“The number was secure!” Price shot back. “Your man gave it up.”
Richardson shook his head. “For someone who's done the things you have, you sure don't like getting your hands dirty, do you? You prefer to give orders and let others die while you watch the results on television, like this is all a big game.” Richardson leaned in close. “I'm not playing a game, Tony. I'm doing this because I believe it is necessary. I'm doing this for my country. What do you believe in?”
“The same,” Price replied.
Richardson snorted. “But you've feathered your bed with Bauer-Zermatt, haven't you? As soon as we give the world a small taste of what our bug can do, everyone will be clamoring for an antidote. Coincidentally Bauer- Zermatt will leak that it has the inside track on the research and its stock will skyrocket. I'm curious, Tony. Just how many shares did Bauer give you?”
“A million,” Price replied calmly. “And he didn't give them to me, Frank. I earned them. Don't forget that I was the one who found Beria, who watched your back, making sure that no one even got a whiff of what was happening in Hawaii. So don't try to rub my nose in this hero horseshit!”
He glanced at the items Drake had removed from the backpack. “Now let's wrap this thing up…”
His words trailed off.
“What's wrong?” Richardson asked.
Price picked up the microcassette recorder, examined the casing, and popped open the cover. “Say it ain't so,” he muttered.
“What?” Richardson demanded. “Smith brought it along so that he could tape a confession.”
“Maybe…”
Price removed the cassette and pulled one of the two pins that held it in place. The assembly came away in one piece.
“And maybe not!” His face was mottled with rage. “I knew I recognized this thing! Take a look, Frank.”
In the cavity Richardson saw a state-of-the-art transmitter.
“The latest in surveillance technology!” Price hissed. “Your boy's been had! Smith knew that if something went wrong, his killer was sure to take the backpack. Somebody's heard every word we said!”
“Sergeant!” Richardson roared.
Drake bolted out of the bathroom, gun in hand. Richardson marched up to him and showed him the gutted recorder. “Tell me again, is Smith dead?”
Drake recognized the transmitter instantly. “Sir, I didn't know…”
“Is he dead?”
“Yes, sir!”
“All that means is that he can't tell us where the receiver is,” Price said. He looked at Richardson. “Are you a religious man, Frank? Because prayer might be the only thing we have left!”
The front door to the unit opened and Richardson, Price, and Drake stepped out fast, heading for their cars.
Fifty feet away, in the shadows, Jon Smith watched them through the windshield of his vehicle.
“It's Richardson, Price, and Drake,” he said into the phone.
“I know,” Klein replied. “I recognized their voices ? except for Drake's. So did the president.”
Smith glanced at the transmitting unit, set in the passenger-seat well, that had relayed the conspirators' words to Camp David.
“I'm going to move in, sir.”
“No, Jon. Look around you.”
Smith saw two black sedans moving into position to block the front entrance of the motor court. Another pair was closing off the rear exit.
“Who are they, sir?”
“Doesn't matter. They'll deal with Richardson and Price. Just stay low until it's all over, then get the hell away. I'll expect you at the White House at first light.”
“Sir?”
The windshield exploded as a bullet shattered the safety glass. Smith threw himself across the seat as two more shots whistled into the sedan.
“You said he was dead!” Price screamed.
“He will be,” Richardson said grimly. “Get in the car. Sergeant, you make sure this time!”
Drake didn't bother to look back. He had spotted the blackedout sedan the instant he'd stepped out of the unit. Smith's vehicle was parked in the shadows of some Dumpsters, a good call. But Smith had forgotten about the moon. Cold and bright, it washed the car's interior, illuminating him perfectly. Drake had taken his first shot before Smith had realized he'd been made. Now Drake was moving to make sure of his kill.
He was fifteen feet from the car when suddenly the headlights snapped on, blinding him. Drake heard the roar of the engine and realized what was happening. But even he wasn't fast enough to get out of the way in time. As Drake launched himself into the air two tons of cold metal smashed into him, catapulting him over the car.
Behind the wheel, Smith straightened up and kept his foot on the accelerator. His peripheral vision registered dark shapes spilling out of the sedans forming the blockade, but that didn't stop him. He saw Richardson and Price jump into a car and back up fast. Turning the wheel, he tried to cut them off. For a split-second, he saw Richardson's expression through the window, then felt a tremendous jolt as the two cars mashed together in a tangle of metal.
Smith hung on to the steering wheel, trying to push Richardson's car off to the side. Then he looked up and saw the two sedans at the exit. Spinning the wheel, he hit the brakes and went into a controlled skid.
Frank Richardson felt his car rock as Smith's vehicle spun away. Then he too saw the blockade.
“Frank!” Price screamed.
Richardson slammed on the brakes, but too late. Just as he threw his hands over his face the car smashed into the front ends of the angled sedans. Seconds later, a piece of jagged metal tore through his throat as he was hurled through the windshield.
Smith leaped out of his car, running hard. He got close enough to see Richardson's body sprawled across the hood before a pair of strong arms caught him.
“It's too late, sir!” a voice called out.
Smith struggled but was dragged back. A moment later, a huge explosion slammed him to the ground.
Gasping and coughing, Smith struggled to breathe. Lifting his head off the asphalt, he saw a giant fireball engulf the three vehicles. Slowly he rolled away, oblivious to the shadows darting around him, the urgent voices calling to one another. A pair of hands hauled him to his feet and he found himself looking at a young, hatchet-faced man.
“You don't belong here, sir.”
“Who… are you?”
The man pressed a set of keys into Smith's palm.
“There's a green Chevy around the corner. Take it and go. And, sir? Mr. Klein said to remind you about your meeting at the White House.”
CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN
Numb and exhausted, Smith somehow managed to drive himself to Bethesda. Walking into the house, he dropped his clothes on the way to the bathroom, turned on the shower, and stood under the hot, stinging spray.
The pounding water drowned out the screams and explosions of the night. But no matter how hard he tried, Smith couldn't erase the image of Richardson's car slamming into the blockade, the fireball erupting, the sight of Richardson and Price, human torches.
Smith stumbled into the bedroom and lay down naked on the covers. Closing his eyes, he set his soldier's mental clock and let himself be swept away into a long, dark tunnel. He felt himself floating end over end, like an
