The Tangled Webb (2 page)

CHAPTER 3

F
our miles away the imposing hunchback named Boris lumbered through the darkened interior of a hideout in the northeast section of Washington, D.C. His accomplices sat before a television, watching coverage of the wreck on the parkway. He loomed above them, his eyes fixated on the screen.

Breaking news poured forth—a reporter from a local station gave a summary of the incident. “The site of the accident has taken on a circus-like atmosphere. The location of the wrecked Mercedes along the rocky shores of the Potomac River is a nightmare for law enforcement. People hoping for a closer look are coming on foot, in helicopters and watercraft on the river. Reports contain little for viewers to go on . . .”

Boris grabbed the remote in his huge hand from one of his co-conspirators. He switched to another channel, this one featuring a smartly-dressed person who had been presented as an analyst. The cable channel was in a speculative mode and the moderator opening with a loaded question.

“Doesn’t the absence of skid marks on the pavement indicate some sort of wrongdoing?”

“I don’t believe so.” The analyst added, “The driver could have been stricken by a medical condition and simply froze at the wheel. Maybe he had a heart attack, or a stroke.”

The moderator was quick to counter his remarks.

“Perhaps an autopsy will shed some light.”

Boris flipped to another news channel and here again the conspiracy angle was emphasized. A host was interviewing a “political expert”.

“Don’t you think this is a conspiracy, given the fact that not one but
two
U.S. Senators were killed in the same car wreck?”

The expert weighed in.

“It could be bad luck, plain and simple. But I do believe
something
is at play here.”

Boris tossed the remote between the two men on the sofa. He turned away and entered a bedroom. Alone in the darkness, he lowered his head in prayer. An hour of reflection passed and his secure phone rang.

“Yes?”

A male voice. “Your activities this evening are most commendable.”

“Thank you, Deacon,” replied Boris, pleased to be hearing praises from his mentor.

He felt a sense of gratitude wash over him.

“I assume you’ve seen the news broadcasts.”

“Yes, I have.”

“Our plan is in motion.”

“It appears the ‘accident’ cover story is holding up.”

“So it seems,” replied the Deacon. “However, the night’s work is not finished.”

“Explain.”

“The driver was thrown from the vehicle.”

“He’s alive?”

“An unexpected discovery.”

“What now?”

“His name is Daniel Baylor. Washington Hospital. You have to deal with this situation.”

Boris needed no interpretation. He knew the meaning of these words.

“It will be done.”

The Deacon’s tone was insistent. “You must move quickly. There’s no time to waste.”

Boris set the phone aside, his spine tingling with anticipation.

CHAPTER 4

A
fter Carter brought James back to the townhouse, he went inside to collect his gear and noticed that Kate had returned from the hospital.

“How’s Daniel?”

“In a coma still, but he’s in stable condition.”

James stuffed items into a shoulder bag.

“Where are you going?” Kate already knew the answer.

“We’ll talk when I get back.”

“Two armed guards are outside the door of his hospital room,” she informed him.

“His protection detail is probably inadequate. We’re dealing with professionals.”

Her eyes narrowed. “How do you plan on getting to the hospital?”

“Why are you giving me that look?”

As if he didn’t know. She loathed his motorcycle and thought the lightning-fast machine was an extension of his propensity for danger.

“You promised me. I hate that thing. When are you going to get rid of it?”

“Kate, we’ve been over this ground before, no time to talk about it now.” He kissed her on the cheek. “Don’t worry. I’ll be fine.”

She rolled her eyes and he went down the basement stairs.

Their small, two-bedroom townhouse, among the oldest structures in historic Georgetown, was built by a cabinetmaker shortly after the War of 1812 ended. Mathias Bell had remembered the British setting fire to buildings in 1814, including the U.S. Capitol and the White House. He hoped to avoid a similar fate by constructing a crude passage which ran underground from his cellar and terminated in what was now the side yard of a neighbor not far from the Webb residence.

Ms. Van der Meer’s property fronted on a street one block over. A kindly widow in her eighties, she allowed use of the passage, and in turn Kate looked after her.

Having crouched his way along the horizontal shaft, James emerged from Bell’s passage. He removed a Kawasaki Ninja ZX-11 from a shed along the side yard, and taking a quick look around, fired the engine and took off down the street.

Pulling back on the throttle, he felt the crisp night air on his face. Traffic was light at this hour, and the powerful bike whipped along like a rocket. He wouldn’t tell Kate he liked to shoot down Interstate 95 in the wee hours of the night, reaching speeds of 130 M.P.H. It didn’t much matter, he figured. The things she didn’t know couldn’t hurt her, and no state trooper in his right mind would bother chasing him.

He rolled up to Washington Hospital, parked the motorcycle in the lot and stashed his bag in a thicket of shrubbery. Moving through the main entrance he approached a reception desk where a young woman worked the night shift. He came closer and she looked up and met his eyes.

Hmm . . . tall, dark and . . . a nice face,
she observed
.

“He smiled. A friendly smile. “Hello.”

“Hi,” she replied, detecting a boyish charm.

“Where can I find the Intensive Care Unit?”

“It’s on the third floor, rear wing.” She offered an alluring expression, the best she could muster. “I can show you the way.”

“You’re very kind, but I think I’ll find it.”

“It’s really easy, just follow the yellow line on the floor.”

“Thanks.”

She watched him walk over to the elevators. He entered one and smiled back at her as the doors closed. On the third floor, he stepped off and moved cautiously toward the back of the building, coming to a stop just short of a hallway leading to the rear wing. Removing a small mirror from a pocket, he eased the shiny disk beyond the edge of the doorframe. The small orb of glass reflected back a couple of D.C. Police officers, sitting in chairs near a sign.

INTENSIVE CARE UNIT

Returning to the parking lot, James collected his bag from the shrubbery and changed into an all-black outfit. Moving in the shadows he circled around to the rear wing, dashing between the parking lot’s overhead lights and thinking about how he could possibly keep his brother-in-law safe. It required vigilance, 24/7. Something he couldn’t do alone.

What if somebody makes a move on him?

Advancing slowly, he came to a wood line at the edge of the parking lot and adjusted his gaze in the direction of the rear wing.

He couldn’t believe his eyes.

On the dimly lit surface of the building, thirty feet above the ground, a figure clung to a ledge by a window. The black silhouette was unmistakable. It was in the shape of a man.

Incredible! I’m too late.

He quickly grabbed a pair of night-vision binoculars from his bag, adjusted the focus dial, and saw a man affixing a glass cutter to the window. Pulling a 9mm handgun from his belt, his eyes cut back and forth across the parking lot. He attached a silencer to the barrel of the gun, leveled the pistol and fired. A
moaning
sound cut the silent night air when a hot piece of lead bored into the man’s shoulder. Twisting in a fit of agony, he wobbled on the ledge and plunged to the ground, hitting the turf with a
thud
.

James immediately thought about accomplices.

Professionals rarely work alone.

A panel van suddenly lurched from a parking space near the building and obstructed his line of sight. In a matter of seconds the fallen would-be assassin was lifted into the rear compartment. As the van raced around a corner of the building, he fired several rounds into the back doors, but the assassins slipped away.

James retreated from the scene.

This doesn’t end here.

CHAPTER 5

H
is motorcycle’s headlight beam pierced the darkness as James weaved through light traffic on the streets of D.C. It was three in the morning and the city’s vibrant heartbeat had slowed. He covered the distance from the hospital to Georgetown in record time.

With the Kawasaki returned to the shed he moved through the passage and emerged in the cellar, climbed the stairs and on the main level of the townhouse he began up the staircase. Hardwood stairs creaked under foot and when he reached the landing he turned, looking into the master bedroom. A television in the corner provided the room’s only light.

Kate was asleep.

He tiptoed across to a chair by the bed and sank into it. In this moment of quiet, James reminisced, his thoughts reflective.

Both he and Kate were the same age, twenty-six, and they had been married for just six months. They were crazy about each other.

In the relatively short time since the romance began—they eloped after three months of dating—their connection had endured his frequent absences. He felt she was the better person between them. In all likelihood, her patience and kindness preserved the relationship. Kate was a smart woman, but in no way did he feel threatened by her. Even though he was raised in a home surrounded by chauvinistic males, he thought the views of his father and brothers toward women were regressive.

Kate’s technical skills were impressive. She did freelance work as a computer security specialist.

Now rising from his chair, James stepped over to the bed and gently kissed her on the lips. She began to stir and her eyes fluttered.

Now awake, she looked up at him.

“Hi there. I must have dozed off.”

He knelt beside the bed, their faces inches apart, and she raised herself to an elbow, looking into his eyes.

“What’s up?”

His gaze danced between Kate and the bed.

“We’re in a lot of trouble.”

He slumped back into the chair and she rested her back against the headboard.

She let out a sigh. “How’s Daniel, is he safe?”

“He is now. I shot a man who was trying to kill him.”

A chill bolted up her spine.

“What?”

“Yup, I interrupted an assassination in progress. There were at least three of them.”

“What about the others?”

He slumped further in the chair.

“They got away, along with the man I killed.”

“Assassins …”

A silence.

“Does anybody know about this?”

James looked over at her. “No. And it’s going to stay this way. Listen Kate, Daniel’s life is in danger, and so is mine, yours too.”

“
My
life! What do you mean?”

“The killers might think I passed information on to you.”

“Oh, that’s just great.”

“Kate, we need to find these killers before they kill us. Do you understand?”

“Of course I do.”

“Then let’s run a trace on the license number Daniel gave me.”

“The equipment I need is at my office.”

Twenty minutes later Kate emerged in the kitchen wearing a pair of black pants and a black top. James was sitting at a table in the casual dining niche, juggling a pair of encrypted satellite phones. Hearing footsteps behind him, he turned and handed a phone to her.

“What’s this?” She said, examining the sophisticated device.

It worked like an ordinary mobile phone, only without intrusion by eavesdroppers like the NSA.

“When you need to communicate with me, switch it on and press the One key. It’s a speed dial number pairing it to my phone.”

Kate grabbed her key ring from the counter. “Echelon.”

“Right.”

She was referring to the National Security Agency’s surveillance program. Hidden from prying eyes, servers covering acres of floor space vacuum from the air every wireless communication sent anywhere, 24/7. Communications are sorted and categorized by the most powerful computer farm ever built. The information is analyzed and decisions made as to whether a communication has actionable intelligence. If any exists, a battalion of government agents starts to hunt you down.

When she turned back to him, he had a helmet in each hand.

She rolled her eyes, grabbed one of them and walked down the basement stairs. James trailed her through Bell’s passage and pulled the Kawasaki from the shed. With deft hands, he fastened the helmet strap beneath her chin. She climbed on behind him and held tight.

The motorcycle flung them into the crisp night air.

He swiveled around and faced her.

“I’ll be gentle . . . I promise.”

Where have I heard that before?

CHAPTER 6

R
ising five stories above the sidewalk, the building sat at the edge of Rock Creek Park, between Georgetown and Embassy Row—a few blocks from Dupont Circle. It had been constructed during the 1960s and the amenities were few, the architecture unremarkable. The absence of covered parking didn’t seem to be much of a bother; the beautiful park views more than compensated for the building’s shortcomings.

James and Kate rode up and he set the kickstand near the curb.

She hopped off, removing her helmet. “I’ve cheated death.”

He grinned.

Approaching the entrance, Kate unlocked the outer lobby door and they rode the elevator to the third floor. Her offices were located at the rear of the building—straddling a corner overlooking Embassy Row. She placed her thumb against a biometric fingerprint reader, the metal door clicked open and she turned on the lights. Until this moment, James had forgotten the extent to which his wife had become immersed in the high-tech industry. It had been some time since his last visit here. He considered himself an expert in the use of technology, but the astonishing collection of electronic equipment here really impressed him.

Kate flipped a switch, blackout shades rolled down, covering the windows. James eyed a sitting area opposite her workstation which had two chairs, a coffee table and a sofa. He decided on the sofa, settling in for the duration. She went around a large desk, sat down and booted up her laptop.

James clasped his hands behind his head, looking at her.

“The first order of business is to send a message to Carter. Daniel’s protection detail is sorely lacking.”

Kate closed her eyes, taking some deep breaths.

She began to find her rhythm, then sent the e-mail to Agent Carter, routing it through an ISP server in Burma and some more rogue countries. By the time the message reached him, the communication was untraceable. They would discover later—to their satisfaction—that Carter moved his witness to a secured area in the hospital, his guards multiplied.

“Done.”

He handed her a piece of paper with the license number on the SUV.

“DMV database. Did you say D.C. plates?”

“Right.”

He watched her fingers fly across the keyboard. A few minutes later, the movement stopped. She pivoted the laptop on the table so James could see the screen.

“The SUV is registered to a corporation in the state of Delaware.” She tapped a few more keys. “The Delaware entity is controlled by a limited liability company in the Cayman Islands, which is owned by a parent corporation in Zurich.”

James paused.

“Obviously, these are not amateurs. Somebody’s gone to a lot of trouble to cover their tracks. We need to find out where the money came from to buy that SUV.”

“It’ll take time.”

“Something we don’t have,” he pointed out. “How long?”

“Hard to say. I’ll have to write a special software program.”

James stepped to a table and put on a pot of coffee.

Two hours passed and a discouraging mood was setting in. James had spread out on the sofa, lost in his thoughts.

Another hour passed.

Kate’s fingers were moving across the keyboard, and then they slowed, and stopped. She stared at her laptop screen.

“Wow.”

James scrambled to his feet. “What is it?”

“There’s a pattern here. It’s unmistakable. The funds that were used to purchase the SUV flowed into, then out of, a bank account controlled by a lawyer. Big firm.”

“Where?”

“New York City . . . Park Avenue.”

“What’s his name?”

“Alec Specter. Partner at Wolfe & Hunt. Whatever’s going on, this guy is knee-deep in it.”

“Any backstory?”

“The firm’s a deathtrap.” She shook her head. “It reads like a catalogue of financial muggings. Intimidation tactics and money laundering, mostly.”

“Are you sure this is the guy?”

“Positive.”

James grinned.

“Where does this guy live?”

“Um . . . Connecticut. Greenwich, actually.”

He leaned across the desk and kissed her.

“Next stop, Greenwich.”