The Washington Lawyer (26 page)

One of them, the one with the scar on his cheek who had chased her over the fence behind the restaurant, opened the back door of the cab. The other one was holding a gun aimed at her. “Get out of the cab,” the first man said.

She was convinced they'd shoot her if she didn't obey. Besides, the driver was obviously working with them. She got out.

The man with the scar grabbed her bag and rifled through it.

“Fuck,” he said. Then dropped it on the ground. He ran his hands over her body.

Frowning, he said, “Where's the CD?”

“I don't know what you're talking about. I swear it. I've never heard of any CD my sister had.”

“You're lying.”

“I'm not. Ever since you told me about it in the churchyard, I've done everything I could to find it. I searched her apartment. Her office. Her bank vault. No CD. Either she didn't have it, or it doesn't exist. Why would I possibly lie to you? I'm not stupid. I wouldn't give up my life to protect some CD I've never even heard of. You have to believe me.”

He closed his lips, pressed them together, and stared at her. “I believe you,” he said.

She picked up her bag. “Good. I'm leaving now,”

She turned to walk away, down the alley. He grabbed her arm to stop her. “No. Get back into the cab.” She didn't move. He let go of her arm.

“Why won't you let me go now? Please. I have no idea where the CD is even though I did everything I could to find it. I'm no use to you.”

“That's certainly true, but you know too much. So now stop stalling and get back into the cab.”

The other man raised the gun. She was convinced they planned to kill her if she got back into the cab. Or on the loading dock if she didn't. Still, she held her ground.

“Wait a minute,” the first man said. “What are those books in your bag. I want to see those.”

His colleague lowered the gun again.

The first man reached for her bag. As he did, he was leaning forward, arm outstretched. That was the break she needed. She swung the bag with all her might against his face. It smacked him in the nose. She heard the sound of bones breaking as the diaries struck him. The man screamed.

Before his colleague with the gun had a chance to react, she raced toward the end of the alley. She was still gripping her bag.

Over her shoulder, she saw the second man, gun in hand, running after her. She reached the sidewalk on Massachusetts Avenue, which was crowded with pedestrians. She wove in and out of people, many of them were holding umbrellas, so her pursuer couldn't get off a shot.

At the corner, without waiting for the light to turn green, she raced across R Street. The driver of a white van slammed on the brakes, narrowly missing her, while honking his horn and shouting, “You stupid idiot.” She glanced over her shoulder. Her pursuer was gaining ground.

He was not nearly as fast as his colleague, but with her bad leg, still faster than she was. Soon, she'd be in trouble, she realized. Pedestrians would thin out and he'd get off a clear shot. She had to change the dynamic.

Up ahead she saw a Metro sign—the DuPont Circle station. She raced toward it then tore down the long, steep escalator crowded with people leading into the station, almost knocking over an elderly woman. A couple of men in suits and ties screamed at her and grabbed the side rail to avoid being pushed over. She could sense he was behind her.

She had a substantial lead. If she could get into a train, she thought, and it pulled away before he could get in, she'd be safe. At the bottom of the escalator, she leaped over the turnstile, still clutching her bag while a startled station manager yelled, “Hey Miss.” Then down a short escalator, which ran to the train platform below.

Desperately, she looked down the tracks for an incoming train. Dammit! No such luck! No train!

She tried to hide behind a dark brown square trash bin that said, “
NEWSPAPERS ONLY
,” close to a group of about ten people waiting for a train. For an instant, the gunman didn't see her and he stopped, looking in every direction. Then he spotted her and ran toward the trash bin.

She was on the verge of panic. What else could she do?

Climbing down on the tracks was suicidal. She'd be hit by the next train or electrocuted by the current on the third track. Instinctively, she was moving forward, toward the far end of the platform, escaping from him, but at the same time boxing herself in as she approached a stone wall.

“Okay, you miserable bitch,” he shouted, waving his gun at her. People on the platform screamed and got out of the way.

As he came closer, she could see saliva, dripping from his mouth. His unshaven face looked like black sandpaper. His eyes were bloodshot.

It was just the two of them at the end of the platform.

He raised his gun, aiming at her. Before he had a chance to fire, she tossed her bag at him, hitting him on the forearm, knocking the gun from his hand. The gun and her bag fell harmlessly onto the burnt red tile platform.

He gave a bloodcurdling cry and came after her with his fists clenched. She realized that he had her backed up to the edge of the platform, above the tracks. She had to watch her footing or she'd fall onto the rails.

At that moment, the small white circular lights along the edge of the platform were flashing, signaling an oncoming train.

Face red with anger, he swung at her with a broadside and missed. He reached for her, trying to grab her neck, but she ducked away at the last instant. He was too far committed to pull back and recover his balance. While waving his arms helplessly, he fell on the tracks in a jumbled heap just as the train barreled into the station. She watched the train smash into him.

People screamed.

In the pandemonium Allison picked up her bag and ran toward the nearest exit. She tore up the moving escalator, heading toward Connecticut Avenue.

As she reached the street, rain was coming down in sheets. A torrential downpour of cold pelting rain. She saw three DC police cruisers descending on the area. She crossed the street and went into a Starbucks to hide until the policemen disappeared down the escalator. Then she was back on the street. She had to get to Paul's house. She'd be safe there. She didn't run for fear of attracting suspicion. As she walked, she kept looking for an empty cab—a near impossibility in Washington on a rainy afternoon.

“Don't be stupid,” she muttered aloud. A cab driver would be a witness who could tell the police where she had gone. She had to get to Paul's house on foot. She figured it was only about thirty minutes. Maybe a little more.

As she walked, her shoes sopping with water, she periodically glanced over her shoulder. No one was following her. The frigid rain drenched her hair and soaked her clothes. She shivered, but she didn't care. She was safe.

* * *

Bleeding profusely from the nose, Xiang asked the Nigerian to give him something to stop the flow of blood. The driver found an oil-stained cloth in the trunk. Xiang decided that would have to do. He asked the Nigerian to drive him to the Chinese Embassy. “I'll do that, man, but then we split. I didn't bargain for shit like this.”

Xiang couldn't argue.

In the embassy, he immediately went to the medical office. A nurse asked him, “What happened?”

“I'm with MSS. You don't ask me questions.”

“Yes, sir, Mr. Xiang.”

She went to work on his nose.

“It's broken,” she said. “You'll need some stitches to stop the bleeding and a bandage. It won't look pretty.”

“Stupid cunt,” he cried out.

The nurse pulled away, “What did you call me?”

“Not you. Someone else.”

He checked his cell phone. No messages. By now Han should have called to let him know what happened with Allison. He hadn't told Han to chase her. He should have let her run away, but Han was a hothead. He was acting on his own. Xiang hoped that Han didn't kill Allison. That would create more problems for them.

* * *

Paul lived in a small red brick townhouse on the northeast edge of Georgetown. Looking at the dark house, Allison decided Paul wasn't home yet. Which made sense. It wasn't that late. Vanessa had told her that Paul worked insanely long hours, like most young lawyers in large Washington law firms.

Allison climbed three cracked, wobbly cement steps and walked up to the front door. She reached under the mat, picked up the key, let herself in, and closed the door.

“Anyone home?” she called out.

As she expected, no answer.

Not wanting to spread water around the house, she left her bag and shoes next to the door, then peeled off her clothes and underwear and picked them up. Naked, she carried them up the stairs and into a bathroom. She dropped them into the bath tub. Then she grabbed a towel from a closet and dried herself.

A white terrycloth robe was hanging on the back of the door. She put it on, then went down and yanked her cell phone from her bag. The house was warm. She sat down next to a vent blowing hot air and called Paul's cell. He answered immediately. “Where are you, Allison?”

“Your house. I'm terrified. I just arrived.”

“I expected you much earlier. I've been worried sick. What happened?”

“I'll tell you when I see you.”

“I'm on my way.”

“Oh, Paul, that would be wonderful.”

Forty-five minutes later, he arrived.

“Sorry it took so long. When it rains, getting around this town is impossible.”

“I'm just glad you're here.”

“On the phone you said you were terrified. What happened?”

“It was awful. When I got off the plane I took a cab to Vanessa's bank to check her vault box.”

“Did you find the CD?”

She shook her head. “Just a few of her old diaries and some cash. When I left the bank, I got into a cab on Connecticut Avenue. I gave the driver your address. But it was all a set-up.”

“What do you mean?”

“The driver took me into an alley and pulled into a loading dock. Those two Chinese thugs were waiting for me. One had a gun.”

“Did you get the number of the cab?”

“C'mon, Paul. Who looks at cab numbers?”

“What about the cab company?”

She was becoming annoyed. He sounded like such a lawyer. “I don't know. Maybe it was a blue or green. I was tired. About all I remember is that the driver was Nigerian.”

“Which describes about half the cab drivers in town. So what happened in the alley?”

“They grabbed my bag and searched me, looking for the CD, I guess. When they didn't find it, they tried to force me back into the cab. I think they planned to take me somewhere to kill me.”

“My God.”

“I smacked one of them with my bag. Probably broke his nose. Then I ran. The one with the gun chased me. We ended up in the DuPont Circle Metro Station where he tried to attack me on the platform. I ducked and he ended up on the tracks. An incoming train killed him. I got the hell out of the area. And I walked to your house in the rain. Nobody was following me.”

“You're safe here.”

“But what do I do now?”

There was a long pause. Finally, Paul said, “I need a few minutes to think about it. Why don't you go upstairs and take a shower. I'll get together some dinner for us. When you come down, I'll have a plan.”

Allison was finally feeling relief, knowing that Paul would help her.

“I better dry my clothes.”

“I'll find some clean clothes of mine that might fit. I'll leave them on the bed.”

“That'll be a good trick, considering you're six two and about one eighty and I'm five eight and one thirty.”

He laughed. “I'll do the best I can.”

After showering, she found a blue Yale Law sweatshirt he left and work out pants that tied with a drawstring.

She came downstairs to find two plates of pasta with tomato sauce and an open bottle of Barbara d'Alba on the battered butcher block kitchen table. It looked good. She was starving.

On the counter a small television was playing.

“Can we turn that off?” she said.

He shook his head. “We have to hear what they're saying about the Metro incident.”

As they began eating, Paul said, “Before we decide on our next move, tell me what happened in Anguilla.”

She relayed everything that had occurred from the time she arrived in Anguilla until she boarded the plane to fly back to Washington.

At the end, she said, “Bottom line. I'm getting close to learning whom Vanessa was with in Anguilla. I have Mary Pat's description as well as Vanessa's diaries. I'm hoping I can get there. I'm going to nail that bastard.”

“Together, we'll do it,” Paul said. “I know the territory. I'll be able to help.”

Suddenly, Paul pointed to the television. He raced over and increased the volume.

“Again, the hour's top story. There was an incident at the DuPont Circle Metro station this afternoon. During a struggle between a man and a woman on the platform, the man was either pushed or fell onto the tracks where he was hit and immediately killed by an oncoming train.”

Allison saw her picture flashed on the screen.

“Oh no!” she cried out, horrified.

The announcer continued. “This picture of the woman involved was taken by one of the people on the platform with a camera on his cell phone. The woman's identity is not known. She fled the scene. The dead man's identity has not been released by the police.

“One witness told reporters that the woman was acting in self-defense. Another disputed that account. The police have not issued any statement. A gun was involved.”

Upset, she said, “I'm in deep trouble, Paul.”

“We need a plan. It's only a question of time, and not much, until somebody recognizes you. That means your name will be in all the papers and on television. The mystery woman the police are looking for.”