Time to Kill (39 page)

For several moments he remained hunched where he was, after closing the machine down, going through the conversation with the lawyer in his mind. And then he smiled. Of course the exchanges between the lawyer and the state authorities wouldn't have been by email. There were documents that needed to be signed so it would have been by ordinary letter mail. He was still unsettled by the nonsense in the hunting store that morning.

Mason returned the laptop to the trunk but again sat for several moments at the wheel, breathing deeply, preparing himself.

Showtime, he thought.

Twenty-Nine

J
ack Mason began ticking off his mentally prepared list as soon as he left Annapolis. The car was first. He stopped at a designated gas station, not only filling the car for the escape drive to DC and the New York shuttle, but to check the oil, water and air, determined against any unforeseen setbacks. In the gas station shop he bought the necessary pack of latex gloves and, as an afterthought, two bunches of tulips He approached Frederick with sufficient time to spare to make the detour to the creek in which he intended to dump the Glock and the laptop and turned off the main highway at the same spot as before. He drove slowly over the echoing bridge, satisfying himself the banks were deserted, and stopped in the same lay-by as before on the opposite side. He was actually on the bridge, crossing to where the path sloped down to the bank before he saw the man and boy, presumably father and son, fishing together. The boy looked up and gestured. With no alternative, Mason waved back. The weak sun in their eyes would make it difficult for them to see him clearly.

‘Caught anything?' Mason called down.

‘Couple of trout,' said the boy. ‘Not very big.'

If he hadn't made the detour he might have come upon them with the Glock, empty, openly in his hand, ready to throw into the river, Mason thought. ‘One of your favourite spots?'

‘Pretty much,' said the man, squinting up.

‘We usually get more,' said the boy.

‘I promised you six and that's what we'll get,' said the man, not talking to Mason.

‘Best of luck,' said Mason, turning away.

He'd lost his hiding place, Mason accepted, putting the Ford into a u-turn to recross the bridge, sounding his horn in farewell as he did so, to rejoin the Frederick road. The danger wasn't from recognition but from being stuck with the incriminating Glock after the killings. What about the deserted area by the canoe club from which he'd thrown the first laptop into the Potomac beneath the Key Bridge? It would involve a time-consuming route change to Reagan airport and … no it wouldn't, Mason stopped himself, turning on to the blacktop. He'd be on the right side of the city, descending from the Beltway. He could simply continue on into Alexandria and discard the gun in the Potomac from one of the convenient roads leading down to the river there. He could easily carry the laptop up to New York to dispose of it there.

As he drove into Frederick Mason saw from the dashboard clock that he was still conveniently ahead of the cemetery ritual, which gave him more than sufficient time to take more precautions. He chose the house first, taking the familiar turn. Hill Street SE was, as always, pristinely empty, unsullied by any tree or hedge litter, unmarked by a single discarded toy or child's bicycle or play cart. The Slater's driveway was empty, the garage doors shut. For the first time Mason allowed himself a direct look as he passed, seeing immediately that the basketball hoop had been dismantled. Well before he reached it, Mason knew Ann's gallery was open: two women, one carrying a picture-shaped package, emerged as he went by. This time he didn't turn his head to look, apprehensive of the CCTV. He did try to locate Ann's recognizable car in the adjoining parking space but couldn't.

Mason approached the now familiar cemetery by the circuitous route that would position the car in the direction he needed to drive directly to the Beltway link road, slowing as he went by the church at the front. There were more cars than he expected, making it difficult to be absolutely sure, but Mason didn't isolate the memorized licence plates of either Slater or Ann's car in the carefully avoided parking area. Mason left his car in the chosen road separated by two streets from the cemetery. He painstakingly fitted each finger into its designated stall of the latex gloves, which he'd left lying on the passenger seat beside him, before intertwining his hands to ensure they were perfectly snug, shrugging the sleeves of his jacket down to test that they were totally concealed. Satisfied, Mason reached beneath the passenger seat to retrieve the Glock and the serrated hunting knife and wiped every surface of the gun, the trigger particularly, with what remained of the unused cleaning rag. After that he did the same with the knife. Even though he had only touched their outer plastic wrapping, which he now removed, Mason also wiped every stem of the two bunches of tulips, very aware that there was not the slightest shake in his hands as he worked. He felt completely calm, too, although very eager. He wedged the gun into the front waistband of his trousers, to the left. He put the knife, unsheathed, into the left inside pocket of his jacket and got awkwardly out of the car so that the door and its window would hide the Glock until he could button his jacket over it. There was a discernible bulge but it was completely covered when he positioned the flowers in front of him. The flowers also hid the gloves.

‘Ready,' he said, aloud, turning back towards the cemetery.

Now that she had a carrying licence Ann was insisting on practising twice a day at the gun club range. Her slot that afternoon was later than usual so the arrangement was for Slater to pick her up from there and then for them to continue on to the cemetery in his car and collect hers on the way back. He drove badly and knew it, too tensed to everything around him, his speed fluctuating sometimes so widely to bring protesting horn blasts from other cars, which heightened his tension.

He had to bring things to a head, Slater determined, resentment adding to all the other conflicting emotions, anger the most predominant. The risk of failure – which inevitably meant disaster – was appalling and couldn't go on any longer, no matter whatever threats or denials there would be. Despite his earlier conviction to the contrary, Slater was increasingly coming to believe that the turmoil of relocation – of their having to adopt new identities and start new lives again – was their only escape. He knew Ann would be reluctant to the point of outright refusal to any suggestion of their no longer being near to David's grave. He'd call Potter or Denver or both tomorrow. Openly challenge them – how much he wished he could threaten legal action! – and demand the official help he would need. The hovering uncertainty hardened in his mind. What if they refused, now that he was no longer of any use or value to them? But they did need him, he tried to reassure himself. He might not be any longer professionally important to them, but their precious Witness Protection Programme was. And it provided him with his necessary pressure point, one he'd impose as hard as he could when he spoke to Potter tomorrow.

He had to wait for Ann to come off the range and when she did she said, ‘I took an extra fifteen minutes. The person after me was late.'

Slater kept protectively behind her as they emerged into the parking lot, not looking at her but all around, releasing the automatic lock to avoid any delay in her getting in when they reached the car. ‘How'd you do?'

‘Two bulls at twenty-five yards, one at thirty. Almost all of the rest in the next ring.'

‘That's pretty good,' he said, as they gained the cemetery road.

‘That's pretty
damned
good,' she corrected. ‘John says I'm one of the best he's ever trained.' John Bristol was their permanent instructor.

‘What's wrong with your wrist?'

‘Nothing!'

‘You've been holding it – nursing it – ever since you got into the car.'

Ann took her left hand away from her right wrist. ‘I told you nothing was wrong with it.'

‘You've done too much. It won't be bulls tomorrow.'

‘We'll see. Why are you driving so slowly?' she fought back.

‘I wasn't aware that I was.'

‘You are! We're going to be late if you don't hurry.'

‘We'll be there at the same time as we always are,' insisted Slater, increasing his speed. ‘We don't have a time schedule.'

‘You got the cleaning things?'

‘You saw me pack them this morning, before we left the house.'

Ann's hand was back supporting her wrist, Slater saw. He'd definitely make contact with Potter tomorrow. This really couldn't go on any longer. ‘I'm going …' started Slater, but then stopped.

‘What?'

‘Nothing,' said Slater. He'd gauge the FBI supervisor's reaction before beginning the battle with Ann about relocation.

There's the cemetery up ahead,' she said, unnecessarily.

Battle was very definitely going to be the apposite word, Slater knew.

Surveillance – remaining invisible while always keeping a target in sight – had always earned the highest grades in Jack Mason's tradecraft training; he'd never blown a genuine field operation, which was how he regarded the killings he was about to carry out. He'd be unseen in the most perfect ambush position at the precise moment Slater and Ann were at their most vulnerable, emerge, strike and be gone, the contemptuous flowers strewn about them, the perfect, unsolvable crime committed. It would probably be listed as that in crime textbooks, as he knew both from his Internet surfing and time as the penitentiary's librarian that his treason was listed as one of the most serious as well as the most humiliating spying episodes in the CIA's history. He wished he could be publicly acknowledged for the second as well as the first memorable acts.

Mason used the discreetly small side gate from which the boy's grave was completely hidden and approached the privet hiding place along a path that gave him the most extensive view of the area beyond it. There was a scattering of mourners, all of whom he judged far enough away not to connect his firing of the Glock with bullet shots. If Slater and Ann were on time, the funereal tolling of the church bell would help cover the noise, as well. Much closer, though, were two separate gangs of cemetery gardeners, weeding and border edging and grave tidying. Slater and Ann always knelt, as if they were praying, which they probably were. That's what he had to do, come in low like someone else praying with them in a grieving huddle if any of the workers abruptly looked up, attracted by the sound. That was the trick of being invisible, merging in with the background. Slater and Ann would be prostrate by death, not grief by then, unable to shout for help. It was a delicious irony that briefly, as he stayed crouched low over them, they would be providing cover for him. They'd deserve their flowers.

They were coming! He could see them, walking as they always walked, Ann leaning heavily upon Slater's arm as if she needed his physical support, her head bowed. In her free hand she carried a bouquet of red flowers the names of which Mason didn't know. Slater, by comparison, was not bow-headed, but gazing about him, once even turning to look behind them. Slater was carrying a bucket, a broom handle protruding above its rim. At a standpipe faucet about five yards from the grave they separated. Ann took out the broom, as well as a trowel and a dust tray. Slater splashed some water into the bucket, which Mason saw had a funnelled rim. Perfect, Mason decided; they'd be distracted, engrossed, in their grave tidying. They wouldn't be aware of him until he was upon them, too close – too ready – to miss.

Momentarily they went out of Mason's view, obscured behind his protective hedge. Mason gently parted the thicket, giving himself a disguised peephole, breathing in sharply at what he immediately saw through it. They were at the graveside, Slater brushing and sweeping, Ann changing old flowers for new and adding fresh water from the bucket. But not positioned as he'd expected. Always before they'd knelt side by side, their backs to the privet hedge from behind which he'd approach. Today they were either side, Ann with her back to him but Slater opposite, facing him. He had to go ahead, couldn't put it off. Slater
was
engrossed, head bent. He had to move slowly, Mason knew, do nothing to attract Slater's attention. Do it now, while Slater was hunched forward! Move now!

Gently Mason squeezed the trigger, unlocking the bar, as he rose and stepped from behind the hedge, treading as lightly as he could, needing to concentrate upon them and not able to look down to avoid any twig-snapping alert. He could hear the thump of his own heart, sounding in his ears, glad that the gloves stopped the butt feeling slippery in the sweat of his hands.

The other noise was startling, stopping him, although he couldn't distinguish the megaphone words. He only heard his own name when it was repeated but heard it all the third time.

‘MASON! DROP THE GUN! ON YOUR FACE! ON YOUR FACE OR WE'LL SHOOT! NOW! ON YOUR FACE NOW!'

Everything kaleidoscoped. Mason saw some of the cemetery gardeners running towards him, although they had guns in their hands. Beyond them three marksmen were spread out, sight-fitted rifles trained upon him. At the grave Slater was snatching inside his jacket and as he did so Ann screamed, throwing herself forward but turning at the same time to look behind her. Mason ran at them, firing as he did so, crying out at what felt like a punch that abruptly stopped him, and at not seeing Ann, at whom he'd fired, crumple forward. Mason tried to bring his arm over, to steady his right wrist but he couldn't move it because of the numbness. Slater had a gun in his hand now and was crouched but when he tried to fire nothing happened. There was the noise of two faraway shots, from the marksmen, but again Mason didn't feel any immediate pain at the punch of impact.

But then he did, taking his breath, and saw Ann, still on the ground but with a gun now and as he tried to train the Glock on her she fired again and he was falling, not able to stop himself but still not feeling any pain, and then she was standing over him shouting words he couldn't hear. The jerk of the gun as Ann fired for the third time was the last thing that Mason ever saw because she shot him full in the face.