goddard, but his heart was racing and his hands shook as he climbed the stairs. From murderer to cat burglar in one night. He was doing really well.
A carillon of electronic tones froze him on the landing. At first he thought he had tripped some kind of alarm, but the regular rhythm exposed them as telephones. There had to be at least five of them, chiming from all over the house.
After three rings, he heard Nicholson’s disembodied voice coming from an answering machine up the stairs. The pretentious greeting ended and the machine waited for a response. None came. A final click from the device and Braxton’s heart started beating again. He continued climbing to the second floor.
To his left a set of French doors led to a large room above the living room. A single door faced him on the side wall and another was to his right. A new flight of stairs curled around the stairwell to the third floor.
The double doors opened onto Nicholson’s play room. There was no other way to describe it. One whole wall was covered with electronic devices and controls: two complete stereo systems, various electronic games, multiple brands of DVD players, all clustered around a huge six-foot projection screen. Hanging from the ceiling was a triple beam professional video projector. A matched set of sofa and five chairs were splayed in an arc through the middle of the room.
Bookshelves filled the wall behind the furniture. He scanned the titles and came away impressed but disappointed; Nicholson had a diverse collection of popular fiction, historical and political titles, and biographies of statesmen and sports figures. Good references, but nothing that would shed light on his clandestine activities. He pulled a few of the books to check on their authenticity then decided to move on. If Nicholson had wanted to really hide something in these volumes it would take him all night to find it.
He had to find an office.
The middle door led to a bathroom. It was clean, functional, and distinctly masculine. Another door connected to a large rear bedroom that appeared to be for guests. It was neat and sterile, without any personal touches. He checked the closet and bureau drawers, they were empty, then left by a second door that led back to the landing.
One more floor to go, he thought, as he started up the stairs. The third story felt much closer and confining. Darkness enclosed him as he passed the ceiling of the open stairwell. He found a light switch at the top of the stairs and looked down the quiet corridor. Recessed flood lights washed the side wall with soft ovals of light, each beam highlighting a delicate pen-and-ink of the Virginia countryside. Five doors lined the corridor: three along the side and one at each end.
He started at the front. It was a small sitting room that connected to Nicholson’s bedroom. The master suite was the only area of the house that looked as if it was ever used. Clothes were hung on a few handy chairs and the bedspread was thrown casually back over the bed. Aside from one hardback novel and a copy of the Wall Street Journal, there was nothing of interest in the suite.
Two more doors led to a bathroom and linen closet.
All that was left was the door at the back end of the hall. He tentatively pulled it open. There was no question that he had finally found what he had been searching for. A small bedroom had been converted to a computerized information center. It looked like a TV control room. Lined up on a long modern desk were two large flat panel monitors with a keyboard and mouse, a high-speed HP laser printer and Fujitsu scanner. A professional CD burner/duplicator sat on top of a cluttered media cabinet. More wires and cables came from communication hookup boxes on the wall. Nicholson had indulged himself in nothing but the best.
Bookshelves next to the window contained the latest Internet publications, computer science references, and indices on information repositories. Folders and other documents were stacked in piles on the floor.
He checked the stacks and found a wealth of business and financial information on military suppliers. There were Dun and Bradstreet summaries, 10K filings, and Dow Jones reports. Nicholson had been doing some heavy background work, undoubtedly in support of Potterfield’s Bill, but it all looked like public information.
Braxton hit a key on the keyboard and the monitors woke up, filling every corner of the room with light. A pulsing password window appeared. He considered guessing, but given what he knew about Nicholson that would be a waste of time; time he didn’t have. Lugging the whole deskside unit was possible, but that would be a last choice. Better to finish his search first.
Running out of other options, he finally tried the closet. He pulled back the double doors expecting to find a space full of old clothes and forgotten shoe boxes. Instead he faced six three-drawer government filing cabinets. The back of the closet had been cut out and extended to make room for the massive units.
Nicholson was obviously “old-school”: he still believed in paper. Braxton had hoped to find a well-marked set of CDs with all the incriminating evidence. A quick grab and he would have been done. This was going to be substantially more complicated.
The six cabinets were organized into pairs. The first two were marked “Systems”, the second two “Senate”, and the third set “Other”. Within each pair, the drawers were labeled with alphabetic ranges. Nicholson apparently wasn’t concerned about security in his own home; the cabinets were unlocked.
Braxton started with the “Systems” section. After checking two or three drawers he determined they contained background on computer procedures and networking, including a complete set of Internet RFCs, reference documents and specifications. Good data for a computer jock, but nothing that would implicate Nicholson in the recent events.
The second two cabinets were equally disappointing. They contained copies of old Senate Bills, legislative history, and policy and procedure manuals.
He apprehensively opened the top drawer in the last set of cabinets. It was crammed with folders each with a name on the small label at its top. He pulled one at random and shuffled through the contents. The file was filled with computer printouts of telephone logs, credit card bills, and what looked like private investigator reports. It was a personal history of a Wilmont Brankowitz. Braxton didn’t recognize the name, but from what he could read, Mr. Brankowitz was another Senate aide who had rather unique sexual preferences. He would certainly not appreciate any of the information being made public.
Braxton stuffed the file back in the drawer and slammed it shut. He reached for the drawer labeled “K-M”.
Chapter 57
Georgetown, Washington, D.C.
Saturday, 10:15 p.m.
HAD BRAXTON BEEN more observant when he entered the townhouse, he would have noticed the small panel on the wall opposite the light switch in the foyer. As he had opened the door, the red LED began to blink. Thirty seconds later, a coded message was sent over Nicholson’s telephone line to Capitol Security Services in Rockville, Maryland.
Jerry Cooper, a three year veteran of Capitol, saw the alert on his terminal and checked the client’s record. The owner, a Barclay Nicholson, had been a real pain-in-the-ass recently, complaining to Capitol of numerous false alarms that had resulted in substantial charges from the District Police.
Cooper checked the alarm code and determined that it was due to a normal entry from the front door. He figured Nicholson had probably just forgotten to reset the alarm. He waited a few minutes to give the owner time to remember, then gave him a call. When the call went unanswered, Cooper decided he had better forward the alarm.
Dispatcher Liza Benedict took the call from Capitol at 10:38. She checked the log and verified the cars on duty in the area. Fortunately for Braxton, it was another busy night in the Second District. There was an accident on Key Bridge, and two teams had just been dispatched to M Street to check on a reported assault. It took three minutes for the dispatcher to get through to Patrolman Roger Loudon.
Loudon checked with the officer-in-charge after getting the call. The assault turned out to be a murder and they wou
ld need all the patrolmen they could get to control the scene. His superior told him to investigate the alarm and then get back to the murder scene as soon as possible.
Ten minutes later Loudon turned onto Forsythe Street. The street was deserted, not unexpected for that hour, except for a lone Chevrolet Camaro parked across from his destination. The driver was a pretty young blonde. He was about to call for wants and warrants when she beeped her horn twice, waved good-bye to a friend in the townhouse, and pulled away.
Canceling the request, he had enough things to worry about already, he reported his position and got out to check the house. There didn’t seem to be any evidence of a forced entry, which was consistent with the security company’s report. He walked up the front stairs and noticed that the front door was ajar. Not normal behavior for a resident of D.C. Putting the flashlight in his left hand, Loudon drew his revolver, and pushed open the door.
* * *
As Braxton pulled the folder labeled Kenneth Lynch, he heard a car horn. At first it didn’t register, but then he remembered his instructions to Goddard. Folder in hand, he went down the hall to the sitting room and looked out through the curtains to the street below. The rental car was gone and there was a police cruiser stopped in front of the house.
“Dammit,” he whispered.
He went back to the hallway and listened for some sign of the police. He didn’t hear anything. Walking as softly as possible he stepped down the deeply carpeted stairs and peered into the open staircase. He didn’t see any movement and decided to sneak out the back door while the cops were still searching the front yard.
As he continued down the stairs, a beam of light flashed across the floor on the first floor. He froze. Someone was swinging a flashlight and searching the rooms. The light hit the stairs and a figure started moving up to the second floor.
He was trapped. He’d never get past the policeman on the next floor and he was sure to work his way upstairs. Where could he hide? The rooms on the third floor had all been spacious and neat. They offered little in the way of cover.
