Authors: James Patterson
"Well, our boy's never been arrested, naturalized, federally employed, in the military — no big surprises. He doesn't have any known aliases either. And he doesn't cross-reference in any Bureau file, under Tony or Anthony Nicholson."
"I don't think he's our killer," I said.
Mahoney stopped what he was doing and gave me his attention. "Because?"
"There're too many loose ends here," I explained. "Nicholson's obviously one of them, but that's all he is, Ned. It's like that old story about the five blind men and all the elephant parts."
"Which makes Nicholson what —
the
asshole?
"
I had to laugh. Mahoney is never without a quick response, and he's at his best when the pressure's on.
"I think someone came after the same thing we're looking for, only they got to him first. Which just means they have more puzzle pieces to work with than we do."
"Or" — Mahoney held up a finger — "he staged his own disappearance. It wouldn't be hard — drop a few suitcases, bust up some furniture, and he's halfway over the Atlantic with his little snuff film collection while page 51
we're still dusting the house for prints."
We batted possibilities around some more, until another call came in. Whatever it was got Mahoney excited —
again. He punched an address into his laptop.
A few seconds later, we were following the GPS onto the Beltway toward Alexandria — but not to Nicholson's house.
"Avalon Apartments," Mahoney said. "Nicholson came up on a tenant database. Guess he missed a payment or something."
"A rental?" I said. "In the same town where he already lives?" Mahoney nodded. "Lives with his
wife,
" he said, "who I'm betting is at least fifteen years older than whoever we find behind door number two. What do you say — twenty bucks?"
"No bet."
"We don't need to be here," he said. "She doesn't know anything. I promise you." The one who had ruined Nicholson's leg opened the passenger door. "Who knows?" he said. "Maybe you talk in your sleep."
He got out and went to the front door. Then he used one of Nicholson's keys to let himself in. Nicholson was thinking that he still might be able to save himself, and maybe Mara. He had a surreal image of her beautiful face trapped inside a plastic bag.
The driver was tall and blond — like him — with pale eyes and a square forehead. He looked more intelligent than the spic. Maybe he was more reasonable too.
"Listen," Nicholson said in a whisper. "I do know what you're looking for. I can help you get it, but not without some kind of exit strategy for me."
The man sat straight and still, staring out the windshield as if Nicholson hadn't spoken.
"I'm willing to make a deal, is what I'm saying."
Still nothing from the front seat.
"For the disk. Of
Zeus.
Do you hear me? I'll tell you where it is."
"Yeah," the blond guy finally said. "You will."
"So . . . why won't you make a deal? Now? Here? Why the hell not?" The driver's fingers drummed lightly on the wheel. "Because we're going to kill you anyway. You and the girlfriend."
Nicholson felt a hollow beating in his chest, and he was finally feeling as if nothing mattered anymore. He laughed, a little desperately.
"Jesus, friend, I don't mean to tell you your job, but then why the hell would I —" All at once, the driver turned, reached down, and squeezed the soft parts of Nicholson's mangled knee. The pain was instant and stunning. His jaw dropped open even as his throat closed up. Nicholson couldn't breathe, much less scream, and in the strange silence, his tormentor's low voice was easy to hear.
"Because at some point, friend, you're going to stop wanting to live and start wanting to die. Understand? And if you haven't told us what we want to know by then — believe me, you will."
"You okay?"
page 52
"Jesus, Tony, what's going on? He told me he was the police. Showed me a badge. Is he?"
"Just don't say anything," Nicholson told her quietly. His injured leg felt as though it were going to explode. It was nearly impossible to focus, and Mara's being here only made matters worse. A whole lot worse, actually. Nicholson loved her.
She was the complete opposite of Charlotte. For one thing, she knew too much. For another, she was New York Irish Italian. Keeping their mouths shut wasn't exactly a strong suit for most New Yorkers.
"What do they want?" she pressed. "Where are they taking us? Tony,
tell me.
"
"That's a bloody good question." Nicholson said, and kicked the back of the seat with his good foot. He shouted at them. "Where the fuck do you think you're taking us?" That got him a backhand across the cheekbone with the .45. He felt the pain, but it was getting hard to care. In fact, pain could be considered a good thing — it meant he was still alive, didn't it?
"Whatever this is, I don't work for him anymore," Mara was already telling the two men in front. "You have to believe me. I'll tell you anything you want to know. I was the bookkeeper."
"Shut up, Mara," Nicholson said. "Won't do any good anyway."
"He's been shaking people down. Important people. For money. Taping them and —" He leaned into her, which was about all he could do. "Mara, I'm warning you."
"Or what, Tony? It's a little late for warnings, isn't it? I shouldn't even be here." Her dark brown eyes flashed fear and anger, the same things he was feeling, so it was hard to completely blame her. "I'm talking about big names," she rattled on. "Rich guys. Politicians, Wall Street, lawyers, that kind of thing —"
"Yeah, yeah." The driver cut her off. "Tell us something we don't already know. Otherwise, like the man said
— shut up, Mara."
"communities," with their own everything. Rents here were as high as thirty-five hundred a month, according to Mahoney and his laptop.
"You know, my aunt lives in a place like this, down in Vero Beach, Florida. They have a two-pet maximum, but she's got four identical little dogs. Just walks them two at a time." I sort of listened, until we came onto Nicholson's block. "Hey, Ned. See that?" A dark blue sedan was just pulling out of a driveway about fifty yards ahead. "Is that Nicholson's building?" Mahoney sat up and closed the laptop. "Could be. Let's find out." The other car started up the block, heading right toward us. It had DC plates. Two men in front, two passengers in back who were harder to see.
As we passed, I looked in, and for just a second I locked eyes with Tony Nicholson.
Ned was already on the phone. "This is Mahoney. I have command of the target, Nicholson. We're in pursuit of a blue, Pontiac G6, DC plates."
We came around another corner, and I saw them stopped at the compound's exit.
"One for the good guys!" Ned said, and pumped a fist. There was a solid stream of traffic on Eisenhower page 53
blocking them in, and for maybe a second, I thought we might get through this cleanly. Then the Pontiac's doors opened on both sides and two men came out — firing!
A bullet pierced my windshield with a dull popping sound before Ned or I could get out. I threw open my door and rolled onto the street. Mahoney also got out the driver's side and stayed low. From where I was, in a gully, I could only see the sedan's driver. He looked military to me, tall, with a blond buzz cut — and still firing. I didn't shoot back, didn't dare.
The problem was the traffic stopped behind him. There wasn't a safe shot I could take. He seemed to figure that out, and broke for the nearest building.
As he passed the large Avalon sign fronting the complex, I fired off a fast, controlled double tap. Two shells kicked over my shoulder. The blond man went down with the second one.
But we weren't out of this yet, not by a long shot. Mahoney was up and firing. I could see the other man now, down in the street. He had a wet hole in the leg of his pants, but he got up again.
"Drop your weapon!" Mahoney shouted, as the man began to hobble away. I came around to cover from a second angle, just as the guy raised a .45 at Mahoney. Both our shots got off before his. He spasmed twice when they hit, and still managed to pull the trigger one more time. His shot nearly clipped Ned, who dropped and fired back. The last bullet caught the guy in the shoulder.
The shooter was alive when we got to him, wide-eyed and tremoring, his finger still on the trigger. Ned stepped on his wrist and pulled the .45 out of his hand.
"Hang in there," I told him. "Ambulance is on its way." He was in bad shape, though. A wound in his stomach was pumping blood, too much and too fast. While Mahoney ran to Nicholson and the woman, I pulled off my jacket and pressed it to the wound.
"Who do you work for?" I asked.
I wasn't sure if he could hear me. He didn't look scared, but his eyes were like saucers. When he tried to swallow, foamy blood came through his lips. My jacket was already soaked.
"Tell me!"
I finally shouted at him. "Who sent you here?" The gunman's breath hitched, and his grip went tight on my arm — just before everything went lax. He died without saying a word that might help us understand, well, anything about what was happening.
Tony Nicholson and his presumed girlfriend, Mara Kelly, were both mute except to say that they hadn't done anything wrong and they had no idea who the dead men were. That's as much as we got before the FBI took them into custody.
By now, the response team had swelled to three Bureau cars, Alexandria police, EMTs, and the local sheriff's department. As soon as I could, I called Bree to check in.
That's when I realized that my phone had been off for hours — ever since the sweep at the private club out in Culpeper. When I turned it on, there were three voice mails waiting — all from Bree. Right away I got nervous.
I listened to the first message. "Hey, it's me. Listen, the doctors are concerned about Nana's kidney function. They say her fluid levels aren't what they should be. There's no prognosis yet, but you should give me a call. Love you."
I turned toward my car now and started walking, not at all sure I wanted to hear the second message.
"Alex, it's Bree. I tried the Bureau, but nobody seems to know where you are. I don't have Ned's cell. I'm not sure what else to do. Nana isn't good. I hope you get this soon."
I was running, but the third message nearly stopped me cold on the spot.
"Alex, where are you? I hate to leave this on your phone, but . . . Nana's gone into a coma. I'm going back in now, so you won't be able to reach me anymore. Get here as soon as you can." page 54
Agent Cormorant, however, kept his jacket on. It was specially tailored to conceal a .357 SIG Sauer pistol holstered under his right arm, and though the event was distinctly low-threat, it was not in Cormorant's professional DNA to take anything for granted, especially not these days. Secret Service had been covering the sprawling Victorian residence since 1972. The Rockefellers had never moved in, but the Mondales, Bushes, Quayles, Gores, and Cheneys had all lived here before the Tillmans. Every corner of the place was well documented, literally. Cormorant knew the house better than his own two-bedroom condo on M.
So when he needed a private word with the vice president, it was second nature to access the library through a back sitting room, to avoid being seen coming or going by any of the guests. Tillman poured himself a scotch rocks and waited by the mantel while Cormorant closed and latched doors at both ends of the room.
"What is it that can't wait, Dan?" Tillman asked.
"I should tell you right now, sir, that I'm about to step way out of line here," Cormorant said. Tillman sipped his drink. "That's something new. The warning, I mean." The two men were friends, as much as men in their positions could be. Someday they'd share fishing trips and holidays, but for now, it was Mr. Vice President and Agent Cormorant — protectee and protector.
"Sir, I think it's time you brought the president in on Zeus. Specifically the fact that someone connected to the White House or the Cabinet might be a killer."
Tillman's expression hardened instantly and he set his drink down. "The president knows that much. I took care of it. We still need facts. We need a name." Tillman had already been briefed about the FBI raid in Virginia, but not on the latest developments. Cormorant quickly brought him up to speed, including the cameras found at the sex club.
"No one's talking specifically about Zeus yet, but if any recordings happen to be found, it won't matter what he calls himself."
"When did this come out?" Tillman asked. He seemed visibly shaken now.
"Today. This afternoon."
"And how do you know about it already?"
Cormorant maintained eye contact with the VP, and also what he hoped was a discernibly respectful silence.
"Right," Tillman said. "Never mind. Go on, please. Sorry I interrupted you."
"It's actually the attorney general who might be able to do something about this. If there were any manageable pretense for sidelining the investigation or even slowing it down —" Suddenly Tillman seemed angry, but it was always hard to tell with him.
"Hang on right there. You want the president to lean on the AG? Do you even know what you're suggesting? A Cabinet member could be involved."
"It's not about what I want, sir. This has always been about protecting President Vance and this administration."
A burst of laughter came from just beyond the foyer-side door. Cormorant didn't waver, except to lower his voice a notch.
"I'm not suggesting we try to bury this scandal. I just need a little space to see if we can find out who Zeus is. If I can do that, then the White House will be in a better position to control the information when it comes out —
and it
is
going to come out, sir, one way or another, sooner or later."
"What does Reese have to say about this?" Tillman asked. "You ask him? Does he know about the cameras?"
"I briefed the chief of staff this afternoon, but nothing was said about bringing everything to the president. I wanted to speak with you first."
"Don't play me against him, Dan. And don't play me against President Vance. The president has my complete loyalty."
"I'm not trying to, sir —"
"No. All right. Here's what you're going to do." Tillman had a way of shifting from inquiry to decision without warning, and it had just happened. "Talk to Gabe about this, and speak your mind with him. If he wants to bring it back to me, we'll go from there. Otherwise, you and I never had this conversation." page 55
The vice president was already halfway to the door when Cormorant's voice rose for the first time.
"Walter!" It was the kind of protocol breach that could send an agent down the ranks fast, under most circumstances, anyway. "I can find him. Zeus. Just give me the time to do it." Tillman stopped, but he didn't turn around. "Talk to Gabe" was all he would say, and when he continued out of the room, Agent Cormorant had no choice but to follow.
The conversation was over, and the crab was getting cold in the other room.