were razor-sharp. Simpson was meeting with several of his staff, no doubt reporting back on his vital “fact-finding” mission to the Caribbean.
Finn was waiting until Simpson was alone in his office, for only Simpson was going to die today. He tensed as the staff people rose and left. He then watched as Simpson checked his hair and face in the mirror on one wall, adjusted his tie, walked to his desk and sat down.
The end had finally come. Finn’s finger was poised over his BlackBerry. He would send the e-mail first. He would be able to tell from Simpson’s reaction on the screen that he had seen the photo of Rayfield Solomon, right before he died.
Finn’s thumb descended on the BlackBerry key.
“Hey, Dad!”
Finn glanced up, recognizing the voice. “Damn it,” he breathed.
David Finn came running up to him, smiling. “What are you doing here?”
Finn quickly slipped the devices into the duffel slung over his shoulder.
“Hey, Dave, what are
His son rolled his eyes. “You going senile on me, Pop? The school visit to the Capitol? You signed the permission slip? Mom gave me the money last night at dinner?”
Finn’s face paled.
David noticed his dad’s clothes. “What’s with the uniform?”
“I’m working,” he said quietly.
David’s face brightened. “Cool, you mean you’re undercover?”
“I really can’t talk about it, son. In fact, you better get going. It’s not really great that you’re here actually.” Finn’s heart was beating so hard it was a miracle his son didn’t seem to hear it.
David looked disappointed. “Hey, sure. I get it. Secret stuff.”
“Sorry, Dave. Sometimes I wish I had a normal job.”
“Yeah, me too.” He jogged back to his friends.
When Finn looked back at the screen, Simpson had left his office.
He stared over at David and his friends. His son glanced over at his father once and then looked away. The group of students marched down the sidewalk toward the Capitol.
Finn walked off in the opposite direction. He would have to try another day. Now he had to see his mother. He’d been hoping to report to her the news of Simpson’s death. So intent was he on what he was doing that he never saw the man emerge from behind a nearby tree and start following him.
After what Max Himmerling had told him the night before, Oliver Stone had come here to check out the office of Roger Simpson too, at least from a distance. Either Gray or Simpson had ordered Solomon’s death and the hit on Stone. Since he couldn’t get to Gray, Simpson was the next best thing. Now, however, there had come a detour. Stone had heard and seen enough of Finn to make him more than a little curious. Finn was good, to Stone’s experienced eye. Others around the area, even the police officers, would have noticed nothing suspicious about the man. But Stone was not like other people. He had run down many leads that led to nothing. His instinct told him this would not be one of them.
When Finn hopped on the subway at Capitol South, Stone did the same. The men rode it to National Airport. Stone followed Finn in. The latter went into a bathroom and came out dressed in street clothes, the duffel still over his shoulder. Now Stone believed that his hunch had just struck gold.
Finn bought a round-trip ticket for a short flight to upstate New York. Standing within earshot, Stone later did the same, using the fake ID and money Annabelle had given him. He went through security, his heartbeat ratcheting up a bit as TSA agents scrutinized his picture on the ID. They let him through and he allowed Finn to pass from his line of sight. He knew which gate the man was going to, after all.
Stone bought some coffee and a magazine. The flight was called. Finn was in the front of the full plane, Stone the rear. Forty minutes later they were wheels up. Less than an hour later, they touched down. Now it got dicey. The airport was small and the patrons few. Finn seemed preoccupied, but Stone couldn’t be certain. If he was the man running around murdering highly skilled killers in their own right, Stone could not underestimate him.
Stone was debating what to do when Finn surprised him. He bypassed the small rental car counter, ignored the taxi stand out front and walked down the road away from the airport.
Keeping an eye on him, Stone stepped over to a taxi and leaned in the window. “Got a layover. Anything within walking distance of here?”
“Some residences, some shops, a nursing home,” the driver said as he idly read his newspaper.
“Nursing home?”
“Yeah, you want to go there for a little R and R during your layover?” He chuckled.
Stone slid in the backseat. “Just drive for now,
The driver shrugged, put down his paper and the taxi pulled off.
CHAPTER 70
HERB DASCHLE WAS A VETERAN employee of the CIA. He’d done years of fieldwork, seen the world, ridden a desk for the last decade and then accepted his current position. It was not all that exciting, and the public was totally unaware of it, but it was vital to the security of the CIA and thus the nation. Or so said the Agency’s internal manual.
For two months Daschle had been coming to this nursing home three times a week and sitting in a chair in the private room of a man who was lying unconscious in the bed. The man was very high up in the CIA and his head was filled with secrets that could never be revealed to the public. Unfortunately, he’d had an aneurysm and was not quite himself. He could say things without knowing, disclosing vital national secrets unintentionally.
That could not be allowed, so men like Daschle came out and stayed with incapacitated Agency employees possessing such sensitive knowledge. There had been a man in the operating room when the surgery was done to relieve the pressure on the brain. There had been an agent stationed in the post-op, and there was 24/7 surveillance here at the nursing home, where it was hoped the man would eventually recover. Even the man’s own family was never allowed to be left alone with him. This had come as quite a shock, because the family was not aware that this husband, father and grandfather even worked for the CIA.
Twelve o’clock came and Daschle rose from his seat as a fellow agent, his replacement for the next shift, sat down. The two men exchanged pleasantries and Daschle mentioned a few items from his watch, nothing of importance. He left the room, dying for a cigarette, and wandered down the hall toward the snack room to buy a can of soda and some crackers before he left. The voices coming out of one room that he passed stopped him. It seemed to be Russian. Daschle knew that language well, having been stationed in Moscow for nearly nine years. Although if what he was hearing was Russian, it was a particularly mangled version. It actually sounded like an amalgam of several Slavic languages. He’d also been stationed in Poland and Bulgaria for a time. He edged closer to the door of the room, which was open just a crack, and listened a bit more. Then he heard enough to make him hustle out of the building. And it wasn’t for a cigarette.
As soon as he was gone, Oliver Stone stepped from around the corner where he too had been listening. He watched the fleeing man.
Inside the room Lesya was speaking while Finn sat quietly in his chair.
“So now John Carr rises from the dead like the Phoenix,” she said in her tortured Cyrillic mishmash.
“It seems so,” Finn said. “But I can’t be sure.”
“And the senator still lives.”
“Not for long.”
“What about Carr?”
“I’m working on it. I told you that. But I have no idea where he is or even if he’s really alive. They just dug up his grave. That’s all anyone knows.”
She coughed hard. “Time grows short.”
