The American (36 page)

“Excuse me, sir. Sir…?”

The man looked up, a notebook in his hand, wearing a big, friendly smile beneath the heavy beard. “Yes?”

Howson caught the accent right off the bat. “Is this your vehicle?”

“Yes, it is mine.”

Howson studied him carefully. In his pocket he had the same sheet of paper that had been distributed to the Secret Service agents at the marina, and he had taken the time to look at it back in the station. This man didn't really resemble any of the superimposed photographs, although the general shape of the face
was
about right…

But that was true for at least 30 percent of the population, and the hair was all wrong. On top of that, the subject's eyes were reportedly a vivid shade of green, and Howson was staring into flat brown eyes the color of oak. Not to mention the fact that the man was clearly French.

Still, just to be safe: “Do you have some identification, sir?”

The man hurried to comply, pulling his passport out of his heavy coat. “Of course, of course. Right here,
monsieur
.”

Howson accepted the burgundy booklet and peered at the cover:
Communauté Européenne
, and beneath that,
République Française
. Inside, all the requisite information for one Claude Bidault and what appeared to be a U.S. entry stamp, although he wasn't exactly sure what that was supposed to look like. Howson had never left the country, nor had he ever suffered from a burning desire to do so.

Satisfied, he handed the passport back to the man, who didn't seem at all bothered by the officer's inquiries.

“What is all this…activity? This is not usual, yes?”

“Actually, sir, your president is in town to meet with ours. I'm surprised you haven't heard about it.”

“Ah…” The man beamed as though suddenly recalling that little fact, but the light of epiphany never reached his eyes. “That is correct. A big meeting,
n'est-ce pas
?”

The young police officer had to smile in response. “Yes, that's right.” He moved closer to the van, taking the time to look through the back windows. Electrical equipment. A lot of it. “You're an electrician, sir?”

The man nodded enthusiastically. “
Oui.
I am with the big project on M Street. There is a new restaurant they are building there. Work is not so easy to find in Paris, you know. So I come here to work, and send the money back to my sister. She looks after my little ones.”

“Your wife?”

Howson watched a look of pain cross the man's grizzled features. “She…How do you say? Passed away? When giving birth to my girl, my little Mirabelle. Four years ago next week.”

“Oh.” Howson could have kicked himself.
Better to shut your mouth now,
a little voice told him,
before you do any more damage.
“Well, sir, thanks for your time. You have a good afternoon, okay?”

The smile reappeared.
“Merci, monsieur. Et vous aussi.”

The police officer watched as the man closed the passenger-side door, then walked back toward the stairs leading up to the hotel's main entrance. Howson hadn't seen him emerge in the first place, but now he looked up at the building's facade and frowned. The Marriott in this part of town was at least 180 dollars a night. Why would a construction company, even for a major project, pay that kind of money to put up an independent contractor? It didn't make any sense, and the thought lingered on the edge of his mind as he resumed his task.

The concern remained, though it was soon overshadowed by what seemed like a distant memory of a heated building and a full pot of hot coffee. The convergence of these two trains of thought left little room for anything else, and Howson failed to realize that he had not called in the plates on the Frenchman's Econoline van.

 

She had never bothered asking Harrison for one of his agents, instead settling for the use of one of the vehicles in the staging area. As a result, Naomi Kharmai, midlevel analyst in the CIA's Counter-terrorism Center, had no more authority in northern Virginia than that of a private citizen.

She was in the restroom of a gas station directly opposite Milbery Realty. Looking in the mirror, she saw a woman who might have just emerged from a car wreck, except that she would have looked much better had that been the case. Her borrowed blue cargo pants were torn and dirty from lying in the field for hours on end, and the pullover was noticeably singed in several places. Her hair was matted and dirty, and the clothes she wore were thoroughly damp with melted snow. Her nose was totally stuffed up because she had a cold coming on, but she guessed that she probably didn't smell that great either.

Worst of all were her eyes. They reflected what she had recently seen, made her look scared when she needed to be confident and assertive, at least for the next few hours. Then she would be free to have her breakdown, which she was actually beginning to look forward to. After several minutes of scrubbing and adjusting, she emerged from the restroom looking just marginally better. She purchased two large cups of coffee from the attendant and tried to avoid his curious gaze.

She left the car where it was and crossed the street, simultaneously glancing at her watch. It was almost 11:30, much later than she would have liked for this conversation to occur, but tracking down Lindsay Hargrove had proven to be an incredibly time-consuming task. Naomi had finally managed to get hold of Hargrove's sister in Clarksburg, West Virginia, where Lindsay had apparently been staying for the week. She was now heading back to Virginia, and unfortunately didn't carry a cell phone. The sister
had
informed Naomi, however, that Lindsay fully intended to stop by the office on her way home.

And that was why she was here. The woman she wanted to talk to was a long shot for additional information, but better than nothing at all. Hargrove, whose name had been on the Missing Persons Report faxed to the TTIC, had seemed like a better bet than the realtor's husband, who wouldn't have had any reason to meet his wife's clients. Hargrove, on the other hand, had been working for Nicole Milbery for the past four years. Naomi was guessing that the woman might know more than she thought she did, despite the fact that she had already talked to the sheriff's office. At this point, all Naomi could do was hope that they might have been asking the wrong questions.

Once she was outside the office, she didn't have to wait long before a white Nissan Altima pulled into one of the empty spaces in front of the building, and an elderly woman hopped out with surprising agility. Hargrove's smile quickly faded to concern when she saw the state of the woman standing before her. “My God,” she said, with genuine alarm. “What happened to
you
, hon?”

 

Kharmai studied her as she unlocked the door and they moved inside. Hargrove was a plump woman in her late sixties, with a pleasant demeanor and healthy skin that belied her age. Naomi liked her immediately, and saw no reason to lie. “My name is Naomi Kharmai, Mrs. Hargrove. I was on Chamberlayne Road this morning.”

The older woman's eyes went wide as she took a seat and offered one to her visitor. Hargrove gratefully accepted a cup of coffee and didn't question who Naomi was, or how she knew her name. “That raid that was all over television? You were there?”

Naomi nodded. “Unfortunately.”

“It was the only thing on the news…Are they any closer to finding Nicole?” she asked hopefully.

Naomi didn't have the heart to tell her that Milbery's body had already been found in a shallow grave on the property, along with a red Ford Escape that had been driven deep into the undergrowth and strategically covered with mud and fallen tree limbs. That piece of information had yet to make its way into the local news, and it wouldn't help matters to share it now. “They haven't found anything yet, Mrs. Hargrove, but they're still looking.”

The older woman's faded blue eyes began to mist over. “She's such a good girl…I hope she's okay. I just don't understand it. Usually, I'm pretty good at reading people, but that man really fooled me, I don't mind telling you. He must be the devil himself.”

“The one who leased the property?” Naomi asked. Hargrove nodded in agreement, but Naomi was confused. “Wait…How did you know that's why I'm here?”

“My son-in-law is a state trooper,” Hargrove explained. There was a touch of pride in her eyes. “I asked him to keep me up-to-date, so he called me when your department asked for additional information.”

Naomi frowned inwardly at the VSP's lack of discretion, but told herself to let it go for the moment. “Could you tell me exactly what happened, Mrs. Hargrove?”

The older woman shifted her weight in the seat and nodded enthusiastically. “We were pretty slow on the day he came in. Nicole whisked him right into her office. She didn't say anything specific, but I saw that look in her eye…You know that woozy look a young woman gets when she sees a diamond necklace or a pair of shoes she really wants?”

Naomi couldn't help but smile at the analogy. “I've probably had it myself, more than once,” she offered.

Hargrove shot her a knowing smile in turn. “I'm sure you have, hon. Anyway, that was the look that Nicole had. I knew what she was thinking, too, and her a married woman…Well, that's another story.”

“And this man went directly into her office? He didn't say anything to you at all?”

“Oh, no,” Hargrove said, taking a small sip of her coffee. “He was very nice and all, charming too, but he only said hello to me. I think he was just as interested in Nicole as she was in him.”

“How long did he stay?”

“Not long at all. They were in there for…maybe ten minutes. Then they came out and drove off in Nicole's SUV.”

“Together?”

“Yep.” The older woman smiled at the scandal of it.

“How did he arrive in the first place?” Naomi asked. “You have some big windows in the front here. You didn't see him pull up?”

Hargrove was already shaking her head. “No, I didn't see anything at all. I already told that to the police.”

“Are you sure, Mrs. Hargrove? This is really important.”

“I'm completely sure. Besides, he told me he didn't have a vehicle.”

Naomi looked up, suddenly interested. “I thought you said he didn't talk to you.”

The older woman frowned. “Well, not coming in, he didn't…”

Naomi tried to be patient. “And?”

“Well, on the way out he mentioned that he didn't have a vehicle, but was in the market for one. So I asked him what he was looking for, and he said that he wanted a van.”

“And what did you tell him?” Kharmai felt something stir in her chest, recognized it as excitement.

Hargrove looked embarrassed. “Well, you see, I have a brother who lives down by Rivers Bend. He quit workin' recently, so I knew he needed some extra money. And even though he's pretty worthless, he's still my brother, so I gave the man Walter's number.”

“Walter's your brother?”

“Unfortunately.”

“And he has a van?”

“Yep. It's a big one, too. He used it on all his jobs. He was an electrician for twenty years. Not a very good one, mind you.”

Naomi was confused about something. “Why didn't you tell the police all of this?”

The older woman shrugged. She was a little nervous, trying to figure out if she was in trouble or not. “Well, I didn't see how it would help them find Nicole, for one thing.”

Naomi had to admit that she had a point there. Up until about twelve hours ago, this had been a routine missing persons investigation, and there had been no reason to suspect one of Milbery's clients. “And the other reason?”

“He said that it wasn't what he was looking for. He didn't
want
a big, commercial van…too much on gas, he said. He just wanted something to run around to distributors in Richmond. I guess he was some type of salesman, but I'm not really sure.”

She thought about that for a second. “How often do you talk to your brother?”

Lindsay Hargrove shrugged her shoulders once again. “Not all that often. Like I said, he's kind of no-good. I don't get nothin' outta talkin' to him. In fact, it usually ends up
costin
' me something.”

“Did you ever find out if he sold the van?”

A third shrug. “I called him that day to tell him about it, but he didn't say ‘Thanks for tryin' or anything like that, so I've been givin' him the cold shoulder ever since. Why?”

“No reason. What kind of van does your brother have, Mrs. Hargrove? Specifically, I mean.”

“I can't be sure, hon, but I think it's a Ford. A white Ford, and really big.”

“What about the outside? Anything unusual about it…?”