Retribution (17 page)

He gasped, then mumbled a string words, scarcely intelligible except for one:

“Sadik?”

The sticky blood quickly covered Parker's hands as he dragged the limp body out into the street. It was all done in near silence. A man lost his life while others slept nearby.

Parker looked around and pulled the body across the street to the lot. It was fortunate that it was the beginning of winter, as not even the children played in the gardens in the late fall. A body could remain hidden there for several days, possibly a week. Parker didn't need nearly that much time. He pulled the dead weight into a hole next to the compost pile. In preparation for winter the gardener had dug it so deep that a man could stand in it up to one's knees. The trench had been dug so as to aerate the plot. It became the perfect grave. He quickly covered the man with the remaining leaves and dirt, leaving the pistol lying on his chest. When discovered with the Russian pistol, the first assumption would be a bad drug deal with the Russian mafia. As no one would miss Knez, the investigation would take much more time than Parker needed.

He cut back across the street, seeing no sign of life anywhere. The front door was not damaged to the degree he thought. It could easily be repaired in the morning.

“I need a bucket.”

Zdravo was already at the top of the stairs with a pail of water. It was as if she had done this before. “Use this and I will get more.”

He poured the water across the entranceway, diluting the blood, and then down the walk. He handed her the bucket and again she brought another. They repeated the effort until the last remnants of Knez had been washed away.

Parker pulled the door shut and was able to jam the lock partially closed. They didn't need much time. In a day, they would be gone.

Zdravo was still waiting, sitting on the top stair. Her face had that same ashen look of fear.

“Who was he?”

“Knez.” Parker spoke quietly. Despite the death of a man nearby, they tried not to wake the baby.

“Why did he try to kill us?”

“He knew I was not Sadik.”

“Oh. But why now? Why try to kill you now?”

“How did he know I was not Sadik?” Parker asked her, as she slid down into a chair, limp with fear.

“I don't know. I did not even know that he knew my husband.”

“He knew Sadik.” Parker answered the question. More important, he answered the other question. “And he knew I was not Sadik.”

“So why was a member of the Black Swans looking here, now?” She would ask innocent questions because she was innocent.

And then Parker remembered. There was a connection.

“I was being checked out. And I know who wanted me checked out. And I think it was stopped.”

If Knez told others of his suspicions it was not stopped and once Parker stepped into Pakistan he was dead.

There was a connection between this dead man and the Chechen.

CHAPTER 28

 

B
illie Cook waddled down the hallway with one hand holding a medical chart and the other her morning Starbucks. The waddle came from an old herniated disc, exacerbated years ago when she tried to stop a patient who fell out of bed without the bed rails up. He'd landed on her, and the rest was history. Like it or not, the odd walk had become her trademark. Fortunately, Billie wasn't the type to care about that sort of thing. From a small town in Texas just outside Lubbock, she had gone straight into the Navy's nursing program after graduating from Texas Tech. Her cropped gray hair, with a little trace of the black hair from years ago, framed her square face and blue eyes. She was from the plains of Texas, spoke directly, and remained a standout intensive-care nurse at Bethesda Naval Hospital.

“Has Reynolds come through yet?” She was talking to the night shift nurse about Dr. Anne Reynolds. The clock showed 6:45
A.M
., and Billie was getting ready to go onto the day shift.

“No, not yet.”

“I could have killed that little bitch yesterday.”

“Don't get your blood pressure up. It isn't worth it.” The desk nurse on the night shift was even older than Billie and had tolerated any number of neurosurgeons during her career at Bethesda.

“She made that young Marine's mother wait two hours. Told her later she was tied up.”

“Yeah?”

“She was at lunch.”

“Billie, that's not so bad.”

“She's a good surgeon, but I am still trying to get her broken in right.”

Billie took a sip of her hot coffee as she opened up the chart.

“I swear, if she doesn't wake up, I'll make life miserable for her.” Reynolds was brilliant in the operating room, but she still needed compassion. Billie was determined to teach her that which was not in a text book. Billie Cook didn't tolerate a physician who didn't take to her training. Not on her floor. Wolfforth, Texas, produced two things: Billie Cook and rattlesnakes. The snakes were more famous, but anyone who knew Billie could attest as to which had the sharper bite.

“How's our gal doing?”

Billie was talking about only one patient. Maggie O'Donald hadn't been there long but had already won Billie over. The two had nothing in common. Maggie was from California and exceptionally beautiful. Billie Cook was exceptional only in one thing, being a nurse. But Billie knew Maggie's world had changed, permanently.

“Not much better.”

“Are the NICoE people going to do their testing today?” Cook was referring to the new traumatic brain-injury team. With the invention of the IED and nearly a decade of traumatic head injuries, the military had little choice but to accelerate its research into the treatment of head injuries. Now that it existed, the National Intrepid Center for Excellence, like the military's burn center, would quickly become
the
place to go for head-injury patients.

“Yeah.”

“You know, I think she's gonna make it.” Billie rarely said that about a severely injured patient, but she had a certain pride in her ability to call it. Most of the time, the call was that the young man would not make it through the night, or the week, or even the month. But when she gave the gold seal that someone was “going to make it,” she never had been wrong.

“Let me go check on her.” Billie took another sip of her Starbucks and tucked the chart underneath her arm. Her stethoscope bounced around her neck as she waddled down the hallway.

The curtains nearly blacked out the room. Billie pulled them back, letting the bright light of a fall day wake up her patient. Maggie was in a ball, sleeping on her side; where her lower legs should have been the bed's blanket lay flat.

“Robert, is that you?”

“No, honey, it's Billie. How are you doing?”

“Okay, Billie.” The inflection of her voice did not indicate that she recognized who Billie was.

“Good.”

“I can't meet him at the London flat.”

“It's okay.” Billie really didn't want Maggie to say more. “Just rest.”

“Tell Robert it's down to five.”

“Sure, sure, I'll tell him.”

“The prince needs only five votes. Salman and Mutaib will oppose him.”

Billie checked her pulse. Much slower than normal.

“Five votes, I understand.”

“It's important, Billie. Salman and Mutaib need to be removed.”

Maggie's pupils were sluggish as Billie flashed a light toward them. It was as if Maggie were falling into a deep stupor.

“Yes, very important.” Billie didn't want to agitate her too much.

“No, you have to tell him. The secretary needs only five votes. Time is running out. If he doesn't get the five votes . . .” Maggie's voice trailed away as she spoke.

“I'll tell him. Get some more rest for now.” Billie pulled the curtains closed and checked the bed rails to make sure that they were locked in place. The IV had just been changed at the turn of the shift. “I'll check on you a little later.”

“Billie, you will tell him. Five votes? The secretary needs only five.”

“Sure.”

Billie walked out of the room, tossing the last of the Starbucks into the trash can. The chart was clear on what she needed to do next, and Billie knew it.

“Hey, guys, cover me for a few minutes.”

“Sure.” The day clerk looked up from the computer screen at Billie, who continued to walk by.

“I need a cigarette.” Billie Cook thought she had broken the habit several times. And then she had another day like today. She had only been on shift a total of twenty minutes and already she needed a cigarette.

As she walked down the hall to the stairs, Billie looked at the chart again. She reread the words typed and highlighted in bright, bold yellow. It made her sick. Billie Cook was on that floor for one reason beyond being an excellent nurse. She had an eidetic memory. She could repeat anything that anyone said once, exactly. She was a combat veteran, having made two trips to Iraq, and had a top-secret clearance. As the daughter of an Army command sergeant major, she'd known since childhood how to follow orders. And she knew perfectly well what the chart's words meant.

All conversations reported immediately.
Maggie's chart listed a telephone number below.

 

 

It wasn't later than 7:45 that morning before the transcribed conversation reached Robert Tranthan's office. His young communications assistant was waiting the moment Tranthan arrived at work.

“What do you have?” Tranthan sensed the communications officer hadn't been at the Agency long. He appeared to be some young kid, probably just out of Penn State or Michigan, exceptionally smart but exceptionally poor. The days of the nation's young elite signing up for the CIA were long gone.

“Sir, you were to get any of these communications as soon as they came in.” The clerk held up a red-jacketed folder, sealed on the end with a TS/SCI sticker and the signature of the communications chief across it.

“Okay, thanks.”

Tranthan didn't bother to ask what was in the folder. The messenger would not have known. He signed for the envelope and carried it past his secretary.

“Morning.”

“You have a videoconference at eleven.”

Laura did her job well. Years ago, Tranthan had interviewed several experienced assistants from the pool before selecting her. She had one asset that he had picked up on immediately, and which he'd appreciated ever since: She could keep her mouth shut.

“Thanks, Laura Lou.” He had given her that nickname.

Tranthan closed the door behind him, thanking his lucky stars again for Laura. Not only could she keep a secret, but she also made sure that a cup of coffee and pack of Marlboros were both waiting for him each morning. He lit a cigarette and took a sip of the coffee. Black as tar. The only way he would drink it. Several years in the Pentagon's operation centers on the night shift had gotten him into the bad habit of drinking straight caffeine from glass pots coated with evaporated coffee residue. As he took another sip, he turned the communication over and saw its source. It caused him to stop.

He broke the seal and pulled out a single sheet of paper. He read it and then reread it again.

“What the hell?”

It was deadly on several fronts.

Tranthan picked up his telephone and buzzed Laura.

“Who is working on the computer that was Maggie's?” He had given up a long time ago in trying to disguise his relationship with O'Donald from Laura. It would have been impossible. Nor did he question her loyalty or discretion. But just in case, he'd made it very clear that if he went down, Laura would be back in the secretary pool, and most likely to be assigned to the communications staff that came on at midnight. Laura had a young family and a child in day care. She liked her day job and her boss's flexibility with her schedule. She had agreed to protect him, knowing that they were in this together.

“It's that computer tech,” she said. “Ah . . . George. I think that's his last name.”

“Can you get George up here?”

“Yes, sir.”

Now that he had a clue, maybe Tranthan could finally get somewhere. For one thing had not changed in the days since the bombing in Doha: Robert Tranthan needed to know everything that Maggie knew.

CHAPTER 29

 

E
nrico Hernandez looked at his watch and tried to do the math.

It was still set on Atlanta time.

He was starting to feel it. But he wasn't to stop anywhere. Not until he had finished his mission. The Suburban took him straight from the CDC to Hartsfield and the British Airways flight. At Heathrow, he took the express directly to Paddington Station, where a sizable crowd of people seemed to be headed for work. Most who passed looked different from what Hernandez had thought of as being British. A majority were south Asians, many women wearing brightly colored cottons that stuck out at the hems of their fall overcoats. Lots of the women walked together in groups of two and three, chatting in a language that he didn't understand.

He looked at his watch again.

Hernandez was early, which wasn't bad considering how far he had come. He reached into his pocket and felt a package of spearmint gum that looked perfectly harmless. The early November chill caused him to pull up on the collar of his jacket.

A train slowed as it pulled into the station half full.

He watched as the doors opened and a few women came off. Their body language expressed a sense of fatigue that could only have come from working the night shift somewhere in greater London; now they were headed home.

As the train readied for departure, a voice called out.

“Why don't you get on?”

Hernandez smiled. The tall, lanky, bearded man who stood behind him was the reason he had flown several thousand miles.

“Hey, boss.”

“Let's grab this one.” William Parker talked and moved as if he were only engaging in brief pleasantries with a stranger.

They boarded the last car, destination King's Cross. Hernandez took the seat near the end of the car, while Parker stood nearby, casually looking around. The train passed through Blackhorse Road and then Seven Sisters. They didn't speak. At Finsbury Park station, William waited a moment after the doors opened and then walked out. Enrico hesitated a second and then followed the lead several paces behind. They cut across to another line, taking the train to Holloway Road. Again, Parker exited the train, and again Hernandez waited and then followed.

They worked their way across several trains heading back into the heart of London. Finally, at Green Park, Parker left the station, cut across the street, and entered the park. Once he entered the park, he stopped for Hernandez.

“You didn't need to do this.”

Parker was referring to Hernandez's new baby, only a few months old.

“Hell, sir, that baby cries too much. I needed to get out of there.”

Parker could only smile. “I'm trying to picture you, a staff sergeant, raising a girl.”

Hernandez grinned again. “My wife wasn't too crazy about naming her William.”

“You know what's going to happen about sixteen years from now?”

“Yeah, it won't be pretty.” Hernandez had already considered the thought. “Guess it's my karma.”

“I hope not.”

“You look good with the beard.”

“Thanks. You got something for me?”

“Yes, sir.” He handed Parker the sealed package of gum. A blue pack that held eight pieces in two rows of four blister packs. The package bore both Arabic and English writing, Mamoun Sharawi spearmint. “The third one on the second row.”

“Nice touch on the package.”

“Mr. Scott wanted you to know that was his idea.”

Parker shook his head. “Message received.”

“Oh, and Dr. Stewart wanted me to tell you to not touch it until you were sure you were in the window.”

William slid out the pack to view the perfectly sealed, separate pieces of gum. He pushed one through the seal and stuck it in his mouth.

Hernandez was taken aback by the action.

“Damn!”

“A perfectly sealed pack wouldn't look right.” Parker chewed the gum as they spoke. “Are you going to get your little girl something while you're here?”

“Yes, sir. At the airport they had some teddy bears that look like they're cops.”

“You mean the bear that looks like a bobby?”

“Yes, sir, that's it. The kind with the hat.”

Hernandez smiled sheepishly, knowing how funny it must sound. Twenty years ago, he wouldn't have dreamed of giving his child anything bearing the image of a cop. Enrico himself had been delivered into this world at California Hospital on South Grand, which made him a homegrown product of south Los Angeles. California Hospital was also where his older brother had died of gunshot wounds. The Marines, and in particular, one Marine colonel, had changed Enrico Hernandez's world. For the first time in his life, someone had put faith into his world. Not just a pat on the back, a life-and-death faith. The type of faith you didn't let down no matter what. This was how William Parker's team was built.

“All right, you have a flight back today?”

“Yes, sir. It leaves in a couple of hours.”

“Wait a couple of minutes and then take a taxi to Paddington. It's not far.”

“Yes, sir. And watch your flanks, sir. This Scott was the same guy we had on North Korea.”

“I know, Staff.”

“And Marine, Semper Fi.”

Parker smiled. “In this case,
Fortius Quo Fidelius
.”

Hernandez gave him a puzzled look.

“Look it up, Staff.” Parker put his fist to his chest.

Hernandez squeezed the collar of his coat tight. The chill cut deep.

He watched as William walked away, hoping that he would see the man again.

Hernandez checked his watch.

He hadn't bothered to reset the time.

This was their first. His wife had never said anything about what he did before, but now with a child she had a different look on her face when he told her he was going.

Hernandez started walking briskly north, toward Piccadilly Arcade, never for a moment noticing the man following him.