Blind Instinct Page 15

  Seventeen

  Bayard parked in the visitors’ space at the rear entrance of the police station. Heads turned as they strolled down corridors and through a field room. His hand stayed firmly in the small of her back despite the fact that she’d changed clothes before they’d driven into town. This time, she’d included a bra, and she’d smoothed her hair into a neat knot.

  Rousseau showed them directly into his office. “Help yourself to the phone. I’ll get coffee.”

  Bayard made a series of phone calls in quick succession. The nearest FBI office was in New Orleans, but he bypassed that and requested the information he wanted from someone called Lissa in his D.C. office.

  Rousseau arrived with foam cups of coffee, several sachets of sugar, creamer and plastic stirrers. Sara loaded her cup with creamer and sugar and sipped. The rich sweet taste exploded across her tongue and made her realize how hungry she was. What she needed was food, but until she could buy something to eat, the coffee would have to do.

  Bayard slipped a faxed copy of a photo in front of her.

  She studied the slightly blurred shot, which looked as if it had been taken with a poor quality cell phone camera and, like a switch flicking, she was once again swimming in shadows and murky heat.

  Stein.

  Although it couldn’t be. Stein had to have died.

  But then, so had she.

  Bayard placed another photo in front of her, this one taken from a slightly different angle.

  “That’s him,” she said flatly.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes.” The murky quality of the shot, the way his head was angled, made the resemblance to the man she had watched from across the river even stronger.

  “You just positively identified Alex Lopez.”

  Rousseau let out a low whistle.

  The sense of cold she’d experienced the moment she had recognized Stein deepened. “I thought there were no photos of Lopez.”

  “When Dennison turned federal witness, he supplied us with these images.”

  Rousseau’s gaze narrowed. “Now we’re going to have to talk. What’s Lopez doing in Shreveport?”

  Bayard gathered up the photos and slipped them back in the envelope. “He’s playing on a couple of levels. We’ve checked back on every advertisement placed by ACE in the last year, and found a list of telephone numbers—all with one-time use, then disconnected. The code traffic goes two ways between Lopez and, we think, Helene Reichmann. They’ve been using the code to correspond.”

  Sara sipped her way through her coffee as Rousseau flipped open a file and took notes. Bayard’s flat delivery of the facts made sense. The situation between the Chavez cartel and the cabal was well-documented and ongoing. Put simply, it was two criminal organizations, which had once been intimately linked, trying to take each other out. The prize was equally simple—a great deal of money was involved. If the Nazi gold and artwork Reichmann had taken out of Berlin was also up for grabs, the prize pool could conceivably double.

  She set her empty cup down. “I can understand why Lopez wanted the safe-deposit box, but killing me doesn’t make sense. All he had to do was let me collect the items, then steal them.”

  Bayard sat back in his chair. “That’s where the second agenda comes in. Over the past couple of weeks, two of my men have been killed in D.C. The second killing was almost certainly carried out by Lopez.”

  Sara dropped her empty foam cup into the trash. She knew Bayard had lost two agents but, in conjunction with the attempts on her life, there was now a more sinister connotation. Last year Lopez had systematically killed off almost the entire upper echelon of the cabal. The series of murders had been designed to isolate and terrify Helene Reichmann. Presumably, Lopez’s ultimate aim was to kill Helene, he just hadn’t succeeded yet. “Are you saying that Lopez is now trying to kill you?”

  “Looks like it.”

  Bayard’s gaze was calm, but that didn’t change the fact that she wanted to shake him. He had to have known since the death of his second agent that Lopez was targeting him and he hadn’t bothered to mention the fact to her. “Okay, so he wants to kill you, but why Lopez himself? Why didn’t he send someone else?”

  He shrugged. “Over the past few months we’ve closed down an estimated eighty percent of Lopez’s operation. He’s lost personnel, and he’s had to pull key men out of the Colombian end of the business. Recently a rival cartel stepped in and took a chunk of his coca territory in Colombia. It’s an equation. Less product coming out of Colombia, and his distribution system is almost nonexistent. Lopez is on the verge of going broke.” Bayard checked his watch and pushed to his feet. “Which is probably why he used a low-rent killer like Delgado in the first place. Delgado was cheap, and dead, he was free.”

  Bayard gathered up the faxed sheets and slipped them back in his briefcase. He shook hands with Rousseau and Thorpe.

  When they stepped out into the parking lot, Sara turned on him. “Why didn’t you tell me what Lopez was doing?”

  “There was no need for you to know.”

  For a brief second, she was so angry she couldn’t speak. “It would have been nice to know a little earlier that he’s trying to kill you.”

  His gaze narrowed. “I didn’t know you cared.”

  Bayard unlocked the car, tossed his briefcase on the backseat and held the passenger-side door for her. His phone buzzed as he turned into traffic. The conversation was brief and monosyllabic. When he hung up his expression was remote. “I sent an agent over to check out your apartment. You’ve had another break-in.”

  Her jaw locked. With Delgado, Lopez and Dennison in town, and any number of “treasure hunters,” it was logical that her apartment would be searched. But that didn’t make the violation of her privacy, and her life, any easier to take. “I need to go there.”

  “Sorry, that’s not an option. Rousseau’s already on his way, and I’ve made arrangements for it to be cleaned and everything put in storage.”

  She stared at the glittering streams of traffic, the heat rippling off the highway. Despite the fact that she knew she had to step away from her apartment and her life in Shreveport, that didn’t make leaving her home any easier. “So, what now?”

  “We pack. I’ve got a flight booked for this afternoon. You’re coming to D.C. with me.”

  Sara was woken by the flight attendant just before they touched down in D.C. Smothering a yawn, she folded the light blanket, handed it to the attendant and fastened her seat belt.

  Bayard, who occupied the seat next to her, and who had been in work mode ever since the meeting with Rousseau, disconnected his laptop, slipped it into his briefcase and stored the briefcase in the overhead locker. His black T-shirt separated from the waistband of his pants, revealing a slice of flat, tanned stomach as he reached up and closed the locker.

  His gaze locked with hers as he sat down, and suddenly they were back in male-female territory. “Feel better?”

  “A little.”

  From the moment she had identified Lopez, time had been compressed. With a few phone calls, Bayard had organized one of his men, who had been involved in tailing Dennison, to go to his house, pack their things and meet them at the airport. His assistant, Lissa, had made the travel arrangements, a chartered private jet to Atlanta landing in time to connect with a regular flight to Dulles. The seats had been first class, something of a revelation after the economy class seats Sara usually booked. Aside from the fact that the seating was actually comfortable, the cabin was hushed and the food had been wonderful.

  The plane banked. She looked out of the window, saw the carpet of lights below, the unmistakable shape of runways that denoted they had arrived at Dulles, and checked her watch. With the time difference, it would be close to nine o’clock.

  Just after landing, a member of airport security directed them to a VIP lounge, where Lissa, who turned out to be a tall blonde with the kind of fine-boned face that photographed like a dream, was waiting.

/>   Their luggage was hand-delivered almost immediately, and Lissa led them out through a private exit to where a glossy SUV with tinted windows was parked in a security clearance area.

  A lean guy with short blond hair and a Southern accent, who was introduced as Bridges, was at the wheel. When their luggage was loaded, Bayard climbed into the front passenger-side seat and Lissa and Sara climbed into the rear.

  This late, traffic was light, and the SUV was comfortable enough that she actually fell asleep. Forty minutes later, Bayard shook her awake. Instead of a hotel, he had brought her to his apartment.

  Too tired to argue, and aware of the security practicalities of trying to protect her in a hotel or motel, where she could be tracked with relative ease, she climbed out and let Bridges carry her suitcase.

  The apartment building was large and in the Victorian style with soaring ceilings and lavish moldings, although the security features were up-to-date, with access card locks, bright lights flooding the entranceway and foyer, and cameras bristling from a number of locations. Bayard’s access card even came with an attached GPS system, so that if he lost the keys, he could locate them.

  Bayard’s apartment was on the third floor. He gave her a brief tour of large, elegantly proportioned rooms. After showing her to a guest room, which Lissa had arranged to have made up for her by Bayard’s cleaning lady, he handed her his keys, unlocked a file drawer in his study and found a spare set, then left for his office and a late-night meeting.

  Sara was just as happy to be on her own. They had eaten dinner on the flight, so she wasn’t hungry, but despite changing earlier in the day, she badly needed to shower and wash her hair.

  An hour later, she was wearing a set of soft sweats she’d managed to buy from a mall near the Shreveport airport. Her hair was combed out and drying. Now wide-awake, courtesy of her catnapping on the flight and during the trip into town, she unpacked. She shook out shirts and trousers and hung them in the closet, then loaded underwear into the top drawer of a chest. When she pulled open the second drawer, she discovered it was filled with a neatly folded assortment of football T-shirts and sweaters. The logos denoted they were from a number of universities, a legacy from Bayard’s college football days. The next drawer down was empty, so she unloaded the rest of her clothing into it.

  After storing her suitcase in the closet, she flicked on lights and walked out onto the narrow wrought-iron balcony that opened off the French doors and tried to orient herself. Since arriving, the night had chilled down and dense clouds had moved in. A cool breeze flowed against her face as she studied the amorphous glitter of the city and the darkened area directly out from the balcony, which indicated that the building overlooked a green space—either a park or a school.

  None of the buildings visible were high-rises, which indicated it was an older part of town, probably with building code restrictions and historical covenants slapped on many of the existing buildings.

  A gust of wind brought a scattering of rain. Shivering, she walked back inside and closed the doors. When she had goaded Bayard about chrome and glass, she had been joking, but she hadn’t realized how wide off the mark she’d been. The apartment was definitely not a modern, minimalist bachelor pad.

  She checked her watch. It was after ten, but she still wasn’t anywhere near sleepy. Picking up a pile of newspapers, which Bayard’s housekeeper must have left on the kitchen counter along with his mail, she made herself a cup of tea and walked through to the sitting room.

  The second she unfolded the first paper she saw the ACE ad. Her pulse rate lifted a notch as she studied the line of code. She walked through to her room and found her purse. She didn’t have the codebook, because Bayard had taken that, along with all the other items she’d found, but she had her working notes on the previous codes she had solved and her own homemade version of the St. Cyr slide. And, with any luck, her memories of the code from her time in Vassigny.

  Sitting down, she began the process, an eerie tingle lifting all the hairs at her nape as code combinations slid smoothly into her mind. It was the first time she had actively tried to access those memories and she had been in no way certain that she would be successful.

  She first deciphered, then decoded. The message was simple and declarative.

  Someone important is going to die.

  Eighteen

  Washington, D.C.

  Helene Reichmann waited in the dim privacy of a sedan, which was parked a block away from a well-known chain motel. The darkly tinted windows blocked out the sporadic late-night foot traffic of tourists strolling to and from one of the several restaurants situated in the area and the occasional late-night jogger.

  A cell phone vibrated. Cam Hendricks, who was seated in the front passenger seat, picked up the call, his voice barely audible. Hendricks was outwardly unremarkable, an ex-Army Ranger with the kind of tired, lined face and soft Minnesotan politeness that fooled most people. His impressive record, encompassing stints in Chechnya and Afghanistan, plus the utter lack of emotion in his eyes had been enough to convince her. Hendricks might look like a Minnesotan farmer, but he was smart, committed and brutally efficient at what he did.

  He twisted around in his seat. “Larson’s swept the room. It’s clean. The two neighboring suites are empty. If you want to make the meeting, my recommendation is that we go now.”

  Minutes later, Helene exited the third-floor elevator, along with Hendricks and a third bodyguard, Marisa Sutton, a cold-eyed blonde who looked enough like Helene that they could be mother and daughter.

  The inclusion of Marisa in the small, elite group Helene employed to protect her had been practical on more than one level. Part Russian, part Irish, Marisa was an ex-DEA agent with a formidable record in undercover work—notably, busting Colombian drug operations. She had “softened” the look of the security detail around Helene, making them appear more like a family group. The sleight of hand was subtle but useful, especially when they were in places they didn’t want to be noticed. In the disparate worlds Helene moved between, superficial impressions were crucial.

  Marisa had also been clear about what she wanted. The years she had spent in deep cover and comparative luxury, laundering money for drug lords, had resulted in a high arrest record, an intimate knowledge of Colombian cartels and a calculating ambition. At forty years of age, Marisa’s ambition was clear-cut. She didn’t want the gold watch and a service pension; she simply wanted the gold.

  They paused outside the suite Hendricks had booked in response to the meeting that had been demanded. In all the years Helene had headed the remnants of her father’s cabal, she had never given in to such a demand. She had made the rules and enforced compliance. That simple and effective strategy had changed the instant she had received a phone call advising her that the caller was aware of her identity.

  The shock—the blunt statement of her real name, after almost an entire lifetime of operating under a number of different identities—had been considerable.

  Blackmail was a bitch. She had little power in the arrangement, and only one card to play. Her blackmailer wouldn’t expose her unless he was out of options, because the moment he did, he lost his power and his last chance at the powerful future he coveted.

  Marisa knocked. Seconds later, Larson opened up and let them in.

  The drapes were pulled tight, cutting down on the risk of any directional listening systems that depended on the vibration of sound on hard surfaces to pick up what was being said. The television was on, the drone of a sports commentator providing background noise and vibration that would mask the conversation in the event that Larson had missed a listening device.

  Helene set her briefcase down on the dining table and extracted a newspaper. She dropped the paper onto the table. A story about two linked homicides occupied a single, narrow column. Needless to say, the story hadn’t made the front page. Shreveport, Louisiana, barely registered in D.C. and it flat-out didn’t exist on the international stage—her usual area o
f interest—but for the past twenty-four hours it had become her focus.

  The man who had requested the meeting skimmed the story, although Helene had no doubt that he had been fully briefed. Rear Admiral Saunders was noted for his brilliance in the area of undercover operations.

  A second fact registered.

  He had cursorily acknowledged both Hendricks and Larson, whom he had met on one other occasion, but he had barely glanced at Marisa, who, to her knowledge he hadn’t met. And, Marisa was ignoring him.

  Interesting. Normally, Marisa was cool and unrelenting about her work. Larson had searched him for weapons and wires, but Marisa should still be watching him like a hawk. Added to that, any man with red blood running in his veins usually looked Marisa over, even if the perusal was purely automatic.

  She was almost certain they knew each other.

  Helene glanced at Hendricks. His icy gaze connected with hers, his message clear. He had noticed the slight oddness of the byplay; she could leave it with him.

  She relaxed. “What do you know about the situation in Shreveport?”

  “Delgado was Lopez’s man.”

  She had known who Delgado was. It was the fact that he had been killed in Shreveport and in conjunction with Sara Fischer that caused her concern. “Who killed him?”

  “Not one of ours.”

  A tingling started at her nape. If a federal agent hadn’t been responsible for shooting Delgado, that opened up a raft of unpalatable options. “Was the killing cartel related?”

  “The hit was internal.”

  A small shock of adrenaline went through her.

  Lopez.

  He had killed his own man.

  Not that murder was unusual for Lopez. He had been responsible for a string of cold-blooded killings over the years, including his father, Marco Chavez, and a number of her own people. But the location of the killing and the fact that he made no attempt to conceal the body was…disturbing.

  A wisp of emotion caught at her, threaded with a raw undercurrent of fear. She should have ordered his death when she’d had the chance and buried her last, unpalatable link to Marco. Over the years there had been any number of opportunities to kill him. She hadn’t taken them. He had been her one weak spot, a weakness he was now using to bring her down.