Gordon hit the gas and straightened it out. He got some open grass in front of him and turned to look for his pursuers. Unable to navigate the dell without four-wheel drive, the Crown Vic was heading south on Pump House Drive, aiming to circumnavigate the park and catch them at the north end.
Gordon headed directly for Blanton and melted back into the city traffic. He drove north on Sheppard Street until Cary, parked the Jeep in the first parking lot he saw, and jumped out. Jennifer was ten feet behind him when they reached Cary Street. Gordon saw a cab about halfway down the block and waved. The driver swung out into traffic and pulled in beside them.
“Where to, buddy?” he asked as they merged into the steady stream of cars.
“Just drive, please,” Gordon said, breathing heavily. He dug in his pocket and handed the man a wad of twenties. “South Richmond, on the other side of the river. I’ll tell you where in a few minutes.”
The driver flipped through the wad of bills and grinned. “Take your time, my friend. You just bought my services for the entire night.”
Gordon turned to Jennifer. “You okay?” he asked.
“Yes, but no thanks to your driving. You’re a maniac.”
“Better than getting shot,” he said.
“Those guys were serious,” she said, starting to shake. She slid in beside him and he slipped his arm around her, pulling her close. It felt good. “Jesus, they actually shot at us.”
He nodded. “And the car,” Gordon said. “Crown Vic with tinted windows and a bored-out engine.”
“What’s that got to do with anything?” she asked.
He pulled away a touch so he could look in her eyes. “It’s a government car, Jennifer. Whoever those guys were, they work for one of our government agencies.”
62
“This is not a difficult request,” Bruce Andrews said. “I simply want you to kill Gordon Buchanan and Jennifer Pearce.”
“I know what you want,” the voice snapped back. “Buchanan spotted us and we couldn’t catch him.”
“I don’t know where or when you’ll get another chance,” Andrews said. “But if you do, don’t miss. These two people are turning out to be quite the liability.”
“They will not escape again,” the man assured him.
“I hope not,” Andrews said, hanging up the phone. He was at home in his study, his private retreat from the world he had created. The phone line was private, the number known only by a precious few whom he considered either privileged or necessary. It seldom rang, and when it did, the ensuing conversations were always interesting, to say the least. But this one was not what he wanted to hear. Gordon Buchanan was proving to be a formidable opponent. He was wealthy and knew how to use his money to his advantage. He chartered planes, keeping his movements from city to city off the radar. He paid cash rather than using credit cards and knew when to keep his head down.
And Jennifer Pearce-now, there was a major mistake. He couldn’t count the times he had wished that he had never hired her. The Alzheimer’s group was far enough removed from Albert Rousseau and Triaxcion that she should never have been a factor in any of this. Yet Gordon Buchanan had got his talons into Kenga Bakcsi and that had drawn Jennifer Pearce into the fray. And she was proving to be as tenacious as Buchanan. Together, they posed the most cohesive threat to his plan-a plan that to date had unfolded almost perfectly.
Zancor was finally through the New Drug Application and was now FDA approved. The economic difference to the company was in the range of two billion dollars. And a few hundred million of that would come quickly as he geared up the production facilities and provided a few million doses of Zancor to Tony Warner at NSA. Things were perfect, with one exception.
Buchanan and Pearce.
One obstacle with one solution.
Keith Thompson reloaded the last series of tests and watched the results play across the screen. There was no doubt in his mind. He picked up the phone and dialed a number at the Department of Homeland Security. He fully expected J.D. Rothery’s voice mail and was surprised when the man answered the phone.
“You’re working late tonight, Keith,” Rothery said. “It’s after eight o’clock.”
“Oh, just a typical Tuesday,” the linguistics expert said. “Great news conference this morning, by the way. I think everyone is going to sleep a little better tonight.”
“Thanks, Keith,” Rothery said. “What can I do for you? I’m sure you have a reason for calling.”
“Yes, I do. The DVD that you received from the terrorist. I ran some additional tests on it and I’ve come up with something. A few years ago, I developed a program that samples idiosyncrasies in speech patterns. It looks for certain inflections common to specific dialogues and languages. In this case, our guy is Arabic, so I input every known dialect into the program and ran it through the supercomputers over at NSA. It took a while to come up with the final results, but they are conclusive.”
“What did you learn?” Rothery asked.
“The guy on the tape is not Arabic. Never has been, never will be. The accent is entirely fake. This guy is an Englishspeaking person, probably from the eastern United States. It’s difficult to establish exactly where he’s from because of the fake Arab accent, but if I had to guess, I’d say somewhere near Boston. And one other thing that is without question is that Ismail Zehaden is not the man on the tape.”
“You’re sure,” Rothery said quietly.
“I’m positive.”
“Who have you told?” Rothery asked.
“No one, Mr. Rothery. You’re the first one to know.”
“Keep it that way for now, Keith. We’ve got enough on our plate without this going public. I’ll deal with it.”
“Yes, sir.”
Keith Thompson hung up and looked back at the computer screen. The series of jagged lines cutting across the monitor were as definitive as a fingerprint. They just needed a voice sample from the same person and they could match the two. Then they would have their man.
He shut off his computer, locked the office and left for the night. He felt good about his work on the DVD, but something wasn’t quite right. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but something was bothering him. And when he reached his car and turned the key in the ignition, the strangest thing happened. He saw a split-second image of his car exploding into a giant fireball.
He sat in the parking lot, his body shaking as his car idled, and one thought kept running through his mind:
63
White Oak Technology Park was very different at night. In the muted moonlight, the silver buildings appeared dark gray, and aside from the streetlamps lighting the long winding road leading to the structure housing the Veritas labs, the grounds were dark. An occasional light glimmered out through the thick glass, but most of the labs were deserted, the staff at home for the evening. Gordon and Jennifer’s cabdriver pulled up to the front entrance of the Veritas building. He slipped the transmission into park and swiveled about to face them.
“Okay, let’s make sure I’ve got this straight. You want me to park near the south end of the building. There’s an exit about fifty or sixty feet from the corner. There are no markings over the door, just a small staircase with black railings. I’m supposed to shut off my car, stay in the shadows, and wait. When I see you come out, I’m to come racing up and get out of here as fast as I can.”
“Yeah, that’s about it,” Gordon said.
“And this is all legal?” the driver said. “Right.”
