Born to Run (18 page)

The mariachi band started to play, but not even the sudden blast of trumpets could make Elizabeth flinch.

"You're only about half right," she said.

"Which half do I have wrong?"

"I did get an e-mail about President Keyes. Something similar to what you got. But it didn't come straight from the source."

"How did you get it?"

"It was delivered by an old friend."

"Does this friend have a name?"

"Chloe Sparks."

Jack checked his surprise. "Okay, let me break this down. First of all, you're saying that Chloe Sparks was an 'old friend' of yours?"

"I should say former friend. I met all the White House interns assigned to my father. Most were ambitious ass-kissers, but Chloe was cool. I liked her. We started to hang out--dinners, movies, the clubs. We even came here a few times. Chloe liked to party. So do I."

Things were starting to click for Jack. "Let me guess: You and Chloe were out partying the night before she got fired from her internship for drug possession."

She tasted her drink again. "You add up two plus two pretty quickly."

"You planted drugs on her."

"That's what you say."

"That wasn't a very nice thing to do to a friend."

"Fucking my father wasn't a very nice thing for my friend to do to me."

Jack couldn't argue with that, but this was not the time to cut her any slack. "Obviously there were some hard feelings there."

"You think?" she said, scoffing.

"So how was it that, a year or so later, Chloe called to give you the message from her anonymous source about bringing down President Keyes?"

"That was out of the blue," said Elizabeth.

"How do you mean?"

"Chloe and I didn't speak after she got fired. At that point, she had probably figured out that I knew all about her and my father. I never told her that I had set her up, but I think she accepted the fact that she got what she deserved."

"That brings me back to the same question: Why did she call you about the message she got from her source?"

"I can only guess. In her head, I honestly think she believed that this would make up for what she had done, that things would be good between us. She told me that she was working on a huge story, and that the information from her confidential source could put my father in the White House."

"Did Chloe give you any specifics?"

"Just someone claiming to have the power to bring down President Keyes."

Elizabeth looked past Jack and waved. He turned around and saw a young woman checking her coat at the entrance.

"That's my friend," said Elizabeth.

"One more question before she gets here," said Jack.

"Better make it quick."

"When Chloe shared her message with you, what did you do with it?"

"Nothing."

"Nothing?"

"Nope. Not a thing. Because here's the deal," she said, as she leaned on her forearms and came closer, her glare cutting right through him. "My father didn't deserve to be president."

Her delivery was so cold that Jack actually felt it down his spine.

"Hey, girl," said Elizabeth as she rose to greet her friend.

Jack watched the two young women embrace, and he wondered if Elizabeth had used a similar maneuver to reach into Chloe's pocket or purse and plant the joint that had gotten her fired. The women launched into conversation, and Jack suddenly felt invisible.

"I'll see you around," he said, more than ready to leave.

Chapter
29

The Greek chose a sentimental spot for his Friday-morning meeting: Greek Taverna in the Old Post Office Pavilion.

Built in 1899, the pavilion's twelve-story tower had once made it Washington's tallest government building and first skyscraper. Its conversion to a shopping mall in 1978 helped to revitalize Pennsylvania Avenue between the Capitol and the White House, to the point that the shopping mall--with Abercrombie, Victoria's Secret, and Limited Too--was nearly as popular among tourists as the National Mall, no slight to Washington, Jefferson, and the Lincoln Memorial. The doors opened at 10:00 A . M
., and by ten thirty the place was bustling with shoppers, diners, and people who just wanted to walk around and soak up the confluence of nineteenth-century architecture and twenty-first-century atmosphere. The Greek had chosen the pavilion for one reason only: a highly public place with hundreds of potential witnesses made it that much harder for someone to put a bullet in his head.

The hostess escorted him to a table outside the restaurant in the cafe area. He was still indoors, however, seated beneath the skylight in the mall's three-story atrium. The pavilion had three levels, and from his vantage point he could keep an eye on just about everyone, whether they strolled past the Taverna on the first level or looked down toward him from the upper levels. If the need arose, he could even make a run for it.

The thought triggered a memory, and as his gaze drifted up toward the skylight overhead, he could almost see himself falling from the rooftop to the stone floor below. He shook it off. That was the past. He had been young and stupid back then. He was in control now, not them.

Stay strong, he told himself. You are stronger than ever.

"Will it be just you, sir?" asked the server.

"No," said the Greek. "I'm meeting someone."

The server placed two mugs on the table and filled one with decaffeinated coffee, black. The Greek got a bottle of spring water as well, and when the server was gone, he pulled a sack full of tablets and capsules from his coat pocket. In it was literally everything from A to Z--as in vitamin A to zinc. He laid each supplement on the table in a neat row before him, methodically popped one at a time into his mouth, and washed it down with a sip of water. He'd been mega-dosing vitamins and minerals since his fiftieth birthday. No one knew for sure if it did any good, but it had been about five years since his last bout with the common cold, and the Greek was convinced that the supplements were at least in part responsible for his high stamina, quick reactions, and sharp mind. All were essential for his line of work, though his exact profession was open to some debate.

The Greek was not a hit man. He had never liked the label, never thought it applied to him. Yes, he had killed people. Yes, he had gotten paid to do it. But he was more like a sniper in wartime. His kills were highly personal, but they were essential to the overall mission. The Greek had never "offed" anyone unless it was absolutely essential. Sometimes, the assignments were easy. Most of the bastards on his list had deserved far worse. Other times, however, the jobs were more difficult. On occasion, it was necessary to kill someone you liked.

Maybe even someone you loved.

The Greek noticed a man with a beard, glasses, and a broad
-
rimmed hat coming toward him. He didn't recognize the man, but that seemed to be the point. A Secret Service agent couldn't be seen meeting someone with the Greek's past.

"How are you, Frank?" he said.

Agent Madera took a seat at the cafe table. "Dont use my name, idiot. And let's make this quick."

The Greek had rehearsed his pitch for an hour last night, and if he spoke slowly he could deliver it coolly and with almost no accent. Madera's edginess made him want to slow down even more, just to tweak the bastard.

"I know your boy's in trouble, and I can help."

"You don't know squat."

The Greek smiled thinly. "I know about the e-mail to Jack Swyteck. I know about the one to Chloe Sparks. I know much more than you think."

"Who do you think you're fooling? You know about those e-mails because you're the one who sent them."

"See, you're wrong already. I didn't send them. I sold you the goods on Keyes before the election, and I kept my end of the deal. I have not breathed a word to anyone. It's your secret now, not mine."

"Well, obviously someone else is in on it, too. And they are going to ruin a very good thing if this becomes public knowledge."

The server came by to offer coffee, but Madera waved him off, as if to say that he wasn't staying long.

"Like I told you," the Greek said. "I know who it is. And I can take care of that problem."

"Who is it?"

"Not so fast."

"You are so full of shit," said Madera, and he started to rise.

"Wait!"

The Greek immediately regretted his tone. A little too desperate.

Madera lowered himself back into his chair, intrigued.

"Okay," said the Greek. "I'll tell you who it is. But first we need to strike a deal: I'm the one who takes care of the problem."

"You mean really take care of it?"

The Greek unfolded the cloth napkin at his table and wrapped it around his fist. It was an allusion to his signature--the homemade suppressor, a towel wrapped around the .22-caliber Beretta.

"I mean permanently," he said.

"What's that going to cost us?"

"Five hundred thousand."

Madera scoffed. "You're out of your mind."

"That may sound high. But without me, you can't even identify the threat. Think of it as your half-million-dollar investment in preserving the status quo. I'm throwing in the disposal for free."

Madera considered it, and a decision came quickly. Almost too quickly.

"All right. Who is it?"

"Before I tell you, I want you to understand that I've set up a safety valve. If anything happens to me--even if I just mysteriously disappear--the truth about Keyes is going to be all over the newspapers."

"Who is it?" said Madera, refusing even to acknowledge the threat.

The Greek drew a breath, as if to underscore the difficulty of his position. And it was difficult. In fact, it was the most painful lie he'd ever told. He raised his coffee mug to his lips and spoke over it.

"It's my ex-wife, Sofia."

"You told me she didn't know anything."

"That was two years ago. Things change."

Madera showed no reaction, and the Greek tried to mask his own misgivings. He had gone to Sofia hoping to persuade her to meet with Madera and sell her silence. Over time, he probably could have convinced her to do it. But he didn't have time. Her refusal to help had left him no choice.

Madera said, "You're one lucky bastard. Not many men get paid half a million bucks to eliminate their ex."

"I'm giving you five days to get me the money. I want it wire-transferred to my account in Antigua. Here's the account number," he said, as he slid a business card across the tabletop.

Madera didn't take it.

The Greek nudged it forward. Madera still didn't reach for it. He didn't even look at it.

The Greek met his stare. "You're not going to pay, are you?"

Madera was silent.

The Greek looked past Madera, and he noticed a man standing near the directory in the center of the courtyard. He seemed to be watching them. Instinctively, the Greek's gaze drifted up toward the second level. Another man at the railing seemed to have his eye on them as well. The Greek knew in an instant that these men weren't Secret Service agents.

They were part of Madera's other world.

His pulse quickened, and he suddenly realized that putting Sofia at risk and not getting paid for it were the least of his worries. He had to make a break, but even at the peak of his training, he wasn't sure he could have outrun three, four, or maybe more of them. From behind he heard the whine of an electric engine, and with a quick glance over his shoulder he spotted a mall security guard. He was driving a flatbed golf cart that was rigged to transport the handicapped.

Yes!

The Greek threw the rest of his coffee into Madera's face, leaped to his feet, and grabbed the security guard as he rode past their table. A woman screamed as the guard tumbled to the floor and the Greek jumped behind the steering wheel. He put th e p edal to the metal and brought it to full speed immediately.

The man on the second floor raced down the escalator. Two other men came running from a bagel shop. The Greek knew they weren't going to shoot him in front of all these people, but if they caught him, they'd soon stuff him in the trunk of a car, never to be heard from again. He was a dead man if he didn't get out--now.

He pulled a quick U-turn and sped toward the exit. Shoppers jumped out of the way as he blew past one storefront after another. The security guard and Madera's men gave chase, but the electric cart was fully juiced and fast enough to have been an emergency-response vehicle. The Greek laid on the horn and drove as if he didn't care how many people he mowed down. He rode it all the way to the Pennsylvania Avenue exit, ditched it at the door, and headed for the street at a full sprint on fresh legs. A taxi was at the corner of Twelfth Street. He pushed an old woman aside and stole it from her.

"Hey," said the driver, "that lady was first."

The Greek slammed the door shut and threw his wallet onto the front seat beside the driver.