“Oh?” Witherspoon leaned forward on the bed a little.
“No, back down you go. I want you to be perfectly still.” Mycroft busied himself. “What’s that on your neck? A little cut?”
“Yes. Shaving this morning.”
“What a shame. Such a pretty face, too.”
Witherspoon was feeling very comfortable and safe. He all but forgot that he was running for his life less than thirty minutes ago.
“What do you have, Terry?”
“You’ll see,” the British visitor said seductively.
Witherspoon thought he heard the sound of something being screwed together.
“What is it?” he repeated.
“Something to die for, Donald.”
Witherspoon flashed on a funny notion. Everything Mycroft said had been provocative and sexy. But not this time. An uneasy feeling came over him.
Mycroft’s hand rose from behind the suitcase. Something long and cylindrical emerged.
“Something naughty?” Witherspoon asked.
“Naughty indeed,” Mycroft replied in a soothing voice. A fraction of a second later, he pulled the trigger on his 9 mm Heckler & Koch P7 pistol. The MX 12 Reflex Suppressor stifled the sound of the bullet, which created a hole directly between Donald Witherspoon’s rather dead eyes. It produced less blood than Witherspoon had shaving.
Mycroft returned the gun to the suitcase and closed the top. He wore thin leather gloves, which he’d slipped on before attaching the silencer. He’d keep them on until he was far from the hotel. There would be no fingerprints, and no trace of a Terrence Humphrey Mycroft. He never stayed in the room. It was merely a backup.
He’d intended to take out Witherspoon with less fanfare, but the encounter with the Secret Service agent required a change in venue. And the assassin was always prepared.
Chapter 45
“Can you possibly visit Boston without killing someone?” the president asked.
Roarke shrugged off a laugh. Yes. Two men in two years. Both hired killers, both dead because they were after Katie. But now Witherspoon was also dead. This one went into Depp’s column, not his. “You can’t blame me for Witherspoon,” Roarke said.
Roarke explained how a hotel maid discovered Witherspoon’s rather ventilated body late in the day when she went in to turn down a bed. Police were all over the room in a matter of minutes. The victim definitely was not the woman who had checked into the Wyndham. They quickly ID’d him as a Donald Witherspoon, resident Back Bay, Boston. But the woman? The police sent out an APB for a 35-year-old, lanky blonde from Sante Fe, New Mexico, who checked in with a MasterCard. They couldn’t have known that they were looking for someone who didn’t exist.
Roarke learned about Witherspoon’s death shortly after his plane landed at Reagan National. Earlier in the day, he had alerted the Boston Police that someone may try to kill Witherspoon. Someone did. They told him what happened and where, but that they were looking for a woman. Roarke tried to set them straight, but the hotel clerk was insistent that the guest was a woman.
“So why was it necessary to kill Witherspoon?” Taylor asked.
“Because he colored outside the lines. And because Depp can’t walk away from money.”
“But why?”
Roarke explained his theory. “Witherspoon probably learned she was helping me again. With or without — and I’m inclined to believe without approval — I think he ordered a hit on her. It failed.”
“Thankfully,” Morgan Taylor added.
“Thankfully,” Roarke sighed. “But the secret got out. Somehow. Not me. I kept it out of the news. I even stuck Katie in a safe house for a couple of days in Lexington. Still….”
“Haddad,” the president said to himself.
“Who?”
“A name. Go on.”
“So Witherspoon steps out of line, and whoever the hell he’s working for finds out.” He picked up a pen on the president’s desk and worked it through his fingers. “Just like he finds out about everything,” he continued. “And in comes our friendly assassin to clean up the mess. This time he posed as a coffee grinder in a Starbucks opposite the law offices.”
When Roarke finished telling the story, Morgan Taylor let out an exhausted breath. “Oh, Jesus.”
“We’ve got to find this guy,” Roarke said. “He’s positively incredible. He can turn into anybody — a man, a woman. And fast.”
“A real chameleon.”
“A viper. He sheds one skin and puts on another. All different. All distinctive. And all believable.”
“Like an actor?” Taylor asked.
“Someone with phenomenal acting skills.”
“And a killing machine,” the president said.
“Effective, professional, efficient,” Roarke said. “He knows how to complete a mission.”
Neither Roarke nor the president had taken seats since their conversation began. They were barely two feet from one another. No microphones, like the ones used by Nixon, were there to record the next part of the conversation.
“I’m going after him, boss. I swear to God I’m going to hunt him down.”
“That’s still going to leave the man who is making your assassin very rich. He’s the one we really need to find.”
“Have Mulligan do that. I want the killer.”
“Maybe you’ve forgotten how I like to do things,” Taylor scowled. “Everybody’s going to work together. No Lone Ranger shit. Do you have that?”
Roarke nodded.
“Good. There’s enough crap flying around here now. I don’t need you off doing your own thing. You report everything to me.”
“And you tell me what you know?”
The president was taken back by such a direct comment. “What?”
“The name. I believe it was Haddad.”
Morgan Taylor let a slow smile spread over his face. He snorted and took his seat, and motioned for Roarke to sit from across the desk.
“Okay, smart-ass, sit down. I’ve got a little time to kill before I head out to Andrews.”
“Where’d we get his name from?”
“Not pertinent to this discussion.”
Roarke knew not to press. If Taylor had wanted, he would have told him. “Does he have a full name?”
“Matter of fact he does. Haddad. Ibrahim Haddad. Miami, Florida. Of late, but not recently.”
“What a surprise.”
Chapter 46
Colonel Peter Lewis had the credentials. And he had the stomach. The credentials required him to have more than 2,000 hours in the cockpit, an unimpeachable career record, and worldwide flying experience. The stomach prepared him for being called at the last minute to fly the President of the United States anywhere at a moment’s notice.
It had been quiet for a while. Too long, thought the pilot of Air Force One. He liked being in the air better than on the ground. He felt in control there. He walked around the great plane with the 89th Airlift Wing’s chief maintenance officer. “We’re wheels up at sixteen fifty-five. We looking good, Rossy?”
“Always,” answered Lt. Eric Ross. He cocked his head toward the twin 747 some 200 yards away. “Same for two-niner,” indicating that SAM-29000, the twin 747 in Hangar 19, was ready as well. “We’ll roll her out in thirty minutes.”
“You swap out the nose tires on our bird?” Lewis hadn’t liked the feel the last time he landed Air Force One.
“Yes, sir. You’ll be riding with the Michelin Man. Smooth and comfy.”
When Colonel Lewis heard it from Rossy, he believed it. The lieutenant was the best. He ran system checks twice a day and again right before any flight. What he couldn’t personally get to, his men did. The next full review was scheduled for 2010, when the twin planes logged twenty years in service. But as far as Lt. Eric Ross was concerned, 2010 came each and every morning.