BAD DEEDS: A Dylan Hunter Thriller (Dylan Hunter Thrillers) (18 page)

“That’s not true!” Weaver said. “We are not prejudiced about any scientific matter. Before we decide anything, we’ll wait until we hear what Dr. Silva presents to the Science Advisory Board.”

Hunter smiled slowly.

“Dr. Silva? Gee, I didn’t mention any Dr. Silva. I wonder who might have told you about him.”

Both men flicked a look at each other, then back to him. Weaver licked his lips before he spoke.

“I’m sure that the Science Advisory Board mentioned his name to me.”

Hunter held his smile and their eyes. “Impossible. I’ve seen Adair’s correspondence to the SAB. And his letter to you. He never mentioned the toxicologist’s name.” He paused, watching them grow more uneasy by the second. “But I knew his name; and I’ve mentioned it only one other time. This very morning.” Hunter picked up his notepad and pen and put them inside his suit jacket. “In fact, an individual I met called you to reveal the man’s name, as soon as I left his office.”

Before they could protest, he pushed back his chair, picked up his overcoat, and stood. Looked down at them.

“Lockwood also tipped you off about my investigation.” The shock on their faces at the mention of his name was so transparent that he couldn’t help laughing. “That investigation is just getting started. I’ll leave you now to make all your frantic phone calls … No, don’t bother getting up to see me out. I can find my own way.”

At the door Hunter paused with his hand on the brass knob and his back to them.

“You know,” he said, “with all your blather about saving energy, you guys really need to cut back a bit on the chandeliers.”

He turned the knob and left.

He exited the building the same way he entered.

And felt it again.

He had to be sure. Instead of descending the nearby escalator into the Metro, he stepped out into Woodrow Wilson Plaza, then turned to glance back at the massive building. The great granite and limestone wall curved out around him, embracing him in a semicircle. A score of Doric columns towered above him, between the rows of windows. It reminded him vaguely of the Coliseum in Rome. Appropriate digs for modern bureaucrats who acted like ancient emperors, throwing people to the lions.

In his peripheral vision, extending out from behind a nearby archway wall, someone’s shadow wavered on the pavement.

He set out across the plaza at a brisk pace, heading toward the Ronald Reagan Building.

The tail had picked up his target around 1400 hours, when the man arrived for his appointment. He had just received a cell call alerting him that the target was leaving the building. His job now was to follow him back to his office or residence, then provide the address to the man who had hired him.

He expected the target to re-enter the Metro. But he did the unexpected and, seemingly at whim, darted out into the plaza and toward the Reagan Building. This posed a dilemma. If he hung back, he risked losing the guy in the vastness of the building. If he followed him out into the open plaza, however, he risked being spotted if the guy glanced behind him.

He had no choice, really. He gave the target a forty-meter lead, then emerged from the archway and headed out in pursuit across the brick expanse. He tried to gain on the target, but the guy seemed in a hurry and at times even trotted for a few steps.

The target reached the building entrance still about forty meters ahead of him. At that point the tail accelerated into a run to catch up. He reached the entrance himself less than eight seconds later.

But inside, the target was nowhere to be seen. He couldn’t believe it. He hurried through the crowded building as unobtrusively as possible, checking the Atrium Hall, the various exhibits, the lower level food court, the restrooms.

Nothing. The man had vanished without a trace. Like a ghost.

Miserably, he phoned the man who had hired him to conduct the surveillance, knowing that he would not be happy at the news.

And he wasn’t. The man was too classy to chew him out with profanity. Instead, he questioned his professional competence.

“The fellow is a
reporter,
for God’s sake. How could you lose him? I thought you were better than that.”

“The Reagan Building is a big place. And surveillance is normally done by a team, not a single individual.”

“Are you making excuses?”

He sighed. “No. I’m stating simple facts. Look, you know I’m good. In fact, you know just
how g
ood.”

The man on the other end of the call remained silent a while. Then:

“I shall inform you the next time he surfaces. That should be quite soon. When it occurs, I expect you to do better.”

“I will,” he said. Then realized that the bastard had already hung up on him.

He told her to “dress up” and be ready at six-thirty. She knew that he planned to take her somewhere nice for Valentine’s Day, so she spent two hours putting herself together. Not knowing where, she strove for elegance, selecting a turquoise, cap-shouldered satin dress, knee-length. It fit her perfectly, and she loved the ruching in its bodice, sleeves, and waist sash. After trying on some coral accessories, she decided instead to keep it simple and go with silver heels, purse, bracelet, and earrings. She knew the color of her fox fur coat was a good complement.

She was ready, but only barely, when the doorbell rang. She opened the door to find him standing under the sconce light in a black tux and overcoat, bearing a stunning bouquet and a dazzling smile.

“Damn, you’re beautiful,” he said, looking her up and down.

“So are you,” she answered, meaning it. “And those flowers! Thank you, love.”

He stepped inside, wrapped his free arm around her. As he pressed his lips softly into hers, she fell back against his arm, feeling its muscles even through his overcoat. She felt the stir in her body, knew that he felt it, too.

After a moment she pushed him back, gently.

“I knew you’d do that, so I didn’t even bother with my lipstick yet. Let me put these in water and touch myself up in the powder room. I’ll be right back.”

When he led her outside, she saw a black BMW sedan gleaming in her driveway.

“Wow. Where did you get
this?
” she said as he opened the passenger door for her.

“I’ve had it for over a year. ‘Wayne Grayson’ bought it, slightly used, through a Saudi security officer stationed in their embassy here.”

“Wayne Grayson?”

“Have you forgotten? My rich-guy alias—the one who lives downstairs in the Bethesda apartment building. Wayne keeps this heap in the garage there.”

“Ah yes. Wayne.” She ran her fingers over the sedan’s exquisite suede interior as he went around to his side and got in. “Wayne certainly lives very well,” she continued. “And he’s been holding out on me. Why haven’t I enjoyed this vehicle sooner?”

“I drove it here once before.” A slight hesitation. “You know … on Christmas.” She felt a twinge and he went on quickly. “I left it a block away that night. Later, while I was in the hospital, I asked Grant to have his people deliver it back to the apartment building.”

She noticed the array of interior buttons light up as he started the car. “What is all this stuff?”

“Oh, just a few toys,” he said, activating a rear-view monitor that allowed him to back safely out of the driveway. “Everything a security team might need to protect their diplomats. You know: Floor and wall armor against mines and high-powered weapons. Bullet-proof windows. Alarms and auto-locks in case of assaults. Poison gas sensors that close the windows and turn on the internal fresh-air supply—”

“You’re joking!”

“—police strobes in the grille and back windows. Side-vision cameras, night-vision cameras, self-sealing fuel tank, run-flat tires. Interior and exterior fire sensors and extinguishing system …”

“I don’t believe this.”

He accelerated smoothly down the street, the car’s powerful engine whisper-soft.

“Mmmm, what else? Did I mention the intercom system? This baby has concealed microphones and speakers that allow me to communicate with people outside without opening the doors or windows.” He tapped the center console. “Oh, and here’s the gun case. It’s built to house two machine guns. Which is ridiculous, of course. Why would I ever need
two
? … Now, don’t look at me like that, I left my machine guns home. After all, this is
Valentine’s Day
… Although, hey, come to think of it, isn’t this the anniversary of a famous massacre?”

She burst out laughing. “You’re incorrigible.”

“You say that a lot.”

“Because it’s true … So, where are you taking me, mister?”

“Someplace appropriately historic.”

“Oh, Dylan!” she whispered as he pulled up in front of the 1789 Restaurant in Georgetown. “I’ve never been here, and I’ve always wanted to.”

“I know.” He got out to meet the valet, leaving her to wonder just
how
he could know that. Then he came around and opened her door.

She got out into the wintry air and snuggled her fur around her. Pausing outside the historic two-story inn, she took in the American flag hanging over the brick sidewalk; the gilt eagle above the door’s half-moon transom window; the glowing antique lanterns on either side of the entrance, reflecting off the shiny brass door fittings and the restaurant’s nameplate.

Inside, the manager greeted them with a little bow. He pulled Dylan aside and she heard him say softly, “Everything in the John Carroll Room is as you arranged, Mr. Hunter.” A staff member took their coats and the manager guided them inside.

She heard voices and the clinking of crystal and silverware from nearby. Then the sound of string music, which grew louder as they approached their dining room.

She stopped in the entranceway.

The large room was entirely empty of tables or guests—except for a lone candlelit table on the far side, set before a blazing fireplace. Three members of the wait staff stood next to it. And at this end of the room a string quartet played Vivaldi’s “Four Seasons.”

“Dylan …” She couldn’t think of what else to say.

“Happy Valentine’s Day, love.” He raised her hand to his lips.

He took her arm and the manager led them to the table. Dylan seated her, then said, “I have to check on something. I’ll be right back.”

She watched his dark, elegant figure follow the manager from the room.

A young member of the wait staff poured her water while their waiter, an older man with a white mustache, introduced himself.

“The gentlemen must love you very much to do this for you.” He gestured around the room. “I’ve been here for nearly three decades, and this is the first time we’ve consented to close this room for a single couple, let alone to do so on Valentine’s Day.”

“Really? How could that happen?”

“You don’t know, then?” He looked around with a mock-conspiratorial air, then leaned in and spoke softly.

“Please don’t tell Mr. Hunter that I shared this with you. But I think you should know
how
much he cares for you. He contacted us about a month ago. Of course, by then we already were booked full for this room. He said that he understood. But then he made a remarkable proposal.

“Mr. Hunter asked our manager to contact all the guests holding reservations in this room for tonight, and to convey an offer to them. If they would be willing to forgo dinner here, he would arrange instead for all of them to stay at any hotels of their choosing tonight; he would pay, not just for their lodging, but for any restaurant meal anywhere in the city, at a lavish price per person; he also would transport them to and from each location in hired limos; and, finally, he would give each individual an additional generous sum, in cash, as compensation for their inconvenience.” He peered at her, then paused to laugh gently. “My dear, you should see the look on your face.”

“It’s … unbelievable.”

“Yet that isn’t the end of it. Before the manager could even open his mouth, Mr. Hunter raised the obvious matter of all the sales and gratuities that we would lose from those many displaced customers. So, to compensate us for that, he offered to pay the restaurant a sum
double
our average per-customer price for dinner and drinks. And he pledged to reward every member of the restaurant staff with gratuities in amounts that none of us could hope to earn during a busy week.” He nodded toward the entrance to the room. “I imagine that he is taking care of all of this right now with the manager.”

“So you accepted his offer.”

He shrugged. “How could we refuse such a grand gesture in the name of love—let alone his generosity to all concerned? I understand that one party scheduled to be in here resisted his offer at first. The manager told me that Mr. Hunter then ‘sweetened the deal’ substantially—he didn’t say exactly by how much. Anyway, they changed their minds. All of us have been buzzing about this for weeks, trying to estimate just how much he has spent for this evening.” He smiled. “For you.”

He straightened. “As I said, I just thought you ought to know. Let it be our little secret, all right?” He winked at her.

She could only nod, numb and mute, before he walked away.

By the time Dylan returned to the table, she was trying to hold back tears.

“What’s wrong?” he said, alarmed.

She shook her head, looking at him in awe, laughing. “Nothing is wrong.” She raised her hand to touch his smooth cheek. “Everything is just perfect, darling.”

His expression softened. “Not yet. But the night is young.”

They began with the duck confit strudel baked with mascarpone cheese, cran-apple compote, and foie gras cream. At the waiter’s recommendation, he ordered a bottle of Pinot Noir Belle Glos.

“You’re going to have everyone wondering how a lowly newspaper reporter has such extravagant wealth,” she said as they touched glasses.

“I told the manager that I recently inherited a lot of money from a rich uncle, and decided to splurge on my lady love. He thought that was exquisitely romantic.”

“So do I, she said,” saluting him with her glass.

Warmed by the cheery fire, they laughed and chatted quietly, hands often touching, eyes rarely leaving each other’s faces. After a while, she thought to ask him about his progress on the first article.