Part 17 (2/2)

”What's that?”

”We never pursue a guy like this alone. Protocol is to radio in the suspect's location, keep'em contained, wait for back-up, and set up a perimeter.”

”That's true,” said Robert. ”Maybe he tried to be a hero. He wouldn't be the first to play lone wolf.”

”Oh, he'll be a hero all right,” said Marilyn. ”Only he won't know it.

Let me show you something.”

Her sudden coldness surprised him. Unusual for someone looking at a colleague, dead on a warehouse floor. They knelt down.

”Now tell me, Mr. Veil,” she continued. ”Tell me, what don't you see?”

Robert looked close as a photographer's flash bounced off the walls.

”His weapon. It's still in its holster.”

”You got it big boy. Looks like Agent Sams used incredibly bad judgment. What officer wouldn't immediately pull their weapon in a situation like this? Pure suicide.”

”I admire your skills lady.” Again, Robert considered telling her about Rothschild and the evidence, and again, he shook it off.

”They walked back to the dock area. Marilyn stopped a few inches from his chest, searching his face, smiling. He took back a step. Her smile widened.

”We really must get together again, Mr. Veil. You know, two professionals, sharing information, clearing the air. I know I can come off a little aggressive, but I'm playing a man's game. Sometimes being the house b.i.t.c.h is necessary. I hope you understand.”

”No offense taken,” he said. ”But you will tell me about this dress when we sit down. Or is that standard FBI issue?”

”Oh, this little thing?” She pulled her coat back and showed more than she should have. ”I was at a party when I got the page and didn't have time to change.”

”Good thing you weren't in a hot tub.”

Marilyn kissed his cheek. ”I'll keep that in mind.” Just my luck. Two amazing women at the wrong time. ”Well, agent.

Let's hold that thought. I really must get back to the judge. Let me know if you come up with anything new.”

”I'll share whatever we get,” said Marilyn, tying her coat. ”Make sure you do the same.”

They shook hands on a promise Robert knew neither would keep. He watched Marilyn glide back to the crime scene, took another look around the warehouse, then headed for his car.

23.

Two miles from the hotel, walking fast, Andre heard the faint squeal of sirens in the distance. He took a left off M Street, stayed in the shadows, and melted into a splattering of homeless on Dupont Circle, striding down New Hamps.h.i.+re Avenue to a large empty house he cased a few days before.

He stomped up the steep driveway and slipped through a window, dropping down to the bas.e.m.e.nt. He bent over to catch his breath, closed his eyes, and smiled.

After the commotion started, sparked by his note, the Russian quickly exited through the dock area just as he intended.

”Andre, Andre. I need you to stop,” said Sams, in a loud whisper.

Andre saw the agent's weapon tucked in its holster, stopped, and swiped his size thirteen across Sams' astonished face, spinning him around in a complete circle. Andre smashed his elbow under Sams'

nose, sending bone chips into his sinus cavity and skull. Sams flew backwards off his feet and crashed hard on the cement.

Andre pounced and mangled the vertebrae in his neck with one quick twist. Air wheezed and whistled morbidly from the agent's mouth.

Andre dragged the body out of sight and slammed it against a shelf. Ten seconds...nine...Pulled the hunting knife from his ankle...five...four...

and slashed Sams' throat with the smooth end of the blade...two...one.

He didn't stick around to see the spray of blood.

He sprinted down the alley to the street, and ran fifty yards to another off 22nd Street. Off came the uniform, fat suit, facial latex, and yellowed false teeth. On went a pair of stone washed blue jeans, a Georgetown University sweats.h.i.+rt, Redskins cap and black leather jacket he hid there as a precaution, one of several spots in and outside the hotel where he stashed changes of clothing. He stepped onto the street a different man.

Andre opened his eyes, stretched, and grabbed a plastic bag hidden under the bas.e.m.e.nt steps. He traded the Georgetown sweats.h.i.+rt for a blue, b.u.t.ton-down Oxford, slipped on a pair of black penny loafers, a navy-blue London Fog windbreaker, and gold-rimmed gla.s.ses, p.r.o.nounced himself yuppie and climbed back outside. He hit an empty New Hamps.h.i.+re Avenue and hailed a cab. ”Georgetown,” he told the driver, in his best American accent; Bostonian this time, his favorite.

The driver turned down M Street, back toward the hotel. Andre spotted a long line of slow moving cars up ahead. A roadblock. The cab driver, a burly black man, complained as though he and Andre were well acquainted.

”It's just like that sometimes, Nathaniel,” said the Russian, reading the name off the cab license hanging on the dashboard. ”Don't worry about it,” he added, his enunciation pure Cambridge Ivy League. ”I'm in no hurry.”

They moved closer to the front. Andre rehea.r.s.ed an escape scenario in his head, mapping out what he'd do if the police got suspicious and asked him to step out of the cab. He examined his new drivers license and mumbled under his breath. ”Bradley Stevenson, Portfolio Manager from Boston. Mutual funds. Fidelity.”

They reached the head of the line, where two testy police officers stepped to each side of the cab. ”We need to see identification for both of you,” said the officer at the driver's window.

Nathaniel handed him his driver's and cab licenses. Andre pa.s.sed his I.D. to the officer on his side. He leaned inside and bounced his flashlight along the backseat and floor like a prison spotlight. The light hit Andre's face. The Russian dropped his mouth open and tightened his forehead, as though genuinely concerned. ”What seems to be the problem officer?”

The officer focused hard on Andre's face and license. It took so long for the officer to answer, Andre thought he'd been discovered.

”Where're you heading tonight, Mr. Stevenson?” The officer didn't crack a smile.

”To J Paul's for a little dinner,” answered Andre, pus.h.i.+ng his gla.s.ses up on his nose. ”I'm only in town for the night.” Several more glances and the officer nodded to his partner. ”No problem, Mr. Stevenson. Sorry about the inconvenience.”

”Thank you,” said Andre, feigning nervous relief.

Less than ten minutes later, the cab dropped him on the corner of 30th and M. He hoofed it through the crowd to one of his favorite restaurants, J Pauls.

College students, foreigners, business people and tourists, packed the restaurant like sardines, laughing, talking, and joking, unaware a brutal murderer stood only a few feet away. Andre headed for the bar, his usual spot, where he could watch the news report.

”What's up chief?” asked the bartender.

”Spicy shrimp,” said Andre. ”A double order. And a Guinness stout.

I've worked up an appet.i.te.”

Americans. S o easily fooled, so easily frightened.

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