Killer Focus Page 17

  Replacing the glass, Xavier padded back to bed. Seconds later the phone rang. His mind suddenly clear and sharp, Xavier answered the call. Only a handful of his most trusted people knew the number, which was unlisted.

  “I picked up Taylor Jones flying out of Dulles.”

  The French was clipped, the intonation German, although Maximillian Schroeder was Swiss by nationality. Before Schroeder had agreed to work for him, he had been one of Mossad’s top agents, specializing in computer espionage. Give Schroeder a computer hookup and he could access almost any information network in the world. Ever since Taylor had disappeared off WITSEC’s scope three days ago, Schroeder had been coordinating surveillance on the East Coast with particular regard to monitoring flights. “Where are you? San Francisco?”

  “Where else?”

  Xavier’s attention sharpened. Taylor had been one of Bayard’s most competent agents. She’d had an eye for detail and a natural instinct that had broken cases open on more than one occasion. That instinct, combined with a bulldog tenacity, made her something more—a catalyst. “Any sign of Dennison?”

  “Not yet.”

  Xavier terminated the call then made another, booking flights to the States. When the tickets were confirmed, he replaced the phone, dressed and began to pack.

  He believed there was a certain order to life, that sooner or later, sometimes very much later, justice would be done. But not on his schedule. Always, it was in the time of le bon dieu. He had searched for Reichmann and the cabal for thirty-two years and poured millions into the effort. He had pushed to find and expose Alex Lopez. None of those things had happened on a scale that was acceptable to him.

  Just months ago, Lopez had acquired a book from a safe-deposit box in Bogotá. Le Clerc had missed him by hours. Days later, he had almost had him in El Paso but, again, Lopez had been wily enough to elude not only him and his men, but a number of FBI and CIA personnel.

  The instant Xavier had heard about the book, he had known what it was: Reichmann’s ledger. The book had slipped through his grasp in Cancun. There had been a gap of years following Marco Chavez’s death when he had assumed the book had been lost. Now Lopez had it and he was using it as a weapon against the cabal.

  Over the past few months, Xavier hadn’t detected any signs of Lopez inflicting damage either politically or internationally and the lack of news wasn’t just puzzling, it was incomprehensible. Lopez was a master tactician and ruthless, and the book gave him an advantage he would never have been slow to utilize. It was possible he was negotiating terms with Helene Reichmann, despite the fact that the last attempt had ended in a bloodbath. It was equally possible that he was lying low, playing some kind of waiting game.

  Either that, or he had lost the book.

  The thought that the ledger, after all these years, was no longer in Lopez’s hands sent tension humming through Xavier. It was the breakthrough he had been waiting for.

  Zipping the suitcase closed, he carried it through to his study, removed a watercolor from the wall, tapped in the code that unlocked his safe and confirmed with a thumbprint scan.

  He extracted the passport and identification papers he needed, relocked the safe and repositioned the painting. Opening his briefcase on his desk, he slipped the papers into a side pocket, along with a small, state-of-the-art satellite phone. The laptop itself was also wireless and fitted for satellite coms. Together the two pieces of equipment formed the basis of a traveling office that kept him informed and hotwired for communication, no matter where he happened to be.

  As he picked up the briefcase, his gaze caught on a small grouping of photos on his desk. The most prominent was of his father just before he went into the French military. The second was a portrait of his family taken two years after the Second World War had ended, the third a black-and-white that he had taken years ago of Esther Morell in Bern.

  Esther looked tanned and carefree, closer to twenty than the thirty-two she had been. The image was, he had always thought, deceptive, and revealed one of Esther’s key strengths in the world of international banking. She had never looked like a player.

  Esther had been in Bern at a point in his life when he had made the decision to go after Reichmann. He had never let himself dwell on what could have been. With the way he’d had to live, marriage had been out of the question, but Esther had tempted him.

  Xavier had always been focused primarily on Reichmann and the cabal. Lopez had only ever been a side issue. But with Esther’s murder, Lopez had elevated himself on Xavier’s list.

  Taylor Jones breaking cover was significant. For her to risk using an alternative identity that was traceable meant something was happening. She was a threat to both Lopez and the cabal. Where Taylor went, Lopez and Reichmann would follow. And Xavier intended to be there when they surfaced.

  Collecting the suitcase, he switched off the lights, took the stairs to the ground floor and let himself out of the building. The walk through steep, cobbled streets to the shed on the outskirts of the village where his car was stored wasn’t convenient, but it was a small price to pay for the safety of Marciano. The narrow roads in and out of the village could be construed as a trap, but he had weighed the risks and found them acceptable. Within minutes the powerful headlights of the Saab were slicing through the mist wreathing the winding mountain road.

  Twenty-Five

  At six that evening, Taylor drove north of Eureka and cruised past the address where she had been held hostage the previous year. The house had once been owned by Senator Radcliff, a former associate of Lopez’s who had been shot during the operation to capture Lopez in El Paso. Radcliff hadn’t just been a business associate of Lopez’s—he had been Lopez’s link to the cabal.

  She cruised to the end of the cul-de-sac, made a turn and drove back toward Radcliff’s house. Braking just outside the electronically controlled wrought-iron gates, she stared at the grounds, which were all that were visible from the road. A car appeared in her rear-vision mirror. Reluctantly, she took her foot off the brake and drove on.

  A helicopter skimmed overhead, a tour operator heading out to sea to catch the sunset. The chopping sound of the blades echoing off the hills triggered an unexpected fragment of memory—a balaclava pulled off an agent’s head as he turned away, dark olive skin, a scar across his nose.

  Pulling over to the side of the road, she reexamined what she remembered. Being jerked from the drug-induced stupor. Darkness, strobing lights and a helicopter, the sound deafening. She had been carried, handed into a chopper and strapped into a seat. Someone had spoken to her, although she had no idea what was said, but she did remember opening her eyes and seeing the balaclava removed. At the time she had thought it was J.T., Rina’s partner and former agent, but J.T. didn’t have a scar across his nose. Abruptly, she was certain it had been Steve Fischer.

  She stared at the wild hills that tumbled to the Pacific Ocean below. She was certain Fischer was CIA, which would mean he would have working relationships with the FBI and other agencies. In light of the fact that a mole had already spoiled two major operations, he would have wanted to keep contact with FBI personnel to a minimum.

  A car drove past, followed by a further two; commuters making their way home. Pulling off the verge, she headed back to Eureka. Instead of turning into a motel, she drove directly to a drive-through and paid for a burger and fries. Lately, she’d been surviving on takeout food, but she was too tired to shop and cook tonight.

  As she nosed out of the drive-through exit, a man walking from the restaurant caught her eye. She braked and a car horn behind her blared. Releasing the brake, she checked traffic, turned out onto the highway, then glanced back at the restaurant parking lot. The man she had seen was medium height and stockily built. She hadn’t seen his face, just a glimpse of a profile then the back of his head, but for a crazy moment she had been certain it was Edward Dennison.

  Signaling, she changed lanes and pulled into a liquor store, taking a parking space near the exit s
o she could watch the vehicles turning out of the restaurant. A truck pulled out with two men in it, both wearing ball caps. The man she’d seen had been dressed in a suit, which had been the other thing that had reminded her of Dennison. In all his photos, she had seldom seen him in anything but a suit. Another vehicle pulled out, this one a sedan with tinted windows. Craning, she tried to see through the darkened glass. A window rolled down, revealing a woman behind the wheel and a car filled with kids.

  Feeling rattled, she pushed the car door open and got out. Standing up, she would have a better view of the parking lot. The restaurant was busy, cars arriving and leaving in a steady stream. A flicker of movement to her right jerked her head around. Traffic was stopped at a set of lights. Two people were using the pedestrian crossing, and one of them was the man she’d seen leaving the restaurant. She studied him, still unsure. As he stepped onto the curb, he looked in her direction and she froze.

  Pulse pounding, she lowered herself back into the driver’s seat and closed the door. She didn’t know if Dennison would recognize her, but if he was as thorough as his file had indicated, he probably would. She was still wearing the wig, so it was possible that if he had noticed her he would have simply registered her hair color.

  Slipping on dark glasses, she watched as Dennison crossed the liquor store parking lot and walked into the store. When he came out he was carrying a bottle of Scotch. If there had been any doubt, it was gone. Twenty-two years had passed since his last Bureau photo had gone on record. He had gained a paunch and lost some hair, but it was Dennison.

  The chances of her stumbling over Dennison were a million to one. Last she’d heard, courtesy of the FBI report, he was either dead or lying low. Dennison was obviously not dead and his continued survival was significant. If the FBI mole had at any point passed on to Lopez the fact that Dennison had informed on him, Dennison was a dead man. To her best knowledge that hadn’t happened, which meant the FBI mole didn’t work for Lopez. He or she worked for the cabal.

  Dealing with Lopez was bad enough, but at least he was a known quantity. The cabal, quite frankly, sent a cold chill down her spine.

  When it became obvious that Dennison was on foot, she grabbed her handbag, locked the car and followed him, keeping a discreet distance. It was a gamble. If he had a vehicle parked farther down the road, she would lose him, but she was betting that he was staying at a motel nearby since both the restaurant and the liquor store had had ample parking.

  Two blocks down, Dennison turned into a motel. Keeping to a stroll, Taylor walked into the motel entrance just in time to see him disappear into a ground-floor unit. Keeping her pace leisurely, she checked out the room number and the model and plate of the car parked outside.

  Keeping her sunglasses in place despite the fact that it was getting dark, she stepped into the motel office and requested a pamphlet. She didn’t make any inquiries about Dennison; he wouldn’t be using his own name and she didn’t want to risk the receptionist tipping him off that someone was snooping around after him.

  As she stepped out of the office, she glanced in the direction of Dennison’s unit, then scanned the parking lot. In the few minutes she had been inside, the clear twilight had faded and the streetlights had turned on, throwing pooling yellow light over the clumps of shrubs and waving palms that decorated the entrance.

  Walking quickly through the gloom, she turned out of the motel entrance and headed for her car. Unexpectedly, a lead had fallen into her lap. Just days ago, she would have handed the lead to Colenso, no questions asked. But that was before she found that she had been falsely tagged as the mole.

  Colenso wasn’t safe. She wasn’t sure Bayard was, either.

  Twenty-Six

  Westport, California

  Morning sunlight flooded the tiny laundry of the motel unit as Dana pulled items of clothing out of the dryer. Systematically, she folded and stacked pants, shirts and underwear in a neat pile on top of the washing machine. It had been years since she had done laundry for a man. Two days ago if anyone had told her she would be doing her dead husband’s laundry while hiding out in a coastal beach resort, she would have said they were insane.

  She pulled out the final item, a charcoal-gray cotton sweater, and folded it. The sweater had a designer label and a nautical theme, with a discreet anchor embroidered on one sleeve. The clothing indicated that, on the run or not, Jack was doing all right. It passed through her mind that either the fish-and-dive charter business was booming, or Jack was moonlighting. A small shudder went down her spine at the thought. She didn’t go to church all that often, but she was a Christian. Everything in her utterly rejected the idea of taking someone’s life. If she had known what Jack’s real job had been, she would never have married him. But even though she still held the same view about the sanctity of life, after Lopez, Jack’s past didn’t pack the punch it should have.

  A small sound in the sitting room made her stiffen. She frowned. Jack had walked down to the nearest mall to buy a newspaper. “Jack?”

  She stepped out of the laundry, a pile of folded clothes in her arms. At first she thought it was Jack, because he was tall and lean, with dark hair, and her mind wanted it to be Jack, but the man standing just inside the sliding doors was a good twenty years younger. “If you want money, there’s some in my handbag on the kitchen counter.”

  “I’m not here for money, Mrs. Jones, and I’m not working for Lopez.” He produced his ID and set it down on the coffee table before stepping back so he wouldn’t be visible to anyone approaching the unit. “My name’s Steve Fischer. Check my credentials. I’m a CIA agent. Have a seat and I’ll explain when your ex-husband gets here.”

  Her stomach tightened. Politely worded or not, he wasn’t asking, he was telling her. Setting the folded laundry in a neat pile on the coffee table, she complied.

  “I’m going to unholster my handgun.” His voice was low and flat. At a guess, the tone was supposed to be soothing, as he slid the gun out of his shoulder holster and chambered a round. “Don’t worry about the gun, I don’t intend on firing it. It’s just a safety precaution because I know Jack’s armed.”

  Dana’s heart accelerated. Jack was armed? With exaggerated slowness she picked up the wallet he’d placed on the table. It looked real, but what did she know? Fischer had made a point of saying he didn’t work for Lopez, but that could have been a lie. “What do you want?”

  A flicker of movement distracted him. Seconds later the crunch of gravel preceded a shadow sliding across the small patio out in front. Then Jack stepped into the sitting room.

  “Don’t move,” Fischer said quietly. “I’ve got a man coming in behind you, and one more in the next room. Place the newspaper on the floor and your hands on your head.” A second man stepped inside, searched and disarmed Jack and took up a position on the patio, his weapon trained on Jack. Jack took a seat beside Dana.

  Steve repeated the information he’d already given Dana and indicated that Jack should check the ID on the coffee table.

  Dana stared at Fischer, while Jack studied the ID. “If you really are CIA, then you must know the agent I dealt with last year.”

  “J. T. Wyatt. We served in Afghanistan together. I hear he’s becoming a family man in about six months’ time.”

  Relief washed through Dana. Information about J.T. and Rina, especially on a personal level, was highly classified. Only agents who had worked closely with him and family members would know that J.T. and Rina were expecting a baby. “Do you still work together?”

  “No, ma’am. J.T. resigned last year.”

  The correctness of the answer and the faint Southern drawl released a little more tension.

  Jack looked confused. Dana briefly explained that J.T. had been the CIA agent who had rescued Rina, Taylor’s best friend, from Lopez and Slater the previous year.

  Jack fixed Fischer with a cold stare. “So that’s how you found us. You had Dana watched.”

  “Not Dana. You.”

  “Wh
en I visited Taylor in the hospital. That’s the only risk I’ve taken in more than twenty years.”

  Fischer didn’t take his gaze off Jack, and the gun didn’t waver. “If we hadn’t gotten you then, we would have picked you up when she visited you down in the Keys.”

  Jack leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his hands hanging loosely, but Dana wasn’t fooled. Jack hadn’t liked being caught cold and he liked it even less that he had been under surveillance since his visit to D.C.

  He gestured at the ID Dana still had in her hands. “You’ve been tailing me. You could have picked me up at any time. Why now?”

  “I need information.”

  “If I knew where Taylor was, I wouldn’t tell you.”

  Dana set the ID down on the coffee table. “I can help you find her.”

  Jack’s hand clamped on her arm. “Damn it, Dana—”

  Dana jerked free and pushed to her feet. She could be making a terrible mistake, but her gut reaction was to trust Fischer. “Taylor’s got more chance of surviving with his help. He found us when no one else could, including Lopez.”

  She picked up her handbag, which she’d left sitting next to the couch. She handed her cell phone to Fischer. “The number’s in the directory.”

  Jack’s expression was cold as Fischer thumbed through the menu and checked the number. “You didn’t need to do that. He’s already got the number, just like he’s got mine. He would have gotten it when he was down in the Keys.”

  Fischer handed the phone back. “I’ve had Taylor followed ever since she left Vermont. It’s the whereabouts of Casale that I’m interested in today.”

  Dana frowned. “Who is Casale?”

  Jack’s hand gripped hers in warning. “I don’t know where Casale is. Yet.”