Gates of Hades (35 page)

Jason was staring at his communication. “Something must have hit it. It's not working.”

“Anything that canna wait?”

Jason shook his head. “Can't think of anything.”

 

 

I-95, between Richmond and Washington
At the same time

Rassavitch's eyes felt as though they were full of sand, and his back was telegraphing pain all the way down his leg, but he was thankful for the safe trip.

He forced his eyelids open a little wider to read the address the man had given him at the convenience store a few miles back, the last place on his primary instructions: I-95 to the Beltway, to Rock Creek Parkway to . . .

He rubbed the back of a hand across his face and bit his lip in hopes the pain would keep him awake.

He
would
complete this mission.

Naples, Cagliari Ferry
Later the same day

The ferry provided overnight accommodations, but, unlike a hotel, no passport was required; nor was there a metal detector to screech at the weapon Jason was carrying. Jason stood at the boxy stern, watching the sun sink into the Tyrrhenian Sea. Maria would be following tomorrow morning with Adrian on the afternnon ferry. After a day or so Jason would be leaving, even though he was unsure as to where. Washington, certainly, for a debriefing. He supposed he had rid the world of Eglov, entombing him with a number of his radical environmentalists.

But what else? He had discovered a very strange plant and a rock that gave off a nonlethal anesthetic, the hallucinogenic gas ethylene. Hardly a threat like a nuclear or biological weapon.

In fact, some might even enjoy the high.

More questions remained than were answered. Why would Eglov and his fellow eco-nuts commit the time and effort to exploit something of such limited use, Breath of
the Earth notwithstanding? As a practical, rather than ideological matter, it made no sense.

He shrugged, a man with no explanation. His job was over. Time to find a place to get on with his life, as the talk-show shrinks said, as though living were some kind of task to be fulfilled.

Returning to the Turks and Caicos was out. Even if he were able to satisfy the colonial government as to his innocence in the house fire, that hiding place had been exposed. Pity. In the short time he had lived on North Caicos, he had grown to love the remoteness, the fact that the feel, the very essence of the island had not been sacrificed to the tourist dollar.

Yet.

He would probably choose another island, the smaller the better. A place with only occasional air service, or, better yet, none at all, small enough that the arrival of a stranger was noticed. One place he could not live was the United States, not with the sizable bank balances he had accumulated since going to work for Narcom, accounts in capital-friendly countries that saw the wisdom of holding foreigners' money, not confiscating it with punitive taxes. The very existence of the income produced by such accounts as could be found would attract the attention of the IRS, which would ask questions best left unanswered.

Besides, Jason had no desire to participate in the evergrowing and thinly disguised intent of American politicians to redistribute the wealth.

His wealth.

He turned and walked to the stairs leading up to the passenger lounge. Even though the sea breeze was blowing its salty air in his face, he imagined he could smell baking crusts from the cramped pizzeria that was the boat's sole dining facility. He climbed the steel steps and went inside.

Jason could not decide between the artichoke-mushroom and the multiple cheese selections. He ordered a square of
each and made his way to one of the ten or so small tables, only half of which were occupied. He had taken only a bite out of the cheese pizza when he noticed a copy of the
London Times
crumpled on the adjacent table. Glancing around the room to be certain the paper was abandoned, he opened it up.

He scanned the day-old headlines. The lead story concerned a conference on the environment, a meeting in Washington whose main purpose, Jason guessed, was politics rather than statesmanship. The only agreement on allocation of the world's resources would come when they either no longer existed or could be produced artificially. Those who profited by exploiting the earth were not likely to voluntarily relinquish them.

He took a bite of artichoke and mushroom.

He was about to turn the front page when he happened to notice a reprint from the
Washington Post.
The word
Hillwood
sprang out at him. He had escorted Laurin to some sort of function there, one of the several charity balls to which she had dragged him annually.

He hated the things.

Disease balls. Benefit for multiple sclerosis, funding for breast cancer research, cure for whatever. Mostly social aspirants, those unable to attain membership in the better clubs—women more on the outside than the inside of Washington society, could put on a five-thousand-dollar gown and chance meeting the current social glitterati in the name of charity. God forbid they be subjected to disgusting and dreary work at a homeless shelter or soup kitchen, where they would never be photographed for the society section of the paper.

Or at even in the small magazines that sold subscriptions to the very people they covered.

Jason had pointed out that a two-hundred-dollar ticket to such galas meant the charity in question would be lucky to get fifty. Why not, he reasoned, simply give the institution half the cost of the unbought gown and go out
to a good restaurant while others were busy climbing the social ladder?

After all, as a partner in one of the city's premier law firms, Laurin had multiple club memberships paid for by her partners. There was no need to spend an evening of bad food and worse company among social wannabes.

Laurin would have none of it.

She spent at least one weekend a month doing the true grunt work of charity—helping in a hospice, giving free legal advice at a halfway house—efforts that would never be rewarded by public recognition. So why not do the glitzy part, too?

He didn't remember the specific event or the malaise it celebrated.

Prevention of terminal flatulence, maybe?

He did recall the former home of the Post heiress. Far from the street, out of the way. Small for the wealth it represented but on a large estate, one that would be difficult to totally close off from the rest of the world.

He supposed the conference would be held in the dining room, where he had experienced a lavish buffet of overcooked roast beef, rubber chicken, listless salad, et cetera, by the yard. The usual poor quality of the food had been overshadowed by the appearance of a man whose name Jason had forgotten within minutes of hearing it, a doctor who attached himself to Jason like a human leech. He was typical of the tedious types that peopled such functions, unable to discuss anything but his golf score and his brilliance in the stock market.

Jason had introduced him to Laurin and disappeared, leaving the man trying to be discreet in looking down the décolletage of her ball gown while she frantically searched for a way to disengage herself.

It seemed ample revenge for her dragging Jason there.

He had escaped through the French doors that led into a garden, where rosebushes were just beginning to bloom.
Jason had guessed those doors could be left open, letting diners enjoy the fragrance of the flowers.

Or some other fragrance.

Like in a trawler in the Bering Sea.

Or at Baia.

The thought that had prowled the back of his mind now leaped from the tangle of his subconscious, a concept so powerful it would have struck him dumb had he had anyone to talk to.

He checked his watch. Hours before the ferry docked.

A ship-to-shore telephone on board?

He would certainly arouse suspicion by demanding to use it.

But he couldn't simply sit here and allow events to spin on their present course by his inaction. He had to do something, get the word to Mama no matter what.

But how?

 

 

Hillwood
4155 Linnean Avenue
Washington, D.C.
1530 EDT

Shirlee Atkins had been right.

Them mens hadn't given a shit whether they tracked dirt into the house or not. Chattering in some language she had never heard before, they went about their work in the rose garden and they would walk right cross the Chinese Oriental rug to go to the bathroom without so much as wiping their dirty boots. Mr. Jimson, he wouldn'ta let 'em do that, but this new fella, the one whose head look like an Easter egg, he didn't much seem to care.

Prolly wouldn'ta much cared 'bout what Shirlee done found in one of the silver drawers in the sideboard, either. The drawer stuck and she'd had to give it a real tug. Thing fell out on the floor, spillin' knives 'n' forks everwhere. But underneath them knives 'n' forks was some kinda false bottom, a place Shirlee reckoned Ms. Post used to hide real valuables. Like the curve-bladed knife with a golden handle. She 'spected there be no reason tell the
new man she near done broke that drawer, jes' put it back like it was.

Ever since that man what call himself Rassavitch showed up this mornin' in that big ol' beat-up truck, the mens with the shovels, they workin' harder'n Shirlee had seen all week. They was sho' gonna finish this afternoon, git the place ready fo' that big meetin' tomorrow.

Stuff on that truck strange.

Some kinda spindly little plant. Downright ugly, and hadn't no flowers on it. Then they unloaded a bunch o' rocks. Big, round white-colored stone, look like they coulda weighed tons. But they didn't. One o' them scrawny little guys could pick one o' them rocks right up an' carry it to where they were planting those scraggly little bushes between them rocks in a line right outside the floor-to-ceiling doors of the dinin' room.

Not near as pretty as rosebushes.

But then, what did Shirlee know?

She wasn't nothin' but a cleanin' lady.

 

 

Naples–Cagliari ferry
At the same time

Jason looked up from the table, most of his two squares of pizza uneaten. His attention was focused on the man standing in the doorway talking on a cell phone and smoking a cigarette at the same time. Both hands occupied. Jason picked up his
London Times,
pretending to read while he kept his eyes on the man by the door.

The minute the conversation ended, the man turned, jamming the phone into a jacket pocket. Jason moved as quickly as he could while appearing to be just one more bored passenger with nothing to do but try to find an alternative to the ferry's tiny staterooms.

Outside, the bright lights of the car deck outlined everything along the edges of the passenger deck above. The man Jason was interested in was leaning against the rail as the breeze snatched sparks from his cigarette into the air like a child's sparkler.

Jason muttered something unintelligible and staggered against the side of the cabin, bouncing off the railing. He couldn't see the man's face, but he was pretty certain it
was turned toward him. Jason stopped a few feet away, swaying with the ocean's swells like the drunk at sea he was imitating.

He waited until the next large wave, then lurched forward, colliding with the smoker.

“Mi dispiace,”
Jason mumbled.
I'm sorry.

His victim never felt the hand slip into the jacket pocket.

The smoker gave Jason a gentle push as he stepped back.
“Prego.”

The Italian word that translated as anything from
you're welcome
to
quickly
to a simple acknowledgment of an apology.

Jason staggered down the steel catwalk, trying not to seem in a hurry until he was certain he was out of sight of his victim.

Once in protective shadows, he held up the cell phone. Its keyboard lit up when he flipped it open. He turned his back in the direction of its owner. He hoped he couldn't be seen using the stolen device. He punched series of buttons, the number of the American consulate in Naples, one of several he had memorized before leaving Washington.

The voice that answered was definitely American and just as certainly bored. The person Jason wanted to speak with was gone for the evening, sorry.

“It's important,” Jason said.

Not to the person on the other end of the line. “He's still not here.”

“Your name?”

“What does it matter?”

“It matters,” Jason growled, “because when I hang up, I'm calling the ambassador in Rome. I'm telling him he has some lazy little dweeb down here in Naples who doesn't care enough to get off his ass even where national security is involved.”

“Oh, yeah? And who is this, the secretary of state?”

“No, but if you've got any sense at all, you'll put me on
hold while you contact extension two-oh-one in the Rome embassy and tell them you're talking to one of Narcom's people.”

Two-oh-one was the extension number for the agency office in the embassy, those supposed trade, cultural, and military attachés whose actual work had nothing to do with their titles.

Apparently the jerk in Naples at least recognized that anyone who knew the extension number might be important. “Hold on.”

Jason heard a loud, angry voice from above. No doubt someone had found their pocket picked and their cell phone gone. Jason moved farther back into the shadows.

The voice that came back on the phone was noticeably chastised. “Yes, sir, what can we do for you?”

“I need a patch through to a Washington number.”

“A secure patch might take a little while. Where can I call you back?”