But Peter had his doubts about that. He was sure the vice presidency was not the kind of position Mygatt would enjoy. Too much ceremony and not enough action. He had a feeling there was another position or two the senator was eyeing.
Those
rumors, though not as vocal, had been circulating, too.
The assistant reentered the room carrying a tray with Green’s coffee, and a teapot and cup for Mygatt. He set it on the coffee table, excused himself, and left.
“Peter,” Mygatt said as he poured his tea. “I’ve asked you here because I wanted to discuss something you might be able to do for me.”
“I thought it might be something like that,” Peter said. “I’m afraid, sir, you’ve wasted your time. The contract I have with my current employer clearly states I’m excluded from doing work with private industry.”
“Like no one ever cheats on the government,” Green scoffed, himself a government lifer.
The senator raised his cup. “The project I have in mind might be better referred to as a favor.”
Peter shrugged. “You can call it whatever you want, but I’m not the man you’re looking for.”
“Actually, you are,” Green countered. “It’s finishing something you were supposed to have completed a long time ago.”
Peter frowned, and shook his head. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, and quite honestly, I don’t care. I have a job, and that’s all I need. Thank you, senator, for considering me, but I’m going to have to pass.” He stood up. “Now, if you’ll excuse me.”
“Peter,” Mygatt said, his voice sterner than before. “Whether you help us or not, you’re involved. Wouldn’t you rather be in a position to control the situation than have to deal with the fallout later?”
Peter remained where he was, but said nothing.
“I’d like to show you something,” Mygatt said. “If you want to leave afterward, you’re more than welcome to do so.”
“What is it?”
“Just sit. It’ll only take a moment.”
“I think I’ll stand.”
Mygatt laughed softly. “Fine. Then stand.” He looked at Green. “Please.”
Green picked up a remote control from the coffee table and aimed it at the television monitor on the credenza at the end of the sitting area. The screen flashed a vibrant blue before displaying a paused nighttime video.
“This is the main entrance to the Majestic Hotel in Dar es Salaam,” Green explained. “I assume you’ve never been there.”
“I’ve heard of it,” Peter said. “New, right?”
“It just opened a month ago. Watch the area close to the building about fifteen feet beyond the entrance.”
Green hit
PLAY
, and the still image began to move. People went in and out of the building in a steady stream—couples, a few men together, several men on their own—keeping the two doormen out front busy.
“Here we go,” Mygatt said.
For a moment, there was nothing unusual, then something flashed down from the top of the screen and whacked into the sidewalk.
“Son of a bitch,” Peter couldn’t help saying.
Where seconds before people had been walking, a body now lay sprawled on the concrete, its arms and legs jutting out at impossible angles.
“Who the hell is that?”
Green paused the playback. “His name was Lawrence Rosen.”
Rosen?
The name sounded familiar. “A security guy, right? Does protection, things like that?”
“Very good. He went freelance a few years ago.”
“So what was he doing in Tanzania?”
“Meeting someone.”
“Looks like the meeting got cut short,” Peter said. “Is there a point here?”
“Patience,” Mygatt said. He nodded at Green.
The playback started up again. Most of the people closest to the entrance turned and stared in shock at Rosen’s body. One person, though, ran out from the darkness on the far side over to the dead man. It was a guy who had left the hotel moments before, Peter realized, the one wearing a baseball cap.
The man knelt down beside the body, checked to make sure Rosen was dead, then glanced upward as if trying to see where the body had come from. Suddenly, he jumped to his feet, and within seconds had melted into the growing group of onlookers that had started to crowd around the body. As soon as he disappeared, Green stopped the video again.
“That’s it?” Peter asked. “I still don’t understand what I’m supposed to be looking for.”
“The man in the baseball hat,” Green said. “Did you recognize him?”
“No. Should I have?”
Green hit another button. “How about now?”
The hotel image was replaced by a close-up of the man in the hat from when he’d exited the building. The guy looked young, early twenties at best. A tanned Caucasian, maybe Latino. No way to tell for sure. He was wearing glasses and looked otherwise unremarkable.
“Still nothing?” Green asked.
Peter prided himself on his memory of names and faces. “I’ve never seen him.”
Mygatt leaned forward. “Are you sure?”
The way the senator asked the question made Peter hesitate. “Who is he?”
“Show him.”
Green once more did his trick with the remote. The shot on the monitor was replaced this time by a split-screen image. On both halves were identical close-ups of the man’s face in front of the hotel. Then, while the one on the left remained the same, the one on the right began to change. The glasses disappeared first, then the hat. After that, the hair grew until it was past the man’s shoulders, and went from sandy blond to dark brown. There was a slight altering of the cheeks and lips, and the eyes turned from brown to gray-green.
The man in the baseball cap wasn’t a man at all. Worse, the woman underneath the disguise
was
someone Peter recognized. But that was…
…
impossible
.
“So tell me, Peter,” Mygatt said. “How is it that a dead woman is walking the streets of Dar es Salaam?”
Six years earlier, the Office had been assigned the task of terminating Mila Voss by Mygatt via Green. At the time, the senator was not yet a senator, but the deputy secretary of defense overseeing military intelligence. Green was his CIA liaison. Though the project was not without its problems, the mission had been completed, and Peter reported back to his clients that the courier Mila Voss had been eliminated.
Only it was clear now that the mission had not been as successful as he’d been led to believe.
“I…don’t have an answer for you,” Peter said.
“Convenient,” Green spat.
“Peter,” Mygatt said, his voice calm. “You need to find her for us.”
“And while you’re at it, maybe you should
finish
the job,” Green threw in.
There was no way Peter could walk out now. The fallout from this could turn extremely ugly. As Mygatt had pointed out, his only chance at controlling the situation was to be involved. He nodded, and said, “I’ll get back to you.”
“Soon,” the senator said.
“Yes. Soon.”
“I have a man named Olsen who will be back later today,” Green said. “We’d like him to assist you.”
“That’s not necessary.”
Green leaned forward, glaring. “Considering what
didn’t
happen before, I don’t think you’re in the position to determine what’s necessary or not.”
Mygatt stood up, a smile on his face. “Just consider him my personal contact, freeing you up to concentrate on the job at hand. I’m sure there won’t be any problems.”
Peter knew he had little choice. “All right,” he said. “Do you have any paper?”
“On the desk.”
Peter found a notepad and pen on the blotter, quickly wrote down an address, and handed it to Green. “That’s to an apartment in Georgetown, a remote office I’ll be using.” He turned his attention to the senator. “I need to finish a couple of things for my current employer so I can free up some time without them becoming suspicious. I’m sure you’ll agree that we don’t want anyone else looking into this matter.”
Mygatt nodded. “That would be unwise.”
Peter looked at his watch. It was nearing two p.m. “I’ll be in Georgetown by seven. If this Olsen guy is here by then, send him over.”
“See? I knew you’d want to take care of this.”
__________
I
NSTEAD OF CATCHING
one of the available taxis at the corner, Peter continued on foot. Twice he doubled back, and three times he made sudden stops before crossing streets in the middle of the block, making sure he wasn’t being followed. Not until he was positive he was clean did he finally hail a cab. Paranoia was part of his DNA, and explained why he lived as long as he had.
A simple phone call to the agency he’d been working with was all it took to get some time off. A family emergency, he said. He might be gone a week or longer. As he’d known, the man overseeing him didn’t care. He’d be happy not to have Peter underfoot.
Peter had the cab drop him near a metro station, then took the train—changing lines twice—out to Arlington. While he did indeed have a fully equipped apartment in Georgetown, ready to use for any kind of special operations, it wasn’t the only secret place available to him. Even in his reduced role within the intelligence community, he maintained over half a dozen different locations in the DC area alone.
The place where he was now headed was located in a walled-off, soundproofed section of a church basement that could only be accessed through an underground tunnel from a self-storage unit next door. He was the only one who knew of its existence, unlike the apartment in Georgetown.
Using yet another indirect route, he made his way from the station to the storage facility. The door to his unit was inside a cover hallway, itself accessed via a number-coded lock on the outside door. The code he’d been given was a generic one that all the tenants used, so it was impossible to know who punched it in. For that, the facility relied on a security camera mounted near the door. Peter wasn’t worried about that, either. His years of working as a spook wrangler had given him a healthy sense of paranoia, so he never went anywhere without a portable electronic jamming device in his pocket. He switched it on before approaching the door, and knew that for the few seconds he was there, the camera would seemingly malfunction.
Inside, he made his way to his unit, and input the combination on the bottom of the lock. This didn’t actually open it. Instead, it released a small panel on the surface that exposed a touch screen. He placed his left thumb against it, waited, and heard the faint click of the real lock on the inside of the door as it disengaged. The padlock remained closed, having already served its purpose. He pulled on it, and the door swung out.
The interior light came on as soon as the door was back in place. The unit looked pretty standard, albeit with only about half the amount of stuff it could have held. Peter moved around a couple stacks of cardboard boxes, and lifted a nearly invisible trap door in the concrete floor.
Forty-five seconds later, he was sitting in his safe room below the church.
Using one of the disposable phones he kept there, he called Misty first. She had been his assistant back in the Office days, and proved herself time and again as one of his most valuable assets.
“Misty?” he said.
There was a long pause. “What’s wrong?”
“An old case has resurfaced. I need your help.”
Another hesitation. “You’ll have to get me out of my current gig.”
“You’re still at the Labor Board?”
“Yes.”
“All right. I can do that. Finish out the day. You won’t need to go back until we’re done.”
“When and where do you want me to report?”
“You remember the townhouse in Georgetown?” he asked.
“The one on the top floor?”
“Yes.”
“I remember it.”
“After work, go home, pack a bag, and head there.” He paused. It had been six months since he’d checked in with her. “You
can
do that, right?”
“Are you asking if I have someone waiting for me at home?” She laughed. “Just Harry.”
Harry was her dog, a little Westie that was getting up in years.
“Can someone watch him?”
“My neighbor. What am I supposed to do when I get to the apartment?”
“I should be there ahead of you. If not, just get everything operational and wait for me.”
His next call was to the one man who could clear up what had gone down in Las Vegas the night Mila Voss was supposed to have died.
One ring, two. After the third, a recorded voice said, “Please leave a message.”
“Quinn, it’s Peter. I need you to call me as soon as you get this. Don’t blow me off. I need to talk to you
now
.” He gave the number of the phone and hung up.
He tried to remember the last time he’d spoken with Jonathan Quinn. It had been a while. Once the Office was disbanded, Peter had no longer been in a position to need the cleaner’s talent for disposing of unwanted bodies.
While he waited for Quinn to call him back, he logged on to his secure computer, and started putting feelers out to some of the sources he had in Asia, seeing if anyone might have unknowingly worked with Mila.
At a quarter after four, his phone rang. Only Misty and Quinn had the number, so he snatched it up without looking at the display.
“Yes?” he said.
“You called?” Not Misty.
“Quinn?”
“Hello, Peter.”
Not Quinn, either.
CHAPTER 3
BANGKOK, THAILAND
B
ROWSERS AND SHOPPERS
and people who had nothing better to do crowded the sidewalk, checking out the stalls and tables selling charms and tokens and Buddhas by the bucketful. Though their number included more than a few tourists, most were Thai. The sellers who offered the best wares drew the largest crowds, sometimes making the sidewalk impassible for a minute or two.
On the street itself, cars were caught in a logjam, their pace even slower than that of the pedestrians—a few feet forward, stop, wait, a few feet more.
One of the taxis veered toward the curb. Before it had even stopped, the rear door swung open, and a
farang
—a foreigner—climbed out. Dressed in jeans and a black T-shirt, he looked like just another Westerner out exploring the sights of the Land of Smiles. But he hadn’t come to Thailand for the culture. He was there for only one purpose.