Adam Stern sat at the desk in the Advanced Security Systems office and rubbed his neck, which was still a bit sore where he banged his head into the roof of Haskell Feldhaus' red Nissan 240SX. The sporty vehicle now sat behind the building with its front-end bashed in.
"Are you positive it was Hill?" Feldhaus asked.
"I'm not positive of anything." Stern's voice was testy. He knew he had screwed up and he was damned unhappy about it. "It was too dark to be positive. The impression I got was that the face matched Hill's photo. My impressions are usually quite accurate. If there's a possibility Hill could be back here, I'd say it was him."
He found the phone number for the Colorado resort and called Laurence Coyne. It was two hours earlier in the Mountain Time Zone and the FAR president wasn't in his room. He returned the call around midnight Washington time.
"We have a problem," Stern said. "Hill may be back here."
"How could that be possible? You said the FBI—"
"I said they talked to him in San Francisco. But as far as I know, no one actually saw him get on the plane."
"I thought the airline confirmed he used his ticket?"
"They did. But I'm almost certain I saw him a couple of hours ago."
He recounted the incident on the street near the Anacostia River. Coyne was clearly agitated. "If it was Hill, how did he know about Advanced Security Systems?"
"Maybe the same way he knew to send Rodman and Shumakov to San Antonio. The man obviously has excellent sources. The big questions is, is Hill really in Seoul? If he is, we have a bigger problem. If he isn't, I'll deal with him my way."
"Damn, Adam. You assured me you had everything under control."
"I know. And I will. But right now I need you to get Nate Highsmith to call his Seoul office. I want to know definitely if Hill is over there."
Thirty minutes later, Highsmith was on the phone with Jerry Chan. "I need to talk to Burke," he said in an urgent voice.
"He isn't here, Mr. Highsmith."
"Where is he?"
"He called when he got here. Said he’d picked up some kind of virus, was sick at his stomach. Said he’d just stay in bed at the hotel until he got to feeling better."
"You haven't seen him?"
"No, sir. I haven't bothered him. I figured he needed the rest."
"Call me when you hear from him," Nate instructed.
Was Chan being purposely evasive, he wondered? He knew Jerry and Burke had become close friends while they were setting up the Korean office and working on that Poksu operation. Would he lie to cover for Burke? There was also the possibility that Hill had called from the U.S. and pretended to be at the Korean hotel. There was one way to find out. He placed a call to the Chosun Hotel in Seoul.
"This is Nathaniel Highsmith, president of Worldwide Communications Consultants in Washington. One of my employees, Mr. Burke Hill, had a reservation for arrival there yesterday. Would you see if he has checked in, please?"
A few moments later, the desk clerk was back on the line. "No, sir, Mr. Highsmith. Mr. Hill has not yet arrived."
66
The seven-mile section of I-40 between Exits 340 and 347 was the most expensive stretch of highway in Tennessee. The initial millions spent on blasting the roadbed out of the side of Mount Roosevelt proved to be only the beginning. In later years, not once, but twice, sections of the highway had crumbled and slid down the mountainside toward the valley far below. Highway engineers had pondered long and hard over the solution. The most noticeable result of the restructuring process was a series of large patches of reinforcing stones placed between the eastbound and westbound lanes, which lay at different elevations
The once-unruly highway seemed to have been tamed over the past few years, but Caleb Keck, a highway maintenance supervisor with the Tennessee DOT, always checked it out carefully after a bad storm, like the one on Saturday afternoon. He was up early on Monday, stopped for breakfast at the Cracker Barrel at Exit 347, carried an extra cup of strong black coffee out to the yellow plastic holder hooked to the driver-side door, then started his slow ascent heading west.
The sun appeared just above the horizon behind him, seemingly resting on a hilltop, bathing the valley beyond Rockwood in its golden glow. The view was as magnificent as ever, but Keck, who was raised on a rocky farm north of Knoxville, ignored it. His present interest was strictly in roadways and the problems they presented. He drove at no more than thirty miles an hour, letting the tourists and the truckers whiz by on his left. By the time he reached the Airport Road exit, nothing had turned up to stir any concern. He pulled off the interstate and crossed above it to re-enter the eastbound lanes.
Keck lowered the volume on his two-way radio and turned up the FM station to hear a Reba McEntire song. He loved Reba. As he sang along with the record, slightly off-key, he cruised down the mountain toward a familiar bend in the highway, a swinging outside curve that would take you straight to hell if you missed it. The valley soon began to unfold in the distance. Listening intently as Reba's voice faded away, he almost missed the crumpled stretch of guard rail.
Caleb Keck swung onto the shoulder and braked to a halt. He backed slowly toward the curve. It was not a place you wanted to make a miscue in steering. He got out and looked over the mangled pieces of steel. He hadn't heard anything about a wreck up here, but this certainly didn't look like a bounce-and-go situation. Peering over the side, he could see broken trees and pieces of gray-colored metal.
He got back into his car and radioed the dispatcher. "This is Keck. I'm on I-40 East at the curve just before mile 342. Has the Highway Patrol reported an accident here?"
"Not that I'm aware of. What do you see?"
"The guard rail's mangled. I can see signs somebody went over the side. Better notify the Troopers. And tell Ed to put in a work order to repair this rail."
Adam Stern was up early that morning also. He hadn't slept well. His neck was still sore, but that was not the cause of his restlessness. The real problem was Burke Hill. It was a problem that required an immediate and final solution.
He had clearly underestimated the man. Hill had cleverly pulled off that fake departure to Seoul, then compounded the crime by ramming Feldhaus' car with that damned truck. Stern had already checked out the black pickup's Tennessee license plate and found it was owned by a rental firm in Knoxville. A call to Tennessee established that it was rented Saturday evening by a man identified as Stephen Douglas. That cinched it. Nathaniel Highsmith confirmed that Douglas was the name Hill had used during his banishment to Alaska.
Coyne and Whitehurst had now agreed that Stern should handle the problem. He looked up a number in his private directory and soon heard the familiar voice he had consulted about another matter in Falls Church the week before.
"This is the Parson," he said, repeating the same routine. "I have a job for you that will pay double the last one."
"Hey, Parson, lay it on me."
"This one won't be as easy. You'll have to find the man first. He lives in Falls Church, but he's a slippery character."
"I've got lots of friends in the looking business."
"I know. That's why I picked you. But we don't have much time. It should be done today. By noon tomorrow at the latest."
"Damn, you're an impatient man, Parson. Gimme the dude's pedigree. Everything you can."