Part 12 (1/2)

Scott Bridgeman had been working quietly in his office at Catapult headquarters. He rubbed his eyes and peered out the window at the s...o...b..nk that city plows had dumped into the front yard. It was cold as h.e.l.l out there, but going home to his wife was even colder. He shook his head, miserable. He checked the clock on his desk. He was not leaving until he was d.a.m.n sure she was sound asleep. Another four hours at least.

Leaning back in his executive chair, Bridgeman stretched, trying to control his anger. Ever since he got the a.s.signment to run Catapult, he had been working like a demon to inject discipline and accountability into the unit, while Tucker Andersen continued to defy him. Anyone else would have called in by now with a report-even a preliminary report-about the findings at the hunt club. Not Tucker. A half hour ago Bridgeman had looked for him, but he was not in his office or anywhere else in the building, and the day staff had gone, including Gloria. He had left a message on Tucker's handheld, but of course Tucker had not called back.

He was just about to call Gloria when his phone rang. G.o.d, he hoped it wasn't his wife. With relief he saw it was Senator Donna Leggate.

”h.e.l.lo, Mr. Bridgeman. It's a pleasure to be in touch again.” She had a strong, deep voice.

A smoker, he remembered, and a famous one at that. ”Of course, Senator Leggate. I appreciate all of your support for Langley's efforts. How can I help you?” Anyone inside the Beltway who knew anything knew she was not to be crossed. At the same time, as one of the senior members of the intelligence committee, she could be politically advantageous.

”I'm trying to locate the same former military spook-Judd Ryder,” she said. ”Mr. Ryder is in-country but no one seems to know where. I thought someone on your staff might be useful again. You know, his link with Tucker Andersen. If you can find out quickly and without bringing me into it, I would be much ... obliged.”

This was new, he thought with excitement. The pause before the last word told him she was offering him a favor in the future. In the turbulent political waters of Was.h.i.+ngton, a simple, convenient favor could be a life raft.

”As you know, I'm delighted to do anything I can,” he said sincerely. ”Tell me where you are now with the matter involving Ryder.” The request was pro forma-he needed to make sure the reason she was asking was neither illegal nor unethical. Standards were crucial to him, no matter the cost.

”Of course. Sorry, I should've started with that. The situation has become an embarra.s.sment for my const.i.tuent. As you may remember, he's a banker, and he's been trying to locate Ryder because Ryder's father left a sizable account in one of his Denver branches. My const.i.tuent still hasn't been able to reach either Ryder or his mother. Finally, in frustration he called me again. We need continued discretion in this matter. I believe there is, ah, some concern that the money might have an illegal source, and Judd Ryder could know more than he should about it. We don't want to warn him, do we?”

”Certainly not.” It would be sweet to have his suspicions confirmed that Judd Ryder was shady. ”You're a good friend of Tom O'Day, aren't you?” he asked. ”I'm a great admirer of his.” Tom O'Day had been Langley chief only a few months, but already word had spread he was knowledgeable, fair, and had the ear of the president.

”As a matter of fact, I am. I enjoy him and his wife, Marie, a lot. Perhaps you and your wife would like to join us for dinner one night?”

”Delighted, Senator,” Bridgeman said instantly. ”I'll get back to you ASAP.”

The senator ended the call.

Bridgeman sat motionless at his desk, hand resting on his telephone receiver. He snapped it up.

Using the keyed-in Catapult directory, he dialed Tucker's handheld and got the recorded message again. ”Dammit, Tucker, call me!” He hung up. The last time he had discovered Ryder's whereabouts for the senator, it had been because he had joined a conversation between Tucker and Bash Badawi. The question about Ryder had been easy to slip in, and Tucker had shown no suspicion. Bridgeman smiled to himself. Badawi was leading the hunt club investigation. He looked up Badawi and dialed.

”Yes, sir?” Badawi sounded appropriately deferential.

”Are you still at the Esti Hunt Club?”

”No, sir. I'm home. Do you want me to come back in?”

Bridgeman ignored the question. ”Why don't I have your report?”

”I haven't written it yet. I gave it verbally to Tucker.”

”I want to hear it, too.”

”Yes, sir.” Badawi started talking.

Bridgeman sat back, surprised. ”Let's be clear. You found no corpses. No blood or other signs of violence.”

”That's right. As I said, the place had been sanitized.”

Or nothing had happened there at all, Bridgeman thought to himself. He drummed his fingers on his desktop. ”Where's Tucker now?”

”He said he was going to Maryland, to Martin Chapman's farm.”

Bridgeman frowned. ”Why?”

”Don't know, sir.”

Bridgeman remembered a rumor that Chapman had ordered the death of Ryder's father.

”Is Judd Ryder going to Chapman's place, too?” Bridgeman asked.

”Yes, sir.”

Are they going there to confront Chapman? Bridgeman wondered. He ended the call then dialed Senator Leggate. He got right to the point: ”Judd Ryder and Tucker Andersen are, or soon will be, at Martin Chapman's place in Maryland.”

”You're certain?” She sounded as surprised as he had felt.

”Absolutely.”

”You're a man of your word. I'll get you together with the O'Days.”

”Thank you for the opportunity to help you, Senator. It's been a pleasure.”

Hanging up, he sat motionless, digesting. He'd had two good wins. First, he had scored big with Senator Leggate, and second, he had caught Tucker operating outside CIA protocols-way out. This time, Bridgeman had him by the short hairs.

31.

Montgomery County, Maryland After inspecting the guards' locker room in Chapman's mansion, Ryder changed into a green sweatsuit, slung a bandolier across his chest, and chose an M4 from the gun cabinet. He checked the weapon then paced the guards' locker room, waiting for Tucker and responding to his texts. Every second increased his chances of being discovered. There was a clipboard hanging near the door. It listed the guards' schedule. Finally he s.n.a.t.c.hed it and left, following the route he had seen the yawning guard take down the short hall to a closed door.

Opening it, he saw a long, deserted corridor that extended across the building's rear. It was just wide enough for a serving cart-the staff's pa.s.sageway. An air of emptiness enveloped him. It felt almost as if no one lived here. Despite the mansion's vast size, no floorboards creaked, no voices conversed. Guards, cooks, the Eichels, and Chapman were on the premises, but still there was an eerie silence.

He needed to get up to the second floor. To the left were doors that opened into the front of the house, where there would be some kind of grand staircase. To the right he could see near the end of the corridor what he needed-a stairwell. It would be the servants' stairs, much less high profile. But before he could reach it, he had to pa.s.s an open doorway. Light from it spilled into the corridor, and now at last there was noise. It came from that room-the sound of a chair squeaking.

He decided to check the front staircase. But before he could turn away, a guard stepped from the room pointing an M4 directly at him as if he had known he was there. The guard's wiry brown eyebrows were lowered over dark eyes that had the thick look of sleep. His cheek was creased as if it had been resting against something. He was the same man Ryder had seen leaving the locker room earlier. He seemed to have just awakened from an on-the-job nap.

”Who the f.u.c.k are you?” he demanded.

”I'm the new man,” Ryder spoke firmly. ”Did you write these d.a.m.n orders?” He raised the clipboard that listed the guards' schedule.

”Troy didn't say we had a new man.”