by Jack Bowie
Braxton bound the man’s wrists, then duplicated the restraint at his ankles. He stepped back to admire his work. Quite a way from network security.
He went over to the pile of chauffeur’s clothes and started to change. “What’s your name?” he asked.
The driver rolled over and looked up. “Enrico Santana, Señor. Most folks call me ‘Rico.”
“Well ‘Rico, just take it easy and you’ll be fine. I’ve got some work to do this afternoon. When I get done I’ll call the police and they’ll come and get you. That’s all there is to it.”
Braxton knew he would never make the call, but also knew the driver wouldn’t wait around. He was a resourceful, street-wise operator who would make quick use of the ample nails, hooks, and rusty metal straps in the old building. All Braxton needed was a couple of hours.
He finished changing and brushed the ashes off the uniform. It was too large but would have to pass. He left his filthy street clothes in a pile on the ground.
“When will Greystone want you?”
“Don’t know, man. He calls me on the phone when he’s ready. It’s in the coat pocket.”
Braxton found a small, folding cell phone in the chauffeur’s jacket.
“Señor,” Santana called. “What you gonna do with Mr. Greystone? You gonna off him?”
Braxton turned. What am I going to do? Could I kill him?
So much had happened. All the lies. All the deaths. Greystone had to be stopped.
“That’s up to him ‘Rico. It’s a personal thing.”
Santana raised his head and nodded as if he now understood Braxton’s intensity. “I hope you do, man. He’s one mean sonovabitch.”
Braxton drove into the limousine parking area at 11:15. He sat quietly in the soft leather seat, trying to stay alert despite the debilitating fatigue that encased him. He needed to rest but couldn’t allow himself to drift off and enjoy the peace it would bring. He had one more obligation he had to fulfill; an obligation to Paul, to Susan, and even to Warren; an obligation to end the nightmare of the Cache.
He stared out over the parking lot, with its neat, parallel white stripes, and then beyond to the straight, chiseled lines of Union Station. More examples of the cold, logical order man imposed upon the world.
Soon his supposed friend and mentor, Robert Greystone, would call for his limousine. He would then pay for the horror of the previous night.
* * *
Greystone gingerly walked down the steps of the Capitol Building. His back was killing him. It was 2:30 and he had been sitting in the damn Senate gallery since nine-thirty that morning; in seats that reminded him of high school bleachers. The worst part was that there had been no reason for the appearance. It had been all Potterfield’s show. The old bastard had huffed and puffed, growled and groveled, but finally had his way. The Bill had passed, essentially unchanged, sixty-five to twenty-nine.
The success would calm Flitterman’s and Hajima’s concerns and keep them off his back for a few more days. Ahead, the joint conference committee would be a major test. He decided to return to the office and gather some background on the more difficult Representatives.
The loss of Nicholson was unfortunate. This was normally a job he would have left to his colleague. He had been very useful, an internal source for many of the political battles they had worked, but there were other ways of getting information. Most of the government was connected electronically and poorly trained staff often left sensitive background data easily accessible.
Potterfield, however, was as much a liability as an asset. He had been sharp early in the session, but had become visibly weary by the afternoon. Nicholson’s death was still having its effect. Potterfield was critical to the Bill’s passage, and critical to Greystone’s plan for Theater.
Greystone had a meeting with the Senator scheduled for Wednesday. Potterfield would need to be reminded of the successful handling of Lynch and Braxton.
His limousine was waiting at the foot of the limestone staircase. As he approached, the chauffeur opened the passenger door and Greystone slid onto the wide bench seat. The door closed behind him.
“What happened to Enrico?” he asked after the driver had settled behind the wheel.
“‘Rico was taken ill, sir,” came a voice from the front. “They asked me to take you back.”
He was angry that Santana had the impudence to get sick, but it wouldn’t be the first time that the Cuban had gotten into some trouble and had to be replaced.
Greystone didn’t like surprises. And he really didn’t like incompetence. The new driver looked like a bum. His uniform was too big and hung sloppily from his body. His cap sat forward on his head, partially obscuring the man’s features. From what little Greystone could see, the face looked dirty with a short, scruffy beard. The transport company would hear about this later.
He relaxed back into the seat and pulled a manila folder out of his briefcase. Hajima had sent some new proposals by courier that morning. He would review them on the way back to Reston.
The documents were unbelievably complex. Takagawa’s lawyers had learned all the nuances of corporate law in the United States. He scanned the changes quickly, then started again for a more thorough reading. Suddenly the vehicle swayed violently, throwing his briefcase onto the floor and knocking him against the door.
“What the hell!” He looked up and observed the scenery flashing by. This was not I-66 to Reston. It looked more like Rock Creek Parkway. “Driver, where are we going?”
“Just a short side trip, sir. We’ll be there in a minute,” the driver replied.
Greystone grabbed the passenger handle above the door for support and straightened up. He swept his hand across his lap to remove the loose documents and leaned forward to catch a glimpse of the driver in the rear view mirror. There was something familiar about the dark-haired man behind the wheel. The limousine tipped again and he grabbed for the lip of the control console at his side. He squeezed it tightly until he regained his balance then calmly leaned back in the seat and crossed his legs. The corners of his mouth turned up slightly, revealing a self-satisfied smile.
The limousine sped up the Parkway for another three miles, weaving dangerously in and out of the mounting afternoon traffic. Greystone sat silently in the seat, only the colorless knuckles on his left hand displaying any hint of concern.
The limousine lurched suddenly, throwing Greystone forward into the facing seat. He felt the wheels lock and heard the sound of squealing rubber on the asphalt. Sliding out of control, the car miraculously found a hole in the oncoming traffic and dove across the road into a rest area.
The area ahead was little more than a small dirt and gravel pull-off. There were no buildings to be seen, but a wooden picnic table had been placed just off the clearing by the Park Police for tired and hungry tourists. A foot path led from the table along the edge of the pull-off then disappeared down a slope into brush and increasingly dense woods.
The limousine’s tires cut into the loose surface and threw a dense cloud of dirt and debris into the air. In the midst of the darkness, Greystone felt the car again accelerate as the driver steered into the narrow path. The vehicle flew over the ridge and landed hard on the downward slope. The impact threw both of the vehicle’s occupants up to the roof then unceremoniously dumped them onto the floor. Fortuitous positions as the uncontrolled projectile careened another fifty yards down the trail before colliding with a 300 year old oak. A low branch of the aged tree speared through the front windshield and the privacy divider. Had anyone still been seated, they would have been gored by the thrust.
Ten minutes later, there was still no movement from the limo.
Chapter 71
Fairfax Hospital, Fairfax, Virginia
Tuesday, 3:00 p.m.
FOWLER PACED THE hall of the hospital like an expectant father. The past hours had confirmed his fears; he had been completely helpless to protect his friends from the dangers they had uncovered. Now one lay near death
and the other was being actively hunted by his own department.
Where the hell is Braxton?
Fowler had been working the night shift and had heard the call at 12:45: ambulance and backup needed at location of bombing. He had rushed into Virginia, but it had still taken nearly a half-hour to get to the motel. When he had arrived, a Fairfax County cop had recounted the reports of the witnesses and paramedics. The most seriously injured survivor, a Susan Goddard, had already been transported to Fairfax Hospital.
The decimated motel unit had an all too familiar look and smell. This was his fault. He should have put them in protective custody, arrested them, anything but this. He had kicked at the charred and broken timbers in frustration.
The detectives on the scene believed there had been four people inside the apartment at the time of the explosion. How any of them had lived through the blast was the major topic of discussion.
Goddard had been found first and had occupied most of the paramedic’s time.
An unidentified man had been found under a pile of rubble, declared in stable condition, and ignored while dealing with Goddard’s injuries. After she had been sent to the hospital, the paramedics discovered the man had disappeared. A search of the surrounding area was underway.
The gruesome remains of another body had been found scattered throughout the debris.
Finally, forensics had found a trail of blood from another survivor. They were sure it was not from the paramedic’s missing patient.
Fowler had joined the search for the absent witness; there was no question in his mind that it was Braxton, but he had eventually given up and had headed for the hospital.
Things hadn’t gotten any better through the night. Goddard had now been unconscious for over twelve hours. The emergency room staff had treated her obvious injuries: broken collarbone, three broken ribs, collapsed lung, face and neck lacerations, hairline skull fracture, and assorted other cuts and scratches. Serious, but not necessarily life threatening. But they couldn’t wake her. She had been taken to the intensive care unit and wired to every blinking box they could find.
Where the hell is Braxton?
Fowler hated hospitals. Too many of his friends had gone inside and never come out.
He remembered another night so many years before. He had brought Kenneth Lynch to a similar ER after the ex-Senator had driven alongside the Jefferson Memorial and put a bullet in his brain. Lynch had held on for six and a half hours but the damage had been too great. Fowler had volunteered to tell the family and had kept in touch through the ordeal, but there had been little he could do to ease the pain. Until yesterday, that had been the last time he had seen Susan Goddard Lynch.
The critical eight hour milestone had passed and she had still not regained consciousness. The mood in the ward was somber.
The doctor had told him it was up to her. Did she have the will to pull through the trauma?
What the hell did that man know? The kid had seen more pain than any ten people deserved. Maybe she was tired of fighting all the time.
Where the hell is Braxton?
He had ordered the floor nurse to get him if anyone called asking for Goddard’s condition. Succumbing to the all-nighter, he had finally walked down to the cafeteria to get some coffee and a sugar fix. That was when Braxton had called, of course. The duty nurse had tried to keep the unidentified man on the line but she couldn’t find the detective. The caller had hung up just as Fowler had appeared around the corner.
“Detective Fowler?”
He turned and saw a much-too-young man in green scrubs walking toward him. The front of the pullover was dotted with dark red spots. “I think you need to come with me.”
* * *
Braxton awoke on the floor next to the front seat. He hadn’t anticipated the steep slope behind the ridge and had lost control of the long limo as it dove into the ravine. His plan had been to drive just far enough into the woods to hide the limousine, then force Greystone out. What happened after that was up to the executive.
Braxton lifted himself to the seat, shoved open the passenger side door, and jumped the three feet down to the ground. Sitting down on a fallen tree trunk, he took stock of his situation. There didn’t seem to be any serious injuries; his back ached and one leg felt sore, but otherwise he was all right.
The limousine was another story. It sat on the enormous limb looking like a huge skewered hog. The front end had been crushed and the hood was buckled nearly in half. Steam hissed from the mangled radiator.
They were in a small clearing about fifty yards down a slope from the rest area. The foot path had taken a sharp turn around the old oak; his limo hadn’t.
For the moment they were alone. The rush of traffic on the Parkway was only a whisper in the background. No one could see them.
He heard movement in the car. He wasn’t sure what condition he wanted Greystone to be in. If the executive were dead, it would be over; but he would never get the evidence to clear his name. If Greystone were still alive he would have to figure out how to get the information he needed. He reached down and felt the revolver still stuffed in his belt. Pulling it out, he checked the cylinder, then raised it toward the limousine’s mid-section.
The door swung open, pushed by a long suited arm. Greystone emerged, negotiated the short drop, then brushed himself off and stood nonchalantly in front of Braxton and the gun. He put his hands in his pockets and looked as if he had had nothing more than a hard day at the office.
“Not a bad disguise, Adam,” the executive said. “But then, you’ve had a time of it, haven’t you? I must say you certainly are difficult to kill.”
Greystone’s casualness was unnerving. Braxton pushed himself up and walked closer to the man, keeping the revolver leveled at his chest.
“Why, Robert? Why? I thought we were friends. I thought I knew you! What happened?”
“Happened? Nothing happened Adam. You merely saw what you wanted to see. You don’t get anywhere in this world by waiting for things to happen. You have to make them happen. That’s what I have been doing.
“Your problem is that you always let things happen to you. Then you try to react. You’re just like your father in that regard.”
“My father! What about him? You were supposed to be his friend as well. He hired you; mentored you. What do you mean?”
“Of course he hired me, I was the most qualified candidate. I gave him all the background he wanted; exhibited all of the personal traits he valued. But eventually I couldn’t protect him any longer. The business was changing and he couldn’t see it. Wouldn’t see it. I could. The Board agreed with me. That’s why I had to take over for him.”
“He said you had supported him. That it was the Board’s plan. But it was you!”
Greystone maintained his smug smile and shook his head. Braxton wanted to fly into this traitor, take his throat in his hands and squeeze the life from him, but that was what Greystone wanted. He had to stay calm to get what he needed; to keep Greystone talking.
“We know all about the Cache, Robert. Warren left a journal; a log of all your activities. We have it all.”
“Oh yes, a journal. It would be like Warren to keep such a thing. He even mentioned something about it once. I’m sure the press will be fascinated by how you constructed the story. Unfortunately you have absolutely no corroboration. Who will people believe, a psychotic failure who has already killed two people, or a successful executive and national leader? I’m afraid it’s a little too Machiavellian, Adam. No one will believe you.”
Chapter 72
Rock Creek Park, Washington, D.C.
Tuesday, 3:30 p.m.
BRAXTON KNEW GREYSTONE was right. The journal was not enough. He had to keep Greystone talking.
He took another step forward. “Why all the killing Robert? You had the power, the knowledge.”
“It was a part of the plan, of course. You have to be able to exercise all of your options. I have a colleague who is Japanese. They unders
tand that business is war. And in war there are casualties. Remember that Senator Lynch took his own life. We didn’t kill him. He was not able to compete for his seat. We won and he couldn’t deal with the result. It happens.”
“But why me?”
“You were perfect, Adam. Unwittingly, you had created our next breakthrough. The diagnostic port would give us complete access to the Internet. Warren recognized the opportunity but we knew you would never have allowed it to be included in the final product. By removing you, we eliminated that obstacle. The back door works very well, by the way, but I guess you have realized that.
“I discovered Ramal quite by accident, but once I had I simply couldn’t let him open the operation to scrutiny. You were an insurance policy. I couldn’t be sure what CERT would do with Ramal’s information. I arranged to have you placed there so we could follow the progress of the investigation.”
“But it didn’t work out the way you had planned, did it?”
“No. You surprised me, Adam. I thought you would just bumble along and finally give up. But you were much more tenacious than that. So I had to take appropriate measures.”
“What about Warren?” Braxton felt a tremor in his outstretched hand. He tried to will it to stop but his arm would not respond.
“Warren was ill. He was becoming increasingly unstable. I decided to eliminate both of you at once. An unfortunate decision on my part, I should have been more direct. It’s always the best way.”
“When does it all stop, Robert? You had no right to kill Paul. To involve Susan.”
“Your friend was a mistake by my contractor. He has become quite ineffective wouldn’t you say? Even botched the explosion at your motel.
“Ms. Goddard, or should I say Lynch, was an unbelievable coincidence. Who would have thought that she would be associated with both Ramal and Potterfield? Or that the two of you would get together? Nick made the connection, by the way, only two days ago. I was quite upset when I heard you had killed him. He was a very effective colleague. So it was finally necessary to get rid of you both. That’s why one always has to have contingency plans, Adam. You never know what will happen.”
