“Subject Alpha, running east,” one of the rooftop shooters said, calm, sniperlike. His voice held the unique buzz of someone whose face was pressed against a rifle chassis. “She’s on the paved trail, heading down toward the airport.”
Montgomery hit the steering wheel. Ayers would follow Chadwick’s vehicle, staying with her to look out for secondary attacks. With the remaining agents either on the roof or across the street, Alpha was as good as gone.
“Oh, hell, no,” Montgomery muttered, slamming the Durango into gear. Flooring the accelerator, he turned quickly off Crystal Drive into the parking lot to his right, cutting between the two apartment buildings. He’d gotten enough of a look at Alpha to see she had long legs and an easy stride. Probably bought her running shoes by the gross. There was no way he’d be able to outrun her. But he was a boxer, and boxers knew how to work the angles.
The Mount Vernon Trail stretched for eighteen miles along the Potomac River between George Washington’s estate and Roosevelt Island to the north. The entry onto the trail from Crystal City ran east through the woods as it crossed the tracks and then cut almost due south to follow the George Washington Parkway before finally joining with the trail via a concrete ramp overlooking Reagan National Airport. In other words, if she wanted to run north and stay on the trail, Alpha would have to run south first. Montgomery had run it before with friends from the U.S. Marshals Service, headquartered in Crystal City, and he knew every sickening foot of it.
He took the Durango as far as he could, eventually finding himself stopped by a swimming pool behind the apartments. Out and running immediately, he scrambled over the rusted metal wall along the train tracks. He tore the knee on his khakis when he hit the gravel, but his predatory drive put him past caring. He hit the woods at an all-out run, crashing through dense greenery of oak shrubs and sassafras, half sliding, half bounding down the side hill. The thump of evening traffic on the GW Parkway covered the noise of his approach.
Montgomery slowed a hair as the vegetation began to thin and he neared the edge of the woods. Alpha was to his left, still running as if pursued by demons, just about to go under the bridge. Montgomery dug in, sprinting up the grassy hill to GW Parkway, where he waved at oncoming cars like a madman. Traffic was never good inside the Beltway, but Sunday evening gave him a relative break, and he was able to scramble across in fits and starts like the frog in the video game without getting squished. Energized at having reached the high ground in advance of his target, he stepped into the woods where the Crystal City access T’d into the main trail and waited for Alpha to run directly to him.
He drew his SIG Sauer, but there was no need.
Alpha stopped dead in her tracks and raised her hands when she saw the badge hanging from the chain around his neck.
“My name is Elizaveta Bobkova. I am the Russian attaché for economic affairs and I have diplomatic immunity.”
Gun up, Montgomery kept his distance.
Without being ordered, Bobkova knelt on the grass, put both hands on top of her head, and crossed her ankles. She knew the drill. An Arlington PD patrol unit pulled to the shoulder of the road and stopped, pistol out, surveying the scene from behind the safety of his engine block.
Montgomery tapped the badge around his neck. “Secret Service. I could use some help here.”
Two more APD cars showed up in as many minutes, more relaxed with the situation now that they had superior numbers. Montgomery holstered his sidearm and let the officers, who were accustomed to working as contact and cover, take Elizaveta Bobkova into physical custody.
“Nice Glock,” Montgomery said when one of the Arlington officers passed him the G43 they took from her waistband. “Small, but a little much for an economic attaché.”
Bobkova cocked her head to one side. Sweat beaded on her upper lip. Her chest heaved from exertion and nerves. It was getting dark now, and the blue and red lights of the squad cars flashed off her passive face. “You are very large man,” she said, her Russian accent stronger than it had been earlier. Her eyes were almost shut, as if she were trying to figure out some riddle. “I do not mean to say fat. You are large in good way. But I cannot believe a man as large as you caught up to me on foot. It is… remarkable…”
44
Urbano da Rocha lay on his back in a plastic lounge chair, reading a car magazine and daydreaming about the new Bugatti he could now afford to buy. An intense midday sun reflected off the white deck and dazzled the blue water of the pool. A heavy gold chain lay across his hairless chest, glinting along with the buckle of his swimsuit. Skintight silk covered with gold brocade, the suit was modeled after taleguilla—the breeches worn by matadors. It was complete with tassels — called machos—and da Rocha thought it looked ridiculous, but Lucile had bought the suit for him in Seville. As with the actual taleguilla of a matador, the suit required da Rocha to arrange his partes nobles to one side or the other. In the case of the matador, this was away from the side he used to confront the bull. A wise choice, considering what the sharp horns of a Spanish fighting bull would do to those “noble parts.” The suit might look foppish, but it certainly sparked some interesting games in the bedroom. He’d hardly gotten a moment’s sleep since the deal with the Russians went through.
Killing always brought out the best in Lucile Fournier.
Groaning now, he set the magazine aside and sniffed the air, taking in the odor of cut grass on the rising heat from the fields below the eighteenth-century villa — his fields and his villa. He gazed down the hill at the olive grove below — his olive grove. And it was only the beginning. Oh, this place was well and good by Portuguese standards, but now he could buy an island of his own if he wished. His estates would dot the globe. If the Russians could be trusted to keep their word — and why shouldn’t they — then there would be many more deals to come. Not too shabby for a former Ochoa errand boy.
He caught a flash of movement in the corner of his eye and let his head fall sideways to watch Lucile’s tan body arc off the diving board and enter the water with hardly a burble. She was that way with everything, precise, perfect. It seemed she hardly even had to practice. She merely conceived an image of what she wanted to do, replayed it over and over it in her mind until she could picture the most minute detail — and then did it. Killing Hugo Gaspard had been da Rocha’s idea. How to do it had been hers. She suggested it be public, demonstrating to others in the business that there was a new player in town who was not to be underestimated. Anyone who could murder the feared Frenchman in broad daylight — in front of his armed bodyguards, no less — was surely someone to be reckoned with. The same with Don Felipe. She’d taken special care procuring the toxin and devised a method of delivery that could be carried out under the nose of the Russians without causing them to get overly nervous.
Shielding his eyes against the blinding sun, da Rocha whistled at Lucile. It was not a catcall or a summons. Lucile was not the sort of woman who answered to a snapped finger. It was a whistle of awe.
Both hands on the deck, she pressed herself up and out of the pool, swinging her leg up in a fluid motion that would have been awkward for most people. She accomplished it with perfect strength and grace. Like a goddess just appearing on earth, her wet skin glowed under the golden evening light. She tipped her head to get all her hair on one side, and then used both hands to wring out the excess water. She wore the same black two-piece she’d had on when she’d shot Gaspard, with the same alluring tear in the cloth over her buttock.