The Prometheus Deception (10 page)

Insanity!

“You're the only one who knows what they smell like.”

Someone crashed into him, and Bryson spun in a crouch, hands flat and stiff at his side, ready to attack. It was no professional, but instead a tall, athletic-looking executive carrying a gym bag and a squash racquet. The man fixed Bryson with a scowl contorted with fear. Bryson apologized; the executive glared and moved on, quickly, nervously.

Face it, face the past, face the truth!

Face Ted Waller, who was
not
Ted Waller! This much Bryson knew by now. He still had his own sources from the old KGB, the old GRU, men living in retirement or gone into new lines of work in a mercenary post–Cold War world. Inquiries were made, records checked, data confirmed. Telephone calls placed, false names used, meaningless-sounding but in fact highly significant phrases employed. Men were contacted, men whom Bryson had known in a past life, a life he was sure he had left behind. A diamond dealer in Antwerp; an attorney-businessman in Copenhagen; a highly paid international trade “consultant” and “fixer” in Moscow. Once key sources all, former Soviet GRU officers who had since emigrated, left behind the spy world as Bryson thought he had. All of whom maintained records in safe-deposit boxes, stored on encrypted magnetic tape, or simply archived in their formidable brains. All of whom were surprised, some unnerved, frightened even, to be contacted by a man who had attained legend status in their former trade, who had once paid them generously for their information, their assistance. Separately, identifications were provided, checkable and confirmable several times over.

Gennady Rosovsky and Edmund Waller were one and the same. There was no doubt about it.

Ted Waller—Bryson's best man, boss, confidant, employer—was indeed a GRU sleeper agent. Once again the CIA man, Harry Dunne, was correct.
Madness!

*   *   *

Arriving in the outer lobby, he noticed that the intercom panel where he had once entered a coded, constantly changing series of numbers had been removed; in its place was a glass-encased directory of law firms and lobbying organizations located within. Below each firm name was a list of its chief officers and their office numbers. He was surprised to find that the front door opened with no annunciation apparatus, no locks or barriers of any sort. Anyone could come in and out.

Beyond the glass doors, which now appeared to be of regular window glass, not bulletproof, the inner lobby looked little changed—a standard reception area with one security guard/receptionist seated behind a tall half-moon of curved marble counter. A young black man in a blue blazer and red tie looked up at him with little interest.

“I've got an appointment with—” He hesitated but a split-second as he called to mind a name from the directory in the outer lobby—“John Oakes of the American Textiles Manufacturers Board. I'm Bill Thatcher from Congressman Vaughan's office.” Bryson affected a slight Texas twang; Congressman Rudy Vaughan was a powerful ranking member from Texas whose opinion, and committee chairmanships, no doubt meant quite a bit to the textile board.

The usual preliminaries were gone through. The director of the lobbying board was telephoned by security; his executive assistant had no record of any scheduled visit by Congressman Vaughan's chief legislative aide but was more than happy to accommodate such an important figure. A sprightly young woman with frosted blond hair came down and escorted Bryson into the elevator, apologizing all the while for the mix-up.

They got off on the third floor and were met right at the elevator by a blond man whose hair looked a little “refreshed,” wearing an expensive suit, looking a little too polished. Mr. Oakes all but ran up to Bryson, arms outstretched. “We're grateful for Congressman Vaughan's support!” the lobbyist exclaimed, shaking Bryson's hand with both of his. In a confiding voice he added, “I know Congressman Vaughan understands the importance of keeping America strong, free of cheap, underpriced imports. I mean,
Mauritanian fabrics
—that is not what this country is about! I know the Congressman understands that.”

“Congressman Vaughan is interested to learn more about the international labor standards bill that you're supporting,” Bryson said, looking around as the two of them strode down the hallway that was once so familiar. Yet there were none of the old personnel, no Chris Edgecomb nor any of the others whom Bryson knew only by face. None of the communications workstations or modules, the global satellite monitors. Nothing was the same, including the office furniture. Even the floor plan had been altered, as if the entire floor had been gutted. The old small-arms storeroom was gone, replaced by a conference room with smoked-glass walls and expensive-looking mahogany table and chairs.

The too-well-dressed lobbyist led Bryson into his corner office and invited him to sit. “We understand the Congressman is up for reelection next year,” the man said, “and we consider it
vital
to support those members of Congress who understand the importance of keeping America's economy strong.”

Bryson nodded absently, looking around. This was the office that had once belonged to Ted Waller. If there had been even an inkling of doubt, that was now vanished. This was no notional organization, no cover.

The Directorate had vanished. There was no trace of Ted Waller, the only man who could confirm—or deny—the truth of CIA man Harry Dunne's account of the truth behind the Directorate.

Who's lying? Who's telling the truth?

How could he reach his old employers when they had vanished off the face of the earth as if they'd never existed?

Bryson had hit a wall.

*   *   *

Twenty minutes later, Bryson had returned to the parking garage, returned to his rented vehicle, and run through all the checks that had once been second nature to him. The tiny pressure-sensitive filament he had pressed into place along the door handle on the driver's side was still in place, as was the filament on the passenger-side door handle; anyone who had attempted to pick the lock or otherwise gain entry to the car would have dislodged the indicators without knowing it. He knelt quickly and did a brief visual survey of the underside of the automobile, confirming that no devices had been placed there. He had not been aware of any attempts to follow him to K Street or into the parking garage, but he could no longer satisfy himself with such countersurveillance efforts. As he started the car he felt the old familiar knot in his stomach, the ganglion of tension that hadn't been there for several years. The moment of truth passed uneventfully; there was no ignition-triggered detonation.

He drove down through several levels to the garage exit, where he inserted his magnetic-striped ticket into the card reader that controlled the liftgate arm. The ticket popped back out, rejected.
Damn it,
he muttered to himself. It was almost amusing—almost, but not quite—that for all his precautions, he would be delayed by a simple mechanical glitch. He inserted the card again; still, it failed to activate the arm. The bored-looking parking attendant came out of his booth, came up to Bryson's open window, and said, “Let me give it a try, sir.” The attendant inserted the ticket into the machine, but still it was rejected. He glanced at the blue paper ticket, nodded with sudden understanding, and approached the car window.

“Sir, is this the same ticket you were issued when you entered?” the attendant asked, handing it back to Bryson.

“What's that supposed to mean?” Bryson said irritably. Was the attendant questioning whether this was in fact Bryson's vehicle, whether Bryson might be trying to take someone else's? He turned to look at the attendant and was immediately bothered by something, some aspect of the man's hands.

“No, sir, you're misunderstanding me,” the attendant said, leaning in. Bryson suddenly felt the cold hard steel of a gun barrel pressed against his left temple. The attendant held a small-caliber, snub-nosed pistol to Bryson's temple! It was
insane!
“I'm saying,
sir,
that I want you to keep both of your hands on the steering wheel,” said the attendant in a low, steady voice. “I'd rather not have to use this thing.”

Jesus Christ!

That was it! The hands, the manicured nails—they were the soft, well tended hands of a man who took inordinate care with his appearance, who likely traveled in exclusive, moneyed circles and had to fit in—not the hands of a parking-garage attendant. But the realization had come an instant too late! The attendant abruptly opened the car's rear door and leaped into the backseat, the gun once again to Bryson's temple.

“Let's
go! Move
it!” shouted the fake attendant, just as the barrier lifted. “
Don't
remove those hands from the wheel. I'd hate to slip, pull the trigger by accident, you know? Let's go for a little drive, you and me. Get some fresh air.”

Bryson, having stowed his weapon in his glove compartment, had no choice but to drive out of the garage and onto K Street, following the false attendant's directions. As the car entered traffic, Bryson felt the gun barrel cut into the flesh of his left temple, and he heard the low, steady, conversational banter of the man behind him.

“You knew this day was going to come, didn't you?” the professional said. “Odds are it'll happen to all of us at some point. You overstep, go a little too far. Push when you should have pulled. Stick your nose into something that's no longer your business.”

“Care to fill me in on where we're going?” Bryson said, trying to keep his voice light. His heart hammered, his mind raced. He added, as an aside, “Mind if I put on the news…?” He casually reached out his right hand for the radio knob, then felt the pistol's barrel slam into his head as the hit man roared, “
Goddamn
you, get those hands back on the
wheel!
”

“Jesus!” Bryson exclaimed as the pain spread. “Watch it!”

The killer had no idea that Bryson's Glock was nestled against the base of his spine, in his rear waist holster. But he was not going to take any chances.

Then how to retrieve it? The hit man—for he
was
a hit man, Bryson knew, a professional, whether on the Directorate payroll or a contract employee—insisted that Bryson keep his hands visible at all times. Now he had to follow instructions, waiting for a moment of distraction on the part of the hit man. The earmarks were in everything about the man: the confident plan of action; the quick, efficient moves; even the glib speech.

“Let's just say we're going someplace outside the Beltway, someplace where a couple of guys can talk freely.” But
talking
, Bryson realized grimly, was the last thing on the hit man's agenda. “A couple of guys in the same business who just happen to be on different ends of a gun, that's all. It's nothing personal, I'm sure you realize that. Strictly business. One minute you're looking through the sights, next minute you're looking at the barrel. Happens. The wheel's always turning. I'm sure you were very good in your time, which is why I have no doubt you're going to take this like a man.”

Bryson, considering his options, didn't reply. He'd been in roughly similar circumstances countless times before, though never, except during his early training days, on the other side of a pistol. He knew how the man in the seat behind him was thinking right now, the way the flow chart was patterned:
if A, then B
 … How a sudden move on Bryson's part, a direction ignored, the steering wheel spun in the wrong direction, would initiate a countermeasure. The hit man would try to avoid pulling the trigger while they were in traffic, for fear the vehicle might careen out of control, imperiling both men. This familiarity with the options available to his enemy was one of the few cards Bryson had to play.

Yet at the same time Bryson was quite aware that the man would not hesitate to fire directly into Bryson's head if he had to, lunging forward to grab and steady the steering wheel. Bryson didn't like the odds.

Now they were crossing the Key Bridge.
“Left,”
the man barked, indicating the direction of Reagan National Airport. Bryson obeyed, careful to seem compliant, resigned, the better to put the other man off his guard.

“Now take this exit,” the killer resumed. The exit would take them toward the area immediately outside the airport where most of the rental-car agencies had offices.

“You could have done me back there at the parking garage,” Bryson muttered. “You
should
have, actually.”

But the hit man was too skilled to be drawn into a discussion of tactics or to allow Bryson to challenge his competence. Obviously the expert had been fully briefed as to the nature of Bryson's mind, how Bryson would likely react in such a circumstance. “Oh, don't even try that,” the professional said with a low chuckle. “You saw all the video-cams back there, the potential witnesses. You know better than that. You wouldn't have done it there either, I'll bet. Not based on what
I
hear about your skills.”

A slip there, Bryson reflected. The man was definitely a contract employee, an outsider, which meant any backup was unlikely. He would be operating on his own. A Directorate staffer would be protected by others. This was a valuable piece of data to store away.

Bryson steered the car into a deserted, vacant parking area, the far end of what was once a used-car lot. He parked as instructed. He turned his head to his right to address the other man, then felt the barrel of the gun grind painfully into his temple: the professional made no secret of his displeasure. “Don't
move,
” came the steely voice. Turning his head back around, staring straight ahead, Bryson said, “Why don't you at least make this quick?”