Untitled (46 page)

  Marshall went back to the office. He took out the Douglas files he'd put together. He pored over the cases again, and this time he found something. Douglas's judicial record concerned mostly opinions involving individual rights. Marshall had been almost exclusively looking at those decisions. Again he was misguided by race and racial notions. Douglas could not have been killed for that reason. For better or worse, Americans were learning to live with one another.

  Douglas's decisions on trade and business were altogether another matter. He was very liberal, or more to the point, protectionist. He had consistently voted against any business or trade measure that did not favor American workers.

  Douglas's father was a steel worker who had been put out of work because the mill closed in favor of one overseas. Douglas's father had taken odd jobs and was finally killed when he was caught in a harvester on a farm where he was working. Douglas's family was thrown into poverty. Douglas had taken that pain with him to the land's highest court.

  Marshall called a friend who worked for Congressman John Conyers and got a copy of the history of the GreenDixon Trade Bill pending before the Supreme Court. The bill, if allowed to pass, would seriously hurt American workers. Moreover, the court had been divided five to four against the bill. Douglas had been the swing vote. With Douglas out of the way, the bill would pass.

  "But they'd need Mbutu alive until that happened," Marshall whispered to himself. That was why Mbutu was not dead; they needed a spectacle to distract everyone while the plan was completed. After the bill passed muster, then Mbutu would have an untimely accident in prison, closing the matter for good.

  He heard a noise. Marshall turned off the lights and took out his gun. He went to a corner of his office and waited. He heard voices, which seemed to be moving. He went closer to his door and pressed his ear up against the cold wood.

  "How much longer?" asked a man.

  "Not much," said another man. The voice sounded like Van Ness, the CIA agent, but he couldn't be sure. The other voice was not familiar.

  "I'm tired of this shit."

"Just be cool. Come on."

  They kept talking, but Marshall couldn't hear the rest. They left the hallway. Marshall waited a moment, then he left.

  What were they doing? Marshall thought. Planting more bugs, or searching the offices?

  Marshall got on the elevator on the twenty-third floor and pressed the lobby button. The car went down. He was nervous. He had to get out of the building without being seen by whoever the men were. At this point, if they saw him they might decide to cut their losses and take him out.

  Suddenly, the elevator slowed. Marshall had not pressed a floor before the lobby, so someone on another floor must have stopped the car. He took out his gun and placed it behind his back. If it was an enemy, they'd have to fight to take him.

  The elevator door opened, revealing an empty hallway on the nineteenth floor. No one was there. Marshall held the door as he stuck his head out and looked around. Nothing.

  He let the doors start to close. As they did, he heard a door of an office open on the floor. The door lock clicked loudly. He heard footsteps coming his way, but before he could see anyone enter the hallway, the elevator doors closed tight and the car went down.

  Marshall got to the lobby and checked with the guard. No one had come through that night, he said. Marshall quickly left the building and headed for his car. He drove home nervously, making sure he was not being followed. He got to his house and got out of his car.

  He walked toward his house. Halfway up the walkway, about ten feet away, a tree on his lawn was struck by something. The bark splintered and flew into the air. Marshall heard a soft pop from behind him.

  He hit the ground and rolled over behind the tree. The shot must have been taken with a silenced gun. He took out his weapon and peered from behind the tree. He didn't see anyone.

  His time had run out. The forces behind Douglas's death had decided to get rid of him. Marshall scanned the area. If he took a random shot, he might hit a neighbor's house or car, or worse, it might go through a house and injure someone inside.

  Another soft pop and the tree was hit again. Marshall thought he saw a flash from across the street. There was a house across from his owned by some people named Milliken. The Millikens had two rows of bushes in the front, perfect for a sniper.

  Marshall looked at his house behind him. He could make a dash for it, but he'd be out in the open for a few seconds. Long enough for the sniper to take another shot at him.

  A car rolled down the street, coming his way. Its headlights shined in the dimness. Marshall tried to get a look at the approaching vehicle but didn't dare stick his head out.

  A dark figure ran from the bushes at the Milliken house and dashed down the street, going in the same direction as the car. Marshall stood up and trained his gun on the figure.

  The sniper ran into the yard of a house four houses down from Marshall's. Marshall followed and saw the sniper jump over a fence and run into the yard of a house behind it. He followed, jumping the fence.

  Marshall ran through the yard and onto the next street. He stopped. Nothing. He walked down the street, his gun out in front of him. There were cars on the street, but he could not see anyone inside.

  A car sprang to life and barreled at him. The headlights were out but he could see one person inside. Marshall raised his gun but he didn't have a clear shot. He jumped out of the way as the car sped by. He fell to the ground as the car sped off.

  "Shit," Marshall cursed.

  Lights went on in a nearby house on the street. Marshall ran back the way he had come. The last thing he needed was a police investigation. Thank goodness he hadn't fired his weapon, he thought. A "shots fired" call would get a quick response in his neighborhood. He ran back to his own street and headed toward his house.

  On the street he saw a man coming his way. Marshall raised his gun, then he saw it was Danny.

"Danny?" he said.

"It's me," said Danny.

  Marshall lowered his gun and walked toward his friend. His heart was pumping hard, and his hand gripped the gun so tightly that it hurt.

  "I saw you run after someone from my car," said Danny.

  "Someone took a shot at me," said Marshall, "but he got away."

  "We'd better get inside," said Danny.

  Marshall filled Danny in on everything. Bob Ryder called soon thereafter and informed Marshall that the bullet had been recovered from Wendel Miller's spine and that it matched Mbutu's gun. Miller was still in the hospital, but he'd live and would probably not be paralyzed.

  "You think it was that CIA guy?" asked Danny.

  "I don't know," said Marshall. "So, what did you find?"

  "Well, this Charles Dolgen guy is not a criminal," said Danny. "He was just an average Joe who lived on a farm out in the sticks," said Danny.

  "Why are you speaking of him in the past tense?" asked Marshall.

  "Because he's dead," said Danny. "The farm burned down with him inside of it."

  "But it happened before Douglas was killed, didn't it?"

  "Yeah," said Danny. "How did you know that?"

  "That's our man. He used Dolgen's identity while he was working on killing Douglas. After he was done, he changed identities."

  "Muthafucka's a ghost," said Danny. "We'll never find him if he can change his identities. If he can just disappear, he could be anywhere."

  "Maybe we can get to him," said Marshall.

  "How do we do that?" asked Danny.

  "My wife," said Marshall.

C
hemin punched a series of numbers on the keypad of the computer called The Eye. The screen sprang to life.

  Marshall had awakened her and begged her to help him out. She didn't protest and seemed genuinely glad to see him.

  Marshall had to suffer Rochelle's terrible gaze while he waited for Chemin to put on clothes and leave with him. It was worth it, though. Rochelle hated that he still had part of Chemin's heart, and he relished making her watch him take her away.

  Hallogent Corporation was located in a sprawling, hightech tower downtown. Chemin's position as assistant vice president afforded her twenty-four-hour access to the company office.

  Marshall had told Danny to go home and stay with Vinny. He didn't trust the safety factor at his own house after the sniper incident.

  The computer room was huge, with banks of terminals set up in an oval. It looked like something out of a sci-fi movie. They were truly living in the information age.

  Hallogent was a database facility, consulting firm, and think tank. Basically they gathered and sold information. They had contracts with the government as well as many foreign countries. Hallogent got data from everywhere, including the government, and sold it to anyone who could pay. They were like a defense contractor, serving a quasigovernmental function.

"So, can you tell me what I'm doing?" asked Chemin.

"I need to find someone," said Marshall.

"Who?"

  "A man who supposedly died in a fire, but who is probably still alive."

  "Insurance fraud?" asked Chemin.

  "Maybe," said Marshall. "And something a lot worse."

  The Eye's screen flashed the Hallogent logo.

  "System online," said a computerized voice.

  "Okay," said Chemin. "What's this guy's name?"

  "Charles Dolgen. He died in a fire in Dundee, Michigan, several months ago."

  Chemin typed in the information. Almost immediately, the screen flashed the news articles on the fire, obituary, and the estate of Joe Dolgen. In the corner, a red dot flashed.

  "What's that dot mean?" asked Marshall.

  "Anomaly," said Chemin. "Something's not right with this profile." Chemin hit more buttons and the screen flashed again. "The Social Security number is not his."

  "I'm prosecuting an innocent man," said Marshall. "Mbutu was there, but someone else killed Douglas. Mbutu put himself in the case because he wants to be a martyr. This man, this Charles Dolgen, is a paid assassin, probably government trained."

  Chemin didn't say a word, she typed in a code.

  "Override," said The Eye.

  "This Dolgen guy's Social Security number belongs to a woman named Alissa Bekhor. She died when she was nineteen in Bowling Green, Ohio," said Chemin.

  Chemin kept working. The life of Charles Dolgen kept expanding. He had at least twenty aliases.

  "He's a pro," said Marshall. "You can assume different identities by stealing Social Security numbers and the names of dead people. As long as the ID looks valid, you can do almost anything. I think this person we're looking for is a government agent using elaborate false identities to hide his true one. I'm sure Dolgen is not his name, it's just one of the fake identities we found."

  "I can get him," said Chemin. "I'll have The Eye cross reference all info and see if the lives he's stealing have a pattern."

  She rapidly hit keys on the keyboard. Marshall was proud of her. He knew she loved her job but had no idea she was so good at it.

  "There," said Chemin. "Our boy has an Ohio thing going on. Almost all of the stolen lives came from cities and towns in Ohio. Several others came from Michigan."

  "So he's local. I have to find him."

  Chemin had The Eye print a map of the Midwest. Danny then marked the cities Dolgen had stolen identities from in Michigan and Ohio.

  "Got him," said Marshall.

  "How?" asked Chemin.

  "Don't you see? All the cities are either north or south of one major city."

  "Toledo?" said Chemin. "Why would an assassin live in Toledo?"

  "Because no one would think he would," said Marshall. "The government would teach its operatives to hide in places where smart-ass people like me would never look. Go where people are decent and normal and kill with impunity. 'Hiya doin' Fred, hi Martha,' " Marshall said, imitating a hick. "All the while he's got severed heads in his car. He's got to be there."

  "But why would they use aliases from the same area? That's not so smart, is it?"

  "If there's one thing I know about the government, it's that it likes to keep tabs on everything it does. What better way to keep track of assassins than to secure their false identities all in one geographic location? That way, if one of them ever got out of line, you could track him."

  "This is where my tax dollars go?" Chemin said.

  "Honey, now I need you to do this: track men in the Toledo area ages thirty to sixty who've served in the military."

  "I can't," said Chemin. "Hallogent can only get to public data. I'd have to hack into a military computer to do that. I'm good, but not that good." She looked upset that she'd reached a dead end.

  Marshall smiled at his wife. "I am," he said.

* * *

An hour later, Chemin was sitting at a terminal in the Justice Department's Information Systems Department. ISD was a bright shiny room done in mostly white. It was kept cold, probably because the huge computers ran constantly and needed to be cooled. The department was tightly run, so he'd have to be careful.

  Chemin tapped on the keyboard rapidly. "There," she said, "we're in."

  "We're only on security level six," said Marshall. "I have to get higher."

  Chemin hit some keys. "Okay, it says security level nine, but we need a code."

  "Try mine," said Marshall.

  Chemin did, but the computer rejected it.

  "Sorry," said Chemin.

  "I'm only a seven," said Marshall. "We need another way in."