A Brewing Storm

Her face flushed red. She started walking toward the suite’s door.

“Agent Showers,” he called after her.

She paused, glancing over her shoulder.

“This is the second time that I’ve been threatened today and it’s not even noon,” he said.

“Maybe instead of being an ass,” she replied, “you should start cooperating with the people who can help you. You’re a fool if you try to handle this on your own.” She reached for the doorknob and turned it. “I’ll tell them at the command post that you are being less than forthcoming.”

“Before you go,” he said, “I have a question. Why was a car from the Russian embassy tailing you last night after you left the hotel?”

She turned to face him but kept her hand on the doorknob. “It’s interesting that you know when someone is being tailed, but you don’t know when you’re being played. Did it ever dawn on you that the reason Jones brought you into this case is to be a fall guy?”

“How would I end up being a fall guy, Agent Showers?”

“Quid pro quo,” she replied.

“Oh, I’ll show you mine if you show me yours. No, thanks. Unless you actually do want to see mine.”

As before, she ignored his sexual flirtation. “There’ll be a scapegoat if Matthew Dull ends up dead,” she said. “This is Washington. Someone will have to take the blame.”

“You did learn something at Georgetown Law,” he said.

“One of the first lessons was that it’s always the person who’s in the weakest position who gets hung out to dry. That’s you.”

Storm put his now empty beer bottle down and looked up at her from his chair. There was a magnetism about her. A passion. His father had warned him to stay away from red-haired women. “They’re nuts!” he’d said. Storm thought about what she was saying. Was he really in the weakest position? It was not an unusual position for him to fall into. All of his training had been aimed at teaching him how to strengthen his position, how to overcome any type of obstacle. If he were in a weak position, he knew that he could find a way out. Could she? It was clear to him that Agent Showers was playing a game of checkers, when everyone else around her was playing chess. Did she realize it?

“Since you graduated magna cum laude,” Storm replied, “You know that what you just said is-to use your own term-bull crap.”

He was mimicking her. He was continuing to push her buttons.

Storm said, “Yes, the weakest player is always the fall guy. But in this investigation, I am not him. It is not Senator Windslow and it certainly is not Jedidiah Jones. It’s you, Agent Showers.”

April Showers slammed the suite’s door as she exited.

He gave her ten minutes to vacate the hotel. After that, he went to the lobby and spoke to the concierge.

“I’d like to rent a van. Can I get it before lunch?” Storm asked.

“Of course. How long will you need it?”

“I’ll return it tomorrow morning. I’d prefer something with no windows, or heavily tinted ones.”

“I’ll arrange it immediately.”

When he returned to his suite, he could still smell the remnants of her perfume.

Chapter Eight

Storm left the hotel shortly after 12 P.M. in the rented, white Ford E-series commercial van that the concierge had arranged for him. The van had seats for a driver and a passenger, but its cargo bay was empty. There were no windows except for the windshield and the front doors. After driving through the Virginia suburbs for a half hour to make certain that he wasn’t being followed, Storm bought four women’s gym bags at a sporting goods store and then returned to the District. He drove to the Thomas Jefferson Memorial, located at the southern end of the National Mall, adjacent to the Tidal Basin in West Potomac Park. He parked the van there and flagged down a taxi, which brought him back to his hotel with the gym bags.

Storm grabbed a shower and dressed in loafers, khaki pants, a blue shirt, and a navy sports coat. He tucked his Glock.40-caliber semiautomatic into the special holster that he wore in the center of his back and made certain he had extra ammunition. Now ready, he went downstairs and gave the valet his parking stub. A few minutes later, Storm was driving east toward the Capitol in the Taurus sedan that Jones had rented for him. He was scheduled to meet Samantha Toppers and Senator Windslow in the Dirksen SOB at 4 P.M.

Toppers was pacing nervously inside the senator’s inner office when he arrived. Senator Windslow was seated at his desk.

“I’ve called the president at Riggs Bank and arranged for Samantha to have access to the safety deposit box,” Windslow said. “Did you get the gym bags?”

“They’re in the car,” Storm replied.

Windslow suddenly shouted at Toppers. “Stop fidgeting, girl! And make sure you have your damn cell phone with you.”

“I’ve got to use the bathroom,” she stammered. She ducked into the senator’s private toilet that was connected to his office.

“You haven’t told the FBI about this, have you?” Windslow growled.

“No. I told you that I’d keep it confidential.”

“Does Jedidiah know?”

“No.”

“Good.”

A still visibly frantic Toppers joined them. “I’m not sure I can go through with this!” she said. “What do you think is going to happen tonight?”

“They’ll make us drive around the city,” Storm answered. “We’ll be sent down one-way streets and then they’ll have us reverse our route so they can see if anyone is following us. They’ll probably select routes that don’t have much traffic so it will be obvious if we are being tailed. And when they are convinced that we are in the clear, they’ll have us make the deliveries.”

“What if they take us hostage?” she asked. Storm noticed that her hands were trembling.

“Don’t worry, dear,” Windslow said. “You have him to protect you-and my six million.”

Storm added, “I’ll make certain nothing happens to you. Let’s go.”

Riggs National Bank was located about a block from the White House and could be seen on the back of a ten-dollar bill, behind the U.S. Treasury Building. Naomi Chatts, a senior bank official, met Storm and Toppers at the entrance and escorted them to the safety deposit vault in the building’s basement. Storm stayed outside the giant walk-in chamber, which was protected by a huge swinging stainless steel door. It was an older Diebold model that was three and a half feet thick and operated on a time lock. A beefy security guard was stationed at a desk next to the vault’s entrance, and Storm made small talk with him.

Ms. Chatts escorted Toppers inside the massive vault and then joined Storm and the guard outside the chamber’s entrance. About ten minutes later, Toppers appeared at the vault door lugging the four gym bags, two per each hand. Storm took the stuffed bags from her while Ms. Chatts ducked into the vault to make certain Toppers hadn’t accidently left anything behind.

“Can you have two of your guards escort us to our car?” Storm asked Chatts. There would be no way for him to carry the four bags and defend himself.

“Yes,” Ms. Chatts said. She had the guard make a telephone call, and by the time that Storm and Toppers had gone upstairs, there were two armed, uniformed officers waiting at the entrance for them.

“Please give my best regards to Senator Windslow,” Ms. Chatts said cheerfully as they exited the bank. The Taurus was double-parked directly outside the door. Storm put all four bags into the rear seat while Toppers took a seat in the front.

So far, so good. It was show time now. He needed to stay alert. To watch for some tip off, some clue to the kidnappers’ identity. Something he could use.