“You’re out of your depth, girlie.” Sheridan was grinning again. “Your laws don’t apply to me. Never have and never will. Anyway, my actions have been fully supported by Senator Jellicoe.”
Alistair took a step closer to Sheridan and said, “Her name’s Ellie Hallowes. What have you done to her?”
Sheridan laughed. “You think I’m going to answer that question truthfully while standing in the headquarters of the FBI?”
Marsha looked at Alistair and Patrick. “You know where Hallowes lives?”
Patrick answered, “She’s staying at the Washington Marriott Wardman Park hotel. I’ll get hotel security on the line.” He moved to his desk, browsed the Internet to get the hotel switchboard, and made the call. Everyone else in the ops room was silent. Six minutes later, he replaced the handset, walked fast across the room, and grabbed Sheridan by the throat. “You bastard!”
Marsha frowned. “What’s happened?”
Sheridan tried to break Patrick’s hold.
But Patrick held firm. “Hotel’s checked her room. Found her dead body in there. Of the four hotel staff who entered the room while I stayed on the line, two of them fainted when they saw what had been done to her.” He tightened his grip on Sheridan.
Marsha placed a hand over Patrick’s arm. “Let me take over from here. Please.”
Patrick was motionless for ten seconds, then released his grip and stepped away while keeping his venomous gaze on Sheridan. “I’ll make you pay for this, Sheridan!”
Sheridan rubbed his throat, composed himself, and smiled. “For what? I’ve done nothing wrong.”
“Liar!”
Marsha said, “We’ll do a forensic analysis of her hotel room. Your DNA…”
“My DNA ain’t anywhere near that room, so go ahead and do what you have to.” Sheridan took a step closer to Marsha. “Do what you want.”
Marsha was in no doubt that Sheridan had covered his back by getting someone else to kill Ellie. She recalled Alistair once advising her that she should keep her powder dry for a time when it could best be used against the CIA officer. Now was that time. She smiled. “Great work, Charles. Thanks to you, sounds like we’re going to have this manhunt wrapped up this morning. Of course, we’ll need all the manpower we can get.” She pulled out her cell phone. “Manpower that includes the agents I put on your protection detail. You don’t need them anymore because in a few hours Cochrane’s going to be behind bars or dead.” She pretended to look quizzical. “Thing is though — Cochrane paid my home a visit last night. My husband positively identified him. I wonder how he got the location of my house.” She shrugged. “Guess it must have come from the source you tortured. I suppose Hallowes also gave Cochrane your address and the addresses of anyone else involved in the mysterious Project Ferryman. And since she took such risks to help Cochrane, I’m betting he’s seriously loyal to her and would be severely pissed with anyone who’s hurt her.”
As she rang Sheridan’s Bureau protectors, her smile broadened. “There’s a lot riding on this morning. But if it doesn’t come off, best you put a gun to your head before Cochrane gets to you.”
Sheridan’s face paled.
THIRTY-FOUR
Most of the spaces in the parking lot at 1403 Wisconsin Avenue NW were taken, but only one of them contained a nondescript sedan occupied by assassins.
Oates and Shackleton were munching on sandwiches, killing time.
Speaking with his mouth full, Oates said, “I think you should be the one to dig Amundsen’s grave.”
“It’s quicker if we all do it.”
The Londoner said, “Yeah, but you shot him. Me and Scott reckon you might be in danger of getting post-traumatic stress disorder or something, that giving Norwegie a decent burial might help stop the trauma. And no one wants an Irishman with trauma; you have enough crazy shit going on in your brains already.”
“I don’t have PTSD!”
“That’s the trouble with trauma. Doesn’t always show itself for a while. Festers inside you like a parasite feeding off your organs. You only know it’s there when it grows bigger.”
Shackleton was annoyed. “After this morning, we drive to a forest, remove Amundsen from the trunk, and dig a hole for him together.”
Oates took another bite of his food. “You thought about words?”
“Words?”
“Got to pay your respects at the graveside. Say something nice about him. Maybe throw in a tiny bit of humor, or an anecdote, just to make him sound human and put a brief smile on the mourners’ faces.”
“There’s only going to be three of us there, and we’re hardly mourners.”
“Maybe you should sing a hymn.”
“Now you’re really starting to fuck me off!”
Oates laughed to himself as Scott opened the rear door and got into the backseat.
Scott leaned forward. “You save me any of the sarnies?”
Oates replied, “Sorry. Shackleton ate them all. He needs a lot of comfort food ’cause he’s feeling a bit down.”
“No I’m cocking not.”
Scott slumped back into the seat. “Well, you’re both a bunch of cunts.” He beamed and held out a BLT baguette. “I spotted a nice little deli up the road. Just as well I didn’t get you greedy bastards anything while I was there.”
Oates asked, “Anything else you spot of interest?”
Scott ripped a chunk of the baguette off with his teeth. “They got uniform foot patrols on the ground, but nothing out of the ordinary that’ll spook Cochrane. Plus, there’s a shitload of interceptor squad cars and uniform cops hidden up in four of the parking lots at the bottom of Wisconsin. But they’re backup. The juicy stuff’s already in situ. Three SWAT sniper units on rooftops overlooking the avenue, eight guys milling around the metro — plainclothes, and I reckon they’re HRT.”
“Means they probably got body armor under their jackets.”
“That’s what I’m thinking. All of them are carrying small packsacks.”
“Submachine guns inside.”
“Yeah, also plastic cuffs, and maybe some flash bangs.” Scott examined his baguette and frowned. “Why do Americans put mayonnaise in everything? Statistically, there must be some of them who don’t like this cum shit.”
The comment made Shackleton’s good humor return. “Me and Oates won’t tell a soul that you’re putting it down your throat.” He turned serious. “Gage? Bureau agents?”
Scott answered, “She’s in a van, parked up on the avenue about one hundred yards south of the metro. Three other agents are with her — two males, one female. But she ain’t of interest to me, because we don’t need her anymore.”
Parker had told Antaeus that Cochrane would be at the Friendly Heights metro this morning, so there was no need for Scott’s team to continue following Gage.
“Other agents are stretched out along the entire route, in cars and on foot. They’re kitted out like proper civvies — no black suits and Ray-Bans and all that crap. I counted twenty-three of them, but reckon there’s a lot more.” He finished his baguette and rubbed his hands. “Either of you two need to study the map or data again?”
“Nah.”
“Nope.”
All three assassins had memorized everything they needed to know. Wisconsin Avenue traveled directly north from Georgetown and the Potomac River, and was one of the main shopping streets in D.C. It was several miles long, in the heart of the city, typically had slow-moving traffic due to having only two travel lanes, was usually busy with shoppers and commuters during daylight hours, and had enough entrances and exits to make a tart blush. Ordinarily, it was a nightmare environment for a surveillance team or assassination squad to operate. But that didn’t matter today, because there was a ring of steel around the place, within which Scott’s unit would be prowling with lethal intent.