Hunter dh-1 Page 24

  “There isn’t any. None that we found yet, anyway.”

  “You mean he took it with him?” Erskine asked.

  “Maybe he brought it here with him,” Cronin said. “For exactly these kinds of situations.”

  Abrams said, “These guys think of everything.”

  “Which means we won’t find the shooter’s DNA here,” Cronin said wearily.

  “Oh, I wouldn’t say that,” said a nearby voice.

  They turned. It was Jeff, the tech. He was grinning. He wore white latex gloves, and he had lifted dog’s head, displaying its muzzle and teeth and hanging tongue.

  All covered with blood.

  “Gentlemen,” Abrams said slowly, a smile crossing his lips, “Maybe we just got our first big break.”

  PART III

  “And oftentimes excusing of a fault doth make the fault the worse by the excuse.”

  - William Shakespeare, King John, Act IV, Scene 2

  THIRTY

  Bethesda, Maryland

  Monday, December 12, 10:12 a.m.

  The hot, pulsing spray from the shower beat down onto the back of his neck and shoulders. After five minutes, he felt the tight knots slowly loosening.

  This morning’s workout in the gym downstairs had been exceptionally long and hard, the first good one he’d had in a while. But he knew that wasn’t the only reason for the tension in his body.

  He was tense about the call he was about to make.

  He’d thought a couple of weeks away from her would allow him to detach completely. He hadn’t expected how difficult that would be. It used to be easy for him to acquire and hold an Olympian perspective on things. He was always able to climb to a kind of cold, watchful height, a place above it all, where he could look down upon the world below with an icy calm. That habit or skill or discipline, whatever it was, let him maintain objective control whenever it was necessary to confront circumstances or do things that others found to be stressful, distasteful, even overwhelming.

  But something had changed after he met her. From the beginning, she was an exception, the one element in his universe about which he could not maintain emotional distance. He seemed to have no will in the matter, and he didn’t understand it. And what he couldn’t understand or control unsettled him. He’d been honest enough to admit that fear to her, at the beginning.

  Now he felt exposed. At a time when he needed to do everything possible to protect himself.

  All the facts, looked at objectively, told him that she was working with Cronin and the other cops to bring him down. Only one fact stood against the growing pile of evidence: her eyes. Or, rather, what he saw in them, when she looked at him. What he saw in her eyes, and what he felt from her body when she was in his arms. That response couldn’t be an act, couldn’t be faked.

  Try as he might, he simply couldn’t make himself believe that she was betraying him. Or ultimately would.

  He flipped the shower faucet to cold, hoping to shake himself out of this mood-to escape this emotional straitjacket that threatened to immobilize him, stop him from doing what he had to do.

  What he had to do was use her. Use her, in order to find out what the cops knew and what they were planning. And to accomplish that, he had to resume his relationship with her. Pretend to be in love with her.

  Then hope, for his own sake, that it was mere pretense.

  *

  After he’d toweled off and dressed, he went into the den. Put a fresh battery into a fresh phone. Steeled himself. Keyed in her cell number.

  “Hello?”

  “Hi, you,” he said.

  He felt five heartbeats before she spoke.

  “Hi, you.” Cautious pleasure in the voice.

  “I said I’d call.”

  “And you kept your word. I knew you would, Dylan.”

  It disarmed him. After a few seconds: “I’ve been busy and still have things going on all this week, evenings included. But I hoped we might get together next weekend.”

  “I’d like that.”

  “My place, Saturday? Luna misses you.”

  She laughed; it sounded wonderful. “I miss Luna. And you.”

  “I miss you, too, Annie Woods,” he said, knowing it was true.

  He heard voices over the phone in the distant background. “Am I interrupting a meeting?”

  “Just some co-workers outside my office on coffee break.”

  “When we get together, you’ll finally have to tell me about the company.”

  She burst out laughing. “The company… Yes, of course, Dylan. It’s time I told you all about the company.”

  “Private joke?”

  “Very private.” She giggled again. “I’ll let you in on it next Saturday. I have some chores during the day. I can get to your place in the early evening. Is that okay?”

  “Perfect,” he said. “Can’t wait.”

  “Me, too.”

  Washington, D.C.

  Monday, December 12, 3:05 p.m.

  “Ken, take a look at this.”

  Startled, MacLean looked up from his desk. Carl Frankfurt had barged into his office without knocking and marched right over to his desk, holding a white business envelope between his thumb and forefinger. His eyes were wide with excitement.

  MacLean pushed aside his irritation at the interruption and took the envelope from Frankfurt’s hand. It was unsealed. He reached inside and extracted a light blue-colored check and a business card. He flipped over the check and looked at it.

  Then stared.

  It was made out to the order of the MacLean Family Foundation in the amount of $150,000.

  He looked up at Frankfurt, astonished. “What’s this all about?”

  Frankfurt was grinning. “Why don’t you ask him yourself? I left him in the conference room.”

  He glanced down at the pile of papers on his desk. They would keep.

  He looked at the check. He’d been stiffed before. “Carl, could you call his bank and make sure this is legitimate? Then please join us.”

  When he reached the conference room, a distinguished-looking middle-aged man rose from a seat at the table.

  “How do you do, sir,” the man said. “Wayne Grayson.”

  “Hello, I’m Ken MacLean,” he replied, shaking the gentleman’s hand. “Please, have a seat, Mr. Grayson.”

  “Thank you.” The man had blonde hair, an impressive mustache, a deep suntan, and a suit that must have cost at least one-tenth of the amount of his check. “It’s generous of you to make time for me, Mr. MacLean.” There was a faint accent, perhaps Boston.

  “Let’s not speak of my generosity, but yours. Am I correct in understanding that you wish to make a donation to our foundation?”

  “You are.”

  “Frankly, I’m at a loss for words, Mr. Grayson. ‘Thank you’ seems inadequate, given the size of your gift.”

  He waved it off nonchalantly. “I have witnessed first-hand the powerful impact of your foundation’s work on many lives, sir. You may consider this as only the beginning of a personal campaign to repay you for all that you have done.”

  “You’re most kind. Tell me: How are you familiar with us?”

  The man smiled. “Individuals close to me have undergone life-changing experiences, directly as a result of your programs-especially those run by Dr. Frankfurt. I just can’t tell you what his efforts have meant for them.”

  “Would you mind my asking who these people are? I’m sure he would want to know.”

  “Well, I’m not at liberty to reveal any names at the moment. However, I’m certain that their feelings will be conveyed back to him in due course.”

  Frankfurt entered the room at that moment, catching his eye with a smile and nod. He sat opposite Grayson.

  “Mr. Grayson was just telling me that his gift is largely in response to your work, Carl.”

  Frankfurt beamed. “I don’t know what to say.”

  “Doctor, words are inadequate to encompass the reach of your deeds,” Grayson
said.

  MacLean glanced down at Grayson’s business card, which he’d placed on the table at his fingertips. “I see you’re headquartered in Los Angeles.”

  “It is just a place to hang my hat. My financial-services consultations take me all over the country. One of my regrets is about Christmas this year. I have heard about your gala annual holiday party, and I would have loved to attend,” he said. Then grinned. “Assuming that my donation would have been sufficient to purchase a ticket.”

  MacLean and Frankfurt laughed with him. He really liked this man. More than a bit stuffy, but obviously a kind soul. You found so few like him in the business world these days.

  MacLean said, “That’s too bad. Our trustees will be attending, and I have no doubt they would have wanted to meet you.”

  “Yes, it is regrettable,” he said. Then his face brightened. “However, perhaps I might contribute a little something to your celebration?”

  MacLean exchanged glances with Frankfurt, whose face reflected his astonishment. “Oh, but Mr. Grayson, you’ve already been more than generous!”

  The man leaned forward, his eyes intense and eager. “No, really. If you would please permit me-perhaps introduce me to your event planners-I would love the opportunity to participate. I have been involved in planning a number of high-profile, even theatrical, events. I am certain that I could add some creative touches to your celebration, as well. Since I will not be able to be in the room with you in person, it would be my pleasure to join you in spirit.”

  MacLean looked again at Frankfurt. “What do you think, Carl?”

  “I could him put him in touch with the people over at the hotel.”

  “That would be splendid,” Grayson said, smiling broadly. “I have about another free hour today-assuming that your schedule permits, Dr. Frankfurt.”

  “Oh, of course. I’d be delighted.”

  MacLean rose from his seat. “Mr. Grayson, I’m just flabbergasted. In all my years of charity work, I’ve never had an encounter quite like this one-so unexpected, and so delightful. I can’t begin to thank you enough. I hope to see much more of you.”

  Grayson shook hands with him. “Oh, you will, sir. And again, your gratitude is quite unnecessary. If you will forgive me a familiar platitude, just think of this as my way of ‘giving back.’”

  THIRTY-ONE

  CIA Headquarters, Langley, Virginia

  Friday, December 19, 1:01 p.m.

  She rapped on the door.

  “It’s unlocked.”

  She entered Garrett’s office. He stood near the coffee table and club chairs with an elderly, distinguished-looking gentleman in gray tweed. Both men smiled as she approached.

  “Annie Woods, I’d like you to meet my old friend, Professor Donald Kessler of Princeton University.”

  “Professor emeritus, actually; my teaching days are long past.”

  She smiled and shook hands with him. He was in his seventies and blade-thin. But he still had a full head of wavy white hair and a matching goatee. She thought, amused, that he could do ads for a fried chicken chain.

  Garrett gestured for them to sit. Annie poured some coffee from the waiting pot while he began.

  “Don taught undergrad Politics at Princeton’s Woodrow Wilson School for Public Policy. Also, grad courses in International Studies, if I’m not mistaken.”

  “You’re not,” Kessler replied.

  “But years before that, and just after he finished his doctorate, he spent about seven years with us as a case officer. Damned good one, I might add.”

  “Until I met the girl of my dreams,” the old man said.

  Garrett smiled at him gently. “She sure was something, Don.”

  “She was.” The soft way he said it told her the rest of the story.

  “Anyway, after Don left the Agency and started teaching at Princeton, we kept him on the payroll as an outside consultant. Among his little assignments over the years was to spot talent for us.”

  Kessler turned to her. “In the old days, the Company recruited many officers straight from the Ivy League. I was one of those recruits, and later, one of the recruiters.”

  “Which brings us to why I called you in,” Garrett said. “Annie, I was right. I’ve been blind. I had it all in my head, all along. But it didn’t come together for me until Don came by to visit. He asked what I was working on, and no sooner did I begin to tell him, than it hit me.”

  She leaned forward. “What?”

  “Remember our conversation a few months ago about our assumptions? About how one or more of them had to be wrong?”

  She nodded.

  “Well, our very first assumption was wrong. Motive. ”

  “What do you mean?”

  “We knew the Russians would want to stop Muller from spilling his guts about their operations. That’s motive. So when he was taken out, we followed a chain of very reasonable inferences. Because Muller was killed at a top-secret safe house, we figured somebody had to tip the sniper about the location. And that implied a source on the inside-another Agency mole. Yet, we were baffled because the crime-scene evidence didn’t suggest a Russian sniper, but an American.”

  “Right,” she said. “So we deduced that our Agency mole must have enlisted an Agency sniper. And then we went on a wild goose chase looking for somebody in SAD or OS who might have done it.”

  “Just as my mole-hunt proved to be a wild goose chase. Because we never double-checked our initial premise. Motive, Annie. We, the FBI, everybody-we all simply assumed that the Russians were the only people who might want James Muller dead.”

  The thought startled her. “Well, who else, then?”

  He reached for a small manila envelope lying on the coffee table and handed it to her.

  “Annie Woods-meet Matt Malone.”

  *

  She opened the flap and withdrew a 5 x 7 photo. It showed a dark-haired, bearded man in rough clothing. He sat on a flat-topped boulder in a harsh, stony landscape with jagged mountains in the background. Across his lap lay what looked to be an AK-47. She couldn’t make out much of his face: The grainy shot had been taken at a distance, and he was in profile, looking at something off-camera. If she hadn’t been told his name, she would have guessed that he was an Afghan or Paki tribesman.

  “Let me guess,” she said. “He’s one of ours.”

  “He was one of ours. The best damned officer I ever ran.”

  “The best damned officer I ever recruited,” added Kessler.

  Garrett got up, rolled his shoulders, then headed for his desk drawer. He came back with two packs of Luckies and his electronic smoke filter.

  “Grant, you’re incorrigible,” Kessler said.

  “Screw you.” He clicked a button, got the gadget humming.

  She asked, “So what can you tell me about this man?”

  Kessler took a sip of black coffee, put down the cup. Spread his pale, bony hands on the thighs of his trousers, then closed his eyes, remembering.

  “Matthew Everett Malone. Born 5 June 1969 in Pittsburgh. An only child. His father, Michael Henry Malone. A hugely successful building contractor whose business took off in the 1950s. That was the initial phase of Pittsburgh’s ‘Renaissance’ redevelopment. Helen Cassini, Matthew’s mother by Malone’s second marriage, was with a Pittsburgh newspaper. She met Malone while on assignment. They married and she left the paper when she became pregnant with Matthew.”

  He paused for another sip. “Matthew idolized his father. He described Mike as a man’s man with a strict code of honor and a strong drive to achieve. Clearly, he was a brilliant entrepreneur. Before he died, Malone Commercial Development had branches in ten states, and the family fortune was estimated at over a half-billion dollars.”

  Garrett whistled. “I didn’t know it was that much.”

  “Oh yes. The Malones lived in an upscale Pittsburgh suburb, Fox Chapel. Matthew didn’t want for material things or opportunities, including foreign travel and a great private school. And t
hanks to his mother, there were plenty of books in the house to pique the curiosity of a little boy with a restless, inquisitive mind. He told me that current events and politics were frequent topics around the dinner table.”

  Kessler looked off into space. “Well, Matthew could have turned out to be just another spoiled rich kid. But instead he grew into a well-educated, athletic young man with unusual poise and self-confidence. And he had a charming, dry sense of humor, too.”

  “I envy his girlfriends,” she said, interrupting his reverie. “He must have been the most popular guy in school.”

  Kessler shook his head. “You would think so. But actually, he was a loner. Not antisocial, just not really very social, if you get what I mean. Serious, solitary, self-sufficient. He told me once that he had been so captivated by the world of ideas that he felt little kinship with his more conventional peers.” He smiled. “I could relate to that. Perhaps that’s why we hit it off when we met, and why he eventually opened up to me.”

  Garrett got up and began to pace near the windows as Kessler continued.

  “He might have become a scholar. But his father wanted to temper his cerebral preoccupations with involvement in the real world. So, in addition to getting his son’s hands dirty on his construction sites, Mike insisted that he take up at least one competitive sport each school year. Predictably, he avoided team sports and chose the individual ones: swimming, gymnastics, martial arts. He told me he preferred to be the only person responsible for his success or failure.”

  “How did you get to know him so well?”

  “We met by sheer serendipity, Annie. I was into martial arts, too, and we had both signed up for a hapkido class not long after he arrived as a freshman. That was in ’87. Well, after one sparring session, I found that we shared many philosophical views, and he was extraordinarily articulate about his. I learned that he was majoring in Politics, with a focus in political theory, and it turned out that he’d be taking a lot of my classes.

  “I liked him immediately, so I invited him to a party at our home for some grad students. These were some of the smartest young intellectuals at Princeton-which means some of the smartest in America. Anyway, some hot political argument started up, as they often did among those kids. But even though he was about six years younger than most of them, he held his own. Let me tell you, I was impressed. So much so that I arranged to become his faculty advisor. Over time, we became friends, and I continued to invite him to our home. Jill became quite fond of him, too.”