“Blood only. Type A positive; we matched it to the youngest child.”
Son of a bitch, Charlie thought. Part of him had been hoping against hope that he and Owens were wrong. Somewhere out there was at least one Second Bureau Guoanbu operative, perhaps more. But the question remained: Why kill Baker and his family?
“Did you recover the slugs?” Randall asked her.
“Yeah, but they’re in bad shape; you might get some metallurgy and rifling info, but it’s a toss-up. I sent them over to Quantico. My guess is nine millimeter. The mother’s wound is starfished, but there’re no powder burns or stippling.”
In cases of contact or near-contact gunshot wounds, the entry point is almost always bordered by radial tears, hence the “starfish” appearance. The lack of gunpowder burns or graphite “tattooing” on the skin could only mean one thing: The weapon had been equipped with a noise suppressor that had absorbed both the gas and the powder. That would explain why none of the neighbors had reported hearing anything unusual during the night.
“In the case of each child,” Margaret went on, “the bullets bisected the vertical axis of the skull, traveled down the neck, and lodged in the chest cavity.”
“Any idea about time of death?” asked Latham.
“Between nine and midnight.”
“What about the father?”
“He died after them, about an hour or so. Here’s where it gets interesting. Take a look.”
She drew down the sheet to reveal Larry Baker’s head. Except for the bruised swelling from the gunshot under his chin, his face was snow white. Margaret had partially reconstructed the exit wound on top of the skull, but still it looked like a jigsaw puzzle of blood, matted hair, and jagged bone.
Margaret pointed. “See the spot just above the entry wound … that indentation?”
“Looks like a sight stamp?” Latham said.
“Right. It’s from pressing the barrel hard against the skin. In suicides a stamp usually means the person wants to make sure they don’t miss, or they’re holding on tight so they don’t lose their nerve.”
“Okay …”
“Look to the right of the stamp. See the gouge in the skin? It’s the same pattern as the indentation.” She let it hang, looking from Randall to Latham.
“I don’t get it,” said Randall. “He moved the gun; he had second thoughts. So what?”
“No,” Latham said. “If you have second thoughts you lower the gun, then put it back. You don’t drag it around your skin. Think about it: You’re parked in your car, sitting in the driver’s seat. Someone’s next to you, in the passenger seat. Suddenly they pull out a gun, reach over”—Latham mimicked his words—“and put it under your chin. You react by jerking away, to the side.”
Now Randall caught on. “And if the gun’s pressed tightly enough, the site drags across the skin.”
Latham nodded. “Baker saw it coming. He tried to move, but wasn’t quick enough.”
It took some delicacy to make the inquiries without raising suspicion, but three days after the Chinese ambassador’s visit to the Oval Office, Chief of Staff Howard Bousikaris had confirmed the source of Martin’s eleventh-hour campaign contributions.
Though still unsure how China had done it, Bousikaris knew it didn’t matter. If made public, the evidence would be irrefutable. More importantly, no one would believe Martin was an unwitting dupe. The American public had no more stomach for corruption.
Having satisfied himself they’d been checkmated, he focused on the next step: How to turn defeat into a victory. First, however, they had to find out exactly what the Chinese wanted.
To get that answer, Bousikaris had left his home at midnight, drove his car to the Eastern Market metrorail stop, boarded the train, and taken it to the last stop, Addison Road. The ambassador’s instructions had been clear about the time and place of the meeting, if not the identity of his contact.
“Stand at the railing overlooking the parking lot on Adak,” the ambassador had said. “You will be approached by a person who will identify himself as Qing.”
The train squealed to a stop and Bousikaris stood up. There were only two other passengers in the car, a spiky-haired teenager and a businessman. Bousikaris resisted the impulse to pull up the collar of his trench coat. Relax. You’re just a man on a train, another late night commuter …
It was all very surrealistic, if not downright bizarre, Bousikaris thought. Here he was, chief of staff to the goddamned president of the United States, skulking around in the middle of the night like a character from an Ian Fleming novel. If not for the stakes, it might actually be amusing.
The doors opened. Bousikaris stepped out. The platform was deserted except for his two fellow riders, both of whom quickly disappeared down the steps to the street. The train’s doors whooshed shut and the train started out again, trailing scraps of trash in its wake.
Bousikaris looked down the platform, saw no one. He checked his watch: 12:55. He walked to the railing. Across the street he could see the streetlights encircling the parking lot. Except for a dozen cars, the lot was empty. A minute passed. Then two. Suddenly, a figure was standing beside him.
“You were not followed, Mr. Bousikaris.”
Bousikaris wasn’t sure if it was a question or a statement. “No, I wasn’t. You’re Qing?”
“I am.”
“I have to say, you’re … You’re not what I expected.”
Qing shrugged. “It’s unlikely we will meet again, but if it becomes necessary, I’ll leave a message in the Post’s classifieds. It will read, “Adrian, I love you. Come back. Always, Harmon.” Check the paper daily. If you see the ad, meet me here the following night at eleven p.m. Is that clear?”
“Yes.”
“I understand you’ve been told about our problem.” Qing handed across a 3.5-inch diskette. “On this are the details of what we want done, and how. Follow them precisely.”
Bousikaris hesitated. Very serious people. Qing was so businesslike it was unnerving. “At least give me an idea of what you’re asking.”
Qing considered this for a moment, then shrugged. It took two minutes of explanation.
“God, you can’t be serious,” Bousikaris rasped. “Do you have any idea what you’re asking?”
“Don’t ask stupid questions, Mr. Bousikaris. Of course we know. Follow the instructions.”
“That kind of operation you’re talking about is … complex. If even one part of it goes wrong, we could find ourselves in a goddamned shooting war.”
“Follow the instructions and nothing will go wrong.”
7
“So it’s official,” said Owens. “We can start worrying.”
“Yep,” replied Latham. “We’ve got at least two, maybe more, Guoanbu operatives out there. We’re gonna have to be careful with the media.”
“They’re treating it like a murder-suicide. Until you’re done that’s going to be our party line.”
“Good. Maybe these sons-of-bitches will let down their guard.”
“Maybe. You doing okay with this?”
“Yeah. It’s just … Christ, what they did to that family.”
“I know. You said two operatives. Why two?”
“Part deduction, part instinct. We know they gained entry at the kitchen door because one of the glass panes had been tapped out. I’m guessing they’d probably been watching the house, waiting for the lights to go out before moving.
“Once they were inside, they went to the master bedroom, woke Baker and his wife, then took him into another room and held him there. The second intruder rounded up the family and gathered them in the master bedroom, where they were tied up. Once done, Baker was taken in to see them.”