Paramour (38 page)

"Powers, where are you?" the man with the flashlight said, moving in their direction. The woman was walking behind him. She too had a flashlight. They
knew Powers, having come through airport security checks, was unarmed. Staying behind the tree to remain hidden from view, Powers dropped to his knees.

The man's flashlight beam moved from side to side on the ground, coming in his direction.

In the darkness, Powers patted the leaf-covered ground frantically. His hand hit something hard. A rock. A sharp rock the size of a baseball. Using both hands, and praying they wouldn't hear him, he freed it from the earth and stood up.

The flashlights were moving closer.

"Powers, we need to talk with you," the man said. "We're friends."

Powers's eyes were darting ... and for a second, perhaps just a split second, the woman's flashlight passed over the right hand of the man in front of her.

The man was holding an automatic in the combat-ready position. He was about thirty feet away. Confident that the darkness would hide him, Powers moved toward him. As the flashlight beam neared his feet, he sprang forward and, with all the force he could muster, brought the rock down on the man's head.
Thwack!
The man shrieked. Powers yanked the gun from his hand. It fired; there was a fire flash past his face. Powers dove instinctively for the ground with the gun in his hand, rolled, and stopped. He held his breath.

"Nicky?" the woman called.

Powers took cover behind a tree. The man's flashlight was lying beside him, its beam shining only a few feet to the trunk of a tree.

"He has my gun," Nicky moaned.

The woman's flashlight went out immediately. She hadn't panicked and fired into the darkness. She was military trained. With the tree cover acting as a roof, there was total blackness except for Nicky's flashlight. Powers dropped to the ground and began low-crawling toward the flashlight. Without it, he'd never have the advantage. There was a sound of crunching leaves. Powers figured the woman was probably taking cover behind a tree. In the darkness, his fingers sought the outline of the gun. It was a Beretta. He could tell it was cocked. The slide had been pulled and it was ready to fire. Holding the gun in his right hand, and surmising that she wouldn't risk using her flashlight again, Powers low-crawled slowly from behind the tree to within a foot or two of the flashlight. He took a deep breath and snatched the flashlight from the ground. A shot rang out as he dove behind a tree, fumbling frantically to find the off switch on the flashlight. Another shot thudded into the trunk. Finally, he clicked off the light.

"Jack!" Susan said fearfully.

"Stay where you are!" he shouted.

A shot rang out, and there was another thump as the round slammed into the tree. Figuring her partner was on the ground, the woman had fired at torso level to get Powers to move ... so she could line him up in a flashlight beam for the kill.

Nicky moaned. There was the sound of leaves rustling. Nicky was coming to his feet, staggering. "Where are you?" he said groggily.

Seeing his opportunity, Powers ducked low. Moving from tree to tree to maintain cover, Powers followed the sound of Nicky's footsteps. Creeping on the balls of his feet to catch up, Powers maneuvered to a position directly behind him.

"Don't shoot," Powers shouted, shoving Nicky violently forward toward her and diving to the right.

The flashes of rapid-fire gunshots lit the woman's silhouette as she fired. There was a wet sound as Nicky was slammed backward and down, as if punched in the stomach with a sledgehammer.

Now Powers knew where she was.

"Nicky, I got him."

Maintaining his cover behind a tree, Powers readied his finger on the flashlight ON switch and aimed the automatic in the direction of the woman. The flashlight beam met her. Aiming instinctively at center body mass as he'd been taught at the training academy, Powers fired twice. The woman flipped backward.

His ears were ringing.

Keeping the flashlight beam on her, Powers moved forward cautiously and aimed the light. Her eyes and mouth were open in death. He moved the beam of the light around quickly, focusing on the male lying in the fetal position, unmoving. His head was bloody, and there was white foam at his mouth. He too was dead.

Powers moved to him and, steadying the flashlight under his arm, searched him. There was no pocket litter of any kind. The woman's purse was lying nearby. Powers opened it. It contained only cash, about a hundred dollars.

Using the flashlight to guide him, Powers hurried back to Susan. She threw her arms around him.

"It's okay," Powers said, pulling her with him back through the forest toward the footpath.

At the steps, he paused for a moment to see if anyone in the restaurant had heard the shots. There was no movement near the restaurant and only the sound of music. He flicked the safety lever on the automatic and shoved it in his waistband. Still carrying the flashlight, he grasped Susan's hand tightly and hurried down the steps.

"Where are we going?"

"Away from here."

"What about the police?"

"I just killed two people. If I tell the truth, the President is finished. If I lie, I'll get booked for murder. It'd be weeks before I could explain what happened."

In the car, they were both out of breath. Powers started the engine and sped out of the lot onto the highway.

****

TWENTY-SIX

In Washington the streets were wet with rain.
 
Powers pulled into the parking lot of the Decatur Hotel.

"I thought we were going to the Ramada."

"I'm going to the Ramada.
 
You're staying here."

"You don't trust Sullivan?"

"At this point I don't trust anybody."

The lobby of the Decatur was furnished with well-used leather sofas and polished wood, like an aging men's club. Powers entered arm in arm with Susan and crossed the lobby to a reception desk. In the adjacent bar area, a well-dressed gray-haired man was playing Chopin on a baby grand piano.

"Do you have a double room available?" Powers said to a well-groomed young man wearing a dark tailored suit.

"Certainly," he said, sliding a registration card across the counter.

Powers signed
John and Kathy Ames
and listed a phony Montreal, Canada, address.

"How was the weather in Montreal?" the clerk said.

"We've been having a nice summer."

"Have you any luggage?"

"Unfortunately, it was stolen at Dulles Airport."

"I'm sorry to hear that."

Powers smiled pleasantly. The man smiled back, reached into a drawer and handed Powers a large brass key.

A young olive-skinned bellman led them to their room. Powers tipped him. The bellman left.

"You and I are the only ones who know about this place, so you should be safe here."

"Where are you going?"

"To wait for Sullivan." Powers pulled the gun from his belt and handed it to her. "Stay in the room. And don't be afraid to use this if you have to. "

They embraced and she held him tightly. "Please be careful, Jack."

The Farragut Ramada, a modern three-story rectangle of glass and steel, was located three blocks away from the Decatur. Set back from the roadway on well-manicured grounds, it could just as easily have been the Marriott in Cleveland or the Sheraton in Los Angeles. Powers had spent lots of time guarding various foreign dignitaries who stayed there and knew the layout of the interior and the exterior in detail.

At the registration desk, Powers informed the clerk he was expecting a call. For the next half hour, he lounged about the lobby, moving from the bar to the coffee shop to the lobby and restaurant to kill time. Finally, at 10 P.M., he walked to a bank of pay phones in the comer of the lobby. Picking up a receiver, he dialed a number he knew by heart.

"White House Signal."

"Deputy Director Peter Sullivan," Powers said to the operator.

"Mr. Sullivan is on sick leave."

"Pardon me?"

"Someone came and signed him out a couple of hours ago."

"Are you absolutely sure he's nowhere in the House?" Powers said.

"Positive, sir.

Powers, feeling slightly dizzy, set the receiver on its hook for a moment.

Referring to an emergency phone number card he kept in his wallet, Powers phoned Sullivan's Fairfax residence. There was no answer. Then he phoned the Secret Service headquarters. An operator informed him Sullivan's name wasn't on the locator board...which meant he wasn't on duty. Powers, feeling both stunned and angry, set the receiver down. Consciously restraining his emotions, he analyzed the situation: Sullivan, the most meticulous man he'd ever known, would have phoned him-unless something was wrong. For all Powers knew, there had been other assassins outside the Rustic Inn waiting for Sullivan. Or, God only knew, perhaps Sullivan had been hiding something from him all along.

Powers moved deliberately across the lobby to the front door.

A group of Japanese tourists were climbing off a bus. Powers walked outside and stepped to the left of the doorway. A balding man wearing a nylon baseball jacket-the below-the-waist length favored by police detectives and others who carry guns-came out the door and looked about. Spotting Powers, he busied himself and checked his watch, then returned inside.

Across the street, a brown BMW was parked in front of a dry cleaner. There were two men sitting in it.

Powers stood there for what must have been a full minute. He swallowed twice and took a deep breath. He knew what he had to do.

Steeling himself, Powers turned and walked back into the lobby. Formulating his plan as he walked, he headed into an open elevator car. The door closed. He pressed the first floor button and the car ascended. The elevator door opened and he stepped into a hallway lined with guest rooms. Powers broke into a full run. At the far end of the hallway, he burst through the fire exit door and hurried down the steps three at a time. At the lobby floor, breathing hard, he peeked out the door. The man in the baseball jacket was stepping onto the elevator.

Powers sprinted along a service corridor and into the hotel kitchen. Continuing past three chefs working at a metal table, he ran out the back door into a small parking lot and vaulted over a wall. Making his way across three commercial dumpsters, he jumped down and made his way to the next street.

Using alleys and avoiding sidewalks to keep hidden from the street, he wound a circuitous route to M Street. Across from the Finnish Embassy, he pushed open the heavy wooden door of Mistral, an exclusive French restaurant. In every presidential administration, at least one French restaurant becomes known as the "in" place for key members of the White House staff. In the current administration, it was Mistral. Its latticework hand-embroidered tablecloths and gold-plated silverware had become familiar layouts in more than one major magazine.

The tuxedoed maitre d', Roget Lorraine, a lanky Frenchman with deep-set eyes and a pencil-thin mustache, was at the desk.

"Agent Powers. Is the President...?"

"No, I'm looking for the Press Secretary."

He pointed to the corner table. "Mr. Eggleston has almost finished his dinner. He's at his usual table."