“Extremely.”
Rothery steepled his fingers and gave Keith Thompson a long, hard look. Finally, he said, “Okay, Keith, thanks for the quick work. You’ve done an excellent job.” He stood up and offered his hand.
“Good luck, sir,” Thompson said as he left.
Rothery walked to his window and looked out over the nation’s capital. The Sunday-morning traffic on Seventh Street was light. People sleeping in, going to church, spending time with their families. Normal things to do on a Sunday. But what would next Sunday bring? And the Sunday after that? If the virus was released in six days, by next Sunday morning, innocent people would be infected. And by the following Sunday, they would be dead. And countless more people would be infected.
Somewhere out there was a single person with enough hatred to put this scenario in motion. And that person was American. And invisible. Christ, this whole thing was spiraling out of control. And as things stood right now, he had almost nothing to work with.
Jim Allenby had initiated a cohesive effort within the FBI and had freed up agents for the sole purpose of working the virus crisis. The new information from Keith Thompson would be a boon to Allenby’s task force. At least they now knew that the man they were searching for was an American of Arab descent. And one with resources. The list would be long and the hunt arduous, but now they had a target.
Craig Simms was still livid over his organization’s losing the clandestine intel the labs had been providing. But the CIA had taken its kicks and survived in the past, and they would do so again. Simms was monitoring all international communications between known terrorist organizations, listening for something that might point them to the source of the virus. Now, with Thompson’s take on the DVD footage, Simms would have to realign his agents.
And Tony Warner and his staff over at the National Security Agency were suddenly of great importance. The scientists at Crypto-City were without peer when it came to deciphering codes and sorting data. Given the profile, they could search the nation’s data banks for possible suspects and forward that information to Jim Allenby at the Bureau.
As Rothery reached for the phone to call together the key personnel in his task force, he had one thought. Maybe, just maybe, things weren’t as bleak as they seemed.
It was a big maybe.
53
They met at a roadside turnoff six miles from the entrance to Bruce Andrews’s estate. It was getting on toward late afternoon on Sunday, and traffic on the secondary road was slightly higher than usual, many motorists heading back into Richmond after a weekend in the country. Trucks and cars whizzed by, unaware of who was meeting at the rest stop or why. Had they known, most would have taken more than just a passing interest in the conversation.
“How did Buchanan get to Richmond?” Bruce Andrews asked the other man as they walked slowly through the deserted parking lot.
“As I suspected, he chartered a plane, a Lear 31A. He paid up front for three days but called as the deadline was approaching and paid for another week. Obviously, he wants air transportation nearby and ready in case he needs it.”
“Where did the call to extend the charter on the plane come from?”
“Somewhere in Richmond. They’re not sure.”
“What about call display? The charter company doesn’t subscribe to it?” Andrews asked.
“Yes, they do. But Buchanan called from a pay phone. Somewhere in northwest Richmond. He probably traveled a ways from wherever he’s staying just to use the phone. For a rank amateur, this guy is no dummy.”
A cloud drifted across the sun’s path and the ground darkened with its arrival. The intense heat diminished and a cool breeze accompanied the respite. Both men were dressed in khakis and short-sleeved shirts, and the shade felt good. Another car pulled into the rest area and stopped a hundred feet farther along the parking lot. Well out of earshot. Three kids piled out of the car and made a beeline for the grassy expanse bordering the parking lot. The parents walked slowly to one of the seven anchored picnic tables and sat down, the father lighting a cigarette and watching the kids as they played.
“Everything else okay?” Andrews asked.
“Busy but fine. We’re exactly where we want to be.”
“Good. Do you have time to take care of Buchanan if he sticks his head up?”
“I’ll have to. Who else have you got? Ziegler is out of commission.”
A perturbed look crossed Andrews’s face. “That was stupid. You didn’t have to slaughter them. You could have killed them and dumped their bodies in some remote mountain gorge. The local bears and wolves would have picked the bones over long before hikers would have found them. That was really dumb.”
Andrews’s associate didn’t look amused at being chastised. “You take care of things on your end, I’ll take care of things on mine. And if I want to have a little fun while I work, well, so be it.”
“Fun is gutting that woman and slicing the kid’s throat right to the bone? Jesus, you are one sick son of a bitch.”
“Keep that in mind,” he said.
Andrews ignored the remark. He sat on one of the wooden posts that delineated the parking lot from the surrounding grassy area. The father finished his cigarette and returned to the car, the three kids in tow. A puff of exhaust accompanied the ignition’s turning over; a quick flash of the brake lights and the car pulled back into the traffic. The area was deserted again. The cloud passed and the sun returned, its rays hot and unwelcome. “I want them dead,” he said.
“Who? Buchanan and Pearce?”
“Yes.”
“I’m busy, Bruce. I have to be careful right now.”
“That’s fine. Just find them and kill them. But this time, don’t have quite as much fun as you did in Denver. Just find them, kill them, and dump their bodies somewhere remote or anchor them down and sink them under water. Nothing too difficult. Not for someone with your resources.”
“All right. I’ll find them and shut them up. But right now they’re second on the priority list.”
“Of course. Priorities are important right now,” Andrews said. He walked to his car, got in, and adjusted the air-conditioning. The man was irreplaceable. He could never hope to achieve his goals without his help. But to that end, his partner was being paid well. Very well. And that often elicited the highest degree of loyalty. Right now, loyalty was crucial.
He pulled out of the rest stop and headed home. Sunday night. Tomorrow was going to be a very busy day. And a very profitable one.
54
Gordon chose anonymity over speed, and they left the Lear sitting in mothballs at Byrd Field and drove north to Washington first thing Monday morning. By nine o’clock, they were sitting in the reception area of the headquarters of the U.S. Securities and Exchange Commission. After fifteen minutes, a well-dressed, trim woman in her early fifties approached them. Her hair was graying and age lines were beginning to take their toll on her features, but her eyes were lively and she moved with alacrity.
“Are you Gordon Buchanan and Jennifer Pearce?” she asked in a pleasant voice.
“Yes,” Gordon replied, rising from the leather couch.
“I’m Elizabeth Ripley,” she said, shaking both their hands. “You asked to see someone about an alleged accounting fraud by a publicly traded company?”
“Yes.”
