But at the same time, it struck me that I might be in serious trouble here. In fact, I was having disturbing visions of Johnston Island Atoll, of Sean Drummond choking on leftover anthrax or mustard gas, or something.
Then again, with a world-class killer hunting my ass, and a roomful of pissed-off lawyers upstairs who would also like to murder me, this was the least of my problems. In fact, I had a lot of balls up in the air, and my life depended on remembering which were catastrophic and which were merely disastrous.
Anyway, Meany began briefing Janet about all the things he’d done to catch the killer. And it all sounded really impressive, unless you listened really closely, in which case it amounted to a lot more of Meany sniffing his own ass.
Also, it went on for a while, because Meany was one of those guys who mistake words and action for results. But he finally wrapped it up, saying, “So, that’s where we’re at, honey.”
Janet replied, “Good. What’s next?”
“Next is you. We need to get you out of here, to someplace safe. The Director authorized a safe house. We’re also beefing up your security detail to ten men.”
Janet said, “George, that’s excessive.”
He smiled and touched her arm. “I’d make it twenty if the Bureau would let me. You’re the most important thing in my life, babe. I’m taking no chances.”
Even the other agents were coughing into their hands and rolling their eyes, which I guess George noticed, because he swiftly mentioned, “Actually, the Director was very expressive about taking every precaution concerning your safety.”
Well, which was it, George-love and lust, or orders from on high?
Understand, though, that I really didn’t give a shit about his motives, and I was actually very pleased with this arrangement. I actually wanted-no, I actually needed -Janet tucked away in a safe and faraway place.
So we bid each other adieu, which in Janet’s case meant a kiss on my cheek, which surprised me a little and annoyed George Meany a lot, before he whisked the damsel away to his mountain fortress.
But I now owed George big-time.
And, as if I didn’t have enough problems already, I suddenly recalled that my leased Jag was still parked near the Pentagon heliport, all of Meany’s guys had just left in a cloud of shiny Crown Vics, and I was fairly certain nobody upstairs was in the mood to give mean old Sean a lift back to his apartment. This really got on my nerves. I called a cab.
I actually knocked on my own apartment door, which I don’t ordinarily do. But I was glad I did, because it was opened by Danny, who wore a bulletproof vest and, coincidentally, was directing the nasty black barrel of an M16 assault rifle at my face.
He said, over his left shoulder, “It’s all right. It’s him.”
He stepped back and I entered. I noticed two other men in the middle of my living room, also wearing bulletproof vests, and both were at that moment lowering their weapons.
Spinelli waved an arm in their direction and said, “Chief Warrants Bill Belinovski and Charlie Waters.”
We all nodded at one another. I said to Spinelli, “Problems?”
“None. The provo owes me a few. I told him you was a witness to the murder of an Army soldier and needed protection.”
His reference was to the provost marshal of Fort Myer and the Military District of Washington, a full colonel by rank, military police by branch, who had the unenviable task of overseeing law and order for the entire Army community living around the Capital area. This entails some thirty thousand people, so this is a guy who survives on aspirins and hemorrhoid suppositories. And after signing this authorization, I was going to have to send him my firstborn child, or, considering my romantic prospects, somebody else’s firstborn.
Understand that I’d done everything I could think of to draw the killer to me. But Mrs. Drummond didn’t raise an idiot; no sir. While there’s a certain gallantry in solitary combat-you know, the knights of old, mounted on their trusted steeds, swords at the ready, charging one another in a celestial contest of courage, skill, and wits-the Infantry Manual clearly states that if you show up for the fight, and it turns out it’s an even match, you planned wrong.
Anyway, I faced the three of them and asked, “Did anyone, by chance, happen to remember to bring a flak jacket for me?”
Spinelli lifted one off the floor, tossed it at me, and said, “No weapon though. No authorization for that.” He then asked, “How sure are you he’s coming?”
“Enough so that I just took out a million dollar term life policy.”
We all chuckled, which is the right and manly thing to do in such situations. Everybody knows Army guys are steadfast, hard as nails, and brave to a fault, so that was the act we were trapped in.
But Bill, who incidentally was about six foot two, about 220 pounds, and about as well acquainted with weight machines as our killer, asked me, “What can you tell us about this peckerhead, Major? Strengths, weaknesses.”
“I’m glad you asked. You’ve studied the composite?”
“Danny showed us the shots.”
“Then we all know what he looks like”-I reconsidered that- “well, we know what he looked like this morning. He might be into disguises. But I’m expecting a blind date to drop by. So if a tall, really ugly, fat broad with big tits shows up…”
“Yeah?”
“And she asks for me…”
“Uh-huh.”
“This guy is pretty clever… and, well… there’s only one way to really know. You know what I’m saying? That’s your job, Bill.”
Yuck, yuck.
But we were all, I think, feeling tense and keyed up, and it’s important to get past that, because cool thinking and settled nerves were our only prayer of success.
So everybody stopped laughing, and in a more serious vein, I continued, “Here’s what the composite doesn’t show, that he can’t disguise. He’s about your size, Bill… slightly bigger, perhaps.”
Spinelli commented, “Bigger. The bastard’s built like a tank.”
I cleared my throat and continued, “He’s racked up eight kills we know of, but his skill level suggests he’s killed more. Possibly many more. In fact, we suspect he’s a professional for hire.”
Charlie, I noticed, was shifting his feet.
“He prefers to kill with his hands.” I continued, “His proficiency with other weapons is an open question, but he’s been well trained by somebody, and prudence dictates we assume he’s qualified with all weapons. I’d give him a good-to-go on reflexes, speed, and mental agility. I wouldn’t exactly say he’s a candyass.” How’s that for a soaring understatement?
But Spinelli said, “The guy’s a murderous motherfucker.”
Not helpful, Spinelli. Bill’s eyes went a little wide, so I awarded both him and Charlie another reassuring look, and continued, “Yes, well… why don’t we move on to some of his weaknesses?”
Charlie nodded, eagerly. “Great. What are this guy’s weaknesses?”
“Well, for one, he… uh… well-”
“He’s got no weaknesses,” interrupted Spinelli. “The guy’s a perfect fucking killing machine.”
Bill and Charlie sort of swallowed.
I said, “You’re very funny. For one thing, the killer is not expecting four of us. Also, he may be resourceful, clever, and skilled, but his technique to date indicates an overreliance on surprise. This worked for him in the past; I doubt he’ll discard it. Remove the element of surprise and he’ll lose some of his edge.” I allowed them to think about that before I suggested, “In fact, we should expect him to try some unorthodox way of getting in here.”
Charlie grinned at this remark. I grinned back, but Charlie was the one who worried me. He appeared to be somewhere around thirty, was prematurely balding, black, and slender. What concerned me was his face: too wholesome, too youthful, and too innocent. In fact, he reminded me of a frisky puppy I had as a kid, who ran in front of a truck and became a pancake. Bill also looked wholesome, because all soldiers look wholesome, but there was a hardness in his eyes that dispelled any sense of softness. Unless Charlie was one of those guys who could drill holes in dimes flying through the air, I was sort of anxious about him, and sort of wondering why Spinelli brought him to the party.