City of War (35 page)

“So you were expecting me,” I said.

He looked at me. “You were as good a special operator as anyone I’ve ever known, so I put it down as a definite possibility. What do you think it’s about?”

I put my hand in my pocket and keyed my cell phone. Thirty seconds later, Archer came in carrying Kim’s laptop. I made the appropriate introductions, and we all sat. Archer opened the computer and switched it on. While it was warming up, I noticed that Hood was having trouble taking his eyes off the former model.

Archer did it for him. “Pay attention to the screen, General. My sister gave her life for this.”

Hood bristled. Flag rank officers live in a world where people jump up, salute then hang on every word. But he recovered and turned to Kim’s article on the laptop.

When he finished reading, Archer started the slideshow. I told her to run it manually. After the four Biltmore photos, I asked her to stop. To Hood, I said, “The white-haired gentleman is Gaetano Bruzzi, but maybe you can enlighten me about the guy with the steroid entourage.”

I watched the general. He seemed to be weighing something. “How long have you had these?” he asked.

“Since yesterday.”

Hood shook his head, then looked at Archer. “Whether you believe me or not, miss, I would never have sanctioned what they did to your sister. I don’t think Serbin would have either. That was all Bruzzi.”

Hearing the admission, I thought Archer might become emotional, but she held her iron and shot back, “I’m sure that was a great comfort to her as the bullet entered her brain. The last thing she probably thought was, ‘Boy, is General Hood gonna be pissed.’”

I let the moment sit. Marlon had my blood on his hands as well. Let him think about it.

Finally, he seemed to deflate. “What do you want to know?” he asked.

“Let’s start with Serbin,” I said.

“Konstantin Serbin. It used to be Colonel Serbin, but after the Soviet collapse, he discovered he could make more money selling tanks than commanding them. He also produces most of the steel in Eastern Europe.”

“A real go-getter,” I said, “but evidently, not everyone’s a fan. Presidents travel with less security.”

Hood nodded. “Serbin’s an egotist. He likes to make a show. But some of the extra guns are warranted. Time was, if you were a friend of the Kremlin, no one would breathe in your direction. Moscow has limited reach these days—and less respect. So certain people can’t be too careful.”

I nodded to Archer to advance the slideshow.

Hood said, “You haven’t asked me what we were doing together.”

“I don’t want the rehearsed answer, so I’ll come back to that,” I replied.

The two photographs of the unknown artist were next, and as they came up, I focused on Hood’s eyes, the way a magician does during a card trick. Right on cue, the general’s pupils dilated, meaning the picture triggered his brain’s recognition receptors. But he shook his head no, and I said nothing.

We went through the next photographs without comment. And then the blank screen with the Babushka caption came up. As soon as he saw it, Hood took a sharp breath.

“Familiar?” I asked.

He didn’t blink. “The buildings are the museums where the paintings from the Tretiakov Collection now reside. That was Serbin’s goal. The artists’ bodies weren’t recoverable, but by placing each man’s final work in the city of his birth, he was, in effect, taking him home—offering a kind of immortality. That blank screen refers to the painting by Illya Orlov. By far the most valuable of all of them. It went down on Egypt Air with…” He stopped and looked at me. “But you already know that, don’t you?”

No answer was necessary.

Hood took a sip of coffee. “You still own all those newspapers?”

“There are a lot of dead people, General. And I’ve got some attitude about being shot myself. This isn’t about a newspaper story.”

I saw him turn something over in his mind then look at his watch. He stood. “I’ve got two hours before I have to be on Capitol Hill. I drive fast, so try to keep up.”

29

Russians and Cities

Hood hadn’t lied. Gone was the commuter pace. I had to fight to stay up with him as he wove in and out of traffic at speeds topping ninety miles an hour. I dialed Eddie Buffalo and woke him up. When he heard it was me, he said groggily, “Let me guess, this isn’t an invite to Denny’s for a Grand Slam.”

“How soon can you get in the air?”

“At this time of the morning? Depends how quick I can find a copilot sober enough to read off the runway markers. Couple of hours maybe.”

“Make it less.”

“Where am I going?”

“I’m not sure yet. I’ll be in touch.”

“I’ll need to file some kind of flight plan.”

If anyone was watching, and they almost certainly were, they already knew I wasn’t in L.A., so they weren’t going to believe any flight plan Eddie filed anyway. But maybe we could make them work for their money. “Do paperwork for Chicago by way of St. Louis. Then change it midflight to Denver by way of Detroit,” I answered. “I want you laying up there at forty thousand feet about halfway across the
country. Stay refueled, drive slow and make a couple of unexpected stops.”

“I’ve always wanted to see Memphis,” Eddie said. “Hear they got great ribs. This got something to do with the guy who killed Jimmy?”

“Yes.”

“Promise me you’ll let me tear those sons of bitches….”

“Get in the air,” I said.

I didn’t like cutting him off, but I didn’t want—or have time for—stupid talk. The kind that comes from rage with no outlet.

Also, since Marlon was doing his best to cause a twenty-car pileup, I really needed both hands on the wheel. I flipped the phone into Archer’s lap, told her to put it on speaker and called out Bert Rixon’s number.

He answered on the first ring. “Doesn’t sound like you were asleep,” I said.

I could almost hear the smile in his voice. “Brittany and I were just—”

“Bert!” I heard Brittany yelp. “Don’t you dare.”

“Hey, Rail is the one who told us to do it as often as we could.”

Bert’s voice sounded thicker than when we’d last spoken. I hoped it was just the early hour and not the disease accelerating. Archer smiled. “Bert, a lady doesn’t take out an ad.”

“I’m no lady, and if you could have heard her a few minutes ago, you wouldn’t confuse her for one either. Hell, I’d wear a sign if she’d let me.”

I had to swing across two lanes to avoid being sideswiped by a bread truck the general had cut off. “Bert, I need a favor. You up for a little work?”

“Name it. Brittany can only go for the gusto about three times a day, and I need something to do while she’s resting.”

Archer and I laughed. “Bert,” I said, “when you were in the prosthetics business, the Pentagon was a customer, right?”

“My biggest. But I never made a dime off them. Sold only at cost, and if some soldier didn’t meet the military’s criteria for an arm or a leg, we gave it to them.”

“Then I need you to track down one of those bureaucrat friends of yours and remind him of your generosity. Got a pen?”

“Nothing wrong with my memory.”

“Major Truman York. U.S. Air Force. Tanker pilot. Deceased. I need to know everything there is to know about his time in the service. His DD-214 will be a starting place, but it’s going to be deficient.”

“Shouldn’t be a problem. If this guy York ever had so much as a hangnail, he’ll be in the medical database, and somebody will know how to get the rest. What else?”

“I want the same thing on an army four-star. Marlon Hood.”

“That name sounds familiar,” said Bert. “Should I know him?”

“He’s the Army Chief of Staff,” I answered.

“Current?”

“Current.”

“This should be interesting.”

“His bio will be on their website,” I said. “But if I’m right, it’ll be selective too.”

“That’s a switch. Usually, generals can’t blow their horn enough. By the time the PR guys get finished, a weather delay passing through Tokyo ends up sounding like a Far East Command.”

Bert was right. Creative writing was probably invented by some lowly centurion who got handed a clay tablet with orders to write his general’s resumé. I said, “Then I want you to overlay York’s tours with Hood’s. See if you can find any intersections, mission or geography.”

“I’m on it,” Bert said. “Anything else?”

“Yes, but this one will just take some Internet time. The guy’s name is Konstantin Serbin. Used to be a colonel in the Red Army.”

Bert interrupted me. “And now he owns one of the world’s foremost collections of Russian art.”

“You never fail to surprise me.”

“Christ, Rail, some of us enjoy things besides cars and Steve McQueen. If you’ll think back a few months, I invited you to a reception at the Norton Simon. Serbin had lent them part of his collection and was in town for the opening.”

“I hope my excuse was original.”

“Mallory was making venison stew.”

“What did I tell you? One of his best dishes. But you went?”

“We did, and it was magnificent. I’ve still got the catalogue around here somewhere.”

“Dig it out and get a messenger to take it to my hangar at the airport.”

“Now? It’s still dark out.”

“I’ll bet that for a hundred bucks and a chance to drive that Aston Martin of yours, one of the kids in the club kitchen can be persuaded. And call Eddie and tell him not to take off without it. He’s on his way there now.”

“When I get this other stuff, you on your regular number?”

“Yes, but the phone’s going to be off intermittently, and I don’t want it on a voice mail. Leave a message, and I’ll get back to you.”

“Will do.”

After Bert hung up, Archer said, “Isn’t that a reach? Hood and my stepfather weren’t even in the same service.”

“That’s why we’re looking. If there’s a connection, chances are it’ll be by design, not coincidence.”

I followed Hood off the Beltway, through Georgetown and into a city garage near Constitution Avenue. The first open space was on the fourth floor, and the general waited until we pulled in. I didn’t like getting into someone else’s car, but he’d made it clear that where we were going, if we didn’t arrive with him, it was a no-go.

“Standard procedure,” Hood said. “One car they can verify.”

I didn’t say what I was thinking, which was,
Bullshit, that doesn’t protect anyone from anything
, but I suspected he’d called ahead and set it up that way. Strictly a power issue. Before getting out, I took the Sig and the suppressor out of my jacket and slipped them between the seat and the console. I had to assume the car would be searched while we were gone. The suppressor would give them something to think about.

The building was a standard glass and steel office high-rise in a busy part of downtown. The red Infinity hadn’t yet stopped rolling into the no parking zone in front before two soldiers in black berets and green camo gear, their pants bloused into highly polished combat boots, came running down the two dozen steps to open our doors.

Normally, a pair of sergeants confronting a Chief of Staff would throw themselves to arch-back attention, snap into crisp salutes and shout, “Good morning, Chief!” But that didn’t happen. They all but ignored the general and focused on hurriedly conveying Archer and me up the steps and into the building. Once inside, a second pair of sergeants with M-16s slung across their backs handed our escorts their own rifles. Hood saw me taking note and said, “Guns outside make tourists jumpy.”

Straight ahead, across the black marble lobby, between two banks of chromed elevators, a man sat behind a half-moon reception desk. The logo on the front—a silver star bracketed by a pair of silver parentheses—was one I didn’t recognize, and the receptionist also had it on the breast of his black blazer.

Hood nodded to the man, and he immediately picked up a telephone. While we waited, I wandered over to the building directory and ran my eyes over the columns of occupants. It was the usual mix of law firms, trade organizations and consultants. Nothing that screamed government.

Just then, a pair of doors on the right bank of eleva
tors opened, and two men in business suits got out. They were engaged in conversation, but even though they had to walk past four combat-ready Rangers carrying M-16s, they never looked up. No one does that. We were standing in a domino.

Like the mask it’s named for, a domino is a thin veneer of disguise placed on something important to make it look ordinary. In this case, the directory would be a phony. And the logo. Even the address, 1116, wouldn’t be in any city directory. And the receptionist would have a MAC-10 clipped someplace handy and probably a supply of flash-bangs and tear gas. This was the government operating on all cylinders.

The receptionist put the phone down and nodded to Hood.

“Ready, Sergeant?” the general asked, and I realized he was looking at me. “I know you’re not foolish enough to have brought that pistol along, but if you or Miss Cayne are carrying any cameras or recording devices, please leave them with reception. In a few minutes, you’ll be checked.”

A twenty-second drop in a high-speed elevator isn’t unusual—unless you’re doing it starting at ground level. D.C. is mostly reclaimed swamp, meaning that if you dig down more than a few dozen feet, you hit water—lots of it. However, there is a geological aberration of a narrow spine of bedrock several miles thick that runs through the District, and interestingly, the buildings of certain agencies and departments that might be able to make use of a considerable amount of unseen space are built along it. This clearly included the building we were in, because at an average commercial floor height of twenty feet and a rate of descent of one floor per second, when the elevator doors opened, we were deeper than some coal mines.

Our small group was met by a one-star whose name patch read Damon, and two more camo-clad Rangers with M-16s. The soldiers who had accompanied us down stayed aboard the elevator and disappeared back upstairs.

We were standing in a green, steel-walled alcove that reminded me of San Quentin’s gas chamber. There was barely enough room for all of us, and the close air harbored a sharp odor of sweat. An imposing steel door across from the elevator contained a thick pane of one-way glass, and since there was no handle on our side, I assumed that once we had satisfied whomever was watching, it would open.