At Any Cost (27 page)

They wouldn't find any way to connect him to Omar Koss or Antoine Campbell, no matter where they looked. Maybe he wouldn't get arrested after all. Maybe he would still be okay. He vacillated between the two poles—certain he would be caught, and then, just as abruptly, certain he wouldn't. He fought, even now, to believe he would survive this.

He had stopped trying to reach Omar Koss, aware that his phone calls to Omar's number could be traced, if it came to that. He still hoped that Omar would contact him. Maybe he could ask Claudia to contact him.

No, she wouldn't do it. Richard was troubled about Claudia. Maybe she was too close to the power—she would have sided with them. At the last meeting he had attended, she had looked across the conference table at him blankly, as if she didn't know him. Her stoicism frightened him. Two calls to her had not been returned.

Isolated, he realized. They were isolating him.

It was possible they were even watching him in his office. He sat very still for a moment, attempting to appear relaxed and normal while he tried to imagine how likely that was, and what, exactly, they would know after the last two days of his admittedly erratic behavior. In the silence he heard a sound, like a tick, in the reception area outside his door. His blood froze in his veins. His breath suspended as he listened for it to repeat. Was someone out there? Someone was out there. He knew it. He rose on shaky legs, but aware he might be on camera, didn't creep like he wanted to. He walked to the door. Opening it, he saw the empty reception area where his secretary parsed visitors. But the secretary was gone; it was late. He took a step out of the reception and looked around. Nobody. This area of the building was usually not manned in the late hours. This was the senior executive area, the brass. There was no reason for anyone to be here. Himself included.

He wondered if it was a test, if someone had been sent here to draw him out. He shrank back inside the reception area, angry at the games they were playing with him. Spontaneously, he sat down in the receptionist's chair. Her computer was on but asleep; it would require a password to activate and any bad password attempts would be logged on the server. He wondered if he dared try it. While considering it and trying to figure out what her password might be, he opened the desk and found the usual things. Pens, paperclips, tape. No obvious cameras or recording devices.

“Hello, Richard.”

Richard jumped, his body going cold and wet instantly, as if struck by lightening. The director's aide smiled apologetically. “I'm sorry—I saw your light on and thought I would stop by.”

“Oh, yes,” Richard replied, aware that his voice sounded high and scared. He didn't sound like an innocent man. “Hi. I'm looking for a damn Post-it.”

Despite his own clumsy acting, the aide seemed to believe him. He stepped inside. He was an older man—sixty, this year—and a lieutenant general in the Army.

“It's late,” Richard said. “Why are you …. I mean, is everything okay?”

He smiled. “Just fine. I was wargaming the mole problem with a few peers at the CIA and here in my group. I guess I let the time get away from me.”

Richard's throat went dry. He looked at the man for any hint that he was toying with him, but he seemed to be forthright. Of course, if he were sent here to sound out Richard, he would be smooth as butter. They wouldn't send someone broadcasting suspicion and unease, someone whose very presence sent Richard scurrying for cover. Richard intuited that he was in the presence of a very powerful foe.

He smiled stiffly. “I've been doing that myself,” he said. “Wargaming.”

“I guess you've heard there is some suspicion that the mole is here in the NSA.”

“I had not heard that. I heard rumors it was someone at Central Intelligence with access to Soviet analysis.”

The aide frowned slightly. “Anything is possible at this point.” He glanced around the reception area and said, “Well, goodnight Richard.”

“Goodnight.”

He watched the aide walk away as raw nausea welled. He felt like he'd been sucker punched in the gut. He got himself to his desk, trying to catch his breath. A fine cold sweat sizzled on his feverish skin. He had to get out. If they were this close, there was no reason to continue the façade. Rising to his feet again, a wave of dizziness struck him in a swoon. He paused, shutting his eyes and willing the sick feeling away. The needle. It was going to feel like this, he thought, and a visible shudder moved through him.

He grabbed his briefcase and walked out, forcing his posture to remain tall and firm. He walked fast down the funhouse maze of glass and fluorescent lights, trying for the sake of the cameras, and, in this quadrant, late night workers, to look merely busy, like he was going somewhere important; he had no time for chitchat.

Walking through the turnstiles, he felt a sudden liberation. He nodded to the faceless Marine guard and pushed open the heavy glass door. It had continued to snow, and the frigid air and wet flakes felt wonderful on his fevered skin. He lifted his face slightly as he walked to his car.

Once he got on the road, he began to shake.
Everything is fine
, he told himself.
Everything is just fine. Just drive normally
. He heard another sound, a little fragment of radio static.
Was that a signal burst from a transponder? Was it possible they were this far ahead of him?
He glanced behind him as he drove. Nobody behind him.

Maybe it was just a problem with the radio. It was set to the classical station, and when he turned it on, the car filled with the beseeching voice of a cello. The radio was fine. Maybe hadn't actually heard it. Maybe he imagined it. Maybe.

A white Taurus fell in behind him. It occupied the middle lane, but it stayed with Richard past several exits. Were they were blatantly following him now? He knew the first rule of countersurveillance: never show that you know you're being followed. If you know you're being followed, you have a reason to be looking for a tail, and thus any escape or evasion is usually a sign of guilt. He badly wanted to get off the freeway and maybe stop in at a gas station to see if the white Taurus would follow but forced himself to stay steady. He tapped his hands on the wheel of the Mercedes, then shut off the radio. But then he heard the snatch of sound again, so he turned it back on.

He mouthed, “Oh God,” afraid there were sound recording devices in the car.

He didn't want his followers to see the red brake lights flash, so he gently removed his foot from the gas and let the car begin to slow, just by a few miles per hour, not really noticeable in normal traffic. But to Richard's horror, the Taurus didn't pass. It remained the same distance behind.

“Fuck you!” Richard suddenly shouted. Even his rage sounded scared. “Fuck you!” he said again more forcefully to the guys listening in his car, and the ones following him, and the whole system. Fuck them for not trusting him.

At his exit, he swerved off the freeway and watched the Taurus continue on. Someone else would appear behind him—a classic four or six man operation, which meant he was being advertised internally as a pretty big fish. He supposed that was something.

They would not follow onto the narrow residential streets because there was too much risk of being made. Richard drove into the parking structure, then hurried into his building.

He had hung very heavy black drapes over the windows to keep out the directional microphones, cameras, and other gadgets which were no doubt assaulting the condo windows every second of every day. As he came inside, it was pitch black, like a deep cave. He turned on all the lights to let them know he was home and walked directly into his office.

He sat very still for a while at his desk, thinking. It seemed that he still had a tiny bit of leverage. He could still embarrass them all—all the ones listening, the ones who thought they were so much smarter than he. He had hundreds of thousands of dollars of United States technology aimed at him right now and unknowable numbers of federal agents. With attention like this, what better time to leave his mark on the world?

His mind flashed to Tom Bishop, who had stormed into his place of business, his blustering threats still echoing in Richard's ears. That was when he had really known they were on to him. If he had to pinpoint a moment, it would be then that it became impossible for him to live out his days on some beach with beautiful ladies and billions of dollars partitioned away in various investments and accounts. He had been running since then, running from the needle that he now understood was inescapable.

Killing Tom Bishop would be difficult. An easier target might be that journalist, Leah Lennox. The newspapers had reported that Fallon Hughes's kidnappers had sent Leah the video and in the video, she had mentioned Tom. The newspapers said that Leah was a dear friend of Tom.

The fact she was a reporter would provide the perfect ruse. The fact that she was a friend of Tom was a pleasant coincidence. While his nascent plan was primarily one of revenge, he couldn't discount the fact that people would always wonder what was it about Leah Lennox that led her to be in such a terribly wrong place and the wrong time.

Leah Lennox stepped out of the car. Tom gently grabbed her arm and pulled her into a hug. “You can't go,” he said into her hair.

She pulled back and saw with disbelieving eyes that he was serious. “You tricked me?”

“I can't lose you. I can't even risk it. Please drive Omar's car back to your building. I'll call you from—”

“I can't believe you would lie to me like that.”

“Leah, you're a reporter. You're not a cop. Go home, and please be careful.”

Leah's phone rang.

“Is it Collin?” Omar asked.

She shook her head. “The number is private.” She answered. “This is Leah.”

Tom listened to Leah's side of the conversation, growing increasingly bewildered. Omar stood nearby, looking out at the Anacostia River and the flow of headlights on the Frederick Douglass Bridge. Tom suspected he was missing none of Leah's conversation.

Tom looked back at the helicopter, urging Leah to finish.

Finally she hung up. “Okay, you guys go on.” She held her hand out for the keys to the car.

“Tell me,” Tom said.

Leah smiled slightly. “I have a meeting with none other than Richard Mullinax, Deputy Director of the National Security Agency. He invited me to his home for an exclusive story. He said he can get me access to … some stuff.”

“Stuff like what?” Tom asked.

“Documents or people?” Omar added.

She pursed her lips. “Both, actually.”

“Have you ever talked to him before?” Omar asked.

“No.”

A look passed between the two men. “Don't go,” Tom said suddenly. “There is something really wrong about this situation.”

“You don't want me to go with you to help get Fallon Hughes. You don't want me to get this story, which Mullinax said will make my career. Would you like to assign me a bedtime too?” The sharpness in her voice was accompanied by a frustrated shake of her head. “I'm not a kid, Tom. I can take care of myself.”

“He's setting you up,” Tom said bluntly.

“He would hardly be the first source in the government to try and manipulate the press for his own agenda.” When she saw the doubt in Tom's eyes, she softened her tone. “Do you have any idea how badly I need something like this? An exclusive that will blow away the entire press corps?”

Tom looked back to the helicopter, feeling time slipping away.

“He's a trapped animal, Leah,” Omar said. “He's dangerous.”

“I can handle myself.”

“Like Fallon Hughes handled herself?” Omar said.

Tom winced. Fallon should never have had to handle herself. It was his sacred duty to protect her and he had failed.

“You think you know what you're doing. You don't.”

“Go with her,” Tom said suddenly. “Go with Leah to see Mullinax. I'll be fine by myself.”

“I do not need a chaperone to do my job,” Leah said stridently. The ambition in her eyes conveyed her iron will.

Omar seemed to consider it for a moment, weighing Leah alone with Mullinax and Tom alone with terrorists. A nearly imperceptible nod was the only indication of acquiescence.

Leah looked wounded.

“I'll see you soon,” Tom said, and to cut off any more conversation on the subject, he sprinted toward the helicopter. The rotary blades were spinning; Tom ducked and climbed inside. The pilot said, “He isn't coming?”

“Just me,” Tom replied.

“Roger that.”

The helicopter began to lift and Tom shut his eyes. He still hated heights and hated flying. But for Fallon, he'd endure anything.

Leah wanted to watch the helicopter until she couldn't see it anymore, but Omar told her to get into the car. She sank into the front seat and turned the heater up. Omar slammed the gas pedal and headed toward Maryland.

Gazing out the window, she thought about Richard Mullinax. “Why do you think he's a bad guy?” Leah asked.

“He sold some secrets,” Omar said simply. “He got a lot of people killed.”

Leah absorbed the information silently. She had more questions—that journalistic instinct was always working—but she held back.

Omar's face was lit only with the light of the dashboard. His profile was surprisingly noble and Leah had the distinct feeling that Mullinax's activities actually
hurt
Omar. Not only on a professional level but on a deeply personal level, like he had offended Omar's personal code of honor.

“Oh my God,” she whispered. “You're a Boy Scout.”

“What?” He looked at her with a confused expression.

“You're actually a good guy.”

Omar smirked and shrugged his big shoulders. “I guess that depends on what you mean by good.”

His phone buzzed. He picked it up and read.

“Ugh, that is so dangerous,” Leah said and grabbed the device from him. “Please just drive. I'll read it.” She frowned. “It says, ‘PACER has detected unusual heat signatures located east of Virginia Beach at latitude 36.852N and longitude negative 75.978W.'” To Omar she asked, “What does this mean? What is PACER?”

“It's a drone. It means they've located Fallon in a boat off the coast of Virginia Beach. Call Tom and tell him. Call the last number dialed and ask for a Zodiac boat and a truck to be waiting for Tom when he lands.”

Leah did as Omar ordered. She hung up the phone just as Omar turned into the drive of a swanky high-rise condo building.

The hallway was well lit. Leah wished for a moment it was filled with scurrying rats and flickering lights to betray Mullinax's dark and cannibalistic soul. But it was well lit and well decorated, well-off in general. Mullinax's condo was at the end of the hallway, a corner unit.

Omar kept his profile thin against the wall beside Mullinax's door, and Leah knocked. A few seconds later, she heard someone on the other side and assumed he was looking at her through the peephole. “Who is it?”

“Leah Lennox.”

A series of locks was unlatched, and finally the door opened. She had never seen him in person. She was surprised that he looked like a male supermodel, all high cheekbones and pouting lips. He looked rather ill though. He appeared to be sweating and his eyes were rimmed in red, like he had been up for a week without sleep. Leah was repulsed by his appearance but could not look away. Omar's words were ringing in her ears and she kept reminding herself she was in the presence of a powerful traitor.

Mullinax didn't notice her focused attention on his gruesome appearance. He was staring past her, at Omar Koss. And he had gone ghost white under the film of greasy sweat. “You …”

“Hello, Mullinax,” Omar said smoothly. He stepped beside Leah and entered the apartment, walking past Mullinax as if he wasn't even there. The man knew how to dominate.

The condo was a miracle of opulence: Onica, Cartier, Waterford. It seemed strange for a bureaucrat to care so much about delicate, beautiful things. Leah wondered if the ornaments had been bought with dirty money.

As Mullinax followed Omar into the living room, Leah noticed he wasn't wearing shoes, perhaps so he wouldn't make a sound on the polished oak floors as he approached the door. Secondly, she noticed heavy black drapes over the windows.

Tom's instincts had been right. She felt the creeping sense of something off now that she was inside his domain. Instinctively she hung back just a little bit as Mullinax was speaking in a stage whisper, frantically gesticulating to Omar. “You betrayed me!”

“You betrayed our country,” Omar said smoothly.

Mullinax, who was not stupid, had been so blinded by greed that he had failed to see the obvious: Omar was not on his side. The sudden realization caused him to physically stagger backward, as if Omar had struck him. Slack-lipped and wide-eyed, he stared at the larger man with fury and disbelief. “All those things we discussed …”

“You discussed. I listened.”

A weird laugh bubbled from his gnawed lips. “This is actually perfect,” he said. He looked to Leah with that weird, unfocused stare, and took a few steps toward her. “This is so perfect. I'm glad you're here. Come on, follow me to my office.”

Omar put himself between Mullinax and Leah and they followed Mullinax into a large wood-paneled office. It looked like a library at a stuffy old gentleman's club with leather oxblood club chairs, heavy wooden tables, and leather-bound books. Expensive-looking art hung on the walls.

Mullinax sat down behind his huge desk, his bearing like the captain of a ship. Despite his unhealthy appearance, he smiled pleasantly as Leah and Omar sat across from him.

She remembered her surprising question at the Hughes press gaggle. The confrontational style of her question had caught him off guard and he'd evaded answering. She thought that in this environment, Mullinax would not be able to avoid answering. Before he could take control of the meeting, Leah asked, “Is it true you sold secrets to the Russians?” She didn't know if it was really the Russians, or even exclusively the Russians. Omar had not indicated the buyers of the secrets Mullinax stole. But she knew very well that two Russian assets had been killed, and that the United States and Russia were still teetering on war, though a little less so than a few days ago when the entire Russian electrical grid was taken offline. It seemed a good guess.

Mullinax eyed her skeptically. “Is that what you think?”

“You called me here to give me an exclusive. I must assume it was for something big. The facts seem to fit.”

He laughed a weird high-pitched laugh that went through her like a scream. The man was truly evil. “You want your exclusive. You want the story that will make your career.” He smiled at her, almost fatherly.

“That's why I was called here, isn't it?”

“I didn't know you were bringing him.” He cut his eyes to Omar.

“I'm sure he won't mind if you tell me if you sold US secrets to Russians.”

“He knows the truth,” he said. He seemed to be indicating there was more to the story—some mysterious “truth” that would justify his actions or absolve his guilt.

“Well why are we here? It's very late. If you've changed your mind, I'd just as well go home.”

He sticky gaze fixed on her, his eyes like bright wet stars.

A few tense seconds passed, then Leah said, “Okay, I'm done. Clearly you had no real reason to call me here.”

Leah stood up and Omar followed.

Mullinax stood up. “I said you'd get a story that makes your career.”

“Yes. Where is it?”

“Here's your story,” he said.

She had an impression of movement in the corner of her eye and realized that Mullinax's hand had come up shoulder level. In that first chaotic instant, she thought he was reaching across the desk to strike Omar. But his hand went to his temple. Omar suddenly grabbed her—a feeling like being flash-frozen with some exotic cartoon weapon because suddenly she was in his arms, her face pressed into the hard wall of his chest, and she literally could not move. At that exact moment—with a million questions buzzing in her head—she heard a loud crack that reverberated in her bones and left her dazed and stunned: the percussive bang of a pistol being fired in an enclosed area.

She jumped instinctively, but Omar held her tight, not letting her move. The acrid smell of burnt metal whiffed through the room.

The silence was horrible. She wiggled to breathe.

“It's over,” he said into her hair. “Don't look.” He loosened his steely embrace, and human nature being what it was, Leah glanced to the last place she had seen Mullinax standing. All she saw was grotesque red splatter over the bucolic painting of a Spanish countryside.

The Atlantic was a smooth black expanse, with flickering white caps where the waves tumbled onto the shore. Through the snow-flecked windows, Tom searched out the blackness for a light or a shape that looked like a craft anchored at sea where Fallon might be held, but there was nothing to see. The world from up here looked infinite, a vast void. He would have to trust Omar Koss's intel and believe that Fallon was somewhere out there, beyond the blackness, waiting for him. It was already eleven forty. Twenty minutes until the terrorist's deadline.

The helicopter descended on a pad not far from the beach, where the truck that Leah promised was waiting with a small Zodiac boat on a covered trailer. After a few moments of searching, he found the keys in the cup holder and pushed the truck into gear.

He backed the truck up to the pier and cut the engine. He pushed the seat back to give him more room and changed into the black clothes that were on the seat beside him. Only then did he open the duffle bags that were waiting on the floorboards. A gorgeous, beautiful, darkly glinting cache of weapons glimmered at him like a mirage. Tom's heart caught in his throat. If only he'd had this firepower when the killers attacked Fallon. He could have mowed them down like the guys in the movies, in a spray of red mist, leaving only bloody chum where their bodies once stood. If only. He holstered his Sig Sauer below his hip and a second pistol in a cross draw shoulder rig.

Grim and strained from repressing regrets, he took what he needed. It felt strange not to have backup. He would have to go in there with only his heart and guts and desire to kill. In the heat of the moment, that felt like plenty.

The fishy, salty air seemed incongruent with the cold wind and spitting snow. His mind flashed to Paxos, the sultry midday heat, and Fallon lying in his arms as the ceiling fan cooled their spent bodies. He shook the image away, needing focus.

He lowered the black inflatable boat to the icy bite of choppy water, then clambered inside and started the powerful motor, which smoothly hummed to life. An auspicious beginning. Getting a feel for the small craft, he guided it carefully through the harbor, impressed by the way it zoomed easily over the choppy surface. He plugged in the coordinates in the GPS that Leah had given him and continued toward open water. Looking back toward shore, he could not see a thing.

The boat struggled as he proceeded farther out to sea. The waves were very rough and the boat was not designed for deep water, certainly not in such inclement weather. Tom struggled to steer on the correct coordinates as the wind easily blew the light craft off course.

The sea was vast and rough and empty as it churned beneath the tiny boat. He struggled to see and steer through the back spray of freezing salt water. Squinting his stinging eyes, he looked for any hint of the boat that Koss promised would be anchored out here, but he saw only more snow and sea. He grew increasingly tense as midnight stalked toward him.

Then, just as he was beginning to think the intelligence had been wrong, he saw a shape just ahead, a hulking shadowy structure that could not be the sky or the sea. With no outboard lights, the yacht was perfectly camouflaged by the night.

He wished he had some infrared or FLIR devices so he could see where everyone inside was located.
God let Fallon be okay.

As the Zodiac approached, he grew concerned that the motor was too loud. Hopefully the slush of the waves and the whipping wind would be enough to cover the sound because if he turned off the motor, the little boat would immediately skiff off the waves in the whim of the wind.

He was amazed at how large the vessel was. Three stories tall and very long. It was practically a floating city. Anyone on the upper levels certainly would not hear the motor, but he had no idea who was lurking on the lower levels.

Laying low in the boat, he advanced to the side of the ship. He expected the slice of gunshots whizzing at him any minute.

As the Zodiac skimmed the fiberglass wall of the yacht, Tom slipped the MP-5 from its case. His gaze followed the overhang of the boat, his eyes blinking against the falling snow. No people. Sitting up, he slung the MP-5 over his chest with a strap. He slid in the shadows to the rear of the yacht. The boat drifted on the current away from the ship, and Tom cursed silently, willing the ocean to cooperate. He navigated back to the edge of the yacht, then grabbed the steel rung of the outboard ladder. He stood up in the Zodiac, stepped onto the ladder, and let the Zodiac go. Tom watched it drift off, becoming invisible as the chop swiftly carried out toward deep sea. Presently, there was no place to go but up. He climbed.

At the top, he paused to survey the deck of the ship. A wandering guard took a last drag of his cigarette and flicked it overboard.

He stood with his back to Tom, looking out at the snowy nothingness. Tom quietly launched himself up, took two giant strides across the deck before the man could even register his surprise, and latched his forearm neatly around his throat. Using a small knife, he stabbed him cleanly in the heart. He jabbed upward and felt the resistance of the blade punching through fat, cartilage, and muscle. He heard a dripping sound, like a toilet running, and realized the man was gushing blood. Tom hustled him to the railing and threw him over, hoping he'd sink instead of float. In the darkness, the blood on the polished wooden deck wasn't terribly visible, but anyone missing the guard would come to search and inevitably discover it.

There were no nearby towels or rags to clean it up. So be it, he thought, and pocketed the knife.

He approached the glass doors that led to the main cabin. The lights were off. It appeared to be an empty room. He slid the door silently on its tracks. Stepping inside, he shut the door to prevent the room temperature from changing. He paused, listening for voices or for the sound of Fallon calling for him, but there was nothing other than the lapping of water against the ship. He walked silently through the cabin to the staircase and realized he had entered on the second floor, which meant the boat had four stories. More space to cover—and the clock was ticking down.