The End Game (20 page)

47

QUEEN TO B4

George Washington University Hospital

W
hen Carl Grace raced to the nurses' counter, he was told there was nothing new on Vanessa. He sucked in a breath. That meant she was still alive.

He calmed himself; he had work to do. He found an empty conference room, closed the door, and sat down. He put on his headphones and started to dissect the past four months of data Vanessa had sent him to prep for his meeting with the FBI.

He found himself not really seeing the words, but rather remembering. It seemed like only yesterday when he'd gotten word in 1995 that his brother, Paul Grace, had been killed in Northern Ireland, leaving an orphaned daughter, Vanessa. The very next week, the aunt who was taking care of Vanessa was killed in an auto accident. Carl had immediately asked to be brought back to Langley, and adopted Vanessa. He remembered clearly when she was ten, Vanessa had found one of her father's diaries and brought it to him, saying
in an unwavering, overly adult voice, “Uncle Carl, I want to do what my dad did and what you do,” and that had been that. She'd never wavered from her goal, though Carl had done his best to tell her how fragile, how fragmented such a life could be, how it made children into orphans, as she knew firsthand. It had made no difference, Vanessa was committed. He remembered how she begged for the undercover case in Northern Ireland, where her father had died, and look where it had led.

She could be dying now, and like then, there was nothing he could do about it. Even though Spenser had shot her, Carl had put the weapon in his hand when he'd sent that ill-timed text.

He shook his head, refocused on Vanessa's transcripts, trying to control the guilt. He wanted to find Matthew Spenser and COE and put a stop to them once and for all. He really wanted to put a bullet into the man's brain himself.

He pictured her pale slack face again and wanted to cry, but he had to hold it together; time was running out.

He started with the most recent conversation, two weeks earlier. She'd managed a secure video feed at a café in South Lake Tahoe near where the COE stayed off the grid, hunkered down in a mountain retreat.

I don't have much time. We're going to be on the move again soon. I have more photos. I've uploaded them to the server. Finally caught scary Darius on camera. I hope you can find out who he is because now I'm certain he came specifically to hook up with Matthew, but not to further COE's goals. I'm thinking he might be after Matthew's incredible invention of the tiny undetectable bombs—his special gold coins, he calls them—just like I am. It's
like Darius is weaving a spell around Matthew, encouraging him to think bigger, think about what he could do when he's perfected the bombs, the power he would have to actually stop the terrorists who killed Matthew's family.

My feeling is that this man who calls himself Darius is something else entirely, something evil, something soulless. I know he has a definite purpose in mind, and whatever it is, it isn't good for Matthew or any of us. I know this all sounds melodramatic, but he scares me deep down where monsters live.

I'm sure now that Matthew trusts him more than he does me because he's closed me out. Darius's doing? Probably so. Matthew's mood swings are more pronounced and happen often now, and that, too, is frightening, but nothing like Darius. No, nothing like Darius.

Now, something critical: I overheard Matthew and Andy talking about the oil companies and accessing their databases, but when I came in, they clammed up. Does Darius know about this as well? Is this also one of his ideas, and if so, what are they up to? You must identify Darius, as soon as possible. I'm really afraid of him. Believe me, he is dangerous, very dangerous.

Vanessa, I've got the photo. Great job. I'm on it. Now accessing oil company databases, that is worrisome. I'll start digging. See if you can't get Matthew to open up about this, okay?

As I said, Matthew's closed me out. Now he only tells me what he thinks I need to know for the placement of my Semtex bombs, that's all. All Matthew's told me is we're going to head to San Francisco next week.

What's the target?

I'm pretty sure it will be the Rodeo San Francisco plant.

I'll make sure the security is aware.

Good. Let me know when you have the ID on Darius. Uncle Carl, he scares me, he really scares me.

And she was gone.

•   •   •

Grace had run the photos
but drawn a blank. He'd run them against every known database in the U.S. arsenal. Nothing.

It wasn't until this morning after the meeting with the vice president, when Temp had told him about the assassination, that he knew in his heart, without a doubt, that Vanessa's Darius had to be Zahir Damari.

He'd let the FBI run the two photographs using their extremely sensitive facial-recognition system. Maybe they'd be able to give them one hundred percent confirmation, but he didn't need the proof. He knew.

If Vanessa's instincts were right, not only had Zahir Damari been hired to steal Matthew Spenser's new technology, he also planned to assassinate the vice president. If Hezbollah and therefore Iran managed to get their hands on the small gold-coin bombs, Carl feared for the safety of the world. Imagine having those small undetectable bombs in a world of chaos and anarchy. You'd be at the top of the food chain.

He read several of Vanessa's recent e-mails. She'd found out from Crazy Andy—that's what she called him—that they'd bought some cyber-software to attack the computer systems of a company. Thanks to the FBI in New York, that particular cyber-attack had been shut down.

He called up other videos, stared at her beloved face, so like her father's, a beautiful face, his eyes, but she had her mother's, Isabella's,
glorious red hair. Poor Isabella, dead at thirty-three of a brain tumor. She'd never truly known her daughter, the woman she'd become.

Vanessa wouldn't die, she simply couldn't.

“Mr. Grace?”

He came slowly to his feet, staring at the nurse who stood in the doorway. He was more afraid than he'd ever been in his life.

Then the nurse smiled. “She made it through surgery.”

“Will she be all right?”

“The surgeon will be along shortly. He's—”

“No, don't put me off. Is she all right?”

“She's not out of the woods yet. She's on a ventilator and they're going to keep her in an induced coma for a little while. The damage was worse than they first thought. Like I said, the surgeon will be here shortly to explain everything.” She came to him, lightly laid her hand on his arm. “I know this is incredibly difficult, Mr. Grace, but you must keep faith. She's still with us, and I for one will do my best to see she stays with us.”

48

ROOK TO A4

Maryland

Z
ahir drove toward Frederick, Maryland. He was calm and relaxed, and felt really good. Everything was coming together. He had twenty-four hours, a long day's hike, to get into position. Having the security layout and blueprints of the target made it easier to decide where to set up his base camp. He admitted he was a bit worried about the dogs; he'd be stupid not to be, since the K9 security teams were in place as well. Their schedule was set so he should be able to avoid them. He had deer scent in his bag; he planned to bathe in it to mask his own human smell.

He reached the entrance of the Catoctin Mountain Park at three in the afternoon. He left the car in a campground, hoisted the pack to his shoulders, and set off. There was no one around to see him, a good thing since he really didn't want to leave a trail of dead bodies. He wanted to get in, get the job done, get himself back up through New York into Canada, and eventually find his way back to Jordan, to the warmth of his estate. The future looked very pleasant.

The forest was quiet, only the sounds of animals scurrying about, the birds overhead occasionally squawking, but no people. It was nice to be able to think clearly. Being around so many people for so long made him crazy.

He thought back to those months of training by the British Special Forces, and wasn't that irony for you? But it was an American who'd paid him to kill the first time. To a young man not yet twenty, the ten thousand dollars was a vast amount of money, and that made him smile. The client had sent Zahir to Saint Petersburg to kill a man who worked in the oil business. To this day Zahir had no idea why. He'd enjoyed spending that vast amount of money, and in those days, what he'd been paid had gone a long way. Then, of course, the money ran out and he wanted more. By the fourth kill, Zahir realized he'd found his calling.

He traveled all over the world for his clients, learning, always learning, never repeating a mistake, always silent and deadly. He was the best of the best—a chameleon unhampered by a conscience, shrewd, never giving up. He loved each challenge and discovered along the way he also enjoyed the dramatic. To kill flamboyantly, more than most of his targets deserved, probably, but it pleased something in him. And he made his hits more and more dramatic because he wanted the world to know it was he who was responsible, and to fear and praise him in hushed voices. He wanted to build his legend. When the client wanted the deaths to be undetectable, Zahir was disappointed.

A sociopath, his father once called him, which was rich, coming from the mouth of that old hypocrite. With every kill, he supposed now he was sending the old man a message, telling him clearly that perhaps one of these days he might see his son for the last time. His father's last time.

He enjoyed reading speculation about himself in the newspaper, particularly the comparisons to Carlos the Jackal, that covetous madman who wasn't in his league. He'd even done a few off-book killings, suitably complex, to keep the blood flowing through his veins, to keep his brain razor sharp, his reflexes fast and lethal.

He liked to think of himself as a maestro of killing, always unexpected, always successful.

Hands down, this was the biggest job he'd ever accepted. The splashiest. The one that would make his name go down in history. There were so many variables, so many unknowns, and more than any of his other jobs, this one held a high risk of failure.

No, he wouldn't fail. He never failed. He smiled up at the sky, careful not to draw attention to himself in case anyone was nearby. He had a better chance of living through this operation than he had of leaving any battlefield in his father's homeland alive.

He stopped by a small mountain brook to fill his canteen, looked up through the thick canopy of branches, and estimated the time at two in the afternoon.

At this rate, he'd be in place by moonrise.

Twenty-four hours—so much he'd had to accomplish, and he'd done it all, no problem. Once he'd placed the small portion of one of Matthew's coin bombs at Bayway in the sweet spot pointed out by Reeves, he'd run unseen to the car he'd left half a mile away, driven straight to Bayonne, dealt with the four men there—three of them FBI agents—in three minutes flat, eight shots—four chest, four forehead, no time for flourishes—then headed south.

And now he was here, tramping along the forest trails. Maybe he'd meet up with a wolf or a bear. He spent some time considering various ways to kill, then reminded himself to stay focused, to review once again each step of what was to
happen.

Tuesday

2 p.m.–6
p.m.

49

QUEEN TAKES B6

New York Heliport

N
icholas and Mike buckled into the MD 530 Little Bird's hard seats, put on headsets and sunglasses. Craig Swanson was slumped across from them, eyes closed, looking the worse for wear after his couple rounds with Nicholas. Mike found it curious that Swanson seemed to harbor no ill will, maybe a token of respect, professional to professional. He'd gotten in a couple good shots—Nicholas's jaw was a delicate shade of eggplant beneath the stubble of his beard. Mike could only imagine what they were going to look like trooping into Langley—the three of them banged up. She could hide her shiner with sunglasses, but no, she was proud of her battle wounds.

At least they'd dropped by Katz's Deli, grabbed thick pastrami-on-rye sandwiches, chips, and sodas, and eaten as they drove to the helipad. She'd even had time to call her folks, tell them as far as she knew, Timmy, her younger brother, was gainfully employed in an off-Broadway show, and not in jail. Always good news. Her father,
of course, knew all about Bayway, knew she was up to her eyebrows in the case. His last words, always, were: “You take care of my girl or I'll bust your chops.” As for her mother, the Gorgeous Rebecca, she'd said only that she had a new lipstick shade for Mike to try, and then she'd laughed, hiccupped, and said she'd do more than bust her chops if she let anything happen to her, she'd cut off her beautiful hair. And she'd heard her father laughing in the background.

Charlie, their pilot, hyper with too much coffee, this his sixth run of the day, had them lifted off in the gray New York skies in no time, no muss, no bother.

Nicholas tapped her shoulder, put up four fingers. She moved the dial on her headset to channel four and nodded. Staying off the main frequency so they could have a private conversation was a good idea.

He punched his mike. “Tell me about Vanessa Grace.”

Mike crossed her legs, put her heels in the empty bucket seat across from them. Swanson was staring out the window, but Mike would bet he was listening for all he was worth. She wondered how he was going to explain his absence and bruises to Melody Finder.

She said low into her mike, “Vanessa was in my dorm at Yale freshman year. I don't want to say I knew her well—we would say hi if we saw each other, had some friends in common. I was already gearing up for law enforcement, wanted to be a cop like my dad. I would have been happy going straight into the Academy, but he insisted I get out of Nebraska, apply to Ivy League schools, see a bit of the world, make sure I really wanted this life. Yale was as far away from Nebraska as I could get, in mileage and ideology, and, wonder of wonders, I was accepted, and so I humored him and flew to New Haven.”

“Nebraska meets the Ivy League—it boggles the mind.”

“I didn't exactly fit in at the beginning. I mean, some kids thought I was a hayseed, others thought I was dangerous because I went to the gun range every weekend.”

“What did your roommates think when you cleaned your gun in the room?”

“I was smart enough never to do that. Can you begin to imagine the rep I'd get? It took the whole first semester for them to be comfortable with me and for me to be comfortable with them. So much drinking and partying—just like home.

“Enough of my history. Let me tell you more about Vanessa Grace. When I first met her, I thought she was a princess. She was gorgeous, masses of red hair almost to her butt, guys falling all over themselves to ask her out. It seemed to me she played one against the other, and I thought she was a jerk until I realized she was very shy and didn't have a lot of social skills. She had no clue how to deal with guys. One of our mutual friends told me she'd lived all over the world with her uncle and had been homeschooled for the most part. She'd been in a few American schools, but she was shy and had trouble fitting in.

“We finally did have a class together, Cognitive Science of Good and Evil.” She'd come out of her shell by that time, even had a boyfriend who was on the rugby team. We talked about what we were planning to do when we graduated; I told her I wanted to be a cop. She said she wanted to take the Foreign Service exam and go to work for State. Her dad was a diplomat and he'd died, as had her mother. She was raised by her uncle, who also worked in the Foreign Service. We all know what it really means.”

“Spies.”

Mike nodded. “I wondered about her mother, but she never
talked about her, said only she'd died of cancer, real young. She wanted to be like her dad and her uncle.

“Then we graduated and I went off to grad school at John Jay, and haven't thought of her since.”

She gave him an arched eyebrow. “I don't suppose you ever had any adjusting to do, not like I did at Yale?” A pause, then she shook her head. “Of course you didn't. Eton, Cambridge, the Foreign Office. You fit in perfectly the whole way. And now the FBI, where you've been welcomed with open arms. Oh, yes, I like your scruffy beard.”

He grinned at her, touched his fingers to his bruised jaw. “Like my mom and her TV show, and you, at first I was a fish out of water, but this strange and wondrous city is becoming home. I'm enjoying it here. Good food, good peers. Everyone wants the same thing—catch the bad guys, keep terrorists from blowing anything up, and if they do, nail their asses to the floor.” He shrugged. “Do you know, I even like going to Barneys with Nigel. Do you think I'm giddy?”

“What? Giddy? About what?”

He looked embarrassed. “It was just something Nigel said to me last night when I came in half dead, clothes ready for the dustbin. He said I was giddy here in New York.”

Mike realized that, yes, Nigel was right. “Well, I do know you enjoy kicking butt,” she said, and she sent a look in Craig Swanson's direction.

He didn't tell her that if indeed he was giddy, she was right there with him.

The helicopter lurched to the side, then straightened again. Charlie said over the intercom, “Just making sure you guys are awake. All's okay.”

Nicholas said, “We surely appreciate that, Charlie. Now, Mike, let me check my e-mail, see if Gray has sent me a dossier on Carl Grace, her uncle. Yes, here it is.”

“Tell me.”

“Apparently Vanessa's dad, Paul Grace, is rather legendary in the intelligence community. He was an undercover agent in the eighties and nineties, working deep cover with the IRA in Northern Ireland. He nailed a faction of IRA bombers, then was shot dead by a wife of one of the men in the group.”

Nicholas closed the cover of the tablet. “As for his younger brother, Carl Grace, he came out of the field after he adopted Vanessa. This has got to be unusual—he became her handler after she joined the CIA.”

Mike said, “And now she's been shot. I don't want her to die, Nicholas, I really don't.”

“I don't, either. We'll soon see.”

Charlie said, “Nearly there, folks, and only one little bump to keep you alert. I've been asked to patch through a call from Special Agent Savich. Please switch to channel two.”

Nicholas flipped the channel, as did Mike. “Savich? What's wrong?”

“I just got a call from Dominion Virginia Power. They're having trouble with their electrical grid powering Richmond. Get here as quickly as you can, Nicholas. I'm afraid an external attack is coming.”