The van spun around and almost turned over. The engine stalled and The Rock ground the starter as they skidded onto the right shoulder. Again, the van rocked, almost going into the drainage ditch next to the road. “Come on, you piece of shit!” he roared. The engine came to life as the rear wheels slid off the shoulder and into the ditch. “Easy does it,” The Rock cautioned himself as he gentled the van out of the ditch. The rear wheels started to slip in the loose dirt and he slipped the van into reverse. They rocked forward and the wheels started to grip. Out of the side of his eye, he saw men piling out of the rear of the truck, all hooded and carrying submachine guns.
Gunfire raked the back of the van, shattering the windows. “Fuck you!” The Rock shouted as the van inched forward. They were moving just as a dark figure reached The Rock’s door. A three-shot burst of submachine gun fire cut into the window and glass splintered into The Rock’s face. “Hold it right there, fuckface,” the hooded man shouted.
The Rock spread the fingers of both hands over the top of the steering wheel, his face a mass of blood.
1:50
P.M.
, Saturday, July 24,
Kansas City
The two Secret Service agents had arrived when Toni, Sutherland, and Mather returned from lunch. Introductions were made all around and the task force, now fully formed, got to the business at hand: the investigation of the murder of Harry Waldon and Andrea Hall, and the source of the money used to pay off McGraw and Jefferson.
“Capt. Sutherland,” the lead FBI agent said, “Agent Moreno tells us that Jefferson gave you the information indicating he has a secret bank account in Switzerland.”
“Yes, he did,” Sutherland said. “And please call me Hank, I’m not on active duty.” He produced the business card and handed it to them. It was passed around the table and examined with care. “I keep wondering why he did it.”
“That’s a question we’ll have to ask him,” the lead FBI agent replied.
One of the Secret Service agents coughed for attention. “It was a timely tip. We’re in contact with the Swiss government. Typical of the Swiss, they’ve agreed to cooperate—sort of. They want to discuss the matter with our investigators before opening up any bank records.”
The lead FBI agent rubbed his head. “Who wants to tackle the gnomes of Zurich on this one?” Brent Mather and Toni were the only ones not shaking his head or uttering obscenities about the high cost of travel that was not reimbursed by the government, or the ways of the Swiss when it came to money. “Whoever goes will get to spend a few days cooling his or her heels in some Swiss hotel. He almost added “at government expense,” but the agents knew better. “July in Switzerland? Doesn’t sound bad to me.” He still had no takers.
“I’ll take it,” Mather said. “Perhaps Agent Moreno should come too since she has been involved from the very first.”
“I’ve got an official passport,” Toni said. She obviously liked the idea.
“We’re dealing with two money trails here,” Sutherland said, suddenly worried about Toni and Mather being alone in a Swiss hotel with time on their hands. “The first one is tied to Ramar, McGraw, the B-Two, and the murders. We don’t know where the one to Jefferson and Switzerland will take us.”
“Probably right back to Ramar,” the senior FBI agent said.
“Hank,” Toni said, “why don’t you come with us? Maybe the Swiss are impressed with celebrities.”
“Only if they read the
Kansas City Star
,” Mather groused. The matter was rapidly settled and Sutherland, Toni, and Mather were to leave Monday for Bern.
“Any progress on Ramar?” Sutherland asked.
“He’s as slippery as an eel,” one of the Secret Service agents said. “We need to get a handle on him.”
“Actually, he’s not hard to understand at all,” Sutherland said. “The crime reflects who he is.”
“We got another profiler here, folks,” the lead FBI agent said. A few chuckles echoed around the room. The FBI had led the effort in developing the technique of criminal profiling to identify the characteristics of unknown mass killers. “We know who did it,” the agent said. “We just gotta find him.”
“I prosecuted quite a few of his type,” Sutherland explained. “It gives you a chance to get inside their heads.”
“It must be pretty dark inside Ramar’s head,” Mather said.
“Murky black,” Sutherland replied. “He’s above average in intelligence, a control freak, and a sociopath. He likes to hurt people, it makes him feel powerful and in control. He’s an expediter who can move around with ease to get things done. Because of that, gangs, crime families, drug cartels, and terrorist groups use him. But above all else, he’s a vicious thug who will kill anyone who gets in his way. In fact, murder is his solution of choice when confronted with a problem.”
“A real sweetheart of a guy,” the lead FBI agent said. “So, where is he?”
“It depends on what he knows,” Sutherland answered. “My guess is that he made a connection between Mo Habib, Harry, and Andrea. We’ll probably never know for sure. A logical target is Diana Habib, but she’s out of the country.”
“Can he reach out and touch her?” Toni asked.
“Oh yeah,” Sutherland answered. “Even in Brazil. How quick he finds her depends on his connections there.”
The lead FBI agent scanned the computer printout on Ramar. “Damn. He’s got ’em. In fact, for a low-level scumbag, he’s got connections everywhere.”
“I better call Diana and warn her,” Toni said. “She trusts me and wants to stay in touch.”
“Toni,” Sutherland said, “if Ramar gets to Diana, he may make the connection to you.”
“Or me,” Mather said.
“That creates certain possibilities,” one of the secret service agents said.
“We’re not going to use the Habib woman or any of my agents to bait a trap,” the lead FBI agent told him. “This guy is too dangerous.” The discussion went on for another twenty minutes while Toni used a phone in the outer office to call Diana Habib in Brazil.
“I finally got through,” Toni told them. “She’s okay. I’ll stay in contact.”
The phone rang and the lead FBI agent picked it up. He listened for a few moments as his grip tightened, his knuckles turning white. “Yeah,” he muttered, “we’ll get right on it.” He dropped the phone into its cradle. “That was my boss. We’ve got new marching orders. The van taking Jefferson to Leavenworth was ambushed. They dragged Jefferson out of the van and executed him on the spot.”
“The Brigades,” Sutherland muttered.
10:30
P.M.
, Saturday, July 24,
The Farm, Western Virginia
Rios knocked on the door to Durant’s suite, counted to ten, and pushed on through. Durant was still up, waiting for the news. As expected, he was alone and the woman was in the bedroom, giving them the privacy Durant demanded. “By and large, it went like clockwork,” Rios said. “One man was injured, nothing serious.”
Durant breathed a sigh of relief. “That’s one problem solved.” He stood up to go to bed. “I’m getting too old for this.”
“You’ve got a lot of balls in the air on this one, Boss.”
Durant heard the worry in Rios’s voice and saw the concern on his face. “Let’s hope the next one comes down as smoothly.” He glanced at an antique carriage clock on the mantel and ran a hand through his hair. “We’re running out of time on the rescue. I wish Serick hadn’t leaked it to Meredith. God only knows what he will say or do with it.”
“He is getting more unpredictable. We can always accelerate the timing and give him something else to think about.”
Durant considered the suggestion. “Is Collingswood ready to go?”
“He arrived in Sacramento yesterday.”
10:00
A.M.
, Saturday, July 24,
Kansas City
The Rock was sitting up in the hospital bed, finally able to talk. The surgeon who had worked on him in the operating room hovered in the background, ready to cut off the questioning at the first adverse sign. Flying glass had badly cut The Rock’s left cheek and it had taken the doctor over three hours and two hundred stitches to patch him up. Another bandage was over his left eye where an ophthalmologist had carefully removed glass shards from his eyeball. But The Rock was totally coherent as he answered the questions from the agents crowded into the room.
“After they stopped us,” he said, his voice all the more chilling because of the total lack of emotion, “they dragged Jefferson out of the van and into the field. They made him kneel down and two men started firing. It sounded like they emptied their clips into him. Figure sixty rounds.”
“So they executed him on the spot,” the lead FBI agent said. “What happened then?”
“The one who had shot out my window handed me a bandage and told me to drive on. I didn’t argue.”
“So you never got out of the car,” Toni asked.
“That’s correct,” The Rock answered. “None of us did.”
“How far away were you when they shot Jefferson?” Toni asked.
“Approximately twenty-five yards, give or take a couple.”
“And you saw them shoot Jefferson, even though your eye was full of blood?” another FBI agent asked.
“That’s correct. But both gunmen were between me and Jefferson.”
“Did you get a license number for the truck?” Toni asked.
“No, ma’am, I didn’t.”
“Too bad they were all wearing hoods,” the lead FBI agent said.
“I recognized the shooter who did this,” The Rock said, gesturing at his bandages.
The Treasury agent was incredulous. “Without seeing a face?”
“That’s correct. I recognized his voice and mannerisms. It was Jim Bob.”
The lead FBI agent did a good imitation of a man exploding.
“Jim Bob Harrison?” The Rock nodded.
“That’s impossible,” the Secret Service agent croaked. “He’s one of our informants.”
“We thought,” an FBI agent said, “that he was one of Meredith’s goons.”
“There’s a clue,” The Rock replied. “It might help if you all started talking to each other.”
4:43
A.M.
, Sunday, July 25,
Whiteman Air Force Base, Mo.
Sutherland came awake with a jolt. He was on the couch in his VOQ room, the TV on, the remote control still clenched in his right hand.
How long was I asleep?
he wondered. Ghostly images flitted across the TV screen. The station was off the air. He channel surfed until he found CNC-TV News. A glamorous reporter in her mid-forties was standing on the steps of the federal court building in Kansas City. Her cameraman had arranged the lighting so she was stage front with a statue of Justice a heavy shadow fading into the background. “You got that one right,” Sutherland muttered to himself.
“A spokeswoman for the Department of Justice has confirmed that Capt. Bradley Jefferson was killed late Saturday afternoon while being transported to Leavenworth Prison.” He listened to her words, each one a spike in his conscience. A battered white van flashed on the screen. It was a graphic picture of what The Rock had described to them. The camera was back on the reporter. “So far, the authorities have not found Jefferson’s body. But a massive hunt is underway to find the killers and Jefferson’s remains. This is Elizabeth Gordon for CNC-TV News.”
The newscast shifted to a reporter conducting interviews at a local all-night diner. One puffed up, overweight matron declared that “The Lord’s justice was done” while a scruffy looking taxi driver contented himself with “He done got what he deserved. Them folks should be given a medal.”
Sutherland flicked the TV off and got up. He walked to the window and pulled back the curtains. The eastern horizon was glowing with the first light of morning. “God damn them to hell,” he muttered. “All of them.” But it didn’t do any good. His demon of responsibility was back, riding him hard. He fussed around, packing for the trip to Switzerland the next day. But nothing helped. Finally, he changed into his running clothes and slipped outside.
Without a warm-up, he started to run, never slowing, increasing his pace as his body responded. He looped through base housing before turning to the east and the rising sun. He reached Arnold Avenue, the road that paralleled the flight line with its high security fence. His lungs ached and his gut hurt but still he pressed the pace, refusing to slow. He had to cut a deal with his conscience: I’ll punish my body if you’ll shut up. But nothing helped. Finally, his brain kicked in and he slowed.
What sort of masochist am I turning into?
he wondered.
The clerk at the VOQ desk waved a folded piece of paper at Sutherland when he came in. It was a note from Blasedale. She wanted to see him before she left for Texas that morning. He trotted up the stairs and down the hall to her quarters. She answered on the first knock. “I was afraid I’d miss you,” she said. He stepped inside. Her bags were packed and she was dressed for the drive to Texas. “Hank, I’m worried about you.”
“Don’t be.”
“I saw you out running, it was like the other day. It’s Jefferson, isn’t it?” He nodded. She looked at him, her eyes full of concern. “Hank, you can’t blame yourself for that.”
He collapsed onto her couch and she sat down beside him. “Really? Then who is to blame? I took an innocent man to trial and he pled guilty. I don’t know why. Now he’s dead. Where’s the justice in that?”
“Hank, there is the money.”
“I know, but it doesn’t fit.” He buried his head in his hands. “God dammit, nothing makes sense anymore. For a moment, I thought I had it all sorted out. But now Jefferson’s dead and we’ll never know the truth.”
She looked at him and made a decision. “Hank, I need to apologize for what I said Friday. I didn’t want to leave that hanging in the air between us. I was angry because I thought you had slept with Toni and I couldn’t handle it.” She gave a little laugh, half self-deprecating, half in jest. “Look at me. Middle-aged, starting to sag in all the wrong places, and a spinster. How I hate that word.”
“You’re being too hard on yourself. You’ve got a highly successful career.”
Her eyes filled with tears. “Do you know what having a successful career means at my age? It means I’m alone. No family, no children, no roots in the past, no future. And I was jealous of Toni for having a future. For having you.”
“There’s someone waiting for you,” he said. “You just haven’t found him yet.”
She smiled bravely. He didn’t understand. She was back in control and her eyes were clear. She smiled at him. “There’s something I want to give you.” She handed him a small velvet-covered box. “Please, open it.” He did as she asked. Inside were a set of major’s leaves, the gold tarnished from years of wear. “The first woman general in the Air Force wore these when she was a major. She passed them on to a female lieutenant who made colonel before she retired. She gave them to another woman who gave them to me. I suppose I was to pass them on to another woman, but I want you to have them.”
“Cathy, I can’t accept these. I don’t plan on staying in the service. Maybe a few more years in the reserves until I get my book published, but that’s all. I’ll probably never make major.”
“Then pass them on.”
“To a woman?”
“It doesn’t matter. It’s time we broke that chain and realize we’re all in this together.” She looked around. “I’ve got to go.”
“I’ll help you load,” he said. He picked up three of her bags and carried them outside. They quickly packed her car and she sat in the driver’s seat. “I really did like your perfume.”
“I know.” He started to speak but she reached out the window and touched his lips, silencing him. “Shush. It’s time to go. See you in court.” She pulled her hand away and started the car. Then she was gone.
“I’ll be damned,” he murmured to himself. He had only meant to ask for her phone number to stay in contact. His eyes followed her car until it was out of sight.
2:00
P.M.
, Sunday, July 25,
Sacramento, Calif.
When Marcy arrived at the Virgin Sturgeon, the trendy restaurant on the banks of the Sacramento River was jammed with afternoon boaters, a few state politicians socializing with lobbyists, and the usual number of groupies, all young, of firm body and skimpy attire. Marcy wasn’t exactly sure who she was looking for, the phone call had been very cryptic, but the male caller had said all the right words and he seemed to know her. He wanted to meet in a hotel room but she picked the restaurant, a very public place. She found a seat at the bar, ordered a drink, and settled in to wait.
The time passed slowly, and she was ready to leave when the bartender set another drink in front of her. “The older guy on the back deck sent it over,” he said. Marcy smiled at the bartender and carried the drink outside. The man was sitting in the shade, obviously uncomfortable being in a bar where most of the patrons were younger than his children. Marcy decided he was a CPA, dull and stolid. She sat down.
“I was watching you,” he said, “screwing up my courage.” He spoke with a decided upper class English accent. “I almost left.”
“New to this?” she asked. He nodded and slipped a manila envelope across the table. She didn’t touch it. “What’s inside?”
“You need to read it,” he said.
“Thanks for the drink,” she said, starting to get up.
“Please, wait.” He didn’t see her press the Record button on her microcassette recorder through the fabric of her small handbag. She sat the bag on the table as he talked in a low voice. “I’m the comptroller of, well, let me describe it as a large company with international connections. Jonathan Meredith has been collecting so-called ‘campaign contributions’ from my board of directors. It is tantamount to extortion. I have many contacts in the industry and I can tell you, we are not the only ones.”
“Questionable, but not necessarily illegal,” Marcy said.
“Wait until you see the amounts and where it’s going.”
“Where is the money going?”
“To offshore bank accounts in the Cayman Islands where it ends up in one of Meredith’s secret accounts.”
“I’m supposed to believe you have access to that information? Give me a break, not even the CIA can crack a Cayman bank.”
He fidgeted. “Please, look at what’s there.” Marcy had the strong impression he was about to wet his pants. She shook her head and moved to stand up. “Please, wait. Strictly off the record. My name is Herbert Collingswood and I am a comptroller. But I am also the chief foreign financial adviser to the Bank of China. We own about half the banks in the Caymans, something Meredith doesn’t know—nobody knows.”
It was a confidence she would keep. “And the other half?”
“Split about evenly between the Mafia, drug cartels, and Middle Eastern countries like Iran, Libya, Syria, and Iraq.”
“Why are you doing this?”
“Because my board of directors wants me to.”
“You mean China’s government wants you to.” Marcy took his silence to mean agreement. “Is Beijing meddling in U.S. politics again?”
He frowned, a very unhappy man. These were questions he didn’t want to answer. But there was no Fifth Amendment in effect at the Virgin Sturgeon. “Not by choice,” he finally said. “Meredith is dragging us in.”
“He has that much leverage?”
“You don’t know how powerful and well connected he’s become.” He nudged the envelope her way. “Inside is proof, including his Cayman account numbers and access protocols. If you don’t believe me, try transferring money. It can make you a very wealthy young lady.”
“And a very dead one if what you say is true. The window of my car is cracked open. Shove it in there.” She gave him the make and license number of her car before she wandered back to the bar for another drink. Her hands were shaking.
8:28
P.M.
, Sunday, July 25,
Whiteman Air Force Base, Mo.
Lt. Col. Jim West crawled out of the right seat of the simulator’s cockpit and stretched. He flexed his right hand and massaged his aching fingers with his left hand. He was tired after the long practice mission and needed to get into crew rest. “It’s a take,” he told the officer from the mission-planning cell who had rotated in and out of the simulator, monitoring the practice mission and making corrections as glitches popped up. He handed him the two digital mission cassettes that held the data for the entire mission.
“We’ve still got three weapons,” West said. One of the original four targets needed two bombs to guarantee destruction.