Death of a Pharaoh (17 page)

Dmitri had remained in hiding since the murder of Fannie Carter. He
barely left his apartment and he called in sick for the past week; not that
anyone at the university even cared. Every knock on the door was a nightmare
and he even stopped answering the telephone unless he recognized the number. He
fretted about his weight loss. Maybe he was just paranoid but he was certain
that the police were about to swoop down any minute and arrest him for his role
in the crime. The only bright spot was that the Foundation resumed normal
trading activity a few days after her death. Perhaps Stevenson was right and
his method was the best solution after all.

Still, someone was
making the decisions and Dmitri was determined to avoid any more surprises. The
record of recent trades, with a strong concentration in petroleum futures,
seemed to confirm that little had changed. Maybe she hadn’t been the Grand
Poobah after all. For the first time in days, Dmitri began to relax. He even
contemplated calling Ludmila for a session.

He was about to
pick up the telephone when the connection to Fannie’s computer went down. He instantly
forgot about his Russian whore and frantically called his hacker employee.

“I’ve lost the
echo from African Queen’s server.”

“Give me a sec.”

Dmitri drummed his
fingers on the desk. Sweat started to form on his brow.

“It’s gone,” was
the reply after three maddening minutes.

“Can we get it
back?”

“Doubt it,” he
answered, “they’ve pulled the plug.”

“What do you mean
‘pulled the plug’?”

“They’re on to us
Professor,” he explained. “Someone has figured out that we were listening and
they’ve moved digital digs.”

“Can’t you do a
reverse trace on the trades and find the new server?”

“I’ve already
checked. The trading account is closed.”

“There has to be
something you can do?” he pleaded. “That’s why I have you on that fat retainer,
isn’t it?”

“You pay me to keep
my mouth shut and to risk hard time so you can get rich. Face it Professor,
you’re screwed!”

“And you’re fired,
you son of a bitch!” Dmitri yelled into the phone before slamming it down.

This time he
didn’t hesitate to dial Stevenson’s number.

“Who do you think
is making the trades?” the lawyer asked after listening to Dmitri’s
explanation.

“What does it
matter?” Dmitri responded. “They’ve moved shop and we’re now blind.”

“The situation is
unacceptable for our plans,” Stevenson complained. “We can’t take any more
chances.”

“What are you
going to do?”

“At least you had
the sense to call right away,” he admitted. “Give me the name and address of
your computer guy. We don’t want him to have an attack of principles and run to
the authorities.”

Dmitri provided
the information. The hacker probably wouldn’t remember but Dmitri had once
visited him at his mother’s home to deliver money at the beginning of their
collaboration.

“Just leave
everything to me Professor. Why don’t you get out of town for a while?” the
lawyer suggested. “Take your Russian bitch on a romantic cruise or something.”

Dmitri wanted
nothing more in the world than to put distance between him and the Consortium.
“How will I know if everything works out?”

“You’ll still be
alive!”

Right after Dmitri freaked out on him; Darrin Conners grabbed his
leather jacket and hurried down the stairs of the modest duplex in Pittsburgh
that he shared with his widowed mother. He could see the flickers from the
television reflected on the half-opened door of the small living room converted
into a bedroom. It had been years since she could handle the stairs. As usual,
she was asleep in her favorite armchair. It was barely past noon but that’s
what a bottle of gin before lunch will do for you. He didn’t bother to wake her
up on his way out.

He straddled the
shiny Harley Davidson Special Edition Fat Boy parked out front. With its 1584cc
twin cam engine, it was his pride and joy. Since he’d started to work for the
professor, he maintained his operations center in a small rented storage unit
not far from his home. He respected the capabilities of his peers too much to
assume that his own firewalls were impenetrable and he wanted to keep his real
identity a secret. In the computer underground, his handle was Black Rhino and
he was famous for being the first and the last hacker to assume temporary
control of an active United States military satellite.

It had been a good
run over the past decade, even if his employer was an asshole. Thanks to the
generous monthly retainer, he managed to pay down the mortgage on his mother’s
house and all of her medical bills after the HMO cut her off. Their excuse was
that alcoholism was a preexisting condition. A rat’s ass for them! Six months
later, he hacked into their patient records and distributed them on the
internet. They were still paying big time for their arrogance.

He had no idea who
Sonkin was involved with but he wasn’t going to wait around to find out. He had
long planned for this day. He had a numbered account in the Bahamas where he
had stashed most of his cash. In ten years, he had saved more than two million
bucks. It would take him less than a week to be operational on some Caribbean
island with another Harley and a black chick with huge honkers. No need to worry
about his mother; the caregiver received an automatic monthly payment. In her
alcohol-induced daze, she probably wouldn’t even miss him.

It took less than
half an hour to arrange the flights using stolen credit cards then wipe all his
hard drives clean with powerful magnets. He would only take one laptop with him
containing proof of his illegal activities on behalf of the professor. Just in
case he ever needed to plea bargain his way back into the loving embrace of
Uncle Sam.

When he turned out
the lights for the last time, it reminded him of a scene in a Jason Bourne
movie. He pulled down the metal door and snapped the thick padlock shut. He had
prepaid the rent for the next six months and it would be a year before anyone
bothered to cut it off. He felt confident on the cruise back to the house. He
could hear the television as soon as he walked in the door. He’d leave some
cash on the table. It was the least he could do.

Darrin fell to his
knees and vomited only seconds after he walked into the living room. His mother
sat in the armchair just as he had left her, except that her head was missing.
Her hands still clenched a bottle of gin covered in blood. He was out the door
in a flash and only stopped long enough to pull the strap of the computer bag
over his head as he started his motorcycle. He quickly abandoned the futile
attempts to attach the security strap of his helmet under his chin. His hands
shook too much.

He raced down the
block; glancing over his right shoulder every few seconds to make certain that
no one followed him. He never saw the speeding brown Subaru run the red light
on his left. The brutal impact threw his body more than fifty feet, bounced his
head off a brick wall and impaled him on the top of a wrought iron fence
severing his spine. Amazingly, he was still alive when the driver of the
vehicle walked over to remove the laptop from around his neck.

“Your mother loved
sucking my dick, jerk off! Head for a head. Get it?” The killer laughed at his
own sick joke.

Darrin’s life
drained out of him while the unspeakable horror of his mother’s last moments
echoed in his thoughts.

Stevenson felt exasperated; not an emotion he was intimate with and he
resented the lack of control. Finding the identity of the woman’s replacement
was proving more difficult than he imagined. The hacker’s computer was
protected by military grade encryption and so far they had failed to crack the
password. It was vexing and he didn’t like the sensation. He had always felt
secure with the Consortium, mostly because his ruthlessness was a talent they
found useful, even if somewhat vulgar. They admired his tailored suits he
thought. Ruthless but well dressed; it was an irresistible combination. Still,
they wouldn’t hesitate to cut his throat if he failed them. He enjoyed life and
life with means was even more gratifying. He needed to find the heir right away.

He jumped when the
ringing of the telephone intruded on his thoughts; so few people had his
private number. He sincerely hoped it wasn’t that idiot Sonkin. As he reached
for the phone, he thought perhaps he should have him killed now just to save
him the trouble later.

“Boss?”

 It wasn’t
Sonkin but he instantly recognized the voice as Vinnie’s. It was, he imagined,
similar to that of a waking vampire who had been asleep for centuries and
hadn’t yet fed, his vocal cords like strips of dried beef jerky screaming for
blood.

“Any news?”

“No.”

“Then why are you
calling?”

“You know that job
in Cedar Park?”

Stevenson waited
for him to continue without falling into what might have been a trap.

“Stole her purse,
just like you asked.”

Stevenson picked
up a nail file while he waited.

“Kept it.”

He started to work
on his right index finger.

“I like souvenirs
from my jobs.”

Stevenson brushed
some of the fine dust off his vest and wondered how long this quaint treatise
on necro-memorabilia was going to last.

“She had pictures
in her wallet.”

He examined his
handiwork and was about to change fingers when the caller spoke again.

“Most of them are
of one of those cons,” he announced. “Ya know, the two all over the news.”

Stevenson dropped
the nail file and bolted upright in his chair.

“The ones who
escaped the other day?”

“Yeh.”

“The black one or
the white one?”

“The nigger.”

Stevenson almost
pissed himself with delight. It all made sense. He was the right age. The
prison break only a few days after her killing and far too much money spent
just to free a couple of insignificant young punks. He had to be the heir. How
could he have missed it?

“Nice work
Vinnie,” he remarked trying to sound blasé, “the information might be useful.”

“Want me to find
‘em?”

“Let me handle it
for now,” he decided, “but don’t go anywhere; I’ll have another job for you
soon.”

Stevenson hung up
the phone and reached for his rolodex. He had a Special Agent for the FBI on
his payroll. A decade ago, he’d discovered that the happily married father of
two teenagers had a weakness for young male transvestites. It only cost the
lawyer five hundred bucks to get enough damming video to guarantee the agent’s
cooperation when Stevenson was feeling heat from the Feds for his ties to the
mafia. Best investment he ever made. He wanted in the loop for the prison break
investigation.

“Frank? Jim
Stevenson. I need everything you can get me on the Sullivan prison break.”

“OK. When?”

“Yesterday,” he
emphasized. “Send it to my fax. Let’s meet tomorrow for lunch.” It wasn’t a suggestion,
“Usual time and place.”

If it turned out
to be true that the Falcon Foundation organized the prison break, he was
impressed with their operational skills. It took superior logistics, major cash
and enviable contacts to spring the two cons. Stevenson wondered why there were
two. What was the relationship with the white guy?

He shuffled
through the stack of newspapers on his desk and found yesterday’s article with
the latest on the FBI investigation. The mention of the third man, a
correctional officer, fascinated him. The authorities now considered him a
person of interest. Stevenson’s intuition told him the prison guard was part of
the plan and not a hostage or his body would have turned up on the banks of a
river somewhere. His gut feeling was that they were in Philadelphia. They would
have them well hidden. He assumed they wouldn’t dare take the boy to the old
woman’s apartment since it was under surveillance and his men were watching the
foundation’s headquarters 24/7.

Stevenson needed
to find a flaw in their line of defense. He’d wait for the files from his FBI
contact. The situation was too fluid for her people to have thought of
everything. They were vulnerable and he would discover their weakness. His day
was looking brighter already. He rang for coffee.