Executive Treason (27 page)

Boston, Massachusetts

Roarke’s Secret Service credentials went a long way in defusing the momentary excitement. He explained to the police that he had been tracking a fugitive who, using a new identity, took a job at the coffee bar. Katie confirmed what she could, which helped. Unfortunately, for Roarke’s sake, more damage had been done in the minutes while he was chasing Depp.

Another Starbucks employee took it upon herself to clean up. That included wiping the pots, trashing the cup that Depp used as a diversion, and restoring everything back to spic and span, customer-friendly normal. The possibility of lifting usable latent prints quickly went from 100 percent to basically zero.

Also, despite Roarke’s protestations, the police were not inclined to declare Starbucks a crime scene. “You tell me what crime was committed here,” the officer declared. He walked away from Roarke and got himself a free coffee.

Ten minutes later, Roarke and Katie were back on the street.

“What now?” Katie asked.

“So much for surprise.” Roarke looked at the time. “Witherspoon would have been here by now. If he has a half a brain, he’s taken off.”

Katie shared the thought.

“Wait a second—Starbucks!” Roarke exclaimed.

“Yes,” Katie said.

“Why was Depp here?”

Katie never asked herself that question. “I don’t know.”

“Come on, Katie. Here, across the street from your office.”

“Oh, my God!” She started shaking. “Me?”

Six minutes earlier, Donald Witherspoon approached his regular Starbucks. He was drawn to the commotion and pushed his way through the large crowd that had quickly gathered.

“What’s going on?” he asked no one in particular.

“The police are in there,” a woman said.

“I heard somebody had a gun,” added another.

Witherspoon saw another lawyer from the firm. He maneuvered close enough to call out. “Hey, Rog!”

The man, dressed in the same pinstripe uniform, turned to the voice. “Donald,” he said with no particular enjoyment.

Witherspoon worked his way closer to his colleague and the front of the crowd. “I heard ‘gun.’”

“Me, too. The police are in there now. Apparently there was some sort of chase. Don’t really know. See.” He pointed to the left side of building. “They’re talking to somebody now.”

They were about fifteen feet from the front door. He couldn’t see anything from his angle. Glare from the morning sun reflected off the glass. He sidestepped to the left and looked inside. A cop held a walkie-talkie to one ear. He had what looked like a license or ID card in his other hand.

“Did they catch anyone?” Witherspoon asked.

“Dunno. Just got here a few minutes ago.”

He continued talking, proposing a theory, but Witherspoon stopped listening. He felt his chest tighten with anxiety, and his heart begin to race. Beads of perspiration immediately formed on his forehead. His palms got sweaty. Kessler!

He could easily see her. She’d stepped away from the doorframe and faced the outside. Witherspoon turned 90 degrees and leaned behind the other lawyer, avoiding her line of sight. A few seconds later, he slid around ever so slightly and looked up.

Now she was gesturing in the direction of their law offices. He slid behind his colleague again and let his mind race through what he had just seen and what it meant. Kessler. Alive. And the man with the ID. Roarke? He couldn’t quite make him out. And the chase? What kind of chase? Who was he after? It almost didn’t matter. The fact that Kessler was alive was enough.

Witherspoon faded back. The other attorney felt him leaving. “Hey, where you going?”

“Coffee down the street,” he called out without looking back. He didn’t offer to get his colleague any. He wasn’t returning.

Russia
the same time

Neither was Aleksandr Dubroff. The old man felt like he was back in the game. He let a lot of himself die when he buried his wife. Now, the blood pumped through his veins with renewed vigor. His brain calculated options ten steps ahead. He weighed each move, but not as someone on the run, but from the perspective of the hunter. After all, even today, the FSB taught from the book he wrote.

Will they come looking for me? Absolutely.

Do they have orders to detain me? Now that I’m fleeing, yes.

Will they shoot if I don’t stop? Without hesitation.

Will they know where to look?

The final question brought a broad smile to him. No. Search as they may, they weren’t going to find Dubroff at the typical places. He wasn’t going to the American Embassy or the airport. He didn’t intend on sneaking across the border in the dead of night. Aleksandr Dubroff had other notions. He decided to switch trains, taking a roundabout route to Moscow, and cash in a few chits from someone who owed him.

Boston, Massachusetts

Katie didn’t realize that she was standing on Milk Street with her mouth wide open. “Will he still try?”

If he wants to get paid, he’ll try again, Roarke thought. “He’s not foolish. He’s seen me,” Roarke said, trying to console her. He took Katie into his arms. She was shaking.

In less than a year, Katie Kessler had crossed over into a different world than she’d ever known or imagined. Roarke’s world was full of death and deceit, power and politics. People weren’t beaten in court, they ended up dead on city streets, or at the bottom of the Charles.

“Is this the way it’s always going to be with us?” she asked softly.

Roarke squeezed harder. He could answer with a lie or tell the truth.

“For now, yes,” he said. Roarke released her and took half a step back. He angled Katie’s chin up toward his eyes, so she would clearly see him, and said, “Not forever.”

“Why? Why me? I haven’t done anything.”

The question gave him pause. Why Katie? It actually didn’t make sense. Why would Depp be waiting for Katie to return to her old routine—including a morning coffee? If he wanted to kill her, he had ample time and opportunity, and much earlier. And Depp would have succeeded where the other contract killer had failed.

“Wait a second.” Roarke was thinking it through. “How many people come here before work?”

“What?” Katie asked.

“Starbucks. Who comes here?”

“I don’t understand.”

“Katie, I don’t think you were the target. At least it’s possible you’re not. So who else stops for a coffee before work?”

“God, lots of people.”

“Anybody relevant?”

“Well, yes. Donald Witherspoon.”

Witherspoon wasn’t a talented fugitive. He didn’t know where to go. Returning to his Back Bay apartment was out of the question. He had cash, but not enough to get far. The most he could get out of an ATM was five hundred. He’d need help.

The summer heat began to rise off the pavement, making Witherspoon even more uncomfortable. He took off his suit jacket, speeded up his walk, and crossed Franklin, heading deeper into the maze of downtown office buildings. He turned his head slightly to the side every half-block to see if he was being followed.

“Ah!” Witherspoon slammed into an oncoming pedestrian with such force that he knocked the man down. Without realizing it, he stumbled as well, tumbling right on top of the man.

“Excuse me. Sorry, I wasn’t watching,” he stammered.

“No problem. Just help me up, old boy.” The man held out his hand for Witherspoon to grab onto. Witherspoon’s instinct was to continue, but the man’s hand remained outstretched. “Come on,” he said with a clipped British accent. “Help a friend up. No harm.”

Witherspoon looked over his shoulder again, thinking twice. “Okay.” He met the man halfway and they locked hands.

Witherspoon was instantly aware of a warm, comforting grip.

“That’s it. ‘Up, up and away,’ as Superman would say,” the man added in a soothing voice. He sized up Witherspoon. “You’re all dusty on my account.” Without stopping to ask, he patted Witherspoon’s jacket and pants. “How clumsy of me. In such a rush.”

Witherspoon felt the man’s hands lightly brush across his crotch. It was soft, but intentional.

“I’m okay,” Witherspoon said.

“Good. I do apologize. I insist that I pay for a cleaning.”

“No, no, that’s not necessary. Look, I have to go.”

Witherspoon took a step forward, but the man grabbed his hand again. He felt the warmth once more. “Please, then. Let me buy you a breakfast. You look hungry. It’s the least I can do.”

Witherspoon hesitated as if to say, well, maybe.

“My name is Mycroft. Terrence Humphrey Mycroft. My friends call me Terry.” He still held onto Witherspoon’s hand, and squeezed it ever so gently. “Really, let me make it up to you.”

Witherspoon was on the run. The man offered him refuge. Probably more. He always had a hard time saying no. And he was definitely being asked. I can disappear with him.

“Okay. Where?”

“Well, I’m just in for business, but the restaurant at my hotel is just around the corner. What do you say?”

Witherspoon thought for a second more.

“I’ve just been out for a morning constitutional. My meetings aren’t until much later, and I’d love the company. Truly.”

“Where did you say you’re from?”

“Oh, I didn’t, but my accent must be a giveaway. London. I’m an attorney.”

“As am I,” Witherspoon offered.

“Fine, then let’s bore ourselves to death,” the Brit joked.

Witherspoon pursed his lips, giving the invitation one last thought.

“Thank you, Terrence. I’m Donald, and that sounds absolutely perfect.”

Roarke and Katie went up to Witherspoon’s office as planned. After twenty minutes it was apparent he wasn’t going to show up.

“Damn!” Roarke exclaimed. “Too much time here. Ten-to-one…no, one-hundred-to-one he spotted us; probably when we were talking to the cop. He split.”

“But you’ll find him?” Katie was worried.

“I don’t know. Maybe. He better hope so.”

“Why?”

“Depp doesn’t collect if he walks away. My guess is he’s out there looking for Donald Witherspoon while I sit around with my thumb up my ass.”

“Oh, Mister Roarke, such talk,” she joked.

But Roarke wasn’t in the mood. He headed toward the door. “Look, pull your things together. Call Davis at the FBI. Tell him you need a ride.” He wrote down the number. “You can say your hello’s here, then go back to our place.” He didn’t say where, for fear that the room had ears. “Don’t leave with anyone Davis can’t personally vouch for.”

“Yes, sir.” She saluted. “You mean I’m still under house arrest?”

“Damned straight. Until Witherspoon’s put away.”

Roarke left, but only for a moment. “I forgot something.”

“What?”

“To kiss you.” He took her with both arms and pulled Katie close so their lips met. The kiss took her breath away, and he lowered her slowly to the ground. Before leaving, he softly added, “Be careful.”

He was well down the hall by the time she whispered, “You, too.”

Witherspoon casually talked to his new friend. If Roarke enlisted the police, which he may have by now, they’d be keeping an eye out for a man on the run, not two businessmen engaged in a spirited conversation.

The farther they walked, the more at ease Witherspoon became. The man touched his back at an intersection: a friendly way to say let’s cross. His hand lingered longer than necessary. It felt good. Witherspoon relaxed more. This is going to be just fine. He was certain that he was in good hands.

The two men rounded the corner onto Broad Street. Terry gently nudged Witherspoon onward with his arm around his shoulder. “Here we are.”

Witherspoon had been in the Wyndham Downtown Boston for meetings with clients. It was convenient for the trade, just two blocks from the wharfs, three from Government Center, and only a few minutes’ walk from work.

The Wyndham was actually a converted office building: Boston’s first skyscraper. Redesigned as a hotel, it blended the original 1928 art deco decor of brass, rich woods, and brick with modern touches.

The lobby was spacious and, fortunately, fairly empty. Still, Witherspoon walked as close to Terry as he could, hoping to hide from anyone who might recognize him. Mycroft steered him toward the Caliterra Bar & Grille, then stopped, allowing his companion to look in.

“A bit crowded, I’d say.”

“Yes.” Witherspoon backed away. “Is there any place a little quieter?”

Mycroft checked his watch. “High time for breakfast. I’m afraid we’re going to find this everywhere.” He paused and read his companion’s face. “Of course…” he stopped in mid-sentence. “We could take the lift upstairs and order room service.”

Witherspoon nodded. “That would be fine.”

“Oh, wait. I’m sure the maid hasn’t had a chance to tidy up. Why don’t you give me a few moments. Then you can join me.”

“No, we can go right up,” he said, having no desire to wait in public.

“Then up it is.”

They walked to the elevator. Mycroft politely held back, allowing Witherspoon to press the button. Ten seconds later, the doors of an elevator to their left opened.

“Here we are. The gentleman first,” Mycroft said. “Eighth floor.”

Witherspoon did the honors. When the door opened again, Mycroft led Witherspoon to the right. Number 823. “Are you sure you wouldn’t like to wait while I straighten up?”

Witherspoon laughed at the double entendre, not his first. “No, I’m ready now.”

“Very good then.” He fumbled with his electronic pass card. It dropped on the floor. “How clumsy of me.” He was slow to bend down.

“Allow me,” Witherspoon offered.

“Thank you.”

Witherspoon inserted the card into the slot and turned the handle when the green indicator flashed.

“Thank you again, Donald. Just go right in.”

Witherspoon led the way. The room, a mini-suite, was immaculate. “Well, look at this. The bed is made already. Bravo.” It was as if no one had slept in it overnight.

Witherspoon smiled as he let his hand glide over the bedspread on the way to the windows. “Very nice,” he said, looking out onto the harbor.

“Quite so, but I think we can close the shades, don’t you?”

Witherspoon saw his smile reflected in the window in front of him. This is the best place to be for now. As he drew the drapes over the reflection, the room got darker. His back was still to the Englishman. Witherspoon sensed his presence. He turned around and faced him.