Capitol Reflections (33 page)
“No way, pal,” she protested. “I don’t need any treatment. Certainly not from you.”
The skinny man took hold of her arm and pushed her down on the edge of the bed. Feeling unsteady, Jan could offer little resistance. With expert dexterity, he looped a rubber tube around her arm and tightened it. The pinprick of the needle entering her bicep was brief. Jan didn’t know who the hell she was dealing with but she knew that, whoever he was, he’d done this before.
“There,” the man said. “You need your rest.”
A warm lethargy spread throughout Jan’s already weakened limbs.
Have to stay awake. Can’t lose consciousness again.
The cell grew hazy. An aura was forming around the lightbulb above Jan’s head. Jan couldn’t help but give in to the pleasant sensation taking hold of her body. Her brain was on the verge of shutting down again when she thought she heard a voice. It was almost inaudible.
“Jan? Are you there, Jan?”
In her final moments of awareness, Jan wondered when Peter Tippett had begun to sound like a noisy mosquito buzzing somewhere at the foot of the bed.
Mark was disoriented. He’d been expecting a scene from Hades, but the forbidden roasting chamber was surprisingly well-lit, though a little on the warm side. Several employees stopped what they were doing to stare at Dieter and the stranger with him. Clearly, they weren’t used to visitors.
“Back to work,” Tassin ordered.
The workers did what they were told, but continued to sneak glances when they dared.
“I take it that you’ve been told the basics of the roasting process,” Tassin said. “A part of Hamlin’s standard tour.”
Mark nodded slowly. Tassin’s voice was more genial now. He almost sounded like he thought of Mark as an invited guest. Tassin had an assistant pull out a tray of beans from a roasting machine that was as big as a bedroom in an average American home.
“Behold the precious second crack,” he proclaimed. He arched his body so that his nose was only inches away from the hot beans. When he brought his right hand up, palm open, the odor of the darkened beans wafted up into his nostrils. Smiling, he said, “A thing of beauty, wouldn’t you say, Mr. Stern?”
“Sure,” said Mark guardedly. “Smells fine.”
“More than fine, I assure you, young man.”
Tassin showed Mark twelve more roasting machines. Mark did not think he could stand a thirteenth. Smiling, Tassin chose that moment to lean over and whisper a few brief words into Mark’s ear.
Mark went pale. “I want to go now,” he said. He intended his voice to sound demanding, but the croak that came out would not have moved a frog.
“Of course you do,” said Tassin. “You know the way out. I hope you’ve enjoyed our time together.”
Mark turned and started to walk in what he assumed was the right direction. He hadn’t felt this numb since his last dentist appointment. He stumbled and looked down. Pausing, he knelt to undo and retie the lace of his right work boot. Suddenly everything snapped back into focus. An inch from his right foot sat one lone coffee bean. Acting as naturally as he could, he palmed the bean, tied his shoe, and continued what felt like the longest journey of his life.
Outside the door, he pocketed the bean.
He left quickly.
When Mark returned to his hotel, he immediately threw his clothes into his suitcase. Tomorrow, he’d call Billy Hamlin and inform him that the paper had summoned him home to start work on an important story.
42
Roberta Chang drove to the Mid-Atlantic Credit Union. Henry would no doubt be throwing another fit about her absence, but that was a short-term problem. She knew the senator was dissatisfied with her performance of late and she knew it was just a matter of time before he suggested she seek employment elsewhere. Roberta had no intention of waiting until then; she’d already contacted a prominent congressman about joining his staff.
She eased her Lexus into the parking lot of the credit union and stopped beneath a row of towering pines that, in her estimation, made Virginia one of the most beautiful states in the country. Feeling more relaxed than she had in months, she took the sealed manila envelope lying on the leather passenger seat, exited the vehicle, and entered Mid-Atlantic.
Inside, her business took no more than ten minutes. She was ushered to the back, where an attendant brought her a safe deposit box. She unlocked it, dropped in the manila envelope, and left.
“You roll the dice and you take your chances,” she said to herself, walking back to her car. “Let the chips fall where they may.”
Dr. Edward Karn pulled his fuel-efficient Prius into the parking lot of the Mid-Atlantic Credit Union. He walked through the glass double doors and asked for the safe deposit boxes. An employee checked the box registration card and saw Karn’s name listed for box 5728964 right beneath Roberta Chang’s signature. After that, she left him in private.
Karn had been surprised to get Chang’s phone call telling him she had photographs for him to view, and even more surprised to learn that she wanted to open a safe deposit box with him. She didn’t say exactly what he’d be viewing, just that the photographs might be of some help in “rehabilitating his image.”
Did he have reason to trust the chief aide of Senator Henry Broome, the man who had humiliated him in front of America? No, but if Broome were going to try to take him down another notch, he wanted to know about it. He also knew that political alliances were as changeable as the wind in Washington, and he was very curious to see what the materials would manifest.
Karn slipped the key into the lock and opened the lid. With a sharp intake of breath, he shook his head as if to clear his vision. This time, he opened the lid the rest of the way and felt all the way to the back. One last shake revealed what he already knew.
The sealed manila envelope Chang had promised him was nowhere to be found.
Op One sat alone, drinking a cup of coffee. Things were going smoothly.
Menefee and Tippett were out of the equation. Jack Maulder was in an intensive care unit thanks to a happy twist of fate, and authorities discovered Roberta Chang’s lifeless body two hours ago, sprawled on the floor of her apartment. Thanks to Tabula Rasa, D.C. cops found an empty bottle of sleeping pills and a typed suicide note on Chang’s kitchen table. The note described how she suffered from a deep depression for more than two years that had steadily gotten worse. The stress of her job, the recent death of her mother—it had all been overwhelming.
“Farewell, cruel world,” said Op One mockingly as he looked through the contents of the manila envelope.
43
Mark practically ran through the concourse of Washington’s Reagan National Airport after deplaning. He hurried outside and slipped into the back door of the first cab in the pick-up and drop-off lane. He needed to find Gwen—and fast. He called the FDA to learn that she was on temporary leave. He knew that didn’t bode well.
Nor did the fact that someone was following him. He spotted an operative with shaggy hair—the man looked like a refugee from the sixties—three different times while in Seattle and again moments earlier at Reagan National.
He ordered the cabbie to head for the Maulders’ address in Garrett Park.
As ragged as Gwen looked as she opened the front door, Mark said a quick prayer of thanks that she was still in one piece. Clearly, things had happened to her in his absence.
“Throw some clothes together and gather any documents, floppies, or CDs you have pertaining to the investigation. I’ve been followed, and I’m guessing this house is under periodic surveillance or will be shortly.”
“There’s something I need to tell you, Mark. It’s about—”
“Save it for later,” Mark said urgently. “We don’t have a lot of time.”
Gwen looked ready to collapse, but gathered her wits and ascended the staircase. She reappeared ten minutes later with an overnight case, a laptop, and a leather bag.
“Let’s haul ass,” Mark said. “There’s a taxi in the driveway. The meter’s running, and I paid the driver an extra hundred bucks to wait for us.”
“You’re scaring me, Mark.”
“There’s good reason to be scared, Gwen.”
They left the house and climbed into the taxi. Mark gave the driver an address and told him there was an extra fifty dollars in the fare if he would use a heavy foot and take as many detours as possible.
“You got it, mister. For money, I don’t ask questions—I just drive. My wife says I don’t bring home enough dough. Always nagging, that one. Just the other night, she says, ‘Dick, you … ’”
Mark and Gwen faced each other, tuning out the droning cabbie and his marital woes.
“Jack’s had a seizure, and there’s some paralysis,” Gwen said abruptly. “Can we run by the hospital?”
Mark shook his head. “Sorry, Gwen. It’s too dangerous, but tell me what happened.”
Gwen told Mark that Jack collapsed at a Pequod’s and that he had been fighting hard to recover. She also told him that Jack had been investigating tobacco as a cause of the seizures.
“I’m sorry, Gwen. Really. You must be sick with worry. We have a lot of work to do—crucial work, if Jack was on to anything. I’ll make a call later and get a friend to check up on him. Meanwhile, we’re going someplace where we can lay out everything we’ve got so far and see if we can piece this mess together.”
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