Masquerade (32 page)

The window on the Volvo's driver's side rolled down. “Pull over!” The driver rested a pistol across the window's lip. “Now!”

She accelerated, on the wrong side of the road. The Volvo kept up. A blast of gunfire strafed her back door.

As she floored her accelerator, she saw hope: A dirt truck ramp ahead, arrowing up the mountain on her right. The precipice was behind them now, and the two speeding cars were rounding a new mountain. The dirt ramp was intended to give trucks with failing brakes a way to stop at the bottom of a steep descent.

She plunged her car down. Near the base, she hit her brakes abruptly. Her tires screamed.

The Volvo hit its brakes, too. But the Volvo's speed was so
great and its weight so massive that the time lapse between her action and its reaction gave her a few seconds.

She was out in the open! She swung onto the ramp. She'd make a 180-degree turn and reverse her course. She smiled grimly, preparing herself, then gunfire rang out again.

Her body slammed from side to side. The steering wheel spun through her hands as if it were greased. The car whirled out of control. Dammit all to hell! They'd taken out her tires!

Leslee Pousho's face throbbed with pain. Her eyes were swollen. She lay with hands and feet tied to the iron bed in her one-room cabin, while her two captors tore it apart searching for Lucas's documentation. She'd been so close to accomplishing her vow to avenge him—

A tear slid down her cheek. She thought back to her disabled car and the forest of birches in which she'd tried to hide. The thin-trunked trees had provided little cover, and she'd had to keep moving, keep running. Fifteen years of heavy smoking had defeated her. She'd not had the lung power or energy to outrun these two cruel men.

Now the tall one strode toward her. He stood over her. There was blood on his hand. Her blood.

“Where is it?”

“Won't . . . tell.” Her lips were bruised. She could hardly talk.

The hand bashed the right side of her face. She heard herself moan. Red lightning flashed behind her eyes.

The second one was locking her laptop, readying it to be stowed in the Volvo. With her box of back-up floppies in his hand, he gestured at the front door.

“Go check outside.”

The tall one gave her a look of disappointment. He wanted to keep beating her. But he headed out.

Think, she told herself. Think!

The tall one reappeared in the doorway with the briefcase she'd hidden under the cabin in a shallow cellar. He dumped the Xeroxes onto the kitchen table.

“Now we'll pack her up and put her in her car—”

“It's got to look like an accident.”

“There's that bad curve farther up the mountain—”

The shorter one nodded. “That'll work.”

They walked toward her, anticipation in their icy eyes.

With tremendous effort, she said, “That not . . . only copy . . . Kill me. Won't stop this. World's going to know what Hughes Bremner did to Sarah Walker.”

At 3:30
P.M.
in the village café, Bunny Bremner finally ordered a double cappuccino. She was sitting at the table she'd shared with Marilyn Michaels for lunch. She watched the door, hoping the pretty blond journalist would reappear.

The maître d' told her no one had left a message, and Bunny thought the young woman was the kind who would. She was a career person; perhaps a news emergency had sidetracked her.

Bunny liked Ms. Michaels, and she'd looked forward to meeting her again. It had been a long time since she'd looked forward to anything.

In the remote Virginia cabin, ice water splashed Leslee Pousho's face. Through a thick fog of pain, she gagged, coughed, and struggled toward consciousness.

She lay face down in a warm, sticky pool. She and the mattress were soaked. There was a terrible stench. It burned her nose and eyes. It was acidic, nauseating. She realized what it was. She'd vomited. She lay in a pool of her own sticky vomit.

“She's coming around again.”

She kept her eyes closed and prayed they'd decide she was still unconscious. Somehow she could still make her mind work, even though her body screamed with pain. Lucas would be proud.

“Where'd you hide the copies?”

“Tell us and you can sleep.”

She thought about Lucas. After seeing him die, she'd told herself she could endure anything.

“Where're the copies!”

The fist sank into her belly. Something seemed to rip inside.

“Tell us!”

The next blow hit higher. Pain knifed through her chest and her head exploded into blackness. The blackness collapsed around her, and she felt blessed nothing.

Hughes Bremner was back in his Langley office when the call came from Sid Williams. A few hours earlier Williams had reached the realtor, who'd given him the location of Leslee Pousho's cabin.

“Where are you?” Bremner demanded. “Is she dead?”

“I'm on the porch of Pousho's cabin out here in the sticks, Chief. I'm using my cell phone. Looks like we've got all Lucas's stuff. Xeroxes, like you said.”

“Is she dead?” Bremner repeated.

Sid Williams cleared his throat. “Not yet, sir.”

“Why not? You have the documents. I told you—”

“Chief?” Williams spoke in a rush. “She claims she made extra copies she sent to people. You know, more copies of what she had in the cabin. Maynard's stuff.”

Goddamn Lucas Maynard and Leslee Pousho all to hell! It was the oldest ruse in the world, but Bremner could take no chance.

“Get it out of her. Now!”

“Yessir, but she's out cold. You know. And now she's not looking too good.”

Bremner knew. Sid Williams was telling him she might die, and then they'd never learn a damn thing.

“Give her a few hours, then wake her up and convince her,” Bremner said. “Sid? Really convince her. Everything you know, and worse.”

Almost as soon as Hughes Bremner hung up, his buzzer sounded. It was his secretary. In a nervous voice, she announced: “The White House just called, sir. The President wants to see you immediately. The DCI will meet you there.”

“Do you know what it's about?”

“No, sir. I asked, but no one seems to know. Or they're not telling me.”

Hughes Bremner's work had put him through more scares than a whore off the pill. He'd taught himself to ride with problems, handle them, and move on. Which meant he seldom worried. But he'd never before been summoned abruptly to the President's office. He thought of the tens of millions of dollars he and his board had skimmed from BCCI deposits, and then he thought about Sterling O'Keefe . . . M
ASQUERADE
. . . Sarah Walker . . . Lucas Maynard . . . Leslee Pousho . . . and, finally, G
RANDEUR
. He was so close to fulfilling all his plans, creating the life he'd dreamed of, he was determined nothing would go wrong now.

The President of the United States and the director of U.S. Central Intelligence were waiting for Hughes Bremner in the Treaty Room, the President's home office. He was sitting behind the nineteenth-century table that served as his desk, while Arlene Debo stood nearby, gazing at titles in one of the massive bookcases. When Bremner walked in, she turned.

She didn't smile. Neither did the President.

“Sit down, Mr. Bremner.”

“Thank you, Mr. President.”

The wallpaper was dark-red simulated leather. Antiques from White House storage decorated the librarylike room, which had a feeling of masculinity that at another time would have set Bremner at ease.

There were no pleasantries, a bad sign. The President began curtly: “My press officer took a telephone call from Judith Zimmer an hour ago. You know her?”

“I know who she is. Editor of the
Washington Independent
.” Bremner felt suddenly heavy, as if his chest and stomach had turned to stone. The
Independent
was the newspaper for which Leslee Pousho wrote.

“She knows the Carnivore is coming in.” The President's voice was tight with fury. “She wants a quote from me about
why we'd take in such a bloodthirsty ogre, because tomorrow she's going to publish a story that includes this fact. It will be the first of some series they're running about gross malfeasance in one of our agencies.”

“Which agency?” Bremner's heart seemed to stop.

“It's not named, unfortunately. No way to fight it detail for detail until we know which one.” He glared at Bremner and enunciated each word carefully: “I specifically required no one know about the Carnivore.
No one
. You're here because I'm ordering you to rescind our offer of asylum. He'll have to peddle his contemptible gore somewhere else. I'm going to give Ms. Zimmer a quote denying he's coming in, and then you're going to make damn sure he doesn't.”

“Sir—” Bremner began.

“Don't bother, Bremner.” The President raised his hand. “This administration must set an ethical tone in all matters. We need to turn this nation around. Plus, if the article in the
Independent
is accurate, we've got one hell of a mess on our hands anyway.”

“Do you know what the story contains, Mr. President?” Arlene Debo's square face was pale.

“Ms. Zimmer has her own ethics. She refuses to let us see the story in advance. We'll have to wait until tomorrow, like the rest of her readers.”

“Mr. President, I need to warn you about something.” Hughes Bremner crossed his arms, leaned back. “The Carnivore performed some wet jobs for the United States back in the '60s and '70s when it was still legal. That won't look good, especially if another nation with an agenda presents it to the world media. It would be very . . . useful . . . for us to keep that information to ourselves, and also to know exactly what other nations—as well as individuals—have been up to through the Carnivore.”

“And there's the Beni-Domo intelligence, too, sir,” Arlene Debo added. “Because of the Carnivore, we know that a man who is likely to become Prime Minister of Japan is a murderer. As I'm sure you recall, he hired the Carnivore to eliminate the founder of Beni-Domo. And that's not all we know because of
the Carnivore. Everything he's given us has been useful.”

The President frowned, considering. At last he shook his head. “No, I should never have let you talk me into bringing him in. It's time we cut free of the past. Our nation has been responsible for some reprehensible acts. Now let's own up and get on with making this a better world. There'll be no more discussion on this issue. You will inform the Carnivore he is no longer welcome in the United States, Mr. Bremner. Arlene, you will glance over Mr. Bremner's shoulder occasionally to make certain the Carnivore takes his dirty business elsewhere. Thank you both for coming.”

Chapter 36

In his austere Langley office, Hughes Bremner found a bottle of Jack Daniel's far at the back of his bottom desk drawer. Seldom did he drink at all, least of all here.

This afternoon was an exception.

He poured three fingers into a water glass, knocked back half, and on his secure line began to make urgent telephone calls. First he talked with his board members, Tad Gorman, Ernie Pinkerton, and Adam Risley at the FBI, NSC, and ATF. He gave each the bad news about the President's decision. Now they had to close ranks, cover, and give lip service. They'd have to hold off Arlene Debo until the coming-in tomorrow night. After that, the Carnivore would be dead, and the almighty President would be obeyed, but not the way he expected: There'd be no asylum for the notorious Carnivore in the United States, or anywhere.

In the den of her Virginia mansion, Bunny Bremner poured herself the first Scotch and water of the day. The trial was over, and she was celebrating. Also, she had to admit she was feeling sad, too. She'd wanted to chat more with Marilyn Michaels. Unfortunately she knew little about the woman, not even for which newspaper she worked. She could always ask Hughes, she supposed. He had people who could find out something simple like that.

Bunny dialed Hughes's office, but he'd left. His secretary said he was on his way home to pick up his bags for another overseas trip. She looked at her glass and decided she'd better not drink anything until they'd talked.

As he expected, Hughes Bremner's bags were waiting inside the front door. He'd phoned ahead, and the butler had packed. Bremner was going to Paris. He'd told Arlene Debo it was for damage control, that he needed to make certain all details in the Carnivore operation were wound down completely, no slipups, nothing leaked to the press.

Thank God Lucas had never found out about G
RANDEUR
or Je Suis Chez Moi.

Now he stood in the doorway to the den. Bunny was leaning over her drink as if she wished she could fall in and drown. She was an ugly old drunk full of pretensions and lost glory, and under different circumstances he would have enjoyed contemplating her for an hour or two, much like an art lover contemplating his favorite still life at his favorite museum.

“I'm off,” he told her. “Now, now. No tears. I know you'll miss me dreadfully.”

She looked up, dry eyed. “Where are you going?”

“Paris. The City of Lights and Love. You remember the concept of love. I know you do, Bunny. It's what you've reserved for your money.”

Once she'd had lovely violet eyes, but the more alcohol she'd consumed, the paler they'd become, until now they were a characterless, watery blue. She blinked. Her hands shook.

He strode into the room, removed the glass, and set it on the table.

“You're never coming back.” Her voice was a tormented whisper. “I know you're not. You're going to meet friends over there. Some woman! You're leaving me.”

She was half right. There was no other woman, but he'd never be back. But he lied easily with a bland smile:

“You're not that lucky, Bunny.”