Awaiting a response, he took in a colorful Gustav Klimt lithograph and a distorted face painted by Dalí. The silence from the corpse was unnerving.
A whole minute passed.
What the hell was he expecting?
Time for a different plan. He pocketed the phone, thinking about finding himself some clothing that wasn’t covered in gore and then—
The phone vibrated, shocking him.
Mr. X had texted back:
1130 bm
Eleven thirty, one hour from now. Unless 1130 were code for, say, twelve thirty. Encrypting a meeting time by the addition or subtraction of a certain number of hours or minutes was typical in clandestine circles. But “Langlind” had asked to meet asap. Also the real Langlind was clumsy with tradecraft, as exhibited in his transcribed attempt to call Mr. X, as well as in answering the door here. X probably would be wise to steer clear of encryption. It was likely 1130 indeed meant eleven thirty.
So what was bm? Basement? If so, why not just b? Thornton suspected bm was a location in and of itself. Closest the search engines got him was a public relations firm, Burson-Marsteller, on Vermont Avenue. Doubtful. He could text back and ask, but if bm were a previous meeting spot, Mr. X’s suspicions would be aroused.
Thornton keyed in BM as a search term for Langlind’s thousands of texts, netting jut one result, submission, used in regard to a Post op-ed ghostwritten for him by one of his staffers.
Thornton tried a colon, used almost uniquely in reference to times in texts. He netted forty-seven. Two offered a lead. Both at eleven forty-five one September morning and at eleven forty-eight on another, Selena Seldridge had proposed that she and Langlind meet “@ the big man.” Could Langlind have been so deficient in tradecraft that he rendezvoused with his mistress for lunch at the same place he conducted clandestine meetings? No-brainer.
So where was the big man? The Lincoln Memorial fit the bill for a public meeting spot, but it seemed too public. Tour group leaders and politics junkies would recognize Langlind. Thornton returned to the BlackBerry’s search engine and entered big man Washington dc, generating the moniker for an untitled sculpture by artist Ron Mueck. This Big Man could be found at the Hirshhorn Museum and Sculpture Garden, which “showcased modern and contemporary art and sculpture.” Looking around this house, one would conclude that Langlind — or at least the homeowner, Selena Seldridge — had an affinity for modern and contemporary art and sculpture. Also the Hirshhorn was on the National Mall, seemingly public enough, but not too public, as opposed to its neighbors, the Smithsonian and the National Air and Space Museum. It was more easily accessible, too, with less security and fewer cameras. In short, a decent location for a clandestine get-together, and just a fifteen-minute walk from Langlind’s office.
49
John Doe number four met the Department of Justice SUV by the side door to the Mandarin Oriental hotel. He whisked a cashmere overcoat from a Saks shopping bag and held it out for Mallery. Considerate of him, she thought: she wouldn’t have to suffer the indignity of being seen in the orange jumpsuit. She backed into the coat, the high collar nicely countering the knifelike gusts off the Potomac.
He nodded to the driver, the SUV pulled away, and he pulled her into a warm embrace. “You okay?” he asked.
As she’d told her campaign staff, this John Doe, whose real name was Lloyd David, looked as good as Michelangelo’s David, dressed in an Armani suit. She realized, with some surprise, that she no longer thought of him as more than a friend and a lawyer.
“For the first time in a long time, it feels like I’m not behind enemy lines,” she said, adding, for the fourth time since arriving in D.C., “Where’s Russ Thornton?”
“Theoretically, with his attorney,” David said. “I was hoping you knew, actually.”
She shook her head. “Last time I talked to him, the marine guard was dragging me off to a holding room.”
“Well, you’ll know as soon as we do.” He held the door and trailed her into a palatial corridor.
It was nice for a change to be someplace that wasn’t a deathtrap.
“The partners who’ll handle your defense can meet you here or at the office,” he told her. “After all you’ve been through, if you want to rest first, they’ll understand.”
“I’m ready to get on the witness stand right now.”
“I figured you’d say that. There are a few more clothing-shop bags in the room. Pick out what you want, and as soon as you’re ready, we’ll be ready.”
He pushed the elevator button. The brass doors parted, revealing a cavernous mahogany elevator. She leaned against the stout brass handrail, deriving a measure of contentment from its solidity. David inserted a key card and selected the top floor. The car rose quietly, as though drawn by a hot-air balloon.
He regarded the mirrored ceiling. “You look great as a blonde.”
“I had too much fun as a blonde,” she said.
The car coasted to a stop, the doors hissing open. He ushered her to a corner room, where he held his key to the handle. When the lock disengaged, he pushed the door inward, waving her ahead. Stepping across the threshold, she gazed into his eyes, which were as beguiling as ever. Yet she thought of Thornton, which made her wonder why David had been hoping she knew where Thornton was.
“How did they get to you?” she asked.
He whitened. “How did you know?”
“I didn’t.” She was probably the more surprised of the two. “I’ve learned that sometimes it pays to ask.”
“I had no choice.” He eyed the ceiling. “But there may be a solution.”
Mallery heard what sounded like a quarter dropping into a vending machine’s coin return tray. A crimson dot appeared between David’s eyebrows, and he crumpled to the carpet, revealing a matching crimson starburst on the wallpaper where his head had been. Shock belted her.
“As Pasteur said, ‘Fortune favors the prepared,’ ” came a soft voice behind her.
A brawny military type in a porter’s uniform, pushing a luggage trolley. He held a pistol with a long barrel — a silencer, she guessed.
“Don’t go anywhere,” he added.
For a moment she remained in place. Then she leaped into the hotel room, landing in a marble foyer and immediately whirling around, slamming the door shut, snapping the deadbolt, and slapping the security latch into place. Another coin-return sound and a projectile of some sort flew at her face, missing by a fraction of an inch and shattering the mirror behind her. It left a circular gap in the door. The deadbolt cylinder, she realized, plucking it from the glass shards piled beneath the remains of the mirror.
The man opened the regular lock with a key card, then rammed the security latch to pieces with the heavy luggage trolley.
“Don’t do more stupid things and there’s a chance you won’t die,” he said, “at least of unnatural causes.”
Keeping the gun pointed at her, he used his free arm to lift David from the carpet as though he were no heavier than a golf bag.
“What will it take for you to let me go?” she asked.
The man flopped David onto the trolley. “You mean how much money?”
“Is that what you want?”
“You don’t have enough.”
Good, she thought. They were negotiating. “How much is enough?” she asked.
He ran a hand over his sandy crew cut. “Not to be immodest, but I can’t put a price on my life.”
If, like Firstbrook, he had been coerced or just following orders, perhaps they could reach another type of deal. There may be a solution were David’s last words.