Lethal Dose (28 page)

61

“She's in Richmond, at the Fairfield Inn, just off I-64,” the man said. “We had two sightings and a confirmation. It's definitely her. I just flew in from Washington and I'm on my way over there right now. That guy from Montana, Gordon Buchanan, is with her.”

Bruce Andrews couldn't help the urge to smile. “Be careful,” he said. “You're a public figure right now. We don't need any more press on this.”

“I've got two guys with me, Johnny and Ivan. I'll stay in the backseat, out of sight.”

“Let me know when you're finished.”

“No problem.” The man snapped the cell phone shut and replaced it in the leather holder on his hip. He glanced at his watch. Four-fifteen. Traffic was just beginning to pick up for the afternoon rush hour. The sun was intense today and the sidewalks in Shockoe Bottom were crowded, a few pedestrians taking their time crossing the road against the DON'T WALK sign. He wanted to jump from the car and kick their asses out of the crosswalk. Picking up Ivan had meant a trip through the crowded streets close to Main Street Station and Shockoe Slip, but he felt the extra time was worth it. He only had two men in Richmond he trusted, and right now he couldn't be seen abducting Jennifer Pearce from a local hotel. Especially since the police were looking for her, or her body. Way too many questions if he was seen. Even just being in Richmond was risky.

The driver, Johnny Altwater, finally broke free of the traffic snarls and entered the on-ramp for I-64. Rush hour had yet to jam the freeway, and although traffic was heavy it was moving at the speed limit. They took the closest off-ramp to the Fairfield Inn and slowed to the posted speed. The Fairfield Inn grew in size as they approached it, and Altwater glided the car into the parking lot with the slow, sure motions of a skillful driver. He pulled up just short of the front door. He and Ivan checked the pictures of Jennifer and Gordon, took the safeties off their pistols, and double-checked the room number.

“Don't kill them here unless you absolutely have to,” the man in the backseat said. “Just get them back to the car and we'll take them to where we're going to dump them.”

Ivan nodded. “Radio check,” he said into his mouthpiece as he turned from the car toward the hotel.

“You're live,” the man responded. He watched the two men disappear into the hotel. Putting his own network in place had taken a great deal of time and money, but now it was paying off. He had men he could trust in numerous cities, Richmond included. Most of them affiliated themselves with his little operation more for the thrill of being able to operate outside the usual laws than for the money. But when they did get paid, they got paid well. And that didn't hurt.

Killing innocent people was a tough sell sometimes and he had to outright lie to his men, spinning yarns about how the person or people they were tracking were clandestine terrorists or something other than simply a threat to his other concerns. He didn't mind the lies, but they were dangerous. The men he was lying to all carried guns. And they were all trained to use them. Well, no one got rich in this business without crossing the boundaries and taking some risks.

He watched a couple exit the front doors and walk to a parked SUV The man strongly resembled Gordon Buchanan, but the woman was blond. She was about the right height and body structure but the hair was all wrong. He concentrated on her face, the lines of her cheekbones, her forehead, and her lips and chin. He mentally stripped away the hair and the picture fell into place. He touched his two-way and spoke quietly.

“Johnny, Ivan, get down here. They're outside the front doors.”

He watched as the Jeep backed up and pulled up to the curb at the street. A steady stream of vehicles was passing by and Buchanan had to wait until it was safe to make a left turn. Just as the traffic cleared, the two men came running out the front door of the hotel. They were in the car and into traffic in seconds, Pearce and Buchanan's SUV within sight. They settled in a few cars back. When the time was right, Jennifer Pearce and Gordon Buchanan would disappear.

But this time it would be for good.

“Where do you want to eat?” Gordon asked as he cut through Court End, a collection of older estate homes on massive lots, and headed for the city center.

“I don't care,” she said.“Why are we heading into an area with lots of people? Shouldn't we go somewhere less crowded?”

“I remember reading once that if you want to blend in, the best place to do it is in a crowd. It's when you're someplace with hardly anyone around that other people will really look at you. They notice things that they wouldn't if you were just another face in the crowd.”

“Okay, Monsieur Poirot. Whatever you say.”

“There were a bunch of decent restaurants on Cary Street. Want to check it out?”

“Sure,” she said, adjusting her wig slightly. She lowered the sun visor and opened the mirror. “I think I like being blond. I'm going to dye my hair when things get back to normal.”

“That'll be nice,” Gordon said. “Platinum blondes always look so classy with an inch or two of dark roots.”

He angled off Canal Street at the Richmond Ballet and headed south under the Expressway until he reached Byrd Street. The traffic was lighter here and they made decent time, passing the old Tredegar Iron Works, the supplier of many Confederate cannons during the war. At Meadow Street, Gordon turned north again and popped out on Cary Street, just at the start of the strip of trendy shops and restaurants.

“I'm impressed,” Jennifer said. “You didn't tell me you know how to get around Richmond.”

“I'm learning. That cabbie I had before I met you for dinner at Amici was great. Getting around Richmond isn't too bad, but the traffic sure is.”

“That's the same everywhere,” she said as he pulled the SUV up in front of Limani Mediterranean Grill. “This looks nice,” she said of the restaurant. A menu was posted on a wooden pulpit. She strained to see it. “They've got lots of different kinds of fish—arctic char, swordfish, red snapper. Some Greek food if you don't want fish. Want to try it?”

“Sure,” Gordon said, slipping off his seat belt. He stopped halfway through the motion, his eyes glued to the side mirror. After a few seconds, he said, “Put your seat belt back on, Jennifer.” The tone of his voice was deadly serious, and she snapped the buckle back into place. He waited for about thirty seconds, then pulled out again into traffic again. He slid in behind a dark blue Crown Victoria and set his pace to match the preceding car. The back window was tinted, but with the sun ahead of them in the west, they could see the outline of three people inside the vehicle. For no apparent reason, the car slowed in the middle of a block and Gordon matched the speed and stayed planted behind it.

“What's going on, Gordon?” Jennifer asked, fear creeping into her voice.

“I think these guys were following us. Two of them were watching us while the driver looked for a parking spot. They wanted to stay behind us, but there were no spots.” The car sped up a bit and he matched their pace again. “Check the map and find me the next north-south street that goes under the I-95.”

Jennifer unfolded the map, checked a street sign as they drove, and found their location. She looked ahead on Cary Street for the next north-south through street. “Robinson,” she said. “It's right after Davis and two after Stafford.”

“Okay, we just passed Stafford, so this should be Davis,” he said as they cruised through the intersection. He checked the street sign and nodded. “Hold on,” he said.

“What are you going to do?”

“See if these guys ahead of us really were following us,” he said, waiting until he was halfway across Robinson before cranking the steering wheel hard left and stomping on the gas. The Jeep cut through a narrow gap in the traffic, and Gordon floored it once he was safely around the corner. The shrill sounds of honking horns told them what the other drivers thought of his abrupt and unexpected move. The lights at Parkwood Avenue were green, and he whipped through the intersection at almost double the posted speed. He slowed once they passed the next two side streets and entered the underpass. He glanced in his rearview mirror, then pushed the pedal to the floor again. The Jeep's engine roared and the SUV leaped ahead. A block and a half ahead was a dead end—the beginning of Maymont Park.

“What are you doing?” she yelled above the motor noise.

“They're behind us. And this time they're not just following us, they're gaining,” he said, fighting the steering wheel as he slammed on the brakes and sent the vehicle up on two wheels at the T intersection. He raced down Lake View Avenue, the historic park on their left, trees and cars flashing by as Gordon again increased his speed to dangerous levels. He risked a quick look in the mirror. The Crown Vic was gaining on them. He gave the Jeep more gas, the speedometer now climbing to over eighty miles an hour. People, houses, cars, trees were all just a blur now. They reached the far western end of Lake View and Gordon wove through the traffic, sideswiping one newer model Subaru and almost losing control, a line of mature trees dangerously close on the left side. He regained control of the Jeep and wove through the maze of cars and vans southbound on Blanton. Directly behind them was the Crown Vic.

Blanton forked at Park Drive and Rugby Road, and Gordon chose Rugby to the left and bordering the west side of William Byrd Park. The lesser-used road was almost deserted, and he put the pedal to the floor. The Jeep's speedometer crested 105 miles an hour as he took it into the long sweeping left turn just south of the World War I memorial. As they came abreast with Dogwood Dell, he hammered on the brakes, locking up all four tires and sending a plume of smoke into the air. The Crown Vic, which had been ready to pull alongside, went flying by, fishtailing as the driver also slammed on his brakes. Both Gordon and Jennifer saw an arm come out of the backseat, and a split second later the windshield disintegrated as a bullet hit it at a critical angle and shattered the glass. The imploding glass showered both of them, and Jennifer screamed as Gordon cranked hard on the steering wheel and the vehicle slid sideways down the road on two wheels. For a few seconds, the Jeep teetered between rolling and coming back down on four wheels. Gordon eased off on the brakes and the Jeep crashed down onto all fours. A tenth of a second later, the SUV hit the curb and went airborne. Eighty feet later, it smashed down on the grass in Dogwood Dell, the rear bumper catching on a log and ripping off. The Jeep fishtailed across the grass, then Gordon hit the gas and straightened it out. He got some open grass in front of him and turned to look for his pursuers. Unable to navigate the dell without four-wheel drive, the Crown Vic was heading south on Pump House Drive, aiming to circumnavigate the park and catch them at the north end.

Gordon headed directly for Blanton and melted back into the city traffic. He drove north on Sheppard Street until Cary, parked the Jeep in the first parking lot he saw, and jumped out. Jennifer was ten feet behind him when they reached Cary Street. Gordon saw a cab about halfway down the block and waved. The driver swung out into traffic and pulled in beside them.

“Where to, buddy?” he asked as they merged into the steady stream of cars.

“Just drive, please,” Gordon said, breathing heavily. He dug in his pocket and handed the man a wad of twenties. “South Richmond, on the other side of the river. I'll tell you where in a few minutes.”

The driver flipped through the wad of bills and grinned. “Take your time, my friend. You just bought my services for the entire night.”

Gordon turned to Jennifer. “You okay?” he asked.

“Yes, but no thanks to your driving. You're a maniac.”

“Better than getting shot,” he said.

“Those guys were serious,” she said, starting to shake. She slid in beside him and he slipped his arm around her, pulling her close. It felt good. “Jesus, they actually shot at us.”

He nodded. “And the car,” Gordon said. “Crown Vic with tinted windows and a bored-out engine.”

“What's that got to do with anything?” she asked.

He pulled away a touch so he could look in her eyes. “It's a government car, Jennifer. Whoever those guys were, they work for one of our government agencies.”

62

“This is not a difficult request,” Bruce Andrews said. “I simply want you to kill Gordon Buchanan and Jennifer Pearce.”

“I know what you want,” the voice snapped back. “Buchanan spotted us and we couldn't catch him.”

“I don't know where or when you'll get another chance,” Andrews said. “But if you do, don't miss. These two people are turning out to be quite the liability.”

“They will not escape again,” the man assured him.

“I hope not,” Andrews said, hanging up the phone. He was at home in his study, his private retreat from the world he had created. The phone line was private, the number known only by a precious few whom he considered either privileged or necessary. It seldom rang, and when it did, the ensuing conversations were always interesting, to say the least. But this one was not what he wanted to hear. Gordon Buchanan was proving to be a formidable opponent. He was wealthy and knew how to use his money to his advantage. He chartered planes, keeping his movements from city to city off the radar. He paid cash rather than using credit cards and knew when to keep his head down.

And Jennifer Pearce—now, there was a major mistake. He couldn't count the times he had wished that he had never hired her. The Alzheimer's group was far enough removed from Albert Rousseau and Triaxcion that she should never have been a factor in any of this. Yet Gordon Buchanan had got his talons into Kenga Bakcsi and that had drawn Jennifer Pearce into the fray. And she was proving to be as tenacious as Buchanan. Together, they posed the most cohesive threat to his plan—a plan that to date had unfolded almost perfectly.

Zancor was finally through the New Drug Application and was now FDA approved. The economic difference to the company was in the range of two billion dollars. And a few hundred million of that would come quickly as he geared up the production facilities and provided a few million doses of Zancor to Tony Warner at NSA. Things were perfect, with one exception.

Buchanan and Pearce.

One obstacle with one solution.

Keith Thompson reloaded the last series of tests and watched the results play across the screen. There was no doubt in his mind. He picked up the phone and dialed a number at the Department of Homeland Security. He fully expected J.D. Rothery's voice mail and was surprised when the man answered the phone.

“You're working late tonight, Keith,” Rothery said. “It's after eight o'clock.”

“Oh, just a typical Tuesday,” the linguistics expert said. “Great news conference this morning, by the way. I think everyone is going to sleep a little better tonight.”

“Thanks, Keith,” Rothery said. “What can I do for you? I'm sure you have a reason for calling.”

“Yes, I do. The DVD that you received from the terrorist. I ran some additional tests on it and I've come up with something. A few years ago, I developed a program that samples idiosyncrasies in speech patterns. It looks for certain inflections common to specific dialogues and languages. In this case, our guy is Arabic, so I input every known dialect into the program and ran it through the supercomputers over at NSA. It took a while to come up with the final results, but they are conclusive.”

“What did you learn?” Rothery asked.

“The guy on the tape is not Arabic. Never has been, never will be. The accent is entirely fake. This guy is an Englishspeaking person, probably from the eastern United States. It's difficult to establish exactly where he's from because of the fake Arab accent, but if I had to guess, I'd say somewhere near Boston. And one other thing that is without question is that Ismail Zehaden is not the man on the tape.”

“You're sure,” Rothery said quietly.

“I'm positive.”

“Who have you told?” Rothery asked.

“No one, Mr. Rothery. You're the first one to know.”

“Keep it that way for now, Keith. We've got enough on our plate without this going public. I'll deal with it.”

“Yes, sir.”

Keith Thompson hung up and looked back at the computer screen. The series of jagged lines cutting across the monitor were as definitive as a fingerprint. They just needed a voice sample from the same person and they could match the two. Then they would have their man.

He shut off his computer, locked the office and left for the night. He felt good about his work on the DVD, but something wasn't quite right. He couldn't put his finger on it, but something was bothering him. And when he reached his car and turned the key in the ignition, the strangest thing happened. He saw a split-second image of his car exploding into a giant fireball.

He sat in the parking lot, his body shaking as his car idled, and one thought kept running through his mind:
Do I know too much?