Reelect the President. CRP had a vast suite of plush offices across the river in Rosslyn. It had windows that opened and secretaries who smiled and maids that cleaned every night. But not this dump.
Fletcher Coal stepped off the elevator and nodded at the security guard, who nodded back without making another move. They were old acquaintances. He made his way through the small maze of dingy offices in the direction of Barr’s. Coal took pride in being honest with himself, and he honestly did not fear any man in Washington, maybe with the possible exception of Matthew Barr. Sometimes he feared him, sometimes not, but he always admired him.
Barr was an ex-Marine, ex-CIA, ex-spy with two felony convictions for security scams from which he earned millions and buried the money. He had served a few months in one of the country clubs, but no real time. Coal had personally recruited Barr to head the Unit, which officially did not exist.
It had an annual budget of four million, all cash from various slush funds, and Barr supervised a small band of highly trained thugs who quietly did the work of the Unit.
Barr’s door was always locked. He opened it and Coal entered. The meeting would be brief, as usual.
“Let me guess,” Barr started. “You want to find the leak.”
“In a way, yes. I want you to follow this reporter, Grantham, around the clock and see who he’s talking to. He’s getting some awfully good stuff, and I’m afraid it’s coming from us.”
“You’re leaking like cardboard.”
“We’ve got some problems, but the Khamel story was a plant. Did it myself.”
Barr smiled at this. “I thought so. It seemed too clean and pat.”
“Did you ever run across Khamel?”
“No. Ten years ago we were sure he was dead. He likes it that way. He has no ego, so he’ll never get caught. He can live in a paper shack in Sao Paulo for six months, eating roots and rats, then fly off to Rome to murder a diplomat, then off to Singapore for a few months. He doesn’t read his press clippings.”
“How old is he?”
“Why are you interested?”
“I’m fascinated. I think I know who hired him to kill Rosenberg and Jensen.”
“Oh, really. Can you share this bit of gossip?”
“No. Not yet.”
“He’s between forty and forty-five, which is not that old, but he killed a Lebanese general when he was fifteen. So he’s had a long career. This is all legend, you understand. He can kill with either hand, either foot, a car key, a pencil, whatever. He’s an expert marksman with all weapons. Speaks twelve languages. You’ve heard all this, haven’t you?”
“Yeah, but it’s fun.”
“Okay. He’s believed to be the most proficient and expensive assassin in the world. In his early years he was just another terrorist, but he was much too talented for simple bomb throwing. So he became an assassin for hire. He’s a bit older now, and kills just for money.”
“How much money?”
“Good question. He’s probably in the ten-to-twenty-million-a-job range, and there’s not but one other guy I know of in that league. One theory believes he shares it with other terrorist groups. No one knows, really. Let me guess, you want me to find Khamel and bring him back alive.”
“You leave Khamel alone. I sort of like the work he did here.”
“He’s very talented.”
“I want you to follow Gray Grantham and find out who he’s talking to.”
“Any ideas?”
“A couple. There’s a man by the name of Milton Hardy who works as a janitor in the West Wing.” Coal threw an envelope on the desk. “He’s been around for a long time, appears to be half blind, but I think he sees and hears a lot. Follow him for a week or two. Everyone calls him Sarge. Make plans to take him out.”
“This is great, Coal. We’re spending all this money to track blind Negroes.”
“Just do as I say. Make it three weeks.” Coal stood and headed for the door.
“So you know who hired the killer?” Barr said.
“We’re getting close.”
“The Unit is more than anxious to help.”
“I’m sure.”
Mrs. Chen owned the duplex, and had been renting the other half to female law students for fifteen years. She was picky but private, and lived and let live as long as all was quiet. It was six blocks from campus.
It was dark when she answered the door. The person on the porch was an attractive young lady with short dark hair and a nervous smile. Very nervous.
Mrs. Chen frowned at her until she spoke.
“I’m Alice Stark, a friend of Darby’s. May I come in?” She glanced over her shoulder. The street was quiet and still. Mrs. Chen lived alone with the doors and windows locked tightly, but she was a pretty girl with an innocent smile, and if she was a friend of Darby’s, then she could be trusted. She opened the door, and Alice was inside.
“Something’s wrong,” Mrs. Chen said.
“Yes. Darby is in a bit of trouble, but we can’t talk about it. Did she call this afternoon?”
“Yes. She said a young woman would look through her apartment.”
Alice breathed deeply and tried to appear calm. “It’ll just take a minute. She said there was a door through a wall somewhere. I prefer not to use the front or rear doors.” Mrs. Chen frowned and her eyes asked, Why not? but she said nothing.
“Has anyone been in the apartment in the last two days?” Alice asked. She followed Mrs. Chen down a narrow hallway.
“I’ve seen no one. There was a knock early yesterday before the sun, but I didn’t look.” She moved a table away from a door, pushed a key around, and opened it.
Alice stepped in front of her. “She wanted me to go in alone, okay?” Mrs. Chen wanted to check it out, but she nodded and closed the door behind Alice. It opened into a tiny hallway that was suddenly dark. To the left was the den, and a light switch that couldn’t be used. Alice froze in the darkness. The apartment was black and hot with a thick smell of old garbage. She’d expected to be alone, but she was a second-year law student, dammit!, not some hotshot private detective.
Get a grip. She fumbled through a large purse and found a pencil-thin flashlight. There were three of them in there. Just in case. In case of what? She didn’t know. Darby had been quite specific. No lights could be seen through the windows. They could be watching.
Who in hell are they? Alice wanted to know. Darby didn’t know, said she would explain it later but first the apartment had to be examined.
Alice had been in the apartment a dozen times in the past year, but she’d been allowed to enter through the front door with a full array of lights and other conveniences. She had been in all the rooms, and felt confident she could feel around in the darkness. The confidence was gone. Vanished. Replaced with trembling fear.
Get a grip. You’re all alone. They wouldn’t camp out here with a nosy woman next door. If they had indeed been here, it was only for a brief visit.
After staring at the end of it, she determined that the flashlight worked. It glowed with all the energy of a fading match. She pointed it at the floor, and saw a faint round circle the size of a small orange. The circle was shaking.
She tiptoed around a corner in the direction of the den. Darby said there was a small lamp on the bookshelves next to the television, and that the light was always on. She used it as a nightlight, and it was supposed to cast a faint glow across the den to the kitchen. Either Darby lied, or the bulb was gone, or someone had unscrewed it. It didn’t matter, really, at this point, because the den and kitchen were pitch-black.
She was on the rug in the center of the den, inching toward the kitchen table where there was supposed to be a computer. She kicked the edge of the coffee table, and the flashlight quit. She shook it. Nothing. She found number two in the purse.
