Pursuit (22 page)

Barrett got to work. He wanted to get the body in the park before first light. He reckoned it would be found by midmorning. An unidentified body would take up the first news cycle. He’d make it just a little difficult to identify the body, which would throw the media into a frenzy. Then they’d figure out who she was and the tortured and mutilated body of Charlotte Court’s maid would make for at least a week’s worth of news. Charlotte Court, fugitive heiress, would be front-page news all over again.

Working quietly, efficiently, he sliced off the first phalange of each of her fingers with the ka-bar. The big combat knife, together with the ball-peen hammer, was going to go into a weighted sack he’d throw into the Soren River on his way to the airport. The FBI Toolmarks office was good enough for him to take extra precautions. The tips went into a sealed container half-filled with acid. He dropped the tips in and sealed the container again as the acid began to froth. In an hour’s time, only the lozengeshaped bones would be left. They would be buried. Blood from the severed fingertips dripped onto the tarpaulin sheeting. Barrett took great care that not a drop touched him. Taking the hammer, he methodically broke all the bones of her fingers, then carefully, with the precision of a doctor tapping the knee for reflexes, shattered both elbows and knees, then stood back, thinking.

Was this enough?

Run through the scenario,
he told himself. Moira Fitzgerald was abducted, taken somewhere—he was certain the police would never find exactly where—and tortured. The only reason for that would be for information regarding Charlotte Court’s whereabouts. Barrett contemplated her, unconscious in the metal chair, blood from her shattered hands dripping to the tarpaulin. It was the only sound in the warehouse as Barrett considered the situation.

She was soft, a woman, a
maid.
She’d have no clue how to hold out against pain. If she’d been conscious, by this point she’d have been screaming and babbling and would long ago have given up whatever intel she had. By this point, her notional torturers would have what they needed if she had it, or would be empty-handed, at which point she was of no further use.

And for Barrett, she was of no further use.

Putting one gloved hand palm flat against her ear, the other flat against her jaw, he neatly broke her neck.

In a few minutes the bleeding would stop, the heart no longer able to pump blood uselessly to her fingertips. Waiting for that to happen, Barrett carefully went about eliminating all traces of his presence.

Barrett opened the unit’s metal doors a crack and looked carefully left and right, but as he expected, there was no one. It was 4 o’clock, an hour before first light. The hour in which the human body’s energies are at their lowest. It was the hour soldiers struck. He wrapped Moira’s limp body in the tarpaulin, doused the chair and the floor with bleach, and loaded the tarpaulin-wrapped body into the back of his rental car. He drove slowly out through the gates, using the electronic pass. There had been one security camera going in. A single bullet with a throwaway cold gun had taken care of that. To be double safe, Barrett had clipped the wires.

It was the one thing that made life hard for people in his profession—the prevalence of security cameras since 9/11. Thirty million cameras in America. Four billion hours of footage a week. They were everywhere, like flies on the wall, and most of them had been upgraded. Instead of providing grainy, jerky footage that was recorded over every twentyfour hours, digital technology made it possible to have clear images stored forever on a hard disk.

Not all security cameras were as visible as the one he’d shot out. Some were hidden, feeding back to an offsite analysis center via optic fiber. There was not much he could do about that. It was a constant worry. It meant that the odds were against him—one of these days there would be a camera with footage of him, and there was nothing he could do about it.

Barrett had heard of a rogue computer specialist who was working on a device that would fry all security camera circuits within a two-mile radius. The man who did that would become rich. When this job was over, Barrett was going to track him down and buy a prototype, no matter what the cost.

He drove out of the warehouse district and took a circuitous route to the park. Morning rush-hour traffic was two and a half hours away. If he was being tailed, he’d know about it. Morrison Park was on the road running east. Barrett intended to drive to Buffalo and fly to San Diego from there. When the body was discovered, the police would check all outgoing flights from Warrenton within a twenty-four-hour time frame, but they probably wouldn’t check Buffalo.

He parked in a small circular lot surrounded by hedges. An owl hooted in the center of the park, and Barrett stopped, the tarpaulin-wrapped body in his arms. When there were no further noises, he continued.

Disposing of dead bodies was a science and an art, and though he respected those who were masters at it, Barrett wasn’t. He usually left his bodies where they were. At least he didn’t have to hide Moira Fitzgerald. If anything, he had to display her, like a storefront dummy. Advertising, as it were.

He laid Moira’s naked, mangled, blood-smeared body down in the grassless circle under a big sycamore, about ten feet from a jogging path and twenty feet from a bridle path on the other side of the tree. Barrett spread the tarpaulin on the grass and gently rolled the body out. He stood looking down at Moira Fitzgerald, at the jogging path and bridle path, assessed the lines of sight carefully, then tugged her limbs apart, shifting her, arranging her just so, until she was spread-eagled out, a pale body on the dark earth, visible from the four cardinal points of the compass. She’d be seen by the first jogger or rider in the park. It didn’t much matter when. Barrett would be in the air by the time the 911 call came, and he’d be halfway across the country by the time the forensics teams rolled up. He folded up the tarpaulin and tucked it under his arm, satisfied. Anyone within forty feet couldn’t help but see her—a white human X on the ground.

The park had restrooms in a square concrete building about two hundred yards from the entrance. Barrett retrieved a suitcase from the trunk of the car and went into the men’s room. He wrinkled his nose at the smell of urine, bleach, and sweat. Slipping a bicycle lock through the pull handles to make sure he wouldn’t be interrupted, Barrett quickly stripped, washed, shaved, and dressed from the skin out. Silk boxers, silk tee shirt, Egyptian cotton shirt, four-thousand-dollar Hugo Boss suit, three-hundred-dollar English shoes. He looked at himself carefully in the cracked and stained mirror, turning this way and that. One final touch—a pair of small Luxottica platinum-framed clear glasses. He had perfect twenty-twenty vision, but glasses always made a man look trustworthy. Glasses meant you spent hours and hours poring over boring paperwork, which made you essentially harmless.

A splash of Armani for Men and he was ready. He was Frank Donaldson, of Donaldson Securities. It said so right on his visiting card. A busy, successful broker. In the car, he had matching Louis Vuitton luggage—a suitcase and briefcase. The briefcase held his Barrett, broken down and embedded in its foam compartments. The suitcase held travel clothes, two separate sets of documents, $10,000 cash, ammo, his combat knife, and a Beretta Cougar with four magazines.

Bending, he strapped on the ankle holster and slid in the Kahr 9 mm, specially designed to be small and deadly. He let the fine virgin wool of his pants fall lightly over the holster. Nothing was visible. Perfect. It confirmed his belief that money spent on quality goods was well spent.

The entire process took him a little under twenty minutes, and when he unlocked the doors to the men’s room, an entirely different man stepped out from the cinder-block structure. A successful businessman, pillar of the community and, above all, wealthy. Nobody gives a second glance to rich people, unless it is an envious glance at their possessions. They slide through the world on the skids of money. Certainly, no one could possibly suspect Frank Donaldson, of Donaldson Securities, in his gray Boss suit, of being responsible for the white, tortured body of Moira Charlotte Fitzgerald not fifty yards away. The sun was rising now, a huge shimmering white ball on the horizon, the cloudless sky slowly turning indigo, then cobalt blue, then light blue as it rose. It was a beautiful spring morning, perfect for flying.

Barrett drove to the Buffalo Niagara International Airport, very satisfied with the way things were going so far.

Warrenton

April 27

It’s done.

Haine sat and watched the sky turn light gray. Sleep was impossible. He was wired with adrenaline, could feel it coursing through his veins. The Pentagon contract was open on his desk, though he knew every word by heart.

But there was another contract, now, unwritten but as binding as a compact in blood. He’d loosed Barrett, and there was no calling him back. Barrett had been clear on that. Once he started the hunt he couldn’t be called off. It was the biggest gamble of Haine’s life. His entire future was in the hands of a stone killer. But what choice did he have?

He looked around his opulent home study. He’d worked so fucking
hard
for what he had. Every second of every day, step by step, he’d created his life. His study was part of it, a big part. So was the penthouse apartment, the 180,000-dollar Lamborghini, the Ermenegildo Zegna suits, the art collection carefully put together, the perfect, ancient, faded Bijar carpets, the staff who kept everything running smoothly. Not to mention the

$50,000 in yearly donations to the policeman’s fund and the Premier membership in the Clearview Golf Club. He hated golf, though he made sure he kept a decent handicap. Season tickets to the theater, the holidays on St. Mustique, the condo in Aspen—they were all what he’d worked a lifetime to achieve.

With Proteus, he could go even farther.

He tilted his head back and closed his eyes.

His entire life was in Barrett’s hands.

Buffalo Niagara International Airport

Buffalo, New York

“Welcome aboard, Mr. Donaldson. Can I take that for you, sir?” At the top of the steps, the pilot of the Cessna Mustang stretched out a friendly hand to take Barrett’s onboard case. The early-morning sun glinted off his shiny brass badge with engraved wings on his lapel that said—f. robb.

Robb was exactly the way Barrett liked his pilots—freshly shaved, showered, and barbered. Smelling of expensive cologne. Relaxed and rested. Confident. Dressed in an immaculate uniform, manicured hand out to help at the top of the steps. Barrett had had the limousine come directly to the bottom of the steps of the Mustang and he had sprinted up to the top. He turned for a moment to look out over the airfield. The Mustang was the only plane in the general aviation section. The faint smell of diesel came from the 727 taking off a mile away.

“No, I’m fine, thanks.” Barrett carried the briefcase as if it held nothing more dangerous or weighty than contracts and the morning edition of the newspaper, though actually it weighed over forty pounds. Inside was his Barrett and tripod, broken down, the pieces embedded in cutout foam compartments, sixty rounds of ammo, including incendiaries, his Glock, a Cougar, three clips for each gun, his combat knife and four pounds of Semtex. He could probably start a small war with what he had in the expensive leather case. He easily shifted the heavy case to his left hand, and extended his right. “I’m hoping to get some work done on the flight.”

“I understand, sir. Well, we’re expecting a very smooth flight, so you should get a lot of work done.” The pilot opened his palm and waved Barrett into the cabin. “Welcome aboard, sir. We’re cleared for takeoff just as soon as you’re ready.”

“Great, great,” Barrett said heartily. “I’m looking forward to the trip.”

“Yes, sir,” Robb said, as he led Barrett into the cabin. It was a small, luxuriously appointed space, smelling of new leather and brass polish, with eight white leather ergonomic seats that tilted back to become beds, a five hundred-channel entertainment system, broadband access, and a wet bar with a selection of over two hundred drinks. It said so right in the pamphlet. The pilot pulled the steps up and swung the door closed with the muffled
whump
of expensive equipment.

Barrett sat down in one of the comfortable chairs, the smell of new leather wafting up as he took his seat and tucked his briefcase under the seat. He’d barely had time to buckle up when the pilot returned with a steaming cup of fragrant coffee and a hot croissant on a silver tray covered by a lace doily. Barrett could hear the crackle of voices as the copilot in the cockpit communicated with the control tower. “
Prepare for takeoff,
” he heard a staticky voice say.

“There you go, sir. By the time you’ve finished that, we’ll be in the air. If you need anything at all, just press the red button in the armrest. There are gourmet sandwiches and fruit in the fridge over there and a broad selection of beverages in the bar. Coffee and tea in those thermoses. We plan on arriving in San Diego on schedule, and the indications are that we’ll have good weather all across the continent, with no turbulence. We’ll be giving updates on the flight throughout the morning. Enjoy your flight, sir.”

“Great.” Barrett smiled, showing teeth.

The engines revved and the small, sleek plane started taxiing immediately to the runway. The heels of his three-hundred-dollar shoes bumped reassuringly against his briefcase. There had been no security inspection whatsoever. He’d been picked up by the company limo at 10 a.m. as arranged, and had been driven directly to the steps of the plane. No one had inspected his luggage or his documents or his person.