City of War (39 page)

“Museums don’t have a pot to piss in,” Jackie scoffed. “Plus they’ve got boards that sit around wringing their hands over provenance. Private collectors are where the action is. And a larger percentage of them than you’d expect don’t give a flying fuck where something came from. They’ve got no intention of selling, and they’re certainly not exhibiting. It’s about bragging rights.”

“Sooner or later, sellers become buyers. Any guesses what the colonel might be into?”

“The Afghan and Iraqi stuff was hot for a while, but it’s mostly gone. Serbin’s known mostly for paintings anyway. He has a standing offer of five hundred million for the
Mona Lisa
.”

“You’re kidding.”

“When it comes to thieves, you never know. Good advertising too. It guarantees he’s the first call for every major score.”

“And if you’re really ambitious, he’ll go a billion for Apelles’
The Calumny.
”

Apelles again. But not the one Hood had. “I don’t know what that is.”

“No reason you should. It was done about 300 BC and probably didn’t survive. It shows a man being whispered to by two beautiful women—one in each ear. Ignorance and Suspicion.”

“No comment.”

“Me neither. Anything else?”

“Yeah, why did you retire? Seems like you’re exactly the kind of guy who should still be on the job.”

“Allen Dulles said that in case of war, the best thing we can hope for is that the State Department remains neutral. We left neutral behind a long time ago.”

32

Balconies and Jengo

Archer and I tore into an armada of Premium oysters at Blacksalt and chased them with a couple of troughs of Bangkok seafood stew and a bottle of Pinot Grigio. The place was jammed with the usual assortment of expense account guys sprinkled with a few senators. I still missed Jean-Louis—the restaurant and the man. Lung cancer at fifty-five, but while he was alive, he went at life with both hands. Someplace, a joint full of angels is sitting down to a helluva dinner.

We walked back to the Watergate, enjoying a mild night and crowded sidewalks. I watched our fellow strollers, but nothing seemed out of the ordinary. Pradeep at the front desk had another note from Wandie, who’d dropped off a box of French pastries. Archer tossed the note before I could read it and was into something flaky and gooey on the way to the elevator.

Despite our previous encounters, we were still new to each other’s intimacies, so later, in bed, it was awkward for a few moments. But I always study hard and pass my exams, and pretty soon, we were exploring each other with reckless shamelessness.

She was a magnificent lover, and I had no trouble twice. The second time, she ran to the kitchen and came back, with Wandie’s caviar, which she used to lubricate us both before guiding me into her anally. Then, while she bucked her hot wetness against me, she seemed to go into a trance. I may have joined her.

Afterward, we showered together, which led to a wetter, soapier interlude, then fell into a deep sleep in each other’s arms. Just before she drifted off, I think she said something nice about Wandie, but I could have been dreaming.

The change in air pressure in the room awakened me. Someone had opened a door, and Archer was still sleeping soundly a few inches away. I looked at the clock. It read 3:15, so it probably wasn’t the housekeeper. The skyline of Virginia blazed away in the distance like a night-light, making the bedroom a lousy place to be caught by someone with bad intentions.

I rolled silently out of bed, eased the bedroom door closed and turned the dead bolt. I pulled on a pair of cargo shorts and screwed the suppressor into the Sig. Then I knelt and put my hand over Archer’s mouth. She came instantly awake, and I took my hand away and touched my finger to my lips. She nodded. I led her by the hand onto the balcony through the sliding glass door. The night had gotten cooler, and she shivered. I went back inside, took the blanket off the bed and wrapped it around her shoulders.

The balconies of the Watergate curve with the building and are continuous, except for small dividing walls between rooms and units. We were on the opposite side of our living room, so I motioned for her to climb over the next three walls and hide on that balcony. I didn’t know the layout next door, but that would hopefully put at least one full condo and a hundred feet or so between us and provide as much safety as I could manage on short notice. Without batting an eye, she took off the blanket and held it under her arm so it wouldn’t interfere with the obstacle course she was about
to run. Even though I had things to do, I couldn’t help but admire her body in the moonlight. I hoped it would have the same effect on anybody who might awaken and see her.

I went over the wall in the other direction, which put me on the balcony outside our living room. I silently thanked Archer for insisting that the draperies remain open. The six feet or so of gathered material gave me cover and minimized my silhouette inside.

I lay down on the AstroTurf and inched my head around the drapes. There was a man with a gun standing just inside the foyer. Then I heard the whump of a door being kicked open and something hit the glass in the bedroom. Then twice more. Not loud. About like somebody throwing marbles. I leaned back and saw that my landlord had security concerns of his own—either that, or he was worried about wayward pigeons, because the glass in the condo was shatterproof. I’d heard no firearm reports, so whoever was inside was suppressed too, but there was no mistaking the three deformed slugs lodged in the centers of three glass webs.

Voices came through the open door, and it was only a matter of time before someone checked the balcony. I got to my feet, bolted past the living room window and vaulted onto the balcony on the other side. The sliding door in the adjacent condo was open, and I eased inside and stood in the dark, trying to keep the sound of my breathing to a minimum.

The king-sized bed across the room was occupied by a heavyset man on his back, snoring. His wife, however, was sitting straight up, staring at me. She saw the gun, and I thought she might scream, so I put my hands up to show her I wasn’t there to harm them, and she lay back and watched.

I could hear men talking softly on the balcony next door. I couldn’t make out what they were saying, but I had to assume the lookout had seen me run past the window, and now they were deciding what to do next. When I heard them go back in, I stepped outside.

There were three of them, and they were standing in my living room, arguing. From a crouch I had a clear shot at the
left knee of the biggest guy, and as soon as the Sig spit, the man cried out and went down. I leaned back out of sight, and at least a dozen bullets smacked into the wall of glass and stuck there. A few came through the now-open door and kicked up chunks of cement.

I gave myself a 10-count, then reached out and fired through the door again. Two shots, without looking. I heard something crash, then the front door open. I moved to where I could see, and one man was helping his limping partner out the front door. The third intruder lay in the foyer, not moving.

In the bedroom, I grabbed a shirt, jacket and my wallet and slipped into my Top-Siders. The bed was riddled with holes, confirming there wouldn’t have been a Q&A. I dropped an extra clip of ammunition into my pocket.

As I ran through the foyer, I saw some blood and pieces of bone on the slate floor. The dead man’s knees were intact, so somebody out there was in a lot of pain.

I opened the door. The hallway was clear. I skipped the elevator and took the stairs.

The reception desk was empty, so Pradeep was either lying behind it waiting for the coroner, or he’d gotten out. Either way, I probably didn’t have a lot of time before the place would be crawling with cops. The smart move would have been to go back upstairs, collect Archer and run. But I was roaring fucking mad, and I wanted those other two cocksuckers.

I held the gun under my jacket and stepped outside. If somebody was waiting to shoot me, the bright lights on the Watergate portico would have made it easy, but nothing happened. I looked in both directions but saw only empty street. Then, a block away, I heard a car start and tires squeal.

A black Yukon Denali with two men in front headed up New Hampshire and into the city at breakneck speed. As they passed me, the driver reached out and put a red flashing light on his roof.

A lone taxi hunkered in the dark just beyond the portico.
It was a lime green Crown Victoria, and the driver, a burly black man, was sitting in his backseat, asleep with the door open.

I slammed his door shut and jumped behind the wheel. The guy came awake in a heartbeat, but I had the Ford started and was after the Yukon before he could react. I looked at the license clipped to the dash. Jengo Mutumbo.

“Jengo, I’m sorry as hell, but I can’t lose that car. I promise, I’ll make it worth your while.”

His accent was African. Nigerian, I thought. “Christ, mon, I the best damn driver in D.C. No shit.”

“No argument here. So once I see where these guys go, you can take over.”

That seemed to satisfy him, and he sat back. By the time we blew past the White House, I was on the Yukon’s ass and could see that it had no plates. I couldn’t believe we hadn’t already attracted a cop.

Then from the backseat. “That embassy car you chasin’, mon.”

“How do you know?”

“Red light. All security guys got dem. Not sposed to, but the cops don’ mind. Make it easy. No stop.”

I’d caught a break. The police would just think we were a procession. Then a bullet hit the windshield, shattered it, and all vision disappeared. I jumped on the brakes and was all over the street, trying to steer while looking out the window. With my free hand, I brought up the Sig and shot the windshield from the inside. It exploded out, and we could see again.

“Shit, mon. You fuckin’ crazy.”

“I think you’re fuckin’ right.”

When we hit Wisconsin Avenue, all I had to do was hang back a couple of blocks and watch which embassy my quarry turned into. Unfortunately, the driver of the Yukon had a different plan. Banging along at sixty miles per hour, he suddenly threw the big SUV into a reverse 180, using the wall-to-wall parked cars like bumpers.

When I saw him accelerating back toward me, I knew it wasn’t a scare tactic. These guys had been sent to kill me, and they must have decided that if they had to die in the process, it was better than reporting home as failures.

There was no place to go, so I did the only thing I could. I threw the taxi into its own skid so that we took the crash from the rear. It was a helluva jolt, but nothing like what it would have been head-on. And I was already pulling away before the whiplash ended.

The Yukon didn’t fall back, however. Denied the semi-honorable end of a kamikaze, the driver stayed against my bumper, literally pushing me faster than I was accelerating. I jammed both feet on the pedal, but the Crown Vic’s brakes weren’t up to the task. They burned out after a block, and the Yukon kept pushing, while we sent up smoke and sparks and a squeal that woke dogs in Philadelphia. Then they started shooting.

Jengo was lying on the backseat, but he seemed remarkably cool. “Jus like downtown Kinshasa.”

So he was Congolese.

We were saved by a garbage truck. It was stopped in the middle of the street while a couple of sanitation guys were rolling a Dumpster out to it. It wasn’t going to move, and we couldn’t stop, so the inevitable happened. Fortunately, the Dumpster the scow was airlifting on its front forks absorbed most of the shock, and the Crown Vic’s air bags hadn’t been ripped off by a crackhead. Jengo ended up on the floor in the back, but undamaged.

Almost before the air bag deflated, I had changed clips in the Sig and was out of the cab, firing. The Yukon’s driver jammed it in reverse and backed away, but not before I got several rounds into his windshield. I saw blood splatter on the passenger side just as the SUV got turned around.

The driver looked out his open window, and we locked eyes. Then he spit, “Yebat!” If I hadn’t already guessed, I no longer needed to know which embassy.

As the Yukon squealed away, I turned and saw the three
sanitation workers running in the opposite direction. Jengo was just standing there looking at his wrecked meal ticket.

“I need another favor,” I said to him.

He started to take out his wallet, and I laughed. “No, not that. I want you to give me your cell phone and one of your business cards. Then I want you to handle this mess. A man named Jake Praxis will call you. Tomorrow.”

“He gonna make dis all right?” he asked.

“Trust me,” I answered, “more than all right.”

I had put a block between myself and the crash when I heard the first siren. I dialed my new phone and heard the familiar, “411 Connect. What city, please?”

The Russian embassy answered on the first ring. It was a male voice, and he didn’t sound like a receptionist.

“I know this is being recorded, so I’m only going to say it once. No questions.” I waited for a response.

“Go on.”

“One of your associates had an accident in my living room. Doesn’t seem to be able to get up. I’ll be gone in an hour, but I’m going to pin a note on him who to contact, so I suggest you deal with the problem before my housekeeper shows up in the morning. She’s probably a screamer. I’d leave a key, but you evidently already have one.”

“Is that all?” asked the voice.

“No, tell the two guys who survived the cluster fuck that I’ll see them again.” The voice on the other end started to say something, but I hung up.

My next call was to the apartment. Archer answered. “My God, where are you?”

“On the way back. We’re leaving.”

“Before I get to meet the president?”

“Next time, I promise.”

“Rail, there’s a man in the living room. He’s…”

“I know.”

I tossed Jengo’s phone in a sewer and began looking for a cab.

When I walked into the Watergate, Pradeep was at his post, eating. He gave me a nonchalant wave with a drumstick the color of a fire truck. Maybe the first time a craving for tandoori had saved somebody’s life.