Indispensable Party (Sasha McCandless Legal Thriller No. 4) (18 page)

The image of a sun-kissed Sasha
faded and, unbidden, a very different Sasha, feverish and delirious, her lips
cracking from dehydration, the sheets twisted around her legs, flashed into his
mind. His heart squeezed in his chest, and he had to force himself to breathe.

“Hey, wake up, sleepyhead,” he
said, reaching down to touch her bare arm. The contact with her warm body was
an effort to drive the picture from his head as much as to wake her up.

She sat bolt upright the instant
his hand touched her arm.

“What time is it?” she asked,
pushing her tangle of hair out of her eyes.

“Almost seven thirty,” he told
her.

“What? That can’t be right,” she
said, shoving the blankets to the bottom of the bed. “I never sleep that late.”

“You’re tired. It doesn’t matter.
We have plenty of time. There’s not going to be any traffic because everything’s
closed,” he told her, gesturing toward the flat screen television mounted to
the wall.

The local weather map showed the
approaching storm under a cheerful ‘White Christmas’ headline, even though
Christmas was still weeks away. He handed her a mug of coffee, which she took
with a grateful smile.

She leaned back against his headboard
and sipped the coffee.

“Mmm. Thank you. Look, the
federal government’s closed. Is our meeting still on?” She pointed toward the
screen.

He didn’t bother to look. “Even
when the government’s closed, it’s not really closed. Essential personnel will
still report to work, and our meeting will go forward no matter what.”

As he said the words, the reason
for the meeting cast a black shadow over the room, and their few minutes of
quiet peace evaporated.

She looked at him wordlessly for
a moment then drained the mug and placed it on his bedside table.

“Guess we’d better get a move on
then,” she said as she headed for the shower.

He waited until he heard the
water running, then opened his closet and pulled a small metal box down from
the top shelf. He unlocked the box and removed his Glock. He turned it in his
hand and inspected it. He had stripped, cleaned, and lubricated it after his
last trip to the shooting range. It was ready to go. He loaded a magazine into
the well and then returned it to the lock box. Then, he shoved the box back
into the closet and shut the door.

Technically, he could carry it. Despite
the District of Columbia’s strict gun control laws, he’d managed to negotiate
permission from Homeland Security to carry a concealed weapon in all fifty states
as part of his separation agreement. Technically, that permission exceeded the
federal government’s powers, but everyone involved in the decision knew that if
Leo Connelly drew his weapon, the situation was sufficiently dire that any
overstepping would be forgiven.

But, Sasha’s gun ban was somewhat
stricter than the District’s and, given that they were going to spend the
morning surrounded by armed federal agents, he saw no point in picking that
particular fight with her just yet.

He just wanted to be ready. For
what, he couldn’t say, but whatever it was, he knew he’d feel better facing it
with a loaded weapon.

He heard the sound of the water
shutting off. A minute later, Sasha appeared in the doorway, a towel wrapped
around her hair and wearing his thick cotton robe, which was only about a
million sizes too big for her. The hem dragged across the floor as she walked
toward him, following behind her like a train.

The sight of her swimming in his
robe brought a smile to his lips, but the words she spoke wiped it off
immediately.

“Hey, I was thinking. Maybe you
should carry your gun today. You know, just in case.”  The forced casualness of
her tone was belied by the spark of worry in her green eyes.

He nodded, serious and solemn. “Maybe
I should. Just in case.”

Colton dressed
quickly as the morning news exhorted him to stay home and ride out the
approaching storm. ViraGene didn’t close every time the federal government shut
down at the sight of a snowflake. He knew plenty of support staff would call
off or work from home because their kids would be home from school, but those
who could make it in were expected to show up for work every Monday through
Friday, unless it was a paid holiday. Period.

He would arrive later than usual,
however, because he had an errand to run. Not just any errand, an errand that
had to be undertaken in secrecy, so that it would never trace back to him. He
didn’t want to risk taking his car. The Metro system was still running, for the
time being. Colton decided he’d better get going before some lazy bureaucrat
looking for a day off shut that down, too.

He checked his pocket for the
vial and buttoned his overcoat.

He stepped out into the hall and
locked the door. Behind him, he heard the Brandts’ door open. He allowed
himself his usual moment of annoyance at the fact that his so-called ‘penthouse’
apartment shared the top floor of the building with one other four-thousand
square foot ‘penthouse,’ which forced him to deal with neighbors. Then he
smoothed his expression into a smile and turned to greet whichever Brandt was
intruding on his privacy this time.

It was the wife. Marilyn or Marly
or something with an ‘M.’

“Good morning, Mrs. Brandt. You’re
not going out in this weather are you? A little thing like you might blow away,”
he said in a pleasant, mildly flirtatious voice.

He’d learned that she responded
well to flirting. The husband liked to talk about the markets and the Nationals.
But the wife just liked attention.

He couldn’t see her smile through
the fuzzy scarf that covered her lower face, but her eyes crinkled, so he knew
she was pleased by the banter.

“Oh, Colton,” she said in a
scarf-muffled voice, “how many times do I have to tell you to call me Marla? I’m
just going to run out to the Whole Foods before the storm hits. We can’t get
caught without organic grass-fed beef in the fridge, now can we?” She laughed
self-consciously—whether at her foolish storm preparations or her yuppie eating
habits, it wasn’t clear.

“Well, you be careful out there, Marla.
I hope there’s not a run on beef.” He jabbed his key back into the keyhole.

“Are you coming or going? I can
hold the elevator.” she offered.

“No, no. You go ahead. I just realized
I left my cell phone charging. It wouldn’t do to be without that on a day like
this,” he lied.

“Oh, are you sure? I don’t mind
waiting.”

“Please don’t. I don’t want to be
responsible for your getting caught out in the blizzard,” he said over his
shoulder. He opened the door and went inside, closing it quickly to cut off
further conversation.

He leaned against the door and
waited long enough for the stupid cow to catch the elevator and leave the
building. He detested having to socialize with people not of his own choosing
under the best of circumstances. He particularly wanted to avoid it while he
was carrying around a vial full of death. He didn’t trust himself not to give
into the temptation to open it and fill the elevator with the virus just for
his own amusement.

Besides, knowing that Marla was
gone would give him an opportunity to take care of another task before he
braved the weather to acquire a gift box and plan his little surprise for
Serumceutical.

After giving her a sufficient head
start, he returned to the hallway and thumbed the elevator call button. During
the smooth, quick ride to the lobby, he fished out the mailbox key.

He strode through the marble
lobby with his head down to avoid further conversations with idiots. When he
reached the twin mailboxes that served the penthouse apartment—set slightly
apart from the other, smaller boxes—he stood with his back to the security
camera and inserted the key into the box on the left.

A small stack of mail stood
neatly in the metal box. He flipped through the utility bills, brokerage firm
statements, and junk mail. He was looking for something reasonably important,
but not time sensitive, and preferably addressed by hand—a holiday card, a
party invitation, or a thank you note.

Finding nothing in the day’s mail
that met his needs, Colton closed the door and locked the box, leaving the mail
inside.

Connelly parked
in a mostly empty surface lot. He and Sasha crossed the snow-dusted lot toward
the attendant’s hut, Connelly with his usual quick stride, Sasha cautious,
testing the uneven ground for ice with her four-inch heels. Connelly had rolled
his eyes at the footwear when she’d gotten dressed. He suggested she wear boots
instead.

She’d pointed out that these
were
boots. Black, leather, knee-high boots.

So, now, she assumed he wasn’t
slowing his pace in a deliberate effort to say
I told you so
without
having to utter the words. She trotted to keep up.

Connelly exchanged a twenty for a
ticket and told the attendant to stay warm.

“You, too. If the city declares a
snow emergency, they’ll tow a bunch of cars here. Just so ya’ know. Might get
yerself parked in.”  The attendant said in a bored tone and jammed his hands in
his pockets and shrugged down into his jacket.

Connelly shrugged back at him. “We’ll
have to chance it.”

They’d discussed taking the
Orange Line to Arlington but had agreed it would be smarter to drive in case
they needed to travel somewhere not served by the Metro system or the transit
authority interrupted service because of the weather. They left unsaid their
true concerns—carrying a loaded weapon on a D.C. Metro car was a questionable
decision, at best, and  mass transportation was an excellent delivery vehicle
for anyone who wanted to release a chemical agent or, say, a deadly virus and
have it spread quickly. The risk of being parked in by towed cars paled in
comparison to those dangers.

They walked out of the lot and
crossed the street. A little more than halfway down the next block, Connelly
stopped in front of a squat, nondescript stone building. Sasha pulled up short
beside him.

“Why are we stopping here? Do you
need to get cash?”

She gestured toward the ATM in
the lobby.

Connelly laughed. “This is it.”

“This is what?”

“Headquarters for the task force.”

Sasha looked up at the building. She’d
attended meetings at the Department of Justice’s headquarters for clients when
she worked at Prescott & Talbott. It was an impressive limestone building
that occupied a full city block. The entrances were flanked by pillars, and
inscriptions about justice had been chiseled into the stone. Once inside, a
visitor stood in a massive two-story entrance with a marble floor and ornate
fixtures.

The FBI Headquarters, which she’d
also visited on behalf of a Prescott client, although nowhere near as elegant,
was equally imposing. It was a massive concrete building set with row after row
of small, bronze-tinted windows. It loomed over the street.

She found it hard to believe that
an important CIA task force worked out of a generic Arlington, Virginia office
building with a bank branch and a deli on the first floor.

“You’re not serious,” she said.

Connelly leaned close and said, “It’s
a blank building, Sasha.”

“A what?”

“This is a covert, inter-agency
task force. They aren’t going to advertise its existence. The General Services
Administration owns buildings all over D.C., Maryland, and Virginia. When an
agency needs space for something it wants to keep under the radar, it’ll lease
short-term space from the GSA in some anonymous building.”

 He opened the unadorned glass
door and ushered her into an unremarkable lobby that matched the building’s
facade. A small flagpole flying the American flag jammed in the corner behind
the cheap-looking reception desk, and a glass mug filled with candy canes on
the desk, were the sole decorations. Snow that had been stamped off dozens of
pairs of shoes and boots melted into a puddle of dirty gray water on a
rubberized mat inside the door.

An ordinary middle-aged white
man—not young, not old—sat behind the desk, tapping on a computer keyboard. If
Sasha hadn’t known she was in a secret CIA location, she’d have accepted him at
face value as a bored, under-motivated desk jockey. But looking closely, she
noticed his erect posture, the thick muscles outlined under his sweater vest,
and his alert demeanor.

“May I help you?” he said
blandly, addressing Connelly.

“We’re here to see Mr. White,”
Connelly responded.

The man’s eyes flickered with
recognition, but he merely murmured, “I’ll call up and let him know you’re here.
What did you say your name was?”

“Smith. Mr. and Mrs. Smith,”
Connelly said.

Sasha felt a laugh burbling up in
her throat and coughed into her hand.
Mr. White? Mrs. and Mrs. Smith?
They were like little boys playing secret agent. She looked around the lobby,
desperate for something to distract her from her impending case of the giggles.

The cough caught the attention of
the desk worker. He opened a drawer to his left to reveal a stack of surgical
masks sealed in clear plastic.

“Are you feeling okay, Mrs.
Smith?” he asked.

Her amusement died in the face of
the man’s urgent concern.

 “Perfectly fine. Just a tickle
in my throat. The air in here’s dry,” Sasha lied.

He peered at her, trying to
decide if he believed her.

“Honey, I’m going to run in and
get a bottle of water. Do you want anything?” she said, touching Connelly’s arm
and nodding toward the deli across the lobby. As she did so, she wondered if
the deli and the bank were real or if the entire building was like the set of a
play.

Connelly shook his head. The man
looked up from the phone and lifted a finger in a gesture that said
wait a
minute
.