The man to Valkyrie’s right unzipped his jacket. Slipped it off.
Yes, he wore a suicide vest.
Valkyrie knew that style of vest, had organized five attacks with similar ones in the Middle East with suicide bombers of his own. These vests could either be detonated by the suicide bomber himself with a handheld trigger mechanism, or remotely by a cell phone that dialed directly to that vest — and only to that vest.
There was always one dedicated phone for each vest. It wasn’t just the number you called, the detonation also depended on the actual phone you used. That was very important. Otherwise, you might have someone else accidentally dialing a wrong number and setting off the bomb prematurely. And that would be inconvenient for everyone involved.
“Hand me the detonator.” Valkyrie’s voice was soft but firm.
Alhazur nodded for the man to comply and he gave Valkyrie the handheld trigger.
“Before we carry on our discussion any further,” Valkyrie said to Alhazur, “there is one thing I am going to require.”
“What’s that?”
He nodded toward the soldier. “The mobile phones for both vests.”
“Why?”
“Call it insurance.”
“Do you want me to take my vest off?” the man beside Alhazur asked gruffly.
“No. Keep it on.”
He looked suddenly uneasy. “Why?”
“Insurance.” Valkyrie tossed the detonator off the side of the boat into the Potomac. “The phones.” He leveled the gun at Alhazur’s head. “I’m a relatively patient man, but I don’t like to repeat myself.”
Alhazur reached for the pocket of his windbreaker for the phones. “Slowly,” Valkyrie warned. “I’ll still make my money if you’re dead.”
The two cells were nearly identical but each had a unique set of numbers engraved on the back that corresponded to the identification number imprinted on the front of each of the vests.
Valkyrie placed the phones on the console beside him, out of reach of the two men, and carefully noted which phone would set off which vest. He got the keys to the SUV from Alhazur and evaluated how to proceed.
“Alright,” Alhazur said, still trying unsuccessfully to sound self-assured. “Let’s discuss the next step. I heard the news about the proposed Calydrole recall. Where exactly does that leave us?”
Valkyrie gestured toward some nearby deck chairs. “Let’s talk about that.”
We were having a hard time finding out which companies PTPharmaceuticals used to ship their drugs in from India.
But we did find out that Avis had rented a Toyota Corolla to Deborah Moss. It was one of their older cars and didn’t have GPS, but the manager gave us the plate numbers, and while Ralph was on the phone passing along the info to DC Metro PD, I got word from headquarters that Richard Basque was asking to speak with me.
Most people aren’t aware that the FBI has its own police force, but drive past the J. Edgar Hoover Building anytime day or night and you’ll see two or three of their cars parked out near the main parking garage entrance on 10th Street. Now the officer on the phone said, “He hasn’t been very helpful yet, but he’s saying that if you’ll talk with him he’ll tell you about other crimes that, and I quote, ‘you might have an interest in.’”
“Other homicides.”
“It would appear so. Yes.”
Since Basque wasn’t my problem anymore, I’d stayed away from him for the last couple days.
“When?”
“He said it has to happen now. Eight o’clock.”
He was being held at Headquarters, which wasn’t very far from Ralph and Brin’s place, but even if I left right away I wasn’t sure I could make it there by eight.
Honestly, I had no desire to talk with Richard Basque. I knew that if I saw him I would be tempted to confront him, to say more than I should — things that I would almost certainly regret.
Or maybe I wouldn’t regret them at all.
I knew one thing, though: I wanted to be done with that man, done with all his games and the pain and questions and regrets he’d brought into my life.
“Have someone else talk with him.”
“He said this offer only stands for you and only for tonight. If you don’t come over, he says he’s not going to give up the details about the other homicides.”
Of course.
More power plays.
More games.
“He was insistent. It has to be you, Pat.”
The family members of other victims deserved to know the truth, and I figured that trumped any reluctance I felt about speaking with him.
“Alright. I’ll do it.”
While Lien-hua and Ralph continued the search for distribution companies that PTPharmaceuticals used, and waited to hear back from Metro about their search for the Corolla, I took off to meet with Richard Basque, wondering just how many other homicides he was going to admit to.
And what he might ask of me in exchange for the information.
Keith and Vanessa were finishing a late supper at Ravel’s Steakhouse when he told her that he needed to use the restroom.
“I’ll be right back.”
He didn’t wait for a reply, but rather picked his way through the restaurant until he found the hallway to the bathrooms at the far end of the bar.
The management had tried too hard to make the men’s room smell nice and it had a faint feminine scent about it, but beneath that, the smell of stale urine had refused to go away.
Keith locked himself in one of the stalls, took out his phone, and surfed to the hotline number for reporting fugitives and terrorists to the FBI.
He stared at it for a long time.
Five million dollars.
Even more than he’d guessed.
The Web site stated that informants could remain anonymous, but once again, he wasn’t sure if he completely believed that. The FBI and NSA had exhaustive ways of tracing calls and, though Vanessa had assured him that this cell was untraceable, he had to wonder if the government might have some way of zeroing in on anyone reporting a wanted terrorist as high-profile as Valkyrie.
Besides, how would they transfer the funds to him if he remained completely anonymous?
He told himself there had to be a way. There had to be, or else they wouldn’t have posted the claim so prominently on their site.
And, considering the alternative would mean facing Valkyrie, Keith slid his reservations aside and tapped in the number, reached an agent, and told him exactly where Alexei Chekov, better known as Valkyrie, was going to be at 8:30 p.m.
74
Tessa and Aiden had finally left the restaurant and were on their way to school.
Finally.
Away from Tymber and all her flirty looks.
Aiden tried to engage Tessa in conversation, but whenever he did, she ended up saying something stupid and eventually he was quiet as he drove them to the dance.
During the meal, Melody had invited Tessa to walk to the bathroom with her and, while she was touching up her makeup, had said, “Love the dress.”
“Thanks.”
“You two make such a cute couple.”
“Um, thanks.”
“Listen, my parents are gone tonight. I have the house to myself. We’re heading back there after prom. If you guys want to come over you’re welcome to party with us.” Her invitation was so innocent, so natural that Tessa actually believed Melody wanted her to come. A wink. “There are more than enough bedrooms.”
“Oh.”
“Just saying, he’s a nice guy, you know.”
“Yeah, okay. We’ll see.”
Now Aiden swung the car onto the road leading to the high school.
The night was not at all turning out like Tessa had hoped. Here she was, trying to have a good time with Aiden, but all the while she was distracted about not being responsible enough for her dad to trust her judgment, about not looking nice enough, and about what Aiden might really be thinking about Tymber.