Part 38 (1/2)
Strazzi put his head down and ran as fast as he could. His legs churned, and he gasped for air as lactic acid quickly built up in his muscles.
But the man behind him continued to gain ground. Strazzi could hear the footsteps pounding on the path. His pursuer was only a few paces back and there was still a long way to go before he'd break out of the woods. He tried to go faster. Tried to keep his legs under him as his lungs seared two baseball-sized holes in his chest. But his legs finally gave way, and he tumbled to the ground.
He felt the man's hand on his arm and tried to scramble away, but it was no use. ”Help!” he yelled. ”Help!”
”What's wrong, pal? Hey, you all right?”
Strazzi brought his hands slowly down from his face and gazed up into the dark gla.s.ses beneath the brim of the baseball cap. ”Huh?”
”You all right?” the man repeated.
Strazzi bobbed his head, confused, then struggled to his knees as the man helped him up. ”Yeah, yeah,” he panted. ”I'm fine,” he said, suddenly embarra.s.sed.
”Sit here,” the man instructed, gently helping Strazzi sit on a large rock beside the path. ”You need liquids. That's your problem.” He pulled a small bottle of water from a pack around his waist, twisted the cap off, and handed the bottle to Strazzi. ”Here.”
Strazzi grabbed it and guzzled, hand shaking as he brought it to his lips. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand when he was done. ”Thanks,” he gasped, handing the bottle back to the man.
”Sit here for a few minutes and catch your breath,” the man advised. ”Then walk out. Don't try to run anymore.”
”I won't,” Strazzi agreed. He watched the man jog off. He'd been certain his number was up.
Gillette gazed down at Was.h.i.+ngton, D.C., from the cabin of the private jet headed toward Reagan National Airport, cruising above the Potomac River through the clear, early morning. The city was off to the northwest. He could see the Capitol, the Was.h.i.+ngton Monument, and the White House, forming a neat triangle just to the south of downtown.
”A couple of minutes and we'll be on the ground,” Stiles informed Gillette, slipping into the seat beside him. He'd just checked with the pilots. ”We're cleared to land. No delays.”
”Thanks,” he said, still looking down on the city. ”I like D.C.,” he murmured, more to himself than Stiles.
”Not me,” Stiles replied.
”Why not?” Gillette asked, turning away from the window.
”You ever try to get around in this city?”
”What do you mean?”
”The streets are screwed up, man. You think you're going east and you end up going west. Or you're almost where you need to be, then suddenly they throw a park in front of you. I mean, the road ends just like that.” He snapped his fingers. ”It's so d.a.m.n frustrating. You can see the other side of the park where the road starts up again. A hundred yards away through the woods. But you sure as h.e.l.l can't get there because the park goes left and right as far as you can see. So you ask somebody how to get over there,” Stiles said, pointing toward the front of the plane as if he was pointing toward the other side of an imaginary park. ”They laugh and tell you that you have to go to the other side of Maryland to get there.”
”I'm gonna guess you were late for something once,” Gillette said, grinning. ”Probably a woman.”
”Maybe.” Stiles grinned back. ”Anyway, that's why I like New York City. Streets go east and west and avenues go north and south. Except for some issues in Greenwich Village, it's pretty easy. This place is a nightmare.” Stiles looked out the window past Gillette. ”So, why do you like Was.h.i.+ngton?”
Gillette had come to Was.h.i.+ngton for an early spring weekend during his junior year at Princeton with several members of Tiger, his Eating Club. They'd gone out to dinner in Georgetown, and he'd met a girl at a bar. A dark-haired girl from American University. He'd spent the rest of the weekend with her. And the next, and the next, and the next. She traveled to Princeton on the train, or he went to D.C. They were inseparable from the beginning, and he hadn't cared about the c.r.a.p he'd taken from his friends for being so suddenly devoted. It had been his first real love affair, and he'd been certain they would marry. But in May, two months after they'd met, she'd been diagnosed with an inoperable brain tumor. She'd died in August.
”Christian.” Stiles nudged Gillette's elbow as they touched down. ”Hey, so why do you like Was.h.i.+ngton?”
Gillette looked over at Stiles. ”The architecture,” he said, thinking about Isabelle, then Faith. ”You gave the pictures to Stockman's aide last night?”
Stiles nodded. ”Yeah. You should have seen the guy's face.”
”Good. We'll call the senator when we're done here. Go see him in person and drop the bomb.” Gillette unhooked his seat belt as the jet slowed down and eased off the runway. ”You know what?”
”What?
”We should go out sometime, to dinner or something. We'll bring dates.” Gillette picked up several folders from the seat pocket in front of him. ”I a.s.sume there is someone.”
”Yes, there is. I'd like that. Thanks.” Stiles stood up as the plane neared the general aviation terminal. ”Now, listen, we've got to be careful getting you off the plane. In fact, we've got to be careful the whole time we're here.”
”Yeah?”
Stiles pulled his shoulder holster down from the overhead compartment and slipped into it. ”I'm sure a lot of people know about you coming down here today. It would be logical for someone to try something. They'd have plenty of time to prepare, and they'd be able to pick their spot.” He reached up into the overhead compartment again. ”Put this on,” he ordered.
”What is it?”
”A bulletproof vest.”
”Quentin, I-”
”Put it on.”
Gillette shook his head, taking the vest from Stiles. ”Why do I feel like I'm not sure who's working for who at this point?”
”Senator Stockman.”
Stockman looked up from his desk. He'd been drafting a speech. ”What is it, Frank?” he snapped. He hadn't slept well last night, and he was in a foul mood.
Galway grimaced. ”I have to talk to you about something, sir.”
”Is it important?”
”Very.”
Stockman let out a heavy sigh. ”Sit,” he said, pointing at a chair in front of the desk. ”What is it?”
”I was approached on the street last night.”
Stockman put down his pen. ”Oh?” He'd heard an ominous tone in Galway's voice.
”I thought at first this guy was just being nice. Said he'd seen me on TV while you were delivering your announcement about running.”
Stockman spotted an envelope in Galway's trembling hand. ”But he wasn't.”
A confused look came to Galway's face. ”Sir?”
”He wasn't being nice.”
Galway swallowed hard. ”No, he wasn't.”