“No serial numbers,” the priest added.
Carver wrapped his fingers around the grip, then popped the clip into the handle and chambered a round into the barrel, testing the action.
“Perfect,” he said. “I assume you’ll take cash?”
The priest smiled. “It’s on me. My monthly stipend from the CIA more than covers little popguns like this. You should see the stuff my Israeli friends ask for.”
Callahan reached into his satchel again. This time, he produced a new satphone and handed it to Carver. He had gotten into the habit of switching phones every few days as a security precaution. Until recently, he had been content to simply switch SIM cards out of the same phone on a regular basis. That was no longer enough. It had simply gotten too easy to infiltrate other parts of the handset.
“There now,” the priest said. “You can communicate and you can defend yourself. Now can you tell me why you’re here?”
Carver sat down in a small, elegantly crafted chair made of wood and leather. Father Thomas Callahan had been a valued operative for years, and he had been the eyes and ears of Operation Crossbow for a handful of days. Still, Carver didn’t yet feel comfortable disclosing the ins and outs of the Gish and Preston assassinations.
“You contacted us, Father. Something about two bodies in the morgue?”
“Quite right. It seems there was a gunfight in the hotel parking garage where we last had a location on Adrian Zhu. Nothing I couldn’t have sussed out on my own.”
“Who are they?”
“They’re still John Does, as you say in America.”
“I need to see them immediately. Care to come along and offer last rites?”
“Since when did you care about the souls of strangers?”
“I’ve saved lots of strangers. Millions, even. They just don’t know it.”
Callahan’s eyes twinkled. “Aye, but you’ve also sent a few to meet their maker. And ever so humbly, I might add.”
Mayflower Hotel
“I have a message for Mary,” Ellis told Vera Borst. It was not what she had imagined saying to the sitting under-secretary-general of the United Nations. It was far from anything Speers would have approved. But it felt right.
As far as Ms. Borst was concerned, the government still considered her daughter missing. Ellis had decided not to let on that they had discovered her name on the passenger manifest of the Toronto-Rome flight the previous day. After Hank Bowers had been unable to secure a meeting with Vera, McLean had tapped her communications. So far, the log on the mission cloud showed absolutely no activity between mother and daughter.
“My daughter?” Borst said in Dutch-accented English.
“Yes,” Ellis confirmed.
“Who is this? How did you get this number?”
“My name is Haley Ellis. I was with Mary before the fire at Senator Preston’s house.” All true. All verifiable.
“I see. You two knew each other?”
“I have to tell her something important. Something Senator Preston was supposed to tell her.”
“I can’t tell you where she is,” Borst said without missing a beat. It wasn’t a denial. Just a statement.
“The messenger is a Level 19,” Ellis said. She was completely improvising now. There was very little to lose.
Borst was quiet for several seconds. Ellis thought she heard running water. “We shouldn’t discuss this by phone,” Borst said finally. “We should meet. Are you still in D.C.?”
“Yes.”
“Then you have to come now. I’m leaving for Europe tomorrow.”
Now? Not ideal. But a chance to question the mother of the only person of interest they had? She had to act. And her chances of finding the killers from a hotel room? Zero.
“I’ll have to check flights,” Ellis said. In her excitement, she had almost forgotten that she was confined to the hotel. How would she get past Jack?
“There’s an Alaska Airlines flight at 7:10 every night from Reagan National. With the time difference it puts you at Sea-Tac at about nine. If you miss that, there’s a Virgin flight a half-hour later.”
Given Borst’s role in world government, Ellis wasn’t surprised the under-secretary would have memorized the Washington to Seattle flight schedule. She imagined Borst was also fairly familiar with flights into and out of New York.
She checked her watch. It was already a few minutes past four. There might be enough time to get to the airport and get on a standby list for the 7:10. There was no time to ask Speers for permission.
Rockville, Maryland
Speers and Fordham watched from the back seat of a black sedan as the city gave way to suburbs and eventually, to a hilly, verdant Rockville neighborhood populated by expensive cars and enormous mansions. “This is the address,” Fordham said into his earpiece as they rolled up outside the massive estate known as Eden. “Let us take the lead. Everyone else stay back until we give the signal.”
The property’s 15-foot walls were covered in ivy, except at the top, where loops of razor wire glimmered in the sun. Tiny cameras were mounted around the entire perimeter.
Speers got out of the car. Wincing at the pain from his ankle, he propped himself up on a cane that the nurses at Walter Reed had given him. The MRI had shown no broken bones, thankfully. They had given him something for the inflammation, wrapped the ankle, and discharged him. As he put weight on it, he regretted not getting a prescription for the pain.
He looked down the hill, noting no less than eight black sedans parked about 50 yards away. Their passengers had been instructed to stay put for now. Per the president’s request, none of Fordham’s agents except Hank Bowers were privy to the case details. They had been told only to seize all files, computers, strongboxes and weapons from the premises.
“Are those chemical toilets ours?” he said, noticing an outhouse trailer at the end of the caravan.
“Damn right,” Fordham said. “I took one look at the size of this place on the map and figured we’d be out here all day. I’ve also got a craft services truck coming at noon.”
Fordham pulled the federal warrant out of his pocket. Speers didn’t want to know how the FBI director had gotten it so quickly.
Suddenly, a grinding sound emanated from the front gate, which looked as if it was made of solid iron. The gate opened slowly. The FBI agents backed off, some of them ducking behind cars. Speers held his ground, mesmerized by the emerging view.
A long, winding driveway snaked up a sloping hill. It was covered with autumn leaves. A flock of ducks flew in perfect V-formation overhead and began to circle over the main house. Speers imagined a pond deeper on the property, or perhaps a gigantic swimming pool.
A real estate agent in black stockings and a conservative red dress stepped out to the street. Apparently oblivious to the G-men on the street, she began pounding a sign into the dirt with a rubber mallet. It read PRIVATE SHOWINGS BY APPOINTMENT ONLY.
Speers hobbled across the street with Fordham beside him, and called out to the woman so as not to scare her. “Excuse me.”
The woman turned. Her face was cragged with wrinkles and was much older than her shapely figure and blonde mane had conveyed from the rear. “Yes?” the woman responded.
“Just saw the sign going up.” Speers hoped to gain entrance without using Fordham’s warrant. “We’d like to see the property.”
The woman sized the two men up. Although they had stepped out of a new black Lincoln Continental, neither was wearing a luxury watch and their shoes were worth less than the bottle of wine she had bought for dinner last night. “I’m afraid there is a prequalification process in order to secure an appointment. With a property like this, one does have to screen out the looky loos.”
With the gates now fully open, Speers could see the white columns leading up to the enormous residence. Nobody seemed to be around, but it was easy to imagine world leaders being driven in and out of the property and squads of young students mowing the lawn and raking leaves.