“What’s your name?” Harrison asked the man.
The man, trembling in fear, replied, “Robert Keeshan.”
Keeshan went on to explain that he was a model and was here because he had been hired for a body-double gig. No details had been provided other than there was a work party at this address, and that he was supposed to drive this van here and knock on the door. At the party, he was supposed to remain aloof and minimize the engagement. He was impersonating a new hire at the company and no one should realize that a body double had taken his place.
Harrison glanced at the Gordon’s Wholesale van.
“Where did you get the van?”
“I did a vehicle swap in the I-395 tunnel in D.C.”
“We’re looking for the man you’re impersonating, Do you know what car he left the tunnel in?”
Keeshan nodded. “He left in mine. A blue Ford Taurus.”
“What’s the license plate number?”
“I don’t have it memorized.”
Singleton turned to Harrison. “We’ll look it up. It won’t take long.”
“Was there a woman with the man you swapped vehicles with?” Harrison asked.
Keeshan nodded. “She left in the car with the man.”
Khalila joined the conversation. “Didn’t you think there was something strange about having to swap vehicles in the 395 tunnel?”
“I… I didn’t ask questions. I need the money. Why he wanted to be impersonated is none of my business. I figured the guy was having an affair. He was with an attractive woman, and they were clearly an item — he had his arm around her waist. She seemed nervous, as if they were sneaking off for a tryst while I covered for him at this party.”
“We’ve got the license plate number,” Singleton announced. “It won’t be long before we find the vehicle.”
71
ALEXANDRIA, VIRGINIA
Thirty minutes earlier, Lonnie Mixell had started the engine in Robert Keeshan’s blue Ford Taurus, watching the Gordon’s Wholesale van pull back into traffic and head toward the I-395 tunnel exit. He had picked a perfect spot for the vehicle swap, inside a traffic tunnel hidden from overhead surveillance. More important, however, was that unlike many highway tunnels, I-395’s Third Street Tunnel had a wide emergency shoulder on the right side, where the vehicle swap could occur without impeding traffic.
After the van pulled back onto the Interstate, Mixell had waited a few minutes to let aerial and satellite surveillance assets focus on the white van during its journey to the farmhouse in Woodmore, pulling their attention away from the I-395 tunnel exits.
While he waited, Mixell realized he had a dilemma on his hands and a critical decision to make. After departing the White House, he had detonated the C-4 and traveled into the tunnel, where the first phase of avoiding apprehension had gone according to plan; the vehicle swap with a body double had been an insurance policy in case law enforcement had somehow correlated the explosion to him and the Gordon’s Wholesale van before he had time to ditch the vehicle.
At this point, he had planned to head to Union Station where subway, train, and bus lines from Maryland, Virginia, and the District converged. The Ford Taurus would be left in the parking lot where it would be tracked down by law enforcement, while he disappeared amongst the more than seventy thousand people entering and departing Union Station each day. However, the woman sitting beside him had thrown a wrench into the plan.
The last element of Mixell’s revenge had been focused on Christine, who would be dealt with once Harrison had suffered sufficiently from Angie’s demise. Eliminating Harrison would be easy, Mixell figured, because they would eventually meet — each man was tracking down the other. Christine, on the other hand, was well guarded by her CIA protective agents and would not be personally involved in the attempt to apprehend him.
The challenge of capturing and tormenting Christine had unexpectedly been solved, but replaced with a sticky dilemma. He could not bring Christine with him while he escaped through Union Station; there would be too many opportunities for her to slip away or alert law enforcement or security personnel along the way. It had been difficult enough to ensure Christine didn’t attempt to escape during the vehicle swap in the tunnel or to alert Mixell’s body double, who clearly didn’t want to know what was going on.
After assessing the issue, with one hand on the steering wheel and the other pointing a pistol at Christine in the passenger seat, Mixell realized he had two options. The first was to execute his escape as planned, which meant a quick death for Christine — a bullet to the head and her body deposited somewhere. However, that was a distasteful solution, as Christine’s death would be far too easy. He wanted to draw things out, savoring the moments in which Christine grappled with the terror and pain as her life slowly slipped away.
Mixell had made his decision, then pulled into the heavy traffic on I-395. Instead of taking the exit back into D.C. toward Union Station, Mixell stayed on the busy interstate, headed into Virginia.
The blue Ford Taurus ground to a halt at the back of a warehouse in Alexandria. Situated on the bank of the Potomac River and bordered on one side by Oronoco Bay and the other by Founders Park, the car was sufficiently hidden from view. During the short drive from Washington, D.C., Mixell had fleshed out his plan for Christine.
For just a moment, he reflected on the decision he had made in the I-395 tunnel. He had chosen a plan in which there was likely no possibility of escape, yet he harbored no regret. His plan for revenge — the thoughts that had haunted him for eight long years in prison and each night since his release as he drifted off to sleep — would have a satisfying ending. One that would include both Christine and Harrison.
While the hatred for his former best friend could not have been more intense, he harbored some degree of remorse for Christine. However, she was the one who had decided her fate, choosing to side with Harrison instead of him, or simply staying out of the issue. To the contrary, she had done everything within her power to hunt him down.
Mixell put the car in park and stepped from the vehicle, keeping his pistol aimed at Christine as he walked to the passenger side door, then opened it.
“Out of the car,” he said, “and on your knees.”
There was fear in her eyes as she complied, but to her credit, she did an admirable job containing the emotions and thoughts that were undoubtedly swirling inside her mind as she knelt on the ground before him.
Mixell walked behind her and placed the pistol barrel against her head.
“You’re going to rot in Hell!” she said.
Leaning toward her, he whispered in her ear. “Not just yet.”
He shifted the pistol in his hand, grabbing onto the barrel instead, then smashed the pistol grip into the side of her head, knocking her to the ground. After verifying she was unconscious, he lifted her over his shoulder and headed toward the warehouse.
72
K-571 KRASNOYARSK
Captain Second Rank Gavriil Novikov leaned over the fire controlman’s shoulder, studying the data fusion display on his console. Krasnoyarsk was thirty miles west of the Strait of Hormuz, having halted its pursuit of the American aircraft carrier. A few miles to the east, a formidable sonobuoy barrier had been laid by several squadrons of P-8A Poseidon submarine-hunting aircraft. With the sonobuoy field on one side of the aircraft carrier and the mined strait on the other, the American warship sailed on a north-and-south track, pacing back and forth as it awaited resolution of its fate.
It would not have to wait long.
Three friendly submerged contacts appeared on the western edge of the fire control fusion plot, heading east toward the aircraft carrier. The Akulas had arrived, ready to execute the plan formulated as they had pursued the carrier east; a new operational message had been received by all four submarines during their last trip to periscope depth.