Mirrors (27 page)

Locked in the right lane, I seized an opportunity to move to the left one. Beside me, along the grassy median, I saw a par course with a series of exercise stations. In the distance, beyond the final station, the course ended abruptly at a temporary fence that cordoned off a construction area housing a backhoe, dump truck, and crane.

With the sedan on my tail, I accelerated briefly before jerking the wheel to the left. The move brought me onto the median where I skidded in an arc before striking the final exercise station. The impact dislodged the rear bumper and brought the vehicle to a halt. Behind me, I saw the sedan had made the same turn only to barrel through the fence. A cloud of steam rose from its hood beneath the crane. In the distance, the sound of a siren grew louder by the moment.

I squeezed the wheel and, leaving the bumper behind, muscled my way into traffic going the opposite direction from the one I’d come. At the first intersection, I turned onto a byway that led to Route 50 where I joined a sea of cars that brought me anonymity and solace. It was a short-spanned relief interrupted by a call from the UNIT. I heard Glenn Bird’s voice shouting at me.

“You can’t escape, Krispix! We’re sending another team after you!”

“Your goons will never catch me!” I yelled back.

“The
law’s
going to catch you, Krispix. We know about the hundred thousand dollars that was wired to your bank in Bethesda from Antigua. Marcus Calendar traced the transfer.”

I moved to the left lane, pressed the pedal, and reached eighty in a fifty-five zone.

“We’ve nailed the money trail,” Bird continued. “Eight months ago,
Starboard
paid
BioVironics
ten million to deal with the seaweed issue but just two days ago Nick Kosta embezzled a million of it into an account in Antigua. It was from Kosta’s Antigua account that you received your allotment. Why the payoff?”

I wanted to accelerate beyond eighty but traffic prevented me from doing so.

“Alright, if you won’t answer,” Bird said, “tell me this: Why did Kosta travel to Ecuador a couple of months ago?”

I said nothing.

“Was it to poison shrimp to highlight the dangers of WAFTA’s passage which would promote liberalized trade?”

“Kosta supports WAFTA!” I wailed.

“Why should we believe anything you say, Krispix? You want one thing—money. We know about the cars you’re hiding in Vegas: the Lamborghini, Porche, and Corvette. You didn’t want the IRS to know about them because you filed for bankruptcy. And then you had the gall to sell XK59 to
Natow
to buy a vintage Mercedes!”

7:38 p.m.

The entry to the UNIT garage was blocked by a hydraulic barrier and retractable barbed wire. I stopped inches from the wire and flashed my badge at the guards. A sentinel emerged from the station and approached me cautiously. “No entry, sir!” he called, maintaining his distance.

I lowered my window and held the badge out to display it more clearly. “Dr. Jason Krispix,” I announced. “I’m returning the vehicle.”

Eying the damaged rear, he said, “Leave it there, sir. We’ll take care of it.”

I got out to speak with him. “What’s going on? I’m on detail here.”

“No longer, sir.”

“What do you mean, ‘no longer’?”

“Stop there, sir!” the guard said, drawing a gun. “Instructions from Dr. Glenn Bird.”

“Are you saying my detail’s over?”

“You’d have to ask Dr. Bird.”

“How can I, standing here?”

“You could call him, or, if you prefer, I could.”

Glancing at the barbed wire, I saw a narrow opening at one end. “Yes, call him.”

I waited for the guard to turn before I sprinted to the gap where I hopped over the hydraulic barrier. As I rushed down the driveway into the garage I heard a voice order, “Stop or I’ll fire!”

The circular driveway descended steeply, allowing me to escape a bullet that struck the wall behind me. I made several spirals before reaching the level from which I had collected the SUV. After passing a string of vehicles, I swiped my badge in a slot outside the door leading to the Amygdala, but the door remained locked.

Hearing shouts from the driveway, I ducked into a parked SUV and hid on the floor behind the driver’s seat. I fumbled for my phone and dialed Flagstaff.

“Jason!” he answered. “Where are you?”

“Closer than you think! Why’d you turn against me?”

“It’s complicated.”

“I need your help! I’ve already got enemies
outside
the UNIT!”

I heard muffled voices on the phone before Flagstaff spoke again. “You
broke
into the garage?”

“I had no choice!”

“Stay put!”

He arrived within minutes, joined by Bird and a team of security guards, hands on their guns. I left the car and raised my arms.

“Seize him!” Bird ordered.

The guards approached me.

“Wait!” Flagstaff called. “I think there’s been a mistake.”

“Randy, what are you saying?” Bird challenged. “We discussed this with Marcus Calendar, remember?”

“I know, but I just talked to Eve Krispix.” He turned to me. “What’s the name of your bank?”

“Capital National,” I replied.

“That’s a credit union, right?”

“Yes.”

“Located in the District of Columbia?”

“Yes.”

“Do you have another bank account?”

“No, only that one.”

“He’s lying!” Bird shouted.

“I’m not! That’s my sole account.”

Flagstaff approached me. “That’s what Eve said, too, but she received an email from a bank in Bethesda—across the line from D.C. in Maryland—acknowledging the opening of a new account that received a hundred thousand dollar deposit.”

“He meant to hide it from Eve!” Bird said.

“If that were true, he wouldn’t have opened a
joint
account!” Flagstaff replied. He looked at me. “Did you open the Bethesda account?”

“No!

He addressed Bird: “So, someone opened it for him.”

“How could they have gotten Eve’s email address to register it on the account?” Bird asked.

“I think I know how,” I replied. “It was probably Grainger who did it. He broke into our home in Bethesda shortly after we moved in and stole my diaries. For better or worse, I kept personal details in them.”

“But why wouldn’t he have wired the funds to your credit union?” Bird asked.

“We opened that account after he broke into our house.”

“So, you’re saying
Grainger
faked your identity to open a new account?”

“That’s my guess.”

“That’s harder to do than you think!” Bird contested.

He frowned at the chime of his mobile. After studying its screen, he said, “Shit! McCloskey wants us on Capitol Hill in fifteen.”

8:07 p.m.

At the Rayburn Office Building, we went to a lavish suite where Paul DeTrigger met us in the reception area. He nodded at Bird and Flagstaff but offered me a cold glance.

We followed him to a lounge with oak-paneled walls and green-shaded lamps.

“I’ll tell Chairman McCloskey you’re here,” he said.

After we took our seats, I asked Bird, “What about the other Task Force members?”

“McCloskey wanted to see us alone.”

I stood to review a series of photos on the wall that portrayed Homer McCloskey’s career. The earliest ones showed him standing on the Capitol steps with his freshmen class, delivering speeches, and conducting interviews with the press. Others, further along, featured him with Administration officials, diplomats, and visiting dignitaries, while those at the far end of the wall depicted him as the portly, hunched figure with bushy white hair I had seen on television.

Along an adjacent wall, a collage portrayed his life in Louisiana. In one shot, he stood with a group of smiling children of varied skin colors who held a banner reading,
Support International Adoptions!
At the time the photo was taken, McCloskey had a full head of black hair and a lithe body that allowed him to easily carry a vivacious girl with dark skin and a tilaka on her forehead. From other photos, it was clear he represented a coastal district for in many he stood by the sea. In one, he assisted the crew of a fishing vessel haul in the day’s catch, his brawny forearms fairer than those of the men about him. In another, he preened beside a massive marlin hoisted over a dock.

“Like that one?” a gravelly voice asked.

I turned to find McCloskey behind me.

“Quite a catch,” I said.

“He was a fighter. I like that quality in fish and men.”

He motioned for me to sit, plopping himself into a recliner beside an ornamental fireplace. In spartan style, DeTrigger chose a wooden seat.

“Gentlemen,” McCloskey began, “I’m expecting the WAFTA vote to pull me away at any time, so I’ll get to the point.” He packed his pipe. “It pains me to confirm that one of our own Task Force members—Congressman Nick Kosta—may have betrayed our nation. Thanks to the work of Dr. Krispix here, we learned of the logbook on Kosta’s boat that strongly suggests he was the one who mailed the missives. All indications are he had a collaborator by the name of Frank Grainger. I believe Kosta issued the missives while Grainger poisoned the shrimp although I cannot say Kosta is innocent with regard to the poisonings because he traveled to Ecuador two months ago. How and where Kosta and Grainger met, I cannot tell you, but this I assure you: Immediately after the WAFTA vote, we’ll interrogate Kosta.” To Bird, he ordered: “In the meantime, you’re to apprehend Grainger before he carries out his threats, do you hear me?”

“Yes, sir,” Bird replied.

“Why not question Kosta now?” I asked.

“I’ll grant him these last moments before the WAFTA vote to deal with his constituents. In the meantime, my hope is he will prove himself to be innocent.” He shook his head. “It’s a tragedy what happened to the man after he divorced his wife of forty years last winter. He hasn’t been himself since.”

“He’s not lacking for company,” I said. “Sigrid Bjornstad was with him on his boat in the bay this afternoon.”

“Yes, we sent Dr. Bjornstad to be with him. We didn’t want him to be alone lest he think about escaping.”

“Why did he go to Annapolis on such a busy day?” I asked.

“He finds relaxation at sea.”

McCloskey lit his pipe while he examined me.

“When you saw them, was Kosta or Sigrid at the helm?”

“Kosta.”

He lifted his brows. “Really? Good for him!”

“Are you surprised?”

He frowned. “Somewhat, because in the past month, he’s been acting strange; it’s the stress of WAFTA, I trust. Perhaps you noticed the odd way his eyes darted back and forth when we met with the Task Force. It seems to be a new development, as if he were possessed.”

“Yes, I noticed those movements,” I said. “In medicine, we call them ‘nystagmus’—eyes drifting one way before jerking back. It can result from a number of things, including viral infections or taking too much medicine of certain types. It can also affect one’s balance, which seems to be the case for Kosta. I trust he’s seeing a physician.”

“I leave his personal life to him.”

The door opened and a wide-eyed staffer poked his head through the crack.

“Mr. McCloskey, the WAFTA vote.”

The Congressman stood. To Bird: “Stay close; we may need to regroup tonight.”