The End Game (24 page)

56

ROOK TAKES E1

Catoctin Mountains

T
here'd been rain recently, and that was good luck for him. A thick layer of wet leaves mulched the trail and kept his steps quiet and obscured. Zahir had walked for half a day without seeing another human being, but now, as twilight began to creep in around him, the guards appeared, silent as wraiths, walking alongside him in concert, weapons at the ready, the dogs tight on their leads, one hundred yards away. Separated by space, and a large electrified fence.

He followed the path of the fence, listening to the static hum, like a hive of bees off in the distance. It made his teeth hurt and his jaw clench. He shook his head, trying to get the aggravating sound out of his ears, but he needed it as a guide, needed the buzz to tell him when to move.

He inched closer and closer to the fence, staggering each step forward to coincide with the steps of the guards. He'd covered himself in deer scent, thought he actually smelled like a goat, but these
dogs were trained to the scent of man, not beast, so wouldn't alert unless they saw him moving. He was hungry, but food would have to wait.

He checked his watch and settled against the trunk of a tree. He was ahead of schedule; the walk in had gone easier than planned. He double-checked his GPS, and yes, he was in the right place.

Since he was a control freak, he had to admit he didn't like having to rely on Matthew and Andy to fulfill their end of the bargain, but he was philosophical, everything was out of his hands for the moment.

I told you to do that but you didn't!

His father's voice, sounding now in his head, as it did sometimes over the years. When he'd heard the old man had collapsed of a fatal stroke five years before, he'd rejoiced and gone to his favorite pub in London and bought everyone there pints of Guinness.

Zahir had always been different, unique, that's what his mother always told him, touching him, kissing him, praising him while his father looked on, disgust on his face.

He remembered he'd done his best to impress the old man, with his gray beard and mustache, his heavy jowls and his gap-toothed smile that wasn't a smile at all, more a smirk, recognition that he was the only one in this household that was important, the only one with the power and that was because he had money, lots of it, and he ruled. “My darling, you are unique, you will do great things.” His mother, his beautiful fragile mother, who'd died when he was only eight years old.

Since he was the fourth son, he always knew he was worth less than spit to his father. And when he was eighteen, he realized his mother had been right. He was unique. He was chosen. God had given him a gift. He was clever, more clever and shrewd than
his crude, peasant elder brothers, more cunning and more sly than his weak, whimpering sisters. Certainly more brilliant than his venal, grasping father, with his love of money and custom planes. Was he more astute than even his quiet, beautiful British mother, who'd given up her world to come live in the pit of Hell? He didn't know. Sometimes he'd suspected she could have ruled the world, if only she'd been given the chance. He found himself thanking her again, as he had so many times throughout his life. She'd taught him perfect English, since he was, after all, an English citizen, and taught him pride and freedom. He'd joined the coalition forces, knowing, somehow, it was where he belonged. They trained him, they taught him to kill, to blow up people, to shoot from a distance. With his gift, they soon made him a perfect killing machine.

He was unique, and now he knew what it all meant.

It didn't take long to develop a reputation. And with it came the money.

It never ceased to amaze him how many people wanted other people dead. And how rich he could get taking care of their problems for them.

And now this, surely the pinnacle of his life's work. He had to admit he was still amazed at the complexity of Rahbar and Hadawi's plan. So many moving parts, all the pieces having to dovetail at exactly the right time. He wondered how many more men in Iran wanted to lay waste to the world, consequences be damned. Centuries-deep hatred made them blind and deaf to all but death to their enemies.

That nutter Iranian colonel Rahbar had texted him that the gold coin Zahir had sent the month before had been turned over to his hand-picked scientist, brilliant and trustworthy. He was loyal to Rahbar. The Iranian scientist was in awe of Matthew's genius, the
way he'd combined certain elements, deleted and adjusting others to produce a payload to cause extraordinary damage. And the formula was really quite simple, but his genius in imagining this work of art had left him in awe.

And the colonel had laughed, said the stage was set and the Americans were doubtless scrambling around, unsure what to do, everyone on edge and just wait. Just wait. And the timing was perfect. As planned, the president of the United States had left Geneva in a huff aboard
Air Force One
to return to Washington.

Everything was on track and Zahir could see the colonel rubbing his hands.

Zahir found it delicious that the brilliant ideologue Matthew Spenser, hate-filled, yet so very naïve, would be the lynchpin. He'd given Zahir—Darius—a coin bomb for a souvenir, now being disassembled in Iran, and Zahir had stolen a second one, currently residing in his pocket. Even though the coin he'd sent to Rahbar hadn't as yet been tested, Zahir had known to his soul it would work, and he'd made doubly sure at Bayway, and when he'd texted colonel Rahbar with the result, he'd been elated.

Zahir fingered the coin in his pocket, smiled, and thought of Matthew's finger pressing the button that would signal the beginning of the end of the earth as anyone knew it.

Yes, all his bases were covered, all contingencies dealt with, as the Americans said, and because the FBI could close in on Matthew before he could act, Zahir had his backup plan firmly in place. In fact, he rather hoped he would have to use it. More drama, more impact, the killing blow.

He sat back against an oak tree and closed his eyes, listening to the guards' footsteps, their low voices, the dogs. Not much longer to wait.

He heard a dull thwap, then the buzzing stopped. Matthew had succeeded. The fence was down.

Shouts from the guards, movement all around. Now was the time. He had to move.

He knew their protocols: the guards would leave the fence in this quadrant. The left flank guard would cover the area of two while the guard closest to the camp turned on the generators. He watched him walk away, gun cradled in his arms, the dog following, tail wagging, liking the change of pace.

Three steps, two, one.

The guard was one hundred feet away now, the dog lunging toward the path.

Zahir ran out of the woods, went up and over the fence.

He lost his footing, landed hard on the other side, scrambled away as quietly as possible. He'd knocked out his breath, but the guard hadn't seen him.

He was inside the perimeter.

When he could breathe easily again, he moved carefully, slowly, always out of sight. When he got close to the farthermost cabin, he put the earwig in, and sure enough, as Matthew had promised, the voices came through clear as a bell.

The door was unlocked, and he eased inside. No one would be out this far, they'd already done a sweep earlier. According to the notes he had, this area was checked only twice a day. He adjusted the earwig. He'd have plenty of time to move, since he could hear them coming now.

He reset his watch, started the timer.

Forty-eight hours and
counting.

Tuesday

6 p.m.–
Midnight

57

QUEEN TO D8 CHECK

Washington, D.C.

D
riving through the city without power was eerie. Police were out in force, helping people try to get home. Savich navigated through the intersections carefully in Sherlock's stalwart Volvo. Mike rode up front; Nicholas was in back with a laptop in his lap, monitoring the situation in Richmond.

“We've arrested the attack. I have a note here from Adam Pearce. He's working on the threat assessment with Juno. I—”

Savich looked in the rearview. “What is it, Nicholas? You have something?”

“The risk assessment is bothering me. As you know, Dominion Virginia Power recently had one. They put in new firewalls, new safeguards, so an attack like this shouldn't be able to happen. Yet it did, and it quickly became worst-case. You know Juno is very respected in the cyber-world. I don't understand how they could have screwed up this badly.”

“You said yourself Gunther Ansell's coding was world-class,” Mike said.

“I did, Mike, and it was. But to exploit a flaw and get the code in to begin with, you must get into a back door, whether one you create, or one left for emergency access—should something like this ever happen. We mentioned it and now I'm wondering if Juno's programmers left a back door for their assessment and Andy Tate was smart enough to use it.”

He went quiet again.

It took Savich a few more minutes to navigate the overrun streets to George Washington University Hospital. No Metro, no trains, so the lines at the bus stops were hundreds deep, people standing in the street because the sidewalks were full. A nightmare security risk.

With the electricity off, the hospital looked strangely deserted. Savich parked and put his FBI placard on the dash. As they walked to the front doors, Mike suddenly stopped, turned, whispered to Nicholas, “We're being watched.”

“Well, yes,” Nicholas said. “I make two cameras on the second and third floors, and a car two rows over in the handicap spot.”

“No trust from our CIA compadres,” Savich said. “It never fails to amaze me.”

“Maybe they're afraid someone might be coming after Vanessa,” Mike said.

“That's the more optimistic view,” Savich said.

Vanessa's uncle, Carlton Grace, waited for them in the lobby. Mike saw the look of Vanessa in his face, the long nose, square jaw, family traits. Where Vanessa was beautiful, though, Grace was homely. Comfortable, sort of wrinkled. A guy you wouldn't give a second look to walking by on the street. He disappeared.

The perfect look for a spy. Had Vanessa's father looked the same way?

He introduced himself, shook hands with all three of them. “Thank you for coming. Please don't ask any questions until we're inside. The room is clean so we can speak freely.”

Nicholas said, “Why do you have so many eyes on us?”

Grace smiled. “I wasn't spying on you, Agent Drummond. It's Matthew Spenser, the man who tried to murder Vanessa. If he found out she's alive, he could try to finish the job. I have no intention of letting that happen. There is more, of course. Come with me.”

Savich thought that was good to hear, but he didn't know whether or not to believe him.

Grace led them through oddly lit halls. The generators were running fine; the power didn't flicker.

They turned a corner and there was Craig Swanson lounging against a wall, arms crossed. His face was bruised and his nose was bridged with white tape. When he saw Nicholas he straightened like a shot.

Nicholas grinned at him like a bandit.
So to add insult to injury, you got a real dressing down, didn't you, mate?

He would swear Mike growled as she passed by. Swanson called out, “Hey, Agent Caine. Good to see you again so soon. No warm hellos for me?”

“Yeah, big hello, Craig. I'd like to belt you, but it looks like you really can't take much more.”

He automatically touched his fingers to the white tape, then looked at Nicholas once more. “You broke my nose, you flippin' Brit bastard.”

Nicholas shrugged. “I told you to stop fighting me, mate, gave you lots of chances to back off. It's your own fault.”

“That's enough,” Carl Grace said. “Status, Craig?”

The aggression switch flipped off instantly. “Sir, Vanessa is awake and hurting, but holding it together. No one's come near her who shouldn't.”

Grace nodded and Swanson knocked once, then opened the door.

Vanessa saw Mike Caine first, blond hair pulled back from her face in a fat ponytail, black biker boots, black pants and jacket, and a nice black eye. From Craig? He'd told her he'd gotten into it with a couple of FBI pussies in New York. But his nose, she'd asked him? Two against one, he'd said. But now she didn't believe him. Mike Caine could wipe the floor with Craig. And only two days before she'd looked as alive, her stride as confident, ready to take on the world.

“Michaela.” She realized she hadn't said her name aloud, only thought it—soft sounding, that name. She remembered she'd initially thought Mike Caine was a country bumpkin, but that hadn't lasted long. What she was, Vanessa had realized, was fierce, committed, and focused. She remembered meeting Mike's parents, her father a big solid cop with crinkly blue eyes, high up in the Omaha Police Department, and her mom, the Gorgeous Rebecca, Mike had told her she'd always been called. Wow, what a knockout, and Mike was a young version of her. She'd been funny, too, making jokes about how old everything was at Yale, how the bathrooms needed a major overhaul. Odd she'd remember that now.

Mike didn't appear to have changed at all since Vanessa had seen her last—what was it? Yes, eight years ago at Yale.

Two big men followed her in—one she recognized from Bayway, Nicholas Drummond; the other she'd never seen before. He looked hard as nails and tough, a man who understood his world and controlled it, a man you didn't cross, if your brain was working.

As for Drummond, she could feel the pull of him, feel the intensity pouring off him, feel his powerful focus on her, no one else in the room. He looked like he'd never back down, and she knew he'd never stop. Look what he'd done to Craig, and Craig was no pushover.

Their faces blurred and she blinked double time until they cleared. She hated the meds but knew without them she'd be whimpering in the fetal position. She had to be strong, she had to focus as much as Drummond, she had to get through this. She wanted to tell them everything, because only then could she let go and rest.

Her uncle closed the door quietly, walked up to her bed, gently took her hand in his. “Nessa, these are the FBI agents I told you were coming. I've told them you would try to answer all their questions, but if you can't go on at any point, we'll stop immediately, all right?”

She nodded, only a slight movement, but he smiled.

Carl Grace introduced the three of them.

“Special Agent Savich, he's the head of the CAU—that's Criminal Apprehension Unit—here in D.C. This gentleman is Special Agent Nicholas Drummond and his partner Special Agent Mike Caine, both of the New York office.”

Vanessa tried to smile at them, but her mouth didn't want to move. She managed a whisper. “Agent Drummond, I've heard of you. As for Mike, hello. How are you?”

“I'm good, Vanessa.” Mike stepped up and took her other hand, gave it a very light squeeze. A thin sheet was pulled up to Vanessa's neck, but the thick bandage around her chest was a grim reminder of what had happened to her. She looked bruised, Mike thought, through and through, as if her body were still wondering whether or not to keep going. And she looked so very tired, her face nearly as
pale as the hospital sheets. Her beautiful red hair was lank around her head. Mike knew the meds were keeping her with them, but only barely.

“So you've heard of my partner, have you?”

Vanessa tried for a smile and managed a small one. “I gotta say, Mike, the guy is too hot for his own good. And that cleft in the chin, I've always been a sucker for those.” She didn't say he looked like the predator he was, hard, no-nonsense, probably ate nails for breakfast, like Savich.

“It's a pleasure, Agent Grace,” Nicholas said. “Mike's told me a lot about you. As for the hole in my chin, it does make shaving a bother. Are you up for some questions?”

“Yes, there's so much. Then I'm going to sleep for a month, well, maybe two months.” She closed her eyes for a moment. She hadn't realized it would hurt so much to talk. Who cared? It was nothing compared to the Mack truck squatting on her chest. She could do this, she had to do this.