Sergei Ryabov shot upstairs and called into FSB headquarters the same moment Aleksandr Dubroff boarded the train.
Chapter 44
Roarke’s Secret Service credentials went a long way in defusing the momentary excitement. He explained to the police that he had been tracking a fugitive who, using a new identity, took a job at the coffee bar. Katie confirmed what she could, which helped. Unfortunately, for Roarke’s sake, more damage had been done in the minutes while he was chasing Depp.
Another Starbucks employee took it upon herself to clean up. That included wiping the pots, trashing the cup that Depp used as a diversion, and restoring everything back to spic and span, customer-friendly normal. The possibility of lifting usable latent prints quickly went from 100 percent to basically zero.
Also, despite Roarke’s protestations, the police were not inclined to declare Starbucks a crime scene. “You tell me what crime was committed here,” the officer declared. He walked away from Roarke and got himself a free coffee.
Ten minutes later, Roarke and Katie were back on the street.
“What now?” Katie asked.
“So much for surprise.” Roarke looked at the time. “Witherspoon would have been here by now. If he has a half a brain, he’s taken off.”
Katie shared the thought.
“Wait a second — Starbucks!” Roarke exclaimed.
“Yes,” Katie said.
“Why was Depp here?”
Katie never asked herself that question. “I don’t know.”
“Come on, Katie. Here, across the street from your office.”
“Oh, my God!” She started shaking. “Me?”
Six minutes earlier, Donald Witherspoon approached his regular Starbucks. He was drawn to the commotion and pushed his way through the large crowd that had quickly gathered.
“What’s going on?” he asked no one in particular.
“The police are in there,” a woman said.
“I heard somebody had a gun,” added another.
Witherspoon saw another lawyer from the firm. He maneuvered close enough to call out. “Hey, Rog!”
The man, dressed in the same pinstripe uniform, turned to the voice. “Donald,” he said with no particular enjoyment.
Witherspoon worked his way closer to his colleague and the front of the crowd. “I heard ‘gun.’”
“Me, too. The police are in there now. Apparently there was some sort of chase. Don’t really know. See.” He pointed to the left side of building. “They’re talking to somebody now.”
They were about fifteen feet from the front door. He couldn’t see anything from his angle. Glare from the morning sun reflected off the glass. He sidestepped to the left and looked inside. A cop held a walkie-talkie to one ear. He had what looked like a license or ID card in his other hand.
“Did they catch anyone?” Witherspoon asked.
“Dunno. Just got here a few minutes ago.”
He continued talking, proposing a theory, but Witherspoon stopped listening. He felt his chest tighten with anxiety, and his heart begin to race. Beads of perspiration immediately formed on his forehead. His palms got sweaty. Kessler!
He could easily see her. She’d stepped away from the doorframe and faced the outside. Witherspoon turned 90 degrees and leaned behind the other lawyer, avoiding her line of sight. A few seconds later, he slid around ever so slightly and looked up.
Now she was gesturing in the direction of their law offices. He slid behind his colleague again and let his mind race through what he had just seen and what it meant. Kessler. Alive. And the man with the ID. Roarke? He couldn’t quite make him out. And the chase? What kind of chase? Who was he after? It almost didn’t matter. The fact that Kessler was alive was enough.
Witherspoon faded back. The other attorney felt him leaving. “Hey, where you going?”
“Coffee down the street,” he called out without looking back. He didn’t offer to get his colleague any. He wasn’t returning.
Neither was Aleksandr Dubroff. The old man felt like he was back in the game. He let a lot of himself die when he buried his wife. Now, the blood pumped through his veins with renewed vigor. His brain calculated options ten steps ahead. He weighed each move, but not as someone on the run, but from the perspective of the hunter. After all, even today, the FSB taught from the book he wrote.
Will they come looking for me? Absolutely.
Do they have orders to detain me? Now that I’m fleeing, yes.
Will they shoot if I don’t stop? Without hesitation.
Will they know where to look?
The final question brought a broad smile to him. No. Search as they may, they weren’t going to find Dubroff at the typical places. He wasn’t going to the American Embassy or the airport. He didn’t intend on sneaking across the border in the dead of night. Aleksandr Dubroff had other notions. He decided to switch trains, taking a roundabout route to Moscow, and cash in a few chits from someone who owed him.
Katie didn’t realize that she was standing on Milk Street with her mouth wide open. “Will he still try?”
If he wants to get paid, he’ll try again, Roarke thought. “He’s not foolish. He’s seen me,” Roarke said, trying to console her. He took Katie into his arms. She was shaking.
In less than a year, Katie Kessler had crossed over into a different world than she’d ever known or imagined. Roarke’s world was full of death and deceit, power and politics. People weren’t beaten in court, they ended up dead on city streets, or at the bottom of the Charles.
“Is this the way it’s always going to be with us?” she asked softly.
Roarke squeezed harder. He could answer with a lie or tell the truth.
“For now, yes,” he said. Roarke released her and took half a step back. He angled Katie’s chin up toward his eyes, so she would clearly see him, and said, “Not forever.”
“Why? Why me? I haven’t done anything.”
The question gave him pause. Why Katie? It actually didn’t make sense. Why would Depp be waiting for Katie to return to her old routine — including a morning coffee? If he wanted to kill her, he had ample time and opportunity, and much earlier. And Depp would have succeeded where the other contract killer had failed.
“Wait a second.” Roarke was thinking it through. “How many people come here before work?”
“What?” Katie asked.
“Starbucks. Who comes here?”
“I don’t understand.”
“Katie, I don’t think you were the target. At least it’s possible you’re not. So who else stops for a coffee before work?”
“God, lots of people.”
“Anybody relevant?”
“Well, yes. Donald Witherspoon.”
Witherspoon wasn’t a talented fugitive. He didn’t know where to go. Returning to his Back Bay apartment was out of the question. He had cash, but not enough to get far. The most he could get out of an ATM was five hundred. He’d need help.
The summer heat began to rise off the pavement, making Witherspoon even more uncomfortable. He took off his suit jacket, speeded up his walk, and crossed Franklin, heading deeper into the maze of downtown office buildings. He turned his head slightly to the side every half-block to see if he was being followed.
“Ah!” Witherspoon slammed into an oncoming pedestrian with such force that he knocked the man down. Without realizing it, he stumbled as well, tumbling right on top of the man.
“Excuse me. Sorry, I wasn’t watching,” he stammered.
“No problem. Just help me up, old boy.” The man held out his hand for Witherspoon to grab onto. Witherspoon’s instinct was to continue, but the man’s hand remained outstretched. “Come on,” he said with a clipped British accent. “Help a friend up. No harm.”