Senator Day perked up. “Of course. It’s a wildlife sanctuary on Cape Cod. Some of the most pristine land in my home state. A thousand acres of marsh and woodland, surrounded by spotless beaches. When I was a child, my grandfather took me clamming and fishing off the banks of Wellfleet Bay. Who knows, if God blesses me with a healthy son, maybe I can take him there someday.”
“Yes, Senator Day. It is beautiful land. Pristine, as you say.”
“Do you fish, Senator Wooten?”
“No, I don’t even like the taste. But I do like real estate, Senator Day. I do like real estate. They just aren’t making any more earth, and the law of supply and demand is being driven by an ever-increasing population and a finite supply of land.”
“Never have truer words been spoken.”
“Just north of Eastman on the Cape’s west coast is a ten acre plot of land I have interest in. Only problem is that the land lies adjacent to a remote corner of the Wellfleet Bay sanctuary. No sense in buying the land if I can’t develop it…”
Senator Day cringed as Senator Wooten described the plot of land with surveyor-like detail—information gleaned from online photos. Senator Wooten did love real estate. And he had spent the previous afternoon searching Massachusetts for a prime investment opportunity stalled by politics.
The two politicians drank coffee as Senator Wooten showed that he did indeed know the value of a vote. And if Senator Day could clear an inside tract to ten acres of idyllic real estate, he figured he could make a few million just divvying up the land and re-selling it.
“I’ll be watching how you vote,” Senator Day said, leaving the office.
“And I will be checking your progress on my land,” Senator Wooten responded.
As Senator Day stepped into the afternoon air, the ulcer in his stomach bubbled. The combination of coffee on an empty stomach, and days of heavy liquor on a belly of coffee, burned a hole through the senator’s stomach lining like hot grease poured into a plastic cup. He doubled over, eyes watering, and dug in his pocket for some ibuprofen, the finishing touch on the toxic waste in his gut.
One more vote and he could go home and say hi to his wife. Dana had the evening off, and his wife would be asleep by nine. He could drink himself silly in the privacy of his own home.
The last vote came at the hands of Andrew Thomas, senator from Montana, and virtual no name on The Hill. Senator Thomas was the youngest senator by three years, and Senator Day thought he still had enough seniority and slick-Willie, over-the-top charm to impress the new kid on the block. Especially a kid from Montana, home to a population of ten people per square mile.
Senator Day danced and kicked, sang and spun. For thirty minutes he felt up the young senator, fondled his beliefs, trying to manipulate the boy from Montana without giving any ground himself. He had done enough damage for one day. He had already written a check for a vote, an impeachable offense, and agreed to soil his childhood fishing ground with construction run-off and human waste. His charity was running thin.
Senator Thomas put on his innocent face, cherub cheeks fleshy under a mop of brown hair. He smiled the same smile that had won him the election and waited for Senator Day to run out of hot air.
“I’ll give you the vote,” Senator Thomas said flatly.
“That is a good decision, son,” Senator Day responded with visible relief. The senior senator stood and stuck out his hand for a deal-sealing shake.
As Andrew Thomas rose from his seat to stick out his hand, he stopped. “And in return I’m just going to slip you right into my pocket. I’m going to save you for a rainy day, Senator Day. And when the day comes and I say ‘jump,’ I fully expect your answer to be ‘how high?’”
Senator Day flinched and then nodded silently as Senator Thomas withdrew his hand without a shake. The boy knew his way around the political minefield. Senator Day took note to keep an eye on this kid. Someday, he might need a young man with his politically savvy, self-promotion, and survival techniques.
Senator Day left the office, promising to make good on his promise, and thinking about DiMarco. He was waiting for the word that the job had been done. Then life would be back to normal. Back to his wife, his new child, his undeniable political right to act like a senator without any distraction or repercussions.
Chapter 24
The line to the entrance of the Spy Museum snaked down Eighth Street toward Chinatown and the Verizon Center. Chow Ying stood near the front of the triple-wide crowd sucking the sweet coating off the Advil pills in his mouth before swallowing the remains. The Mountain of Shanghai, his foot bandaged and throbbing, mixed with the tourists, rubbing shoulders with a smattering of intelligence buffs and ex-spook types waiting for a chance to admire the best display human ingenuity had to offer.
It was his third day off from surveillance. Hobbling on one leg was no way to try to kill a man. He had no idea if his ankle was broken or not, and he wasn’t going to the doctor to find out. Ice, compression, and elevation were the self-prescribed treatment for the dark blue bruises on the oversized appendage. As soon as he could get his foot back in his shoe, he would be back in business.
Besides, Peter Winthrop had proven to be a hard target. He didn’t come to the office with the same strict regularity as the rest of the building. Chow Ying had come to recognize dozens of faces coming and going, but in a week of stakeouts he had seen Peter get out of his black sedan-for-hire, enter the building, and move quickly into the lobby exactly one time. He had waited until midnight for him to exit the building, but the man he had met in Saipan over a month ago never showed his face. There were reasons. There was a private parking garage under the building and another exit facing the street around the corner. It was a lot of ground for one person to cover. It was impossible on one leg.
But Chow Ying had notched one hit under his belt in just over a week in the capital. And it had been a thing of beauty. No gun, no knife. No piano wire around the neck, no pillow over the face. And no suspicion. There was nothing on the news about a killer loose on the street, and there was nothing in the paper beyond a brief mention of an accident and the normal obituary. He now needed a plan to get both father and son, and when they joined their secretary underground, he could work on executing his long-term survival strategy.
He still carried the gun Mr. Wu had given him in New York in the back of his pants, his shirt pulled over it. But as a tool of an assassin, the gun had its drawbacks. He had never test fired the .38 caliber weapon, and with a loose pistol grip he couldn’t be sure of its accuracy. He had wondered why Mr. Wu hadn’t at least provided a new gun, perhaps one with a silencer, but deep down he knew the answer. Mr. Wu didn’t expect Chow Ying to live that long. When C.F. Chang sends you on a mission to the U.S. and threatens to take your passport, contributing to a retirement account is a waste of good money.
As easy as it sounded, walking up behind Peter Winthrop and his son, if he could get them together, and blowing their brains out on the K Street sidewalk, would bring an immediate and intense police response. He knew from experience that you could stab someone on a crowded street and keep walking before anyone noticed. It was done everyday in prison by inmates with shivs. But fire a gun and mayhem would follow. Guns are noisy, and a prominent businessman murdered in the midst of gunfire on the sidewalk would draw attention. Without a major distraction to give him a chance for escape, opening fire on a public street was his last option.
Chow Ying stood behind the crowd control barrier on the sidewalk and thought about other concerns. Men are more difficult to kill. They fight more, cause a bigger scene, take longer to die. He didn’t take any particular pleasure in killing women, but he had to admit they were easier to hunt, easier to kill. Taking out two men, one of who could identify him on sight, was going to be difficult. If he killed just one, the other would be suspicious. Two deaths in the same office over the span of a week would have everyone jumpy. Including the D.C. Police. Chow Ying needed to get them together. He was working through several scenarios in his head, all of them ending with a dash to the airport for the next plane out. With ten thousand in cash, he had enough money to run. Not far or long, but enough to get a head start.
The Spy Museum was a field day. He laid his fifteen bucks on the counter, got his ticket, and entered the new museum as giddy as a schoolboy. He breezed by the cryptology section and the biographies and busts of the most infamous names in the history of espionage. Agents, double agents, and triple agents. Heroes and traitors. He absorbed every word of the Israeli, Chinese, and Russian espionage sections. When Chow Ying entered the room
