Gloria began to quietly sob. Toppers left the couch and knelt down next to the chair where her future mother-in-law sat. Rising from behind his desk, Windslow walked over, too, and put his right hand on Gloria’s shoulder. “This is a terrible thing for my wife to be going through.” He stroked her hair.
Continuing, Windslow said, “Those bastards pulled out four of Matthew’s front teeth and sent them to me in that ransom note, along with a photograph. That’s when I decided to talk to Jedidiah. That’s when I decided we needed your help.”
Storm looked at Agent Showers. She had placed her right leg over her left one and then wrapped them so tightly together that she now had her right toe tucked behind her left ankle. Her arms were crossed against her chest. Even someone completely unfamiliar with body language would have recognized how frustrated she was.
“I’d like to see the two ransom notes,” Storm said.
“Agent Showers will get them for you,” Windslow said. “Now, I’d like all the women folk here to skedaddle for a few moments so I can talk to Jedidiah and his man in private.”
“C’mon, ladies,” Gloria said, rising slowly from her seat. Toppers instantly fell in line, but Showers didn’t move.
“Senator,” she said sternly, “as head of this investigation, I need to be involved in every discussion that you might have that involves the kidnapping.”
“I have things to say in private, Miss Showers,” Windslow snapped. “I was assured earlier today by Director Jackson that I would have your total and full cooperation. Do I need to have him replace you?”
“For the record,” Showers said, “I think you are making a mistake bringing this outsider into the case.”
“For the record,” Windslow replied, mimicking her, “I asked you to leave my office.”
Showers walked out the door.
“Jedidiah tells me,” Windslow said to Storm when she was gone, “that you’re a man who knows how to find people who don’t want to be found and that you can handle yourself in extremely difficult situations.”
Jones said, “He’s my go-to guy. If it were my stepson, I’d call him.”
“That’s exactly what I wanted to hear,” Windslow said. “I need someone who can track down these bastards and do whatever is necessary to free my stepson. Do you understand what I am telling you?”
Storm said, “You want results and you don’t care how I get them.”
Windslow smiled. “Finally, I’m getting the sort of answers I wanted. Yes, this is exactly what I want from you, Mr. Mason, or whatever the hell your name might be. I asked Jedidiah to get me someone who isn’t worried about legal niceties. I asked him to get me the best.”
Storm didn’t respond.
“First, I want you to track down these bastards, and then, I want you to kill every one of them. I’m not worried about you reading them their legal rights and arresting them and getting them some fast-talking lawyer whose going to bottle this up in some long, drawn-out trial. I want them dead. I want you to get it done before they send more of my stepson’s body parts to my wife.”
Chapter Four
It was 8:30 P.M., by the time Storm and Jones left Capitol Hill and arrived at the Willard InterContinental Hotel on Pennsylvania Avenue, less than a block from the White House. Before they parted, Jones handed Storm an envelope stuffed with hundred-dollar bills, a fake Nevada driver’s license, private investigator credentials under the name Steve Mason, a cell phone that was a direct line to Jones at the CIA, and the keys to a rental car parked in the hotel’s lot. Storm reached his fifth-floor suite at the same moment the phone inside it began to ring. It was FBI Agent Showers calling from the lobby. She’d come to brief him.
“Come on up,” Storm said.
“I’ll wait for you in the hotel’s restaurant.”
Storm joined her five minutes later at a secluded table.
“I’ve never stayed in this hotel,” she said as he was sitting down. “But it is famous. Mark Twain wrote two books here.”
“We can go up to my suite and I’ll give you a tour,” he said.
“I was being polite, making chitchat,” she said. “I’ve no interest in going to your bedroom.”
“Too bad,” he intimated. “I was hoping for a full debriefing.”
Storm glanced around the mostly empty restaurant. “This hotel is much nicer than the places Jedidiah typically sends me,” he said.
The waiter arrived. Showers ordered coffee. Storm ordered a sixteen-dollar hamburger and an eight-dollar beer. When their server left, she said, “And where would some of those places be-where Jedidiah has sent you?”
“If I told you, I’d have to kill you.”
“That’s an old line.”
“In my case, it happens to be true.”
“Look,” she said sternly. “I’ve been ordered to brief you and work with you. I think I deserve to know who you are.”
The waiter interrupted with their drinks. After he’d left, Storm said, “I’m a private investigator-just like Jedidiah said. I used to work for him on occasion when I was in the military.”
“Oh really,” she replied skeptically. “I did some checking earlier today after Jedidiah told us that he was flying you into town. He said you were from Nevada. If that’s true, why is there no record of you being a licensed private investigator in that state?”
Storm shrugged. “I’ve been meaning to get a license. I just haven’t gotten around to it.”
“Youdo have a Nevada driver’s license though, right?”
Storm didn’t answer. She was supposed to be briefing him, not interrogating him. But Showers wasn’t about to stop now.
She said, “I checked the photos of all the Steve Masons who have Nevada driver’s licenses. You don’t look like any of them.”
Storm was disappointed. Jedidiah usually did a better job backstopping legends.
“I got a haircut,” he replied.
“I ran an FBI background check and there is nothing in any public record about a Steve Mason that fits your description. Who are you-really?”
Storm leaned in close and whispered, “I’m the man who’s been brought in to clean up your mess. That’s all you need to know.”
The waiter brought him his burger. Storm hadn’t realized how hungry he was. He took a big bite and another long gulp of cold beer.
In a resigned voice, Showers said, “What exactly do you need to know about the kidnapping?”
“Everything.”
Between bites, Storm questioned her. Showers elaborated on the basics that he’d already heard in Windslow’s office. Matthew Dull and Samantha Toppers had finished their last class for the day at Georgetown University and were walking across campus to get something to eat when a white van pulled to the curb and three attackers leaped from it. One fired an automatic weapon in the air to intimidate would-be heroes. He then pointed it directly into Topper’s terrified face. The other two assailants overpowered Dull and forced him into the van. The entire abduction had taken less than a minute.
“Why hasn’t this been all over the national news?” Storm asked.
“Strings were pulled. The media was told that it was a college prank. Georgetown officials went along. Said it was a fraternity gag that got out of hand.”
“What kind of automatic weapon was used?”
Showers opened a black leather briefcase that she had brought with her and removed a clear plastic bag that contained about a dozen brass shell casings.
“There were no fingerprints on them,” she said, putting the bag on the table.
Storm didn’t bother opening it as he finished the last bite of his burger. He’d seen enough 7.62 x 39mm ammunition casings to recognize them by sight.
“The assailant used an AK-47,” he said.
“Yes,” Showers replied, impressed. “Unfortunately, there are about seventy-five million AK-47s being used right now in the world. The Soviet Union did a hell of a job exporting them to every terrorist and revolutionary group in the world, as well as every nut in the U.S. who found a way, legally or illegally, to get his hands on a firearm capable of firing six hundred rounds a minute.”