Terror in D.C. (10 page)

“What do you mean, ‘It can't be'?”

“Because it can't be the Iraqi Embassy, that's why.”

Feeling a sinking feeling in his stomach, Hawker sank lower into the tub. “That's what the guy told me, Lester. He told me he was fighting for the freedom of the Iraqi people.”

“The freedom of the Iraqi people, huh?”

“Yeah. The guy had a real way with words.”

“Are you sure he wasn't lying?”

“How in the hell could I be sure of that? Do I look like a mind reader to you? Anyway, why are you so sure these bastards aren't working out of the Iraqi Embassy?”

“Because we've had all the Mideastern embassies watched. Last night the terrorists were traveling in a stolen truck they had painted like a laundry delivery truck. And no such truck entered or exited the Iraqi Embassy.”

“Yeah? At what embassy was it seen?”

“At no embassy. There were no suspicious comings or goings from any of the embassies last night or the night before that. Of course, there are thousands of embassy employees in this town. They could be working out of a private residence. We can't watch them all.”

“I'm starting to feel frustrated, Lester. And when I get frustrated, I get mad.”

“Maybe you're spending too much time looking through that telescope of yours. By the way, how was that asteroid shower you were supposedly tracking?”

Sitting in the Jacuzzi, James Hawker remembered how he had driven safely away from the block where he had confronted the terrorists. He had returned to the park and set up his telescope once again. Then he inserted the low-power eyepiece and focused on the area of dark sky just above the trees to the west. At 4:30
A.M.
the rim of sky turned a brilliant pulsating white, then orange, then yellow. The rumble that followed shook the earth and made the leaves of the trees rustle.

“The asteroid shower,” said Hawker, “was well worth the wait. It was great.”

“Yeah? Well, you're among the very few who thinks so. I hate to say it, James-boy, but not everyone appreciates what you did last night.”

Hawker sat up stiffly in the whirlpool.
“What?”

“You heard me. You committed the unpardonable crime of making sure the hostages lived. All of them—the woman, both children, and the husband too—”

“The husband? Hey, that's good news. He's going to make it, huh?”

“Looks like it. He's in intensive care in guarded condition, but the prognosis is positive. But that's not the point, Hawk. The point is, all four of those people saw you. The whole family can identify you. It's not … healthy—for any of us.”

“What the hell did you want me to do? Waste the terrorists
and
the hostages?”

“Jesus, Hawk, don't get mad at me! I'm just saying that the cops know there was an outsider involved. They know someone wasted the terrorists, and they know someone saved the hostages. It's natural for the world to want to know who. Did you see the front page of
The Washington Post?”

“I subscribed to the
Post
once—but I canceled the subscription when the puppy got old enough to go outside.”

“Cute. But listen to the banner headline on page one of the afternoon edition. ‘Bombers Foiled By Blond-haired Vigilante.' How's that for accuracy?”

“Jesus, I told the lady not to mention that I helped. Why would she do such a thing?”

“Probably figures you're the Lone Ranger type—you know, too shy to accept the praise you so richly deserve.”

“Damn it, I made her promise.”

“The woman was half crazy with fear and shock, Hawk. You can't hold her to any promises. Anyway, she or the
Post
got your hair color wrong.”

“I'll give you odds on the
Post.”

Rehfuss chuckled. “She told the reporter that seeing you come through her window was like seeing John Wayne arrive.”

“The Duke would roll over in his grave.”

“Yeah, you're right about that. On their op/ed radio show an hour or so ago, they got one of their ladies to hammer out an editorial on the dangers of vigilante action. She called you a murderer and a Nazi. She said you were more dangerous than the people doing the bombing.”

“Good old
Washington Post
—ever the stronghold of limousine liberals and socialist assholes. Does anyone take those people seriously?”

“Yeah—their parents out on Martha's Vineyard and Long Island. I hear they make the maids keep scrapbooks.”

Hawker laughed sourly. “So tell me, oh, wise government agent, if the Iraqis are not behind the bombing, who is?”

“That's another reason the police are mad at the mysterious Mister X—you didn't let them take any of the terrorists alive. How in the hell you freed those hostages, killed all the bombers, and still escaped without getting nabbed by the cops is one hell of a trick. And you'd better be glad you pulled it off. Talk is, they think they could have gotten some information if one of the camel jockeys had lived. Did any of them live, Hawk?”

“Yeah, they're singing and dancing right now with some guy named Mohammed, merchant of Mecca.”

“Does that mean you killed them all?”

“It does.”

“How many were there? I know they found two corpses out behind the house, but after that explosion—”

“There were five of them in all. I took the last three to a brushy area, tied them together, then taped the bombs to them. I guess they sat there for about twenty minutes before the bombs finally went off—an unpleasant wait, I'd think.”

Rehfuss whistled softly. “Jesus, you are a
cold
bastard, aren't you? I guess that explains reports of human appendages raining down on the nation's capital.”

“Justice is a rare commodity, Lester. I think what they got was just. What about the two corpses I left behind? Did you get any make on them?”

“Nope. Not yet. The Washington P.D. is a good bunch, and if they don't have any luck, they'll turn it over to the FBI. If those boys can't place the fingerprints, it means the dearly departed not only entered this country illegally, but they probably wore gloves the whole time they were here.”

“I hope they hurry. I have the feeling those five weren't acting alone. And whoever is behind it isn't going to be happy about losing a whole crew. I think they'll plan another bombing real soon.”

“So what's your next move, Hawk?”

“I have to get some scribbling on an appointment calendar translated.”

“What language?”

“Arabic, I think.”

“I can have that done for you. Can you drop it off at the complex gatehouse?”

“Sure. I'm going downtown to the Capitol Building anyway. I can stop on the way.”

“The Capitol? I can't picture you taking one of those guided tours.”

“I'm not. I've got an appointment with Senator Thy Estes.”

“Senator Estes!” Rehfuss gave a bawdy whistle. “Consider yourself among the lucky few, Hawk. A lot of very wealthy, very important men would like to have a private appointment with that lady.”

“She's pretty?”

“The word ‘pretty' doesn't cover it. She's got that weird magnetism … I don't know what it is or what you would call it, but it makes her attractive and desirable as hell. I'm not the only one who has noticed it. Hell, she's no spring chicken. She must be in her mid-forties, but she's got that bright red hair, and that body—but you don't need to hear any more. You'll see for yourself. But remember, she's a married lady.”

“The Senator's First Gentleman, huh?”

“Not exactly. Her husband is one of the biggest assholes in D.C.—a real estate baron who has a reputation for being a twenty-four-hour drunk. The really mean gossip has it that he likes to play weird games with male hookers when the mood is upon him. But the senator is a straight arrow, a really great lady who deserves a hell of a lot better.”

“I just want to see if she knows any more about her sister's family getting blown up. I could care less about the honorable senator's marriage history or what she looks like.”

“Okay, okay—I was just trying to fill you in.”

“I appreciate it, ole friend, and I've got one more question.”

“Yeah?”

“You know anything about a man called Isfahan?”

There was a short silence on the other end of the phone. “Doesn't ring a bell, but I can sure check around. Where did you hear it?”

“From the terrorists—just before I cast their fates to the wind.”

“You
are
a cold bastard.”

“Yeah, but I'm lovable. Talk to you later, Lester—”

“Wait a minute, Hawk.”

“Yeah?”

“Well … I just wanted to tell you that not everyone thinks you screwed up last night. I, for one, think you did a hell of a job. Admiral Percival agrees. He told me to give you his compliments.”

“Lester?”

“Yes?”

“Tell him I'd prefer the half-million dollars.”

fourteen

James Hawker had entered the Capitol Building by the west portico after first standing on the steps near the crypt, reviewing in silence the Statue of Freedom perched atop the building's bright white cupola.

Then he made his way down the marble halls of the north wing, the Senate side of the Capitol, along the line of open doors. Most of the senators weren't in their offices. But their secretaries were. Hawker took an informal survey as he walked. He saw more than two dozen secretaries between the rotunda and Thy Estes's office. All of them were very pretty. Most of them were brunettes or blondes. They looked up and smiled as Hawker
clickity-clacked
by. They were firm-breasted, sleek, stylish, and had bodies that squeezed at the heart.

Hawker had seen these women before on his few previous trips to Washington, and though the faces changed, the personality type did not. These were the power groupies, the best of the large female herd attracted to D.C. by the allure of association with the men who held the reins of history. They came in many guises, in many roles. In the 1960s they had come as peace advocates or freedom marchers. Now the favorite facade was that of the “modern” woman, an independent business person who demanded respect and equality. But whatever the current social costume happened to be, the goals of the power groupies remained always the same: do anything they had to do to find some niche in the power structure, then hang on to that little crevice of importance by whatever means necessary.

The standard vehicle was, of course, sex. As a result, the prettiest of the power groupies usually prevailed. The rest either meshed into the Washington treadmill of lesser jobs, or they went home with the hopes of marrying a member of the hometown power structure. Some, no doubt, succeeded at neither, and these girls were to be found beneath the streetlamps in the bowels of the city.

In truth the jobs of the successful and unsuccessful did not differ all that much.

Hawker's appointment with Senator Thy Estes was scheduled to last twenty minutes. It was on her secretary's agenda: “James Hawker, friend of J. M. Hayes: 5:10
P.M.
to 5:30.”

It was to have been the senator's last appointment of the day, a courtesy call that demanded her to do nothing more than shake hands and smile.

As it turned out, though, she and Hawker were still talking when the senator's brass and maple grandmother clock gonged seven times.

Her secretary had long gone, as had most of the other workers in the north wing of the Capitol Building.

To Hawker it seemed like they had just started talking. As in the film musicals of old, time flew by. Lester Rehfuss was right. The woman had a weird magnetism. It had nothing to do with her looks—although she was attractive enough. She was a solid-looking woman in her early forties, two inches under six feet, with good shoulders, long runner's legs, firm globes of buttocks beneath the gray tweed skirt suit she wore. Her heavy breasts, like well-formed melons, strained against her prim white blouse. She had glistening mahogany hair that she wore up in a matronly bun, and Hawker guessed it added a year or two to her looks. But her face had a sly, ripe handsomeness, a polished-wood sort of beauty, like Maureen O'Hara, and there was something in her jade-green eyes that glimmered with challenge—something untouchable, unknowable, but exciting. It was with her eyes that she seemed to communicate most effectively. Her lips formed sentences: sometimes interesting, sometimes funny, always articulate. But her eyes spoke of intimacy: an intellectual intimacy that was sometimes underscored by the suggestion of a warmer, more physical variety of closeness.

As Hawker sat talking to her, he tried to sort it out on some deeper level.

It wasn't easy to understand. Within five minutes of meeting the woman she had made him feel like the wisest, funniest, most important man in her life. Her intense interest in his every word took Hawker aback at first. But then he realized that she was one of the very few people who had the energy or the ability to make people feel instantly good about themselves, immediately of greater worth than allotted them by the drab world outside. Hawker understood that it was exactly for this reason that she was a United States senator. People who met her felt the magnetism; they felt her intense interest in them; they trusted her and they damn well voted for her.

It was with a slight twinge of jealousy that the vigilante realized that
all
men who had sat across the desk from her felt as she had made him feel. And it irritated him that he would react emotionally to a political technique. She was just a woman, damn it, just another politician. She was married besides, and even if she wasn't, it would be unlikely that a female U.S. senator would allow herself to get romantically involved with a man who wasn't part of the power structure and, worse, refused to be a cog in anyone's machine.