Fatal (13 page)

“I was trying to surprise you with breakfast in bed, but it went horribly wrong. I don't have a toaster, so I decided to toast the bread in the oven, but it started burning.”
 

She gestured and pointed animatedly as she spoke. “And when I pulled the plate out that it was on, I burned my hand.” She pointed at a singed cloth on the floor. “And then I tried a napkin, but it touched the element and started burning as well.”

Neil looked around at the mess in the kitchen. Smoldering toast was scattered on the floor, and a burnt rag was tossed into a pan filled with oil. It caught alight.

“Shit, the eggs!” Alexa shrieked, ran to the faucet, then filled a cup with water.

“Wait!” Neil roared. “It will explode.”

He ran to the bathroom and ripped a towel off the rail, tossed it in the tub, and dunked it in the water. He scrambled to the kitchen and dumped the towel on top of the burning pan. The towel hissed and extinguished the flames.

“What a mess,” Alexa said looking around dejectedly, wiping her hands on the front of her T-shirt. “I’ll order us breakfast.”

Neil sauntered to the fridge and opened it. It was well stocked. “No wait, I'll make us something.”

Alexa disconnected the call and frowned at Neil. “Can you cook?”

"Very well. I was a bit of a mama’s boy.” He opened and closed cupboard doors, familiarizing himself with the kitchen. “Your kitchen is fully stocked, how come you don’t ever cook?”
 

Alexa shrugged and plonked onto a chair. “Well, I always did the shopping and my mom did the cooking. I never had to cook for myself in the Legion.” She sat with one leg on the chair and the other bouncing up and down. “I guess it makes me feel good to do a bit of domestic work, like I’m more normal,” she said, twisting her hair around a finger.
 

Neil tore his eyes away from her and removed eggs, flour, and bacon from the fridge. He placed it on a table in the center of the kitchen. “Would you be OK making coffee?” he asked uncertainly. You never knew.

Alexa slid off the chair then sauntered seductively towards him. “I’ll try.”

Neil removed cutlery and plates from drawers and shelves. He proceeded to crack some eggs into a mixing bowl and added flour and milk. “Do you like crepes?”

“I’ll eat anything, I'm absolutely starving,” she said then slapped him on the bottom.

Neil prepared a breakfast of eggs Benedict on ham, and crêpe suzettes to finish off with. Alexa wolfed it down and chased it with a couple cups of coffee. Neil watched her eat with an astonished smile. She might turn on him next. Which wouldn’t be such a bad idea.

Alexa leaned back and stretched contentedly. Her T-shirt crept up, revealing her legs and flat tummy. “Thanks, that was delicious. I could get used to this.”

Neil stood up and grabbed her hand. “Let’s go burn some of those calories,” he said, playfully.

Alexa smiled and grabbed the two loops on the front of Neil's jeans. She pulled him closer and kissed him, throwing her arms around his neck, then took him by the hand and led him to the bedroom. “Let’s.”

Alexa was jogging on the beach, heading towards the Strand, when her phone rang in her in-ear headphones and automatically dimmed the music. She answered by pressing a button on the microphone. “Alexa Guerra.”

“Hello, Captain, General Laiveaux here.”

Alexa slowed down and stopped. “General, how are you?”

The general was excited. “I’m excellent, thank you for asking. Your hidden camera has given us some more valuable intel. Another shipment is headed for the United States.”

“Will you intercept it, General?” Alexa asked, wiping her brow with the back of her hand.

“I don’t think so, Captain. This would be the ideal opportunity to arrest the men involved.”

“OK . . .”

Laiveaux continued. “The shipment is arriving in Mozambique today. From there it is destined for Newark, in the States.”

“All right, General. What are my orders?” she asked.

“I will have the container tagged with a tracking device in Mozambique. I need you to follow it from its arrival in Newark to its final destination,” he said.

Alexa nodded. “All right, General. I will book our flights today. When should I leave?”

“Send Voelkner and Latorre to establish base. The shipment won’t arrive for another week or so. I need you to follow up on the information that you received from Callahan. We need to find out what Metcalfe’s involvement is,” Laiveaux said.

“What would be the preferred interrogation method, General? Covert?”

“Direct interrogation. Under duress,” Laiveaux answered. “We need to establish the link quickly. If he’s funding the operation, the sooner we remove him from the equation, the sooner this whole house of cards comes tumbling down.”

“You do realize that kidnapping a member of the House is a federal crime, General?” Alexa asked.

Laiveaux chuckled. “When has that ever stopped us, Captain?”

Alexa nodded. “All right, General.” She marched towards the road. “Latorre and Voelkner could scope out Metcalfe until the shipment arrives. He lives in Manhattan.”

“Good. Alexa, the consignments are increasing. They are expecting four more containers this month. We need to nail these guys ASAP.”

Alexa turned around and jogged back to her apartment. “I understand, General.”

Neil gazed out of the window. The sky looked grey and ominous; fat drops of water clung to the glass before inevitably succumbing to gravity and meandering in rivulets to the bottom of the pane. People on the beach who had been caught in the storm were jogging for cover, clinging to hats, and being buffeted by the wind. The sudden gale belted the crests of the waves, spraying water into the air.
 

Neil cupped his chin in his hand and studied the scribbled note that Frydman had popped into his hand a couple of days ago.

I think we have a problem. Meet me at the Yukon Park at 7:00 p.m.

Alexa strolled out of the bathroom. She wore an oversized white bathrobe and patted her hair with a towel. Neil put the note back in his pocket.

“You hungry?” she asked, squeezing his shoulder.

Neil nodded.

“You want an egg on toast?” she asked.

He linked his fingers into hers and pulled her closer. “Scrambled or boiled?”
 

Alexa pushed him away and punched him on the shoulder. “Boiled, obviously. You make the toast.”

Alexa led him into the kitchen. They busied themselves preparing the meal, but Alexa looked preoccupied. They sat at the kitchen table and dished up the simple meal.

“What are we going to do about Metcalfe?” she asked, biting into a slice of toast.

Neil looked at her for a second before answering. “We find him. We question him.”

“OK, that’s simple enough. How do we find him, Sergeant?” Alexa asked, shoving his knee playfully with her foot.

Neil grabbed it and massaged it gently. “Follow his itinerary. Grab him when he least expects it.”

She held up a finger and fetched her laptop from the bedroom, then she put her foot back on his lap, opened her laptop, and typed a search query into Google. Neil massaged the bridge of her foot with his thumb.

“He’s giving a speech at the House of Representatives on Friday. Ooh, that feels good,” she said.

Neil stopped for a moment and looked up. “Nope, too much security.”

She scrolled her finger down Metcalfe’s itinerary. “He’s opening a new golf course in Long Island next week,” she said brightly.

Neil smiled and gently bent back her big toe. “How is your golf, Miss Guerra?”

“Ouch,” she said kicking his hand away, scribbling the venue’s address on a notepad. She grinned at Neil. “Much better than your foot massages.”

Long Island, New York.

Voelkner queried the Nassau County deeds office and found out that Senator Metcalfe had two properties registered to his name in New York state: a luxury apartment in Manhattan and a mansion in Long Island that Metcalfe used as a weekend retreat.
 

Latorre staked out the Manhattan apartment for a couple of days. He found nothing unusual about the place. Metcalfe’s wife and kids followed their normal routine of going to school and shopping. Metcalfe arrived late in the evenings and left again early in the mornings.

The Long Island property interested them more. The family was never there, but the place bustled with activity. Voelkner contacted the owner of a condominium across the road and negotiated a week-by-week rental deal with him. The owner charged them an exorbitant amount, but it was worth it. The irony that they were paying for the unit with Dalerian money didn’t escape Voelkner, so he didn’t negotiate too hard.
 

The compound spanned four acres, and an Italianate mansion was built on the sprawling lawns. From their viewpoint they could see the back of the building. The front of the property sloped towards the ocean. Voelkner could only imagine the view that the occupants had from the terrace in front. Ancient beech trees bordered the property and were scattered around the lawn. The wall consisted of a concrete rock base three feet high. On top of the base, a red brick wall was built, five bricks deep and another nine feet up.
 

Inside the walls, a walkway meandered around the property, keeping more or less equidistant from the wall, as far as Voelkner could see. Every two hundred feet there was a black panel on the wall, about four feet up. The guards touched these black plastic boxes with their batons as they made their way around the property. Voelkner guessed they were sensors that the guards had to activate, proof that they had patrolled the entire area.

There were always two guards circling the area, clockwise. After a two-hour shift, they would be relieved by the guards at the gate, and they were then assigned to gate duty for the next two hours. The switchover took approximately two minutes.

Overkill in terms of of security measures for a weekend retreat.

Metcalfe would visit regularly. He drove a black Buick, no chauffeur.
 
He would drive into the large driveway circle and throw his keys to a butler. He slapped the butler on the back and they exchanged a quick greeting. He then bounced up the stairs and disappeared into the house.
 

His visits were always preceded by a brown panel van with deeply tinted windows. The guards exchanged jokes with the driver, peering inside, ogling the cargo. The van would drive around the corner on the eastern side of the house and would leave several hours later. Shortly after, Metcalfe would leave in his Buick.
 

A refrigerated delivery truck arrived at the mansion at ten every Tuesday morning. It would also disappear around the side of the house out of view, stay for an hour, and leave. Voelkner figured it was supplies for the house, groceries and such.

Voelkner leaned back in his chair and folded his hands behind his head. “The guards swapped right on time again. Like clockwork.”
 

Latorre stood and stretched his limbs with a yawn. “At least we know they’re following a definite schedule. Staff come and go at fixed times. The delivery truck arrives at ten and leaves an hour later.” He glanced at the notepad on the table in front of him. “Guards complete their rounds of the house regularly. The only thing that seems random is Metcalfe’s visits.”

Voelkner paged through a moleskin notebook. It had a section with a weekly planner, and he skimmed through the times and dates. “Well, the panel van arrives approximately four hours before Metcalfe’s visit, give or take a couple of minutes. Monday it came in at 5:00 a.m., and Metcalfe arrived at 9:00 or a couple minutes past. Thursday at 11:00 a.m., and Metcalfe was here at 3:00 p.m. Friday at 7:00 a.m., and Metcalfe duly arrived at 11:00. And they always leave together. So there’s a definite timing to his visits.”

Latorre scratched his chin. “Hm, that can’t be a coincidence. But why the four hour delay?”

Voelkner’s phone rang. It was Captain Guerra. Voelkner answered, snapping upright as if standing to attention. “Good day, Captain.”

“Hello, Lieutenant. The cargo has arrived at Port Newark in Newark Bay. The signal is active. I need you to get down there ASAP. Leave Latorre to monitor the mansion.”

Voelkner saluted. “On the double, Captain,” he said then disconnected the call.
 

Latorre chuckled.

“What?” Voelkner asked.

“You don’t need to do that, you know?” Latorre said.

“What?” Voelkner asked again, looking confused.

Latorre stood up, mimicking a phone next to his ear with a thumb and forefinger. He stood to attention. “Yes, Captain. No, Captain. Where should I kiss your ass, Captain?” He saluted and paraded around the room, doing a goose step.

Voelkner walked up to him and slapped him against the head. “Shut up, you idiot. Have some respect.”

Latorre grabbed him in a neck hold and rubbed his ears. Voelkner picked Latorre up and was about to slam him down on the bed when the phone rang. Voelkner answered the call, still holding Latorre in the air. “Voelkner.”