Seat of power, p.5
Seat of Power, page 5
The girl was a diversion, a way to pass the time in agonizing bliss while waiting for the departure signal. Only two outcomes were possible: success or failure. If success, his cut would immediately be wired to the offshore bank of his choice, accompanied by all the expected privileges of convenience and anonymity. Even after currency exchange rates and associated fees, his percentage would amount to a fortune by anyone’s standard. Once received, he was free to cover his tracks and assume an untraceable identity.
He was enthralled by the target. Like Alice’s rabbit, he had become curiouser and curiouser. Usually he didn’t give a damn about the man he was digitally dissecting. But the target was a hacker like Simon. Unlike Simon, he plied his trade inside a government agency.
The Homeland Intelligence Division was notorious in underground circles, known to be dirty and lowdown, even by government standards. Primarily an intelligence gathering agency, it also ran covert operations. Nothing was beyond its capabilities or expertise. Arms dealing, drug trafficking, regime changes, military coups, counterinsurgency, spy infiltration, and misinformation were all on its agenda.
Simon wrote off the target, deciding that even if he seemed to be an average guy, he was still a government stooge.
The girl got out of bed and moved around the room. Simon braced himself when he heard the clinking of chains. He recoiled when the spikes bit into his ankles. Groaned when the belt squeezed around his neck. Heaved when the vibrating dildo was plunged into his anus. Cried out when the leather closed around his penis. Cringed when the cat-o-nine-tails scoured his bare flesh. And moaned when he reached the heights of nirvana.
8
Annapolis, Maryland
Thursday, July 3
AT CLUB SEVEN, the minute hand ticked toward midnight. Most of the people from HID had begged off and left. A few lingered, determined to close the club. After excusing himself from old friends and new friends, he wandered to the bar.
The lady barkeep was still on shift. “Usual?” she asked.
“Sure. Why not.”
She nodded toward the lady in black, still seated on the high stool, seemingly bored but in need of companionship. If she needed it that badly, it looked as if Jack wasn’t the companion she was looking for.
“Hungry?”
Jack shrugged.
“Our Reuben’s the best in town,” she enticed him.
“A Reuben it is.”
The man occupying the barstool two seats down from him was nursing a gin and tonic and scarfing down a turkey club. He wore the standard uniform of a government bureaucrat. Double-vented wool-blend suit with narrow lapels. White shirt, pressed and starched. Pocket handkerchief. Narrow striped tie. The dimple beneath the Windsor knot textbook. The only concessions he had made were dragging loose the tie and unbuttoning the suitcoat before taking his seat. The leather briefcase at his feet was well used. He was groomed, clean-shaven, manicured, and buffed. He wore an 18-carat yellow-gold watch on his right rather than his left wrist. The thick locks of his coiffed hair matched the charcoal gray of his suit. A government-issue phone lay at his left hand. He was scrolling through emails with studied interest, occasionally harrumphing or shaking his head at the contents. The cologne he applied in the morning yet lingered. He wore a diamond pinkie ring on his right hand and a wedding band on his left. The planes of his face were chiseled and tanned. The sinews in his neck occasionally tensed while his jaw grinded.
He finished his beer and looked up, taking an interest in his bar buddy. Reaching over, he introduced himself. “Wally.”
“Jack.”
His grip was strong without being oppressive and his eyes piercing, gray like the color of his suit. “Alone?”
Jack motioned in the direction of the lady in black.
The man glanced toward the corner cocktail table. “Friend?”
“Not yet.”
The man had a good laugh.
The barkeep delivered a mile-high sandwich on rye. Jack dug in. “You?”
“Waiting for ...” He hesitated and finished the sentence with, “Someone.”
“Stood you up?”
He laughed again and reached into his pocket. “If ever I can be of help.” He slid over a business card imprinted with the logo of the United States Senate and embossed with his name. Wallace E. Reed, United States Senator. “Don’t hesitate.” He stood, buttoned the suit jacket as a reflexive habit, and hefted his briefcase. He was about to leave when he shifted his eyesight toward the lady. “Looks like you have a date.” He winked and left.
She fended off yet another overture from an optimistic fellow. After having successfully sent him on his way, she hopped off her chair, sidled over to the bar, and asked the barkeep for a glass of ice water. She cast her eyes toward Jack. Her smiling mouth was deliciously shaped. Her teeth were even and pearly. Her eyes glinted. She laughed inwardly with a single throaty grunt. She ambled back to her table, making sure not to spill a single drop from the water glass, clearly a woman who exerted self-control. Once resettled, she cupped a graceful hand beneath her chin, seemingly bored. After crossing her legs, she let a shoe dangle from the tips of her toes. The skirt of her dress rode high, teasing onlookers with forbidden delights beneath the leather sheathing. She was sex personified and the devil’s handmaiden. She had been waiting for a special someone. That someone was Jack.
She drained the water glass, set it down, and cast a suggestive glance in his direction. He took his cue, paid his tab, and followed her out of the nightclub, leaving the sandwich half eaten.
9
Annapolis, Maryland
Thursday, July 3
IT HAD BEEN easy to isolate the target in the club. Not only was the girl loud and flamboyant, she was in a bad mood, and therefore weak and disposed to flattery.
Her red blouse, short skirt, childish haircut, and arresting eyes stood out, making her instantly recognizable from the photo sent to his cell phone. She was perky and irresistible in an avant-garde style while also being cute and adorable, a prized toy to take home and play with. At the outset of the evening, her heart was set on a tall and lean man with a dark complexion, brown hair, bedroom eyes, quick smile, and workman hands. He had brushed her off like so much lint from his shirt, and she had shown her contempt, no love lost between them.
He approached her, speaking to her outside the lavatories and casually admiring the broach pinned to her jacket. She told him it belonged to her grandmother. She batted her eyes and smiled broadly, saying, “See you around.”
He left almost immediately. Cameras were everywhere, everybody snapping photos and capturing videos. He had taken precautions by disguising himself in subtle ways, but people would still remember him. They always did. An hour later, the girl left the club, staggering down the sidewalk. She had drunk too much wine and swallowed too much rejection. She was talking to herself, perhaps telling off the man who snubbed her. He put his car in gear, pulled out of his parking spot, and cruised alongside her, lowering the side window and leaning over. “Need a lift?”
She bent low and peered into the luxury sedan.
He pushed open the passenger door.
“What’s your name?”
“Michael. Michael Durand.”
“Mine’s Milly.” She pointed down the block. “My car’s right over there.”
“I will follow you then,” he said.
She hesitated for the briefest of moments but then giggled and said, “Why not.” It would be her first fatal mistake of the night.
10
Annapolis, Maryland
Thursday, July 3
JACK CAUGHT UP with the lady in black a block west of the club and around the corner. After walking briskly and with purpose, she drew to a halt in front of a shiny red sports car, arms crossed and toe tapping, fluid in body and limbs, a portrait of anticipation.
He drew beside her, slightly to the left and a half step behind, close enough to whiff her perfume, slightly spicy with a hint of lavender. “Yours?” he asked, indicating the sports car.
Her impassive face wound around. She wasn’t out of breath. She looked deliciously cool against the backdrop of a hot summer night. Street lights showered her with golden tones, accentuating her creamy complexion. Nearly towering over Jack, she placed a hand on her hip, fingers splayed like a black widow spider. “What do you think?”
“You probably stole it.”
Lightly chuckling, she inclined her head. “You’re not a very trusting fellow, are you?” She spoke with an accent, her voice throaty and mellow, the clipped vowels suggestive of a dozen locales. New York, New Orleans, Quebec, Germany, France, or none of the above. An army brat, diplomat’s daughter, or call girl. Whatever her background, she possessed a cosmopolitan flare that eased her into any longitude, altitude, or attitude. “Oh dear, did I misread the signals? I usually don’t.”
“You didn’t misread them.” He motioned across the street. “We’ll take my car.”
She smiled. It was a wide smile that brought attention to her shapely lips. She turned on a heel, her superb legs moving on wheels, and sauntered toward the passenger door of his convertible. She gazed back at him, hand again poised on hip. A little snap purse dangled from a slender wrist. Her face was laughing now, but her lips weren’t. Neither were her eyes.
He curled a hand around her waist, unlocked the door, and eased her inside. Her muscles became taut and unyielding, yet she settled into the passenger seat with effortless ease. He lowered the top, started the engine, and sped away from downtown Annapolis, driving north before veering east. The moon emerged from behind scattered clouds. The air was tumid with heat. The gusts wafting into the cabin were refreshing.
She kicked off her shoes and hoisted herself up, perching her butt on the headrest and bracing the heel of her gloved hand on the frame of the windshield. She wore only the single glove, black like her dress, and studded with rhinestones. Her bare hand caught the wind. With hair fanning across her face and the tiniest of smiles appearing on her lips, she let go and took flight, both arms winging toward the moon. Jack let up on the accelerator and dragged her back down. She tumbled into his arms and planted a moist kiss on his lips. He clutched her just as the high beams of a lumbering truck appeared out of nowhere, horn blaring. Jack avoided the collision by a thin prayer and a sharp skid. The near escape tickled the lady in black. With fingers curled near her mouth, she tittered. Then she threw back her head and roared. Jack joined her in the hilarity.
11
Bay Harbor Marina, Maryland
Thursday, July 3
FROM HIS TACTICAL position in the vacant townhouse, Greg Wynton waited.
During the twilight hours, the neighborhood had become awash with joggers, dog walkers, and kids young and old setting off sparklers, firecrackers, Roman candles, and bottle rockets. Smoke and flash powder saturated the air. The display went on well past sundown.
Darkness encroached the targeted townhouse. He had made doubly sure by unscrewing the porchlights and decommissioning nearby street lights. He had already unfolded the stock of the sniper rifle, installed the muzzle brake and sound suppressor, attached the magazine, adjusted the night vision optics, and aligned the crosshairs. He unpacked the 35-mm camera equipped with a telephoto lens, set it on a tripod, and snapped a series of photos in a 180-degree arc. Then he hunkered down for the wait. A prearranged signal had been established. If the signal came, he would take the shot. If not, he would stay put until further notice. A single shot from his position was dead certain, provided someone at the other end obliged him by conveniently pulling back the vertical blinds and sliding open the patio door and screen. Nobody was home right now, but soon would be.
With the sleeve of his t-shirt, Greg wiped cold sweat from his brow and sat back on his heels. He circled his vision around the white walls of the bedroom where he set up his gear. The conditions were comfortable, the location nearly ideal, the night sky obliging, and the weather cooperative. The full moon had risen but not yet reached its zenith. The waterfront community was deadly quiet, most everyone having settled down for the night. The reflective waters of the private inlet could have been distracting but for the windbreak of tall pines rising on the right. He had drawn back the window blinds and set aside the screen. Mosquitos didn’t bother him. Moths, either. And fireflies were welcome, especially since he could snap them up, shake them in the hollow of his hand, set their drunken exoskeletons on the floor, and chortle with amusement.
Everything had become subdued in the midnight hours. The night was balmy and the neighborhood, quiet. Tree leaves fluttered. Gentle breezes rolled off the bay. Crickets filled the emptiness.
Chatter came over the two-way radio, separated by long stretches of static. Greg settled into his hide, alone in his thoughts. He looked forward to a long watch of boredom, carbohydrates, and bottled water. The odds of dispatching anyone beyond the veil were low, but if directed, he would pull the trigger without hesitation. Putting a bullet in the brain of another human being was a kindness, really, an end to his earthly woes and the commencement of eternal peace.
He sat back and waited, listening to funky music pour into his soul through plugged-in earbuds. He was a patient man. He had always been a patient man, waiting for the worm to turn. He harbored no illusions. His day of damnation would come, though probably not tonight.
12
Bay Harbor Marina, Maryland
Friday, July 4
COYOTE PULLED INTO one of those contemporary subdivisions constructed of identical rows of identical houses that held little charm and no individuality.
Pretending he hadn’t just escaped a fatal crash on a dark road with a crazy woman sitting beside him, this unremarkable man whom she found passably attractive pulled into the garage of his residence and switched off the engine. Shifting in his seat, leather upholstery creaking with his movements, he reached over and ran his fingers through her hair, the leadup to a kiss. She stiffened. She didn’t like being pawed by any man, except perhaps one man. She would have to endure it from this man until the hour of their parting chimed.
He sensed the stiffening of her body and stilled his hand. He was conjecturing whether she was more woman than he could handle. She was. She smiled. He relaxed. It was important for him to relax. She couldn’t allow him to become suspicious before the appointed hour.
“Did I misread you?” he asked.
He was a perceptive man, perhaps too perceptive. Men often misinterpreted her woodenness for teasing and flirting. This one did not. He studied her, attempting to see past her illusion of beauty. If she let him stare long enough, he just might break through the thin barrier of her protective shell, and she couldn’t have that. She smiled again and tilted her head. “Misread?”
“You seem distracted. Not quite here. Not with me. Someplace else.”
How right he was. She was always someplace else. Somewhere in the past or the future but never in the present. He stroked her cheek, a gesture intended to reassure her but only reviled her. She covered his hand with hers before leaning forward and delivering a kiss along with a more sinful gift. Reaching between his legs, she found the symbol of his manhood and aroused it, the promise of more to come. He was almost shy about her forwardness. Desire filled his eyes. He flicked his head, an invitation for them to go inside and consummate the pact. To most men, and this one too, she seemed more like a dream than a woman with ulterior motives. Once he realized she wasn’t another pretty face, it would be too late.
He got out of the car and went around to the passenger side. She waited patiently for him to do the gentlemanly thing by swinging the door open. When he did, she fingered the strap of her purse and glided out of the car, graceful legs leading the way. He reached for her hand and helped her out. “You’re very tall, aren’t you?” she said.
“I didn’t mean to be.” He took her lightly into his arms, cradling her body at the small of her back. “I’m Jack Coyote.”
She already knew his name. She knew everything about him, down to his preferred brand of toothpaste. “Kathleen Heathland. Kathy to you. Or Cat, if you so please.”
“Cat.” He ran the syllable around his mouth. “I so please.”
Unlike their distant embrace inside the car, she could feel his hardness. In return, he must have felt the softness of her femininity, making her seem more desirable, perhaps a woman he could mold between his hands and dominate. It was ploy on her part and a misconception on his.
“Your name is unusual. Coyote,” she said, running the syllables over her tongue like a piece of chocolate.
She had been studying him the entire evening but still hadn’t categorized him into a type. He appeared to be a typical American male. Cocky. Shallow. Full of himself. Easy to laugh. Quick with sarcasm. Sallow and pale. Up close, she detected the opposite. The arrogant face concealed insecurity. His features were a fusion of races and continents. European to be sure, but something else she couldn’t quite define. Bronze tones were baked into his skin. Angular, almost Asian features delineated his facial structural. It must have been the Native American ancestry reported in his profile. Chiracahua Apache to the seventh generation, if she remembered rightly. If so, the genes were stubbornly stamped on his face.
Inside their embrace, his muscles rippled with the strength of a man in his prime. She would have to be careful with this one. Beneath the inscrutable expression lingered uncommon intellect. He was dissecting her, wondering if he ought to revere her as a goddess or classify her as a whore. He would be wise to choose neither. If she were being fair, she ought to warn him that a pretty face doesn’t always reveal a virtuous soul, oftentimes quite the reverse. “You’re not who you pretend to be, are you?” she said instead. “So sure of yourself. What’s the word? Cocky. You don’t fit in, do you? You have never fit in.” She hadn’t meant to be quite so direct.
