Fatal Harbor Page 9

I kept on moving, trying to keep the fast-moving pedestrians between me and the sharp eyes of the wolves trying to pick up my scent. I had no illusions. If those men or others were to catch up with me, all it would take would be a long-distance Taser shot, or some sort of device to shoot a projectile with a nerve agent, or something else equally impressive to drop me. A few seconds after that, I would be bundled into an unmarked van or an ambulance, and then I would be gone. I’d probably end up in a basement or a lonely farm somewhere, about to receive an interrogation from folks thinking waterboarding was just a passing fad. I could try to get a shot off first at my pursuers, but who would I shoot? The guys following me, or people about me who might be working for the same employer?

  My pace picked up. I went past a Starbucks and a number of other buildings with open, inviting doors.

  But those invitations were all traps.

  I couldn’t chance ducking in someplace, to be cornered.

  My hand was under my coat, on the butt of my Beretta.

  Still moving.

  Was that a shout?

  Still moving.

  A horn blared.

  Honked again.

  Another shout.

  I spared a half-second glance to my right.

  A Diamond cab was pulled to the side, with a familiar-looking driver.

  A set-up? An ambush? Could I trust him?

  I went to the cab’s rear door, opened it up.

  I was tired of being paranoid.

  He was accelerating before I even had the door closed, and made a sharp left corner, blasting through a red light, causing a screech of brakes and another blast of horns. I caught my breath and looked out the rear window. None of my pursuers seemed to be after me. Even then, my driver took no chances. He made a couple more turns before we were traveling at a steady pace along J Street.

  “Thanks,” I finally said.

  “Glad to be of service.”

  “How the hell did you end up there?”

  I could see his strong shoulders shrug. “You’re a man who likes passing around the green. I like guys like that. So I figured I’d hang around the neighborhood for a while, see if you needed another ride.”

  “Oh,” I said. “Is that all?”

  A chuckle. “The way you asked me for a place. Most folks ask for a joint near the Metro station or the monuments or museums. You just wanted someplace close, clean, and inexpensive. Means you were here on a job. But most guys I ride, if they’re on a job, someone else is paying the freight. So this is something personal for you . . . and the way you moved, way you kept quiet, don’t think you were applying to the State Department or something like that.”

  I settled back into the seat. “Good observations.”

  “Spent many years in this man’s Air Force, looking at radar screens. I was trained to look at things, m’man. And when you got out of my cab a few minutes ago, I told myself that you were going into harm’s way, and I’d better be around to scoop you up if you come out of a building at a fast pace.”

  I looked at his license, caught his name. “Thanks, Frank. I really appreciate that.”

  He pulled up at a stoplight. “So how did the job go?”

  “Managed to apparently piss off some people.”

  “Means you’re doing something right.”

  “Thanks for the compliment.” I wiped at my forehead. It was cool and dry. First real big surprise of the day.

  “What kind of job are you up to, anyway?”

  “Trying to make things right for a friend.”

  “Male or female?”

  “Female.”

  The light changed. We moved ahead. “Hah, I think I know what you’re saying.”

  “And you’d be wrong. She’s not my wife or my girlfriend. Just . . . best friend I’ve ever had.”

  “She in trouble?”

  “She may be dying. And I’m looking for the guy who did that to her.”

  The back of his neck tensed up. “Then go get the fucker. Where do you want to go next?”

  “Nearest Metro station will do.”

  “You sure? I don’t mind driving you to your next place, if it’s part of your job.”

  “I appreciate that. But those bad guys . . . they might be waiting for me at the next stop. You were lucky once, Frank. I don’t want you to be unlucky the next time.”

  He turned to me. “You could let me worry about that.”

  “Yeah, but there’s your son, right? He needs you.”

  Frank took a turn. Up ahead I saw the familiar sign for the Metro. “There’s that. All right, good luck, whatever you’re doing. You seem like a good guy. Make me happy to see the good guys win one for a change.”

  “Me too.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Nearly thirty minutes later, I was in the Commonwealth of Virginia, walking along a residential street in a very pricey suburb of Arlington. All the homes looked like their value was about equal to the amount of money I’ve made in my life, and they were set far from the street. They were made of brick or wood, several had horse pastures in the rear, and as the sole pedestrian on the street I felt very much out of place.

  The one I was looking for was numbered 119, and it was a huge Colonial-style home, white with black shutters, with an attached three-car garage. The landscape was carefully manicured and set, and there was a brick walkway up to the door. Oak trees and pine trees decorated the yard. I paused and gave it a good long glance.

  I strolled up the brick walkway to the front door. It was wooden, carved, and it looked like something out of a sixteenth-century Bavarian carver’s workshop. There was no doorbell, just a knob in the center that I spun and spun. I could hear a rough tingling noise come from within.

  I stood back. Adjusted my clothes. Wondered how shabby I looked.

  The door opened up. A man about twenty years older than me stood there, wearing khaki pants, loafers, a white turtleneck, and a navy blue buttoned cardigan. Half-sized reading glasses were perched at the end of his prominent nose, and his white hair was trimmed quite short. In one hand he had a copy of The Economist magazine, and he looked attentive, yet so very, very tired.

  “Yes?”

  “Lawrence Thomas? Lawrence Todd Thomas?”

  “Who are you, if I may ask?” he asked, his voice soft.

  “My name’s Lewis Cole. I’m a journalist from New Hampshire. I’m here about your son, John Todd Thomas.”

  He pursed his lips, shook his head. “I’m afraid I have nothing to say to you.”

  “Mister Thomas, please, I really think—”

  “Good day, Mister Cole.”

  The door started closing, and I said: “Except for his killer, I’m the last one to see your son alive.”

  The door halted.

  Opened back up again.

  His eyes were watery. “Then do come in, please.”

  The inside of the house was large, clean, and quite ordered. The carpets were Oriental, the furniture was wood and old, and there were lots of books and framed photos. On one coffee table was a framed photo of the man’s son, John Todd Thomas. The photo was in color, it showed him at his college campus in Maine, and a black mourning ribbon was placed across a corner of the glass.

  As Lawrence padded into the living room, he said, “Do have a seat. My wife Frances . . . well, she’s upstairs, and I prefer her to stay there. I do intend to listen to you, but whatever information you share, well, I do intend to protect Frances. I’m sure you understand.”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “I’d offer you coffee or tea, but even after retirement I still haven’t gotten the hang of our kitchen gear. So how about a bottled water?”

  “That would be fine.”

  I gingerly sat down on the edge of a couch that looked like it had been lifted from an Early American furniture display at the Boston Museum of Fine Arts, and gave the room another look. There were black-and-white wedding photos of Lawrence Thomas, with a young woman who was no doubt Frances. More photos of their on
ly son, as a Cub Scout, Boy Scout, Little Leaguer, and soccer player. I recalled the young man I had met over a week ago up at the Falconer nuclear power plant, when he had escorted me to visit Curt Chesak of the Nuclear Freedom Front. Soon after he had escorted me, he had been shot to death in the salt marshes around the power plant, and for a few long hours I had been a suspect in his murder.

  Lawrence came back, carrying two bottles of Poland Spring water. I got up and he handed one over, then cocked his head. “I have an idea we’ll be discussing things of a sensitive nature . . . so perhaps we should go to the rear garden.”

  “That would be fine.”

  I followed him out of the living room, to a short hallway and a small room that had floor-to-ceiling French doors. He opened up the near door and I followed him out. There was statuary and a water fountain, and small shrubs and plants that I couldn’t recognize. He walked a few yards, past some hedgework, until we came to a stone bench. He sat down with a sigh, stretched his legs. Before us was a small pool, with lily pads and orange fish lazily swimming about. We both unscrewed the tops of our bottles and I took a satisfying swig.

  He did the same, looked down at the pond. “This was one of John’s favorite places, this little pond.”

  “I can see why. It’s quite beautiful.”

  “True, and John would spend hours here, on his knees, looking at the water, the fish, the frogs and crayfish. He often begged me to get bigger and better fish, like Japanese koi, and I always refused. It didn’t make sense to spend ten or fifteen dollars for a fish that might end up in the belly of a raccoon or a Great Blue Heron.”

  He took a tiny sip of his water. “Days like these, you look back in regret, think of all the times you said no, all the times you said later, son, all the missed ball games and recitals and events . . . it makes one feel very, very old. Are you married, Mister Cole?”

  “No, I’m not.”

  “I envy you, then. For not having that special terror of being a parent, of worrying about your only son, of seeing him grow up with skinned knees and broken arms. At some point, after he’s gone through the temptations of high school and the chances of injury that come with a driver’s license, you expect that the odds are now in his favor. That he will grow old and marry and bless you with a fine daughter-in-law and grandchildren . . . and in the space of one depressing late-night phone call from a place you’ve never heard of, it’s gone. It’s all gone.”

  A jet glided overhead, heading to Reagan or to Dulles, airports named after famed Cold Warriors. I watched the fish at play. “What kind of fish are those?”

  A short laugh. “Standard issue goldfish. Five dollars for a plastic bag of a couple dozen. You toss them in the water and you can forget about them. They eat what they eat, they reproduce, and in the winter they burrow in the mud. That’s why I found them so attractive.” He turned a little on the bench. “Tell me about the last time you saw John.”

  “I was doing a story about the anti-nuclear demonstrations at the Falconer nuclear power plant. There were two factions in the protests. The smaller was the more violent of the two, the Nuclear Freedom Front. I made an arrangement to interview the head of the NFF, Curt Chesak.”

  Lawrence nodded. “I’m familiar with the organization and its leader. Do go on.”

  “I was escorted to a hidden site in the nearby woods where the NFF was camping out. I had an interview with Chesak. My escort in and out of the camp was your son.”

  He lowered his head, put a hand to his forehead, like he was trying to hide whatever emotions were playing across his face. “My son . . . a good boy, though we did disagree about politics. Most fathers and sons do, don’t they. His mother and I weren’t thrilled with the schooling he was missing, volunteering for that . . . group. But he was headstrong, my boy.”

  Lawrence raised his head. His eyes were red-rimmed. “Was he good at what he was doing? Was he well? Was he proud?”

  “Yes to all three,” I said. “He was smart, he knew what he was doing, and he did it well.”

  A nod. “Thank you . . . if I may. . . .”

  “Go right ahead.”

  “We’ve not heard much from the police in your state. Do you know anything about the investigation, or its progress?”

  This was about to get interesting, and not in a good way. I looked over at the pond again. “Some.”

  “And?”

  “You might not like hearing what I have to say.”

  “I think you underestimate me, Mister Cole.”

  “All right. At first police believed that your son had been shot by Victor Toles. Victor earlier had assassinated his stepfather, a prominent anti-nuclear activist.”

  “Really? Why? Was he opposed to his father’s actions?”

  “Yes, but not involving nuclear power. It involved money, lots of money.”

  “And why would he have killed my son?”

  “When your son escorted me out of the camp, Victor showed up and took me away instead, sending John back to the site. A few minutes later, Victor tried to shoot me in the marshes near the campsite. I managed to escape and later, slogging around in the marshes, I heard another gunshot, the one that killed your son. I thought it was Victor, shooting your son to cover up the fact that he had tried to kill me. Now, I doubt it.”

  “Why?”

  “Because Victor Toles is under arrest, and he’s only been charged with one killing, that of his stepdad. No one’s been charged with the murder of your son.”

  He slowly nodded. “All this I pretty much know, except for your part in it. All right, is there more?”

  “There is. Curt Chesak led the demonstrators who broke into the plant site, where two demonstrators were killed and a number of police officers were seriously injured. I think Curt killed your son, Mister Thomas.”

  “Why? Why would that . . . man kill my boy?”

  I took a deep breath, looked right into the older man’s eyes. “Because I believe he found out that your son was working for you and the CIA.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Lawrence stared at me, and whip-snap, his arm flew out and he slapped me across the face. It stung, it was a surprise, and I bit my tongue in the process, but I kept my place on the stone bench.

  “You . . . how dare you say that?” he asked, voice shaking. “What the hell gives you the right to say anything of the sort? My God, what a fantasy . . . that I worked for the CIA. Where did you get such a bullshit story?”

  “From your son.”

  “He never said such a thing!”

  “Unfortunately for you, he did, when he was bringing me into that campsite, not letting me know where it was located, and when I complimented him on his tradecraft. He said he’d learned everything he knew from his father. And when I saw his obituary a while later, it said that you were retired from government service. A rather bland description, but one that fits one who used to work for the CIA.”

  I wanted to rub my left cheek, but I kept my composure. “Just so you know, I wasn’t always a journalist, Mister Todd. A number of years ago, I worked at the Department of Defense.”

  “Not impressive,” he replied. “Tens of thousands of people have worked at the DoD. What did you do there? Something impressive, like toilet paper analyst? Parking-lot guard? Late-night housekeeping?”

  “I was a research analyst with a group within the Defense Research Agency called the Marginal Issues Section. I worked there for nearly a decade.”

  His eyes narrowed. “What was your clearance level?”

  “What difference does it make? It’s been such a long while, I’m sure the classification levels have changed at least a half dozen times. But I’ll tell you it was high enough.”

  A pause. “When did you leave?”

  I told him.

  “Why did you leave, Mister Cole?”

  “Medical discharge.”

  “Really? What did you do, cut your finger on a letter opener? Have a water cooler drop on your foot?”

  I stood
up. “No. One day my section and I were in a remote part of one of the Nevada testing ranges, doing a field exercise. We got lost. We traveled into one of the testing ranges, where we were exposed to a biological agent that was illegal under a number of arms-control treaties in place at the time. Everyone except for me was killed. In exchange for keeping my mouth shut, I was pensioned off and sent away.”

  “Mister Cole, I—”

  “I came here, hoping to share information, perhaps reach some sort of arrangement where you and I could seek the same person responsible for murdering your son, and for nearly murdering a friend of mine. But if you’d rather sit on your bony ass and insult me, then I’ll leave.”

  I turned and started up the walk.

  “Mister Cole . . . please. Do return. My apologies.”

  It was a struggle, but I turned. I went back and sat down.

  “My apologies as well for striking you . . . for, if truth be told, I should be striking myself.”

  “All apologies accepted.”

  He attempted a wry smile. “And my ass isn’t that bony.”

  “Duly noted.”

  He turned some and looked at the pond, folded his arms. “Whatever conversation we have over the next several minutes never happened. Clear?”

  “Oh, yes, it’s clear. I remember the drill.”

  “Well, in case you don’t remember all of the particulars of the drill, here’s something else you should know. This part of my garden is under constant electronic jamming. If you have some sort of recording device or transmitter on you, nothing will be recorded.”

  “I thought you were retired.”

  “Retired, but not stupid.” He wiggled his feet and said, “And you’re certainly not stupid. What brought you to the theory that my son was working for me?”

  “Because your son was killed in a location near where Curt Chesak was residing. Because Curt Chesak has a taste for violence. Because Victor Toles has not been charged with your boy’s death. And because Curt Chesak is somehow connected to a D.C. lobbying firm that apparently has its fingers in a lot of interesting areas.”

  Boy, did that get his attention. He sat straight up and said, “Tell me more.”