Seven Grams of Lead (32 page)

The heat fled Thornton’s body. This, he knew, was it.

“Wait,” he shouted.

The gunman added a second hand to the grip, steadying the Beretta.

With a muted report, he fell, like a tree, dead before hitting the carpet. Mallery stood behind him, her face ashen even in the monitors’ green glow. Her trembling hands clutched the other gunman’s Beretta.

Thornton seized the tall man’s Beretta and waved her out. She was still shaking when he met her at the door.

“Thank you,” he whispered, pulling her toward him and planting a soft kiss on top of her head, as much as he could do for now. No reason to think there weren’t more gunmen waiting in the hall.

Pointing his just-acquired Beretta ahead as though it were a flashlight, he pulled the door open. Fortunately the hallway was empty. The
hee-haw
sirens of police cars rose from the streets, growing louder. The gunmen either had been lying about the alarm system or had simply been wrong.

“Great.
Now
the police come,” Mallery whispered.

Thornton was glad her head was back in the game. He led her down the stairs to the second-floor corridor. Finding it clear, he proceeded to the next flight. If they could make it to the ground floor before the police arrived, it would be simple to escape via the back alley.

Mallery stopped suddenly.

Thornton looked back, mouthing,
What?

She said nothing. Just pointed through the darkness at one of the mirrors on the wall. Thornton made
out the reflection of the security guard, creeping from the rear corridor, wearing a bulky pair of goggles. Night vision, probably. He reached around the bannister, firing a pistol.

On the second-floor landing, a chunk of wall inches from Mallery’s head exploded into powder, the blast reverberating throughout the building. Thornton tugged her back into the corridor, out of the line of fire.

To keep the guard at bay, Thornton fired the Beretta through the banister. Although minimal, the muzzle flash set the chandelier aglow, revealing the guard in a crouch at the base of the stairs. The man raised both hands to shield his eyes. The flash, through infrared lenses, must look like a fireball, Thornton thought.

He hoped to temporarily blind the guard by turning on the recessed lights above the stairs. But the light-switch panel was in the guard’s direct line of fire. And even if he or Mallery could switch on the lights, how the hell would they get down the stairs and past the guard?

There was another option. “I don’t want to have to shoot you,” Thornton called down to the man. “But I will if you don’t set your gun on the floor.”

“Kiss my—” Whatever else the guard said was swallowed by a deafening report from his gun. The bullet drilled into the wall about a foot above the light-switch panel.

Two, maybe three police cars screeched to a stop
outside, their roof lights outlining the front door in red, then blue, then red again.

“Any way they’re here to help us?” Mallery asked.

“If we use them as a diversion, possibly,” Thornton said.

Someone pounded the door and barked, “Bridgetown Police, open up.”

Thornton lunged for the landing, swatting the switches on the wall panel into the upward position. Though the bulbs illuminated little more than the stairs, the guard reeled, flinging off his goggles as though they were burning him.

Thornton fired, sending a bullet ricocheting off the chain suspending the chandelier. The cluster of crystal and metal swung up to the ceiling, bulbs shattering. He fired three more rounds in a row, the third splitting the chain’s midpoint. The chandelier itself dropped onto the guard, knocking him to the floor and costing him his grip on his gun.

“Now!” Thornton said.

Mallery sprinted down the stairs after him. Ahead, the guard was on hands and knees feeling around the dark vestibule for his gun.

As they passed him, Thornton heard a crash ax hit the door. Another crash and the door tumbled inward, ringing the marble floor.

Thornton and Mallery flew into the dark rear corridor an instant before the policemen entered the vestibule. He carefully opened the back door, pointing
her down the trash-filled alley. Swan Street shone before them, as bright as noon, the crowd of revelers unaffected by the police sirens a block away.

The alley stunk of garbage. Rats scurried away as Thornton and Mallery ripped off their Raytheon uniforms and tossed them into one of the dumpsters on their way to Swan Street.

Glancing over his shoulder, he made out four policemen bursting into the alley. He and Mallery melted into the crowd on Swan Street, where the many clubs and bars were at their peak, with patrons spilling onto the street and turning the pedestrians-only thoroughfare into a party. Perhaps 100 tourists danced to a steel band fronted by a guitarist whose electrified chords muffled the police sirens.

Hoping he and Mallery would pass for two more tourists—for which reason they’d worn tourist garb under the Raytheon suits—Thornton danced, or attempted to move in time to the music unlike a man with an injured rib cage. Mallery moved in sync, reaching up and tilting his mouth to hers. The cops weaved past without noticing them.

Hallelujah, Thornton thought. Until considering that it was just a matter of time before the police blockaded the area, sealing them in. The plan was to get off Barbados as soon as possible, catching a cab or a bus to Grantley Adams International Airport. At an ATM, Mallery would withdraw the maximum $2,500 from the numbered account she’d opened for Albert, who
no longer needed the funds. Then they would walk the half mile from the main terminal to Barbados General Aviation, the area for private jets as well as local charter pilots who offered wealthy enough tourists an aerial view of Barbados and the surrounding islands. Thornton and Mallery would assume the role of such tourists. Once in flight, they would pay the pilot extra to make an “unscheduled landing” at the general aviation field on the nearby island of St. Lucia. No passports were required for intra-Caribbean flights. As Thornton had had the misfortune of reporting, passengers arriving at general aviation fields seldom faced more stringent security measures than a friendly, regionally accented welcome.

Now, releasing Mallery’s waist, Thornton said, “Shall we hit the sky?”

“Can I have a rain check on the dance?” she asked.

Before he could reply, someone poked his back with what felt like a gun. Thornton didn’t need to turn; he could see the reflection of the gunman in a storefront window. Peeling up Thornton’s shirttail, the man plucked his Beretta from his waistband.

“Beryl Mallery, meet Special Agent Lamont,” Thornton said, the shock taking a backseat to the feeling of letdown.

“Pleased to meet you,” she said, her cordiality ebbing at the sight of his pistol.

Lamont discreetly patted down Mallery, taking her Beretta. “The Bureau has issued a warrant for the
two of you for unlawful flight to avoid prosecution,” he said, “and I’m guessing that’ll be a parking ticket compared to what you’ll face for the B and E at Windward Actuarial.”

“Not that we admit to having any idea what you’re talking about,” Thornton said, “but what if that building were chock-full of clues to the identity of the organization responsible for the deaths of Catherine Peretti, Kevin O’Clair, and Leonid Sokolov?”

“What proof do you have?” Lamont asked.

“To see it, all you have to do is go to the SofTec office, across the hall from Windward,” Thornton said. “Unfortunately, by the time your EC is approved by your ASAC, your SAC, and your ADIC, the whole building will likely be cleaned out, and Beryl and I will be just two more names on the victims list.”

“I’m not going to argue with you,” Lamont said. It wasn’t clear whether he meant he was unwilling to debate Thornton on the topic of FBI bureaucracy, or that he had no patience for anything but bringing them to justice.

Thornton found Lamont hard to read: For some reason, the agent lacked his usual conviction and alacrity. Perhaps he was deliberating.

After a moment, he smiled and said, “How about this? How about we skip the paperwork, get the CIA chief of base and some marines, then get the hell back into that building?”

Although the metal
walls were bare and painted the traditional federal dove gray like those of bigger-ticket sensitive compartmented information facilities Thornton had seen, Firstbrook’s SCIF was impressive, and not just because the base chief had done the work himself. Unlike in most SCIFs, the ventilation was fantastic. Enjoying the cool air blowing across the room, Thornton sat at a small conference table, his back to the door. In the chair across from him, Mallery shifted with the excitement and apprehension of a player whose side has just seized the lead in a tight game. At the end of the table, Lamont jotted notes on the top sheet of his stationery—the four places at the table had been set with sheets of thick linen Department of State eagle stationery and the
classic Parker stainless steel ballpoint pens standard to U.S. embassies.

Firstbrook made his way through the entrance and to the empty chair at the head of the table. He carried a tray with four eagle-embossed cups of hot coffee, a small pitcher of cream, and a container of sugar. In the open doorway, one of the pair of marine guards said, “I can serve that for you, Mr. Firstbrook.” Hardly characteristic of the usual relationship between soldiers and bureaucrats, Thornton thought; it spoke well of Firstbrook.

“I would take you up on that, Cap,” the base chief told the marine, a baby-faced southerner who looked like he could bench-press a tractor, “but I’m worried this tray’s too heavy for you.”

Laughing, “Yes, sir,” the captain stepped out, closing the heavy door behind him.

To get back to SofTec that much faster, Thornton raced through an account of what he and Mallery had seen there. As he touched on the implications of an eavesdropping device implanted in Bella Sokolova, Lamont’s head sagged, as though he were on the verge of nodding off. The strong gusts of air-conditioning alone should make it impossible for anyone to fall asleep here, Thornton thought.

Lamont backed away from the table, as though preparing to stand. He teetered, the motion fanning his stationery across the table. A moment later he collapsed to the floor and lay motionless.

Mallery raced toward him. Thornton suspected the worst even before she pressed her fingers against the side of the agent’s neck and said, “His heart’s stopped.” She looked to Firstbrook. “Do you have a defibrillator?”

“No point,” the base chief said. “He’s gone.”

His apathy, in combination with Lamont’s emptied holster, led Thornton to a sickening conclusion. Turning to Firstbrook, he asked, “Did you poison him?”

“No, you did, using chloral hydrate.” The base chief sat back. “Your disguise was good—good enough to defeat principal component analysis software in the Pine Street Pharmacy’s security system, but not good enough to fool Langley’s facial recognition system. In the video we have, you’re shown purchasing Benaxona, an insomnia remedy packed with chloral hydrate. The autopsy will show that’s what killed Agent Lamont.”

Mallery glared at Firstbrook. “You really think you can pin this on us?”

“I do, but the collateral damage from your defense would be too great.” Firstbrook drew a pistol Thornton recognized as a Sig Sauer P229. “The marines won’t be able to hear you shout, but they will hear the shots when I prevent you from fleeing.”

“Now we know why you’re so gung ho about your Barbados posting,” Thornton said, trying to buy time.

Firstbrook snapped. “You think I had a choice?”

“You’re choosing to break the law,” Thornton said, thinking over a possible plan.

“Fortunately, the record will say otherwise.” Firstbrook turned the gun on Mallery.

“The issue,” Thornton said, “is that this is a crime scene.” He waved a hand at Lamont.

Firstbrook glanced at the body—as Thornton had hoped he would. In that fraction of a second, Thornton snatched the top sheet of Lamont’s stationery and dropped it to the floor, where the air-conditioning current sent the paper hydroplaning. The paper-thin gap between the door and jamb stopped it, but a corner poked through to the other side. With some luck, the marines would notice it.

“What was that?” Firstbrook asked.

“Evidence.” Thornton directed a righteous stare at the base chief. “Lamont’s warning to me that you’d poisoned the coffee.”

Firstbrook turned to the door and snapped up the piece of paper. It just noted the purpose of the meeting along with the place, time, and attendees.

Scanning it, Firstbrook scoffed, but Thornton used this distraction to grip the thick steel Parker pen like a dagger and spring from his chair, intent on Firstbrook’s atlantoaxial joint, the fibrous sheet between the top two cervical vertebrae. When Thornton wrote the post-9/11 story titled “What to Do If You Find Yourself on a Plane with an Armed Hijacker,” it hadn’t crossed his mind that he would ever try this himself.

Firstbrook whirled around, leading with his gun, as the stout ballpoint pierced the nape of his neck. Thornton kept up the pressure, driving the pen through the base chief’s rigid atlantoaxial interspace and into the rubbery medulla oblongata, the lower half of the brain stem. Firstbrook spun away, aimed his gun, and pulled the trigger. Then he seized up like he’d been struck by a freeze ray. The gun still fired, the steel compartment around them amplifying the report into the level of a bomb blast. The bullet hit the ceiling over Thornton’s head, ricocheted, and burrowed into the conference table. Unable to breathe, Firstbrook keeled face-first into the top rail of his chair. The impact cracked the wood or his jaw or both, causing his gun to jump from his hand and skate across the table to Mallery, who snared it. Firstbrook looked up at her from the floor as he died—evidently.

Taking no chances, Thornton pressed his fingers against the base chief’s carotid artery. Finding no pulse, he struggled to keep from throwing up.

“I wish it hadn’t come to that,” he said.

Although she too looked sick, Mallery shook her head. “It was better than the other choice,” she said.