“Stock market’s down thirty points,” his seatmate said. “I thought the damned Democrats were supposed to turn things around.”
“Money’s bigger than politics,” Mark replied, though in his own experience the wealthy and the powerful fed side by side like hogs sucking at a bottomless trough.
Mark hadn’t been fully forthcoming with the senator and Wallace Forsyth. Though Briggs had indeed been engaged in unsupervised research without federal approval, he hadn’t confined his diabolic dabbling to memory suppression. Briggs’s fear drug had rolled through CRO’s internal rumor mill, but because such a drug wasn’t deemed commercially useful, no resources had been directed toward it. That didn’t mean Briggs didn’t have an intention for it. Mark didn’t trust Briggs any more than he trusted Burchfield. But for the time being, they all needed each other.
The cabin began emptying, and Mark waited a few minutes before retrieving his carry-on luggage. He was inside the terminal, heading for the front entrance and his ride, when two airport security guards flanked him.
In the era of shoe bombers and hijackers and TSA Nazis, Mark had given up his reasonable expectation of privacy, but most surprise searches occurred while passengers were boarding planes, not while debarking.
Both guards wore blue uniforms, stripped to short sleeves despite the air-conditioning. The taller one was armed, and Mark, who had traveled to many countries as a CRO executive, had seen his share of airport militia.
The shorter guard increased his pace and moved alongside Mark. The terminal was filled with the food-court odors of fried onion rings, hot dogs, and hazelnut coffee. The public-address system boomed a change of gate numbers, and a baby was crying in a waiting area.
Mark took a detour toward the restroom, though his bladder was tight and dry. Hopefully it would be crowded and he could blend in and escape scrutiny, or at least have witnesses for any shakedown. The guards continued toward the front exits, the taller one still trailing.
Mark stood at a urinal and unzipped, the suitcase propped behind him. Even with Burchfield on his side, other federal agents might have an interest both in Halcyon and Mark’s involvement in the health subcommittee’s deliberations. He didn’t think a public kidnapping was likely, but Burchfield’s political opponents might apply a little extra surveillance and pressure to flush out any subterfuge.
After standing at the urinal for two minutes, Mark washed his hands, taking his time. When he left the restroom, the two guards were nowhere in sight. An Asian man raced by, arms loaded with baggage. A mother with two small children in her lap read USA Today by a ticket counter. A teenage couple swayed to the rhythm of separate headphones, and Mark couldn’t tell which set was emitting a bass beat loud enough to be heard from twenty feet away.
He gripped the handle of his luggage and was joining the crowd again when the guards suddenly appeared, one at each elbow.
The tall guard took the suitcase while the other gripped Mark’s upper arm. “Has this bag been in your possession the entire time?” the tall guard asked.
“It’s never left my sight,” Mark said.
“Are you sure it’s yours?” the short guard said. His head resembled a thumb.
“Yes. It has my name on it, as well as stickers with numbers from other flights.”
“This way please,” the tall man said, nodding down the corridor toward a less-traveled area of the terminal.
“Can you tell me what this is about?”
“Routine baggage check.”
“It was cleared at Dulles when I boarded.”
“Please, sir. You wouldn’t want to make a scene, would you?”
Mark wondered if a scene might be required. The DEA, CID, FBI, CIA, and National Security Agency could all have an interest in Halcyon, or, more likely, the rage drug Briggs had discovered through the back door. Any of the agencies might want to hang a bull’s-eye on Burchfield, particularly if the president viewed him as a rival.
“Look, I can open this right here if you want,” Mark said. “Someone’s picking me up in a couple of minutes and you know how traffic is.”
Thumb finally spoke. He even sounded like a thumb. “National security.”
Mark sighed. No one could fight against those words. Best to go through the dog-and-pony show and let the puppet masters flex their strings.
They led Mark to a door as innocuous as that of a janitor’s closet. Mark entered to a brightly lit room containing nothing but a wooden table and a chair. Thumb planted the briefcase on the table. “Open it.”
Mark turned the serrated metal wheel of the lock until he’d dialed the proper combination and stepped back. “Please keep my papers in order,” he said.
Thumb grunted and opened the lid. The contents looked just as Mark had left them. He tried not to smile. He suspected Thumb wouldn’t trust a smile.
The tall guard removed his sunglasses and flashed gray eyes. “Mark Morgan.”
“I didn’t tell you my name.”
Thumb emitted a guttural noise that might have been satisfaction. He pulled an orange pill bottle from some hidden crevice. “Prescription?”
“Never seen it before,” Mark replied.
Thumb gave the bottle a shake. No rattle. Grimacing, he twisted the lid free and a piece of paper fluttered to the tabletop.
The tall guard picked it up and unfolded it. “‘This could have been ten years in jail,’” he read in a monotone.
“I don’t know where that came from,” Mark said.
“A joker, huh?”
“No joke.”
Thumb rummaged around a little more, checking every pocket and flap until he was satisfied.
“Ten years,” the tall guard said, handing the vial back to his partner, who dumped it in the briefcase and snapped the lid shut.
“I don’t know who you’re working for, but I didn’t put that there,” Mark said. He knew it wouldn’t have mattered, because the note was right. The bottle could just as easily have contained twenty grams of cocaine, TNT, or stolen jewelry.
“You might want to be a little more careful, then, and quit lying about letting a bag out of your sight.” The tall guard held out the briefcase, his eyes like winter clouds. “You might get yourself in trouble.”
Mark nodded and headed for the door. Even if there had been no bottle, the guards could have easily planted one. He wasn’t sure if the encounter had been a friendly reminder from Burchfield or a wry warning from his CRO superiors or even Briggs. With the stakes mounting, the players would be pushing their bets. He would be glad when Halcyon was out of his hands.
He straightened his tie and exited the room, joining the stream of travelers. He glanced at his watch and didn’t wipe the sweat from his brow until he had reached the far end of the terminal. He punched numbers on his cell phone. “Meet me out front,” he said.
The green sedan with the tinted windows was so modest that it drew attention. Mark glanced around, wondering which of the exhausted, sullen-faced travelers might be an agent of some sort. Then he slid into the passenger’s seat.
“You’re late,” Briggs said.
“The flight attendant insisted on a second bag of peanuts.”
Briggs navigated away from the curb, gaze fixed straight ahead. His eyes were onyx, large pupils ringed by deep brown. The hooked nose gave him the aspect of a bird of prey, and touches of gray hair at his temples suggested a professorial, distinguished demeanor.
“How’s the senator?” Briggs asked.
“Is the car clean?”
“You’ve been watching too many spy movies. I picked this up at Hertz. Cash, no reservation. Therefore, no bugs.”
“You can’t be too careful,” Mark said.
