The Assassin's List (7 page)

The secretary told him he could go in, and Sayf turned to watch Drake enter his office.

“I have an appointment in a few minutes, I wasn’t expecting anyone. I can give you a few minutes,” he said.

The man was a poor liar.

“Oh, I think you were, or at least your staff was. My name’s Drake. I’m here to find out how you screwed up so badly that my client’s secretary was murdered. Why your expensive security system conveniently malfunctioned.”

“Who are you?” Sayf said, rising from his chair.

“I’m the attorney Martin Research hired. What do I call you, Kaamil or Sayf?” Drake said, looking down at the nameplate on the desk. “I’ve never figured out which name you Muslims prefer to use.”

For a moment, he thought the man was going to dive over the desk at him. Just as quickly, the anger in Sayf’s eyes dimmed. Not as cool as he thinks he is, but he’s controlled, Drake observed.

“I am Muslim, Mr. Drake. You may call me Kaamil. You can disrespect my religion, but be careful when you start blaming my company for that woman’s death. Slander has a hefty price tag.”

“Truth’s a defense. We don’t know what the truth is, do we Kaamil? Have you discovered how the security system went down? Was it turned off? According to Sam Newman at Martin Research, there are only two people with the access code to disable the system. He has the code and so do you.”

Kaamil sat down and leaned back in his chair. His hands were still on the top of his desk, but his eyes were taunting.

“Why would anyone here want to turn off the system? We get paid to make sure it’s functioning. Sometimes systems do fail. But you’re asking the wrong person. Ask Mr. Newman. He has more reasons to disable that system than I do.”

Drake noticed the personalization of the accusation, a subtle deflection from the company to Kaamil, and wondered why.

“If you have reason to think Sam Newman is involved, why haven’t you told anyone? There’s a murder investigation underway, and Martin Research is one of your clients. I’d think you would want to keep your company out of this.”

“If I had something solid for the police, I would provide that information. All I have are rumors. Now, I’ve told you all I’m going to, Mr. Drake. I’m a busy man.”

With that, Kaamil stood, dismissing Drake.

Walking by the secretary, he couldn’t help wondering why Kaamil pointed him to Sam Newman. Had he missed something? And who was Kaamil? The security malfunction may have been just a malfunction, but he was certain there was more to Kaamil and ISIS than anyone knew. They were hiding something. He was sure of it.

When he got to the parking garage, the black Suburban next to his car was gone. One space over was a black Mercedes SLS AMG roadster in the only reserved spot. It had to be Kaamil’s. Powered by the largest V8 Mercedes produced, with a price tag over one hundred eighty thousand dollars, the car fit the arrogance of the man. The salary he earned as a glorified security guard, however, shouldn’t be enough to pay for the SLS.

There was a lot about Kaamil he was uncomfortable with. He also had questions about Sam Newman. It was time to take a closer look at both.

~~~

As soon as he saw Drake’s Porsche leave the parking garage on the building’s secure cam display, Kaamil swore loudly. The attorney didn’t believe him, he could tell. Pointing at Sam Newman would buy a little time but probably wind up biting him in the butt. Newman lived alone, and drank too much. But he had no reason to disable the security system. This time, he’d let Malik make the call. Surely he would see they needed to deal with the attorney. If he didn’t, Kaamil would take care of the problem himself.

He entered Malik’s personal email address on the company’s ultra-secure, encrypted email system, and briefed him on this latest development.

The Martin Research attorney just visited me, asking about the security system I disabled there. He’s suspicious. I told him to take a look at the head of security who had the other code key. Suggest we make it look like the head of security was behind the murder. Please advise. K

While he waited for directions, Kaamil googled Adam Drake. The attorneys he knew were arrogant bullies, little men hiding behind the law to make themselves feel important. Drake wasn’t like that. He was in decent shape, and looked as if he could hold his own in a fight. It was his eyes that told you about the man. They were the eyes of a fighter, confident and unafraid. Eyes like Malik’s.

According to the internet, Drake had been a prosecutor who left the District Attorney’s office at the peak of his career. His wife, the only daughter of Oregon’s senior U.S. senator, had died a year ago. He had a solo law practice in an office overlooking a marina on the Willamette River.

Kaamil didn’t care that the man looked like he could defend himself. His men wouldn’t have a problem with that. It was his connections that would make Malik nervous. If he were eliminated before he knew too much, however, his connections wouldn’t matter. He might have to suggest that Drake be silenced, as well as Sam Newman.

His computer signaled his email had been answered.

Give me Newman’s bank account number. I’ll have $100,000 deposited that will trace back to one of Martin’s competitors. Leave a note on his computer saying how sorry he is the secretary died, and make him drink a bottle of his favorite alcohol before he eats his gun. Let me know how the attorney responds. He might have to be next if you can’t keep this contained. We’re too close to our deadline next week for any interference. M

Kaamil deleted the message and made three calls. The first to the team leader at the ranch who would take care of Sam Newman, and the second to the head of his security clearance division with instructions to find out everything about Adam Drake there was to learn. The last was to his head of security to follow Drake.

Chapter 11

Drake left the ISIS building and headed to his office, thinking about Kaamil’s SLS and whether his cherished 993 could keep pace. His car handled better and, with all the improvements he’d made, could reach a top speed of 180 mph. But the SLS AMG could go from zero to sixty-two miles per hour in three point two seconds, with a top speed of 197 mph. Money couldn’t buy you love, but it sure could buy you more speed.

Drake was still thinking about Kaamil’s choice of transportation when he noticed a black Suburban like the one at ISIS in his rear view mirror. Suburbans are popular in the Northwest, but Drake was wary of coincidences. He downshifted into second gear just before the exit to I-5 and accelerated down the entrance ramp.

The Suburban cut in front of a UPS truck and followed. Drake caught a flash of the gold lettering of the ISIS logo.

Traffic was congested, and Drake kept several cars ahead of the Suburban as he entered the Terwilliger curves at a sedate five miles per hour over the speed limit. When traffic slowed for the curves, he spotted an opening in the middle lane that gave him a path to the next exit. Downshifting again, he rocketed through the opening and raced ahead to Exit 298, speeding down the exit ramp at seventy-five miles per hour.

At the bottom of the ramp, Drake took full advantage of his car’s braking power, slid to a stop, turned left, and accelerated to catch up with the traffic heading up Macadam. He glanced in his rear view mirror and saw the Suburban was nowhere in sight.

The rest of the way to his office he assessed the situation, as if he were an operator again. Kaamil had every reason to be curious. He would have been, if their roles were reversed. Why act like his visit had been a surprise? Why point him to Sam Newman so quickly? Kaamil should have been concerned their security system failed and said they were investigating. He didn’t even voice a concern about that. Something was wrong, and it had something to do with Kaamil.

Drake’s office was on the Riverplace, a quarter of a mile south of the Rose Garden Arena. The Riverplace ran along the Willamette River next to a marina. The wide promenade was lined with shops and restaurants, and ended at the north end with an upscale hotel.

Before he married Kay, Drake lived in a condominium above a small bookstore that specialized in rare books. When he left the D.A.’s office, the bookstore became available after its owner died. He bought the bookstore and converted it into a law office, with the office and the condo connected by a back flight of stairs. The deck of his condo looked out over the marina and the river beyond. If he needed a break, a walk along the boardwalk did the trick.

After Kay found the old vineyard in Dundee, Drake rented the condo to his secretary and her husband, Paul. He often thought about living in the condo again, but Margo and Paul were happy there. He couldn’t ask them to move. There was also the promise he’d made to Kay before she died, to replant the vineyard and restore the old stone farmhouse.

Drake pulled into his building’s parking garage, entered the security code and drove up to his second-floor parking space. At the door to his old condo, he buzzed his secretary to let her know he was entering from the back stairs.

When he walked into his office, Margo greeted him from her desk.

“Good morning, or should I say, good afternoon,” she said, without looking up.

Margo was the first secretary assigned to work for him when he’d joined the D.A.’s office ten years ago. She was a senior secretary then, and only available because the man she’d worked for had recently died of a heart attack. She’d been bitter, depressed and difficult to work with at first, but they had gradually warmed to each other and become a great team.

She was fifty, black, and a woman you did not want to mess with when she was in one of her moods. Her short hair was graying, but her eyes were as dominant behind her silver wire-frame glasses as they had ever been. Her dress code was always law-office professional. Behind her I’m-in-charge-here attitude, however, she had a warm heart for anyone who earned her trust.

“All right, Margo, cut me a little slack here. I’ve been away for a day and a half, and this morning has all been work.”

“I’d be the last to know, as your formerly trusted and relied-upon secretary. As I’ve been telling your clients, I’ll let you know how and where he is when I see the whites of his eyes, if they are still white, that is.”

“Enough. I should have called. You win. Bring two cups of coffee to my office and we’ll talk,” Drake surrendered.

He walked up the stairs to the loft and waited for Margo to follow. The space had been the upper level of the bookstore and also served as the store manager’s and bookkeeper’s office. Now it contained his desk, bookshelves and a leather couch he slept on when he worked late and didn’t want to drive home to the farm. From the half wall of the loft, he could look down on Margo’s work area and the waiting area.

Margo walked in and set his coffee on the desk blotter. She sat down carefully, with her own cup, in one of two chairs in front of his desk.

“So talk,” she said.

“I met with the manager at ISIS. Not a nice guy. He said I should look at the head of security at Martin Research. He didn’t seem concerned at all that their security system malfunctioned and someone was killed there. When I drove here, they tried to follow me. And to top it off, when I got here I found my beloved secretary had developed a severe case of insubordination.”

“Actually your secretary isn’t insubordinate. She’s scared, and isn’t skilled at hiding it. Turn on the video cam and take a look at our friend outside on the bench.”

The old bookstore owner had been pistol whipped by a robber and had installed a security camera over the front door. There were two monitors for it, one next to Margo’s desk and another on the wall next to his.

Drake switched on his monitor and stared, clenching his fists. A muscular black man, wearing a black Trail Blazer T-shirt, black jeans and black running shoes sat on the bench, glaring at the front door through wraparound sunglasses.

“Doesn’t look like a potential client, does he? Maybe I should see what he wants.”

“Be careful. I doubt he’s here because of your legal acumen. If he is, please refer him to someone else.”

Drake dashed down the stairs, through the waiting area and pushed through the front door. In less time than it took for the watcher to swivel his head from a pretty girl passing by, he covered the distance to the bench.

“You need an attorney? You’ve occupied this bench for more than twenty minutes, without feeding the parking meter over there.”

Drake stood with the sun at his back, a six-foot-two shadow looming over the thug. He noticed a crescent moon tattoo on the man’s forearm, and calloused knuckles on both hands. Possibly a Muslim, but definitely a martial arts devotee. Drake resisted the urge to step back when the man stood, all six-foot-eight of prison-yard muscle and meanness.

“You got a problem, me being here? This a public place, ain’t it?”

“Sorry,” Drake said, as their eyes locked in stare down, two feet between them. “I thought you were trying to get up your nerve to come in and see me. If all you want to do is sit and stare at my front door, be my guest. If you change your mind, come in. And tell your boss he’s welcome too.”

Back in his office, he studied the watcher on Margo’s security monitor. The man pulled a cell phone off his belt, talked for a few moments then walked off.