Dark Ambition (20 page)

Slater excused himself, went into a deserted book-lined study, and called the White House on his cell phone.

"Where are you on the Winthrop case?" Brewster asked.

Oh, goddamn it, Slater cursed under his breath, it was eleven-thirty. Why the hell was Brewster pestering him about this now? Still, he couldn't very well tell the President of the United States what he was thinking. "We're on course for filing charges against the gardener Wednesday at four p.m."

"Did he do it?" Brewster asked.

"That's what the guy in my office, Ed Fulton, is telling me. He's been on the case since day one. Also,
 
I've got the best guy in Al Hennessey's office on the case. He wouldn't file if he didn't think we had the right man."

"All right, let me know tomorrow as soon as the charges are filed."

"I'll be sure to do that."

Before returning to his seat at the table, Slater stopped in the doorway and gazed at Jennifer. She was engrossed in an animated conversation with Senator Burgess on her other side. He watched the lovely way in which she moved her hands, pushed back her hair, and laughed easily with the senator. She had a grace, style, and intellectual sophistication that went beyond her looks. Sure, she was twenty or so years younger than he –s, but he could handle her.

He suddenly remembered that Ed Fulton was waiting outside in Slater's car, planning to brief him on the way home. He dialed Fulton's cell phone number. "Listen, Ed, something came up for me here tonight. Why don't you take a cab home?"

"Will do, Mr. Slater."

"What about the search for George Nesbitt?" he asked Fulton.

"They're down to three possibles."

"And the one from San Jose?"

"Still can't find him."

"Tell Murtaugh I want ten more agents put on it."

"I'll call the director first thing in the morning, sir," he said.

When Slater returned, the party was breaking up. "Can I offer you a ride home?" Slater asked Jennifer.

"I'm in upper northwest. If that's out of your way, I could take a cab."

"Nothing's out of my way," he said.

As the limo pulled away from the Kelsos' house, Jennifer and Slater leaned back in the plush leather seat. She gave the driver her address on Livingston Street. "Where do you live?" she asked.

"I've got a small house down here on Tracey Place in Kalorama." He gave her a knowing look. "My real home is in Chappaqua, up in Westchester. I've also got places in Rancho Santa Fe and Aspen."

"So where is Mrs. Slater tonight?" she asked. "Doesn't she like parties?"

Seeing the doubt in her face, he decided to take the bull by the horns. "I am married, but we have a rather unusual arrangement. Alice lives where she wants. I do the same." When Jennifer didn't respond, he added, "You probably wonder why we stay married."

"Yes, I was thinking that."

He shrugged. "I guess neither of us have had any reason to make a change. Alice made it very clear a long time ago that she prefers her horses to me."

"Whatever works," Jennifer replied. Despite Ann's warning clanging in her head, she had to admit she was very interested in this man.

When they pulled up in front of her house, he climbed out of the car and walked her to the front door. Watching her fiddle with the key, he wondered if she'd ask him to come in, but she didn't. So he kissed her once on each cheek and headed back to the car. He was pleased with how it had gone tonight. He had no doubt that she was as taken with him as he was with her. With this one, he'd move slowly. Anything worth having was worth waiting for, and she was clearly worth having.

* * *

"Has the package arrived yet from Alpha Materials in Japan?" Chen asked the secretary in the director's office of Diamond Computers in Shanghai, while trying to conceal the anxiety in his voice.

"Not yet, Master Chen," she replied. "We're looking for it carefully. Every day you ask, and I tell you that."

Chen was furious at himself. He was too anxious about the package. If she became suspicious, she'd report him to one of the party big shots in Shanghai. They'd begin watching him around the clock.

"Well, a few more days doesn't matter," he said. "But I would like to show my father that I can get the notebook computer line running and make the production projections for my month over here."

She smiled. "Ah, Master Chen. Now I understand. My brother always had to prove things to our father, too. With fathers and sons it's always the same."

Relieved that he had allayed her suspicions, he went down to the factory floor and watched the assembling of computers. It was truly an incredible operation. The raw materials cost nickels and dimes. The labor was dirt-cheap. Assembly was simple. And at the end of the day some of the world's giant computer companies would stamp their names on these little black boxes and charge thousands of dollars for them. It was no wonder the world's economy went into a nosedive when people held on to their old computers and delayed spending money on newer, marginally improved models. The whole high-tech business was one giant money-recycling machine, Chen decided.

At noon he left the factory, heading for a luncheon meeting of a computer manufacturers group. Shanghai, the pearl of the Orient, was the commercial heart of modern China, a city of sixteen million people, where the pace was frantic. Yet as Chen walked into the hotel ballroom where the luncheon was taking place, he found a subdued crowd.

Rumors were rife that Chinese troops were on the move toward the Strait of Taiwan. Something was happening with Taiwan. Nobody at the luncheon knew precisely what it was, but everyone was convinced it would be bad for business.

Chen listened to the worried patter, but he wasn't thinking about business. The war talk reminded him of that damned package. He used the emergency number Donovan had given him to call Roger Sherman, his contact in Shanghai. With Sherman's cover as the representative of a high-tech venture capitalist, a meeting between the two men wouldn't look suspicious. Sherman offered to come to Chen's hotel, the Pudong Shangri-La, for dinner at the hotel's Cantonese restaurant.

When Chen arrived, he found Sherman in a booth in a corner that ensured privacy, far from the security men at the door. Anticipating Chen's concern about Operation Matchstick, Sherman said, "The package was shipped this afternoon from Osaka. You'll have it day after next."

"What about assembly?"

"There are directions inside. Very simple for someone like you with an engineering degree. Make sure you're at least a hundred yards away when you press the detonator. It's a delayed action. You'll have plenty of time to get out of the area."

"Understood."

A waitress approached with heaping plates of scallops and shrimp. Sherman signaled to Chen to stop talking until she was gone.

Chen moved some food around with his chopsticks, not sure how to broach the reason he had called Sherman for the meeting. Finally, he dove in. "I've heard today," Chen said nervously, "that Chinese troops are heading toward the Strait of Taiwan. What's happening?"

Sherman was uncertain how much to tell Chen. He had been following the Chinese troop movements for the last couple of days. This morning he sent a coded message to San Francisco, where his phony venture capital firm had its headquarters. From there, the message would be sent to Langley. The situation was serious. More than serious. It was grim. He put the chances at seventy-five percent that China would attack Taiwan.

"Just another flap between Washington and Beijing over arms for Taiwan," Sherman said. "They happen every couple of years. Lots of saber rattling on both sides. Nothing will come of it."

Chen wasn't fully satisfied. His eyes were blinking involuntarily, and his hand was shaking. "What about the army unit I'm supposed to meet?"

"Their location hasn't changed. If anything, this should help you. There are so many troop movements these days, nobody can keep track of them. Operation Matchstick is even more important now."

"Why so?"

"It'll send a message to Beijing that they don't have free play in this part of the world. It'll make them pull back from their war threats."

"Or encourage them to attack," Chen said soberly.

 

 

 

Chapter 12

 

Gwen didn't like jogging in a warm-up suit. She preferred the feeling of perspiring freely, her bare skin against the natural elements. Even on a raw, blustery cold morning like today, she left the Shoreham dressed only in black runner's shorts and a white T-shirt with the Washington Wizards logo that she had purchased yesterday in the hotel gift shop. As always, she was braless, and as soon as she hit the chilly air, her nipples hardened and protruded against the tight cotton shirt. She knew that she made a sensual picture, that someone who didn't know her would say that she was asking for trouble alone on a jogging path through the woods. That didn't concern Gwen. Once a creep had tried to attack her. She could have easily eluded him by running away, but instead she broke his right arm at the elbow. She left him crumpled by the path, screaming in pain.

From the hotel she ran downhill into Rock Creek Park, running hard, pushing herself for a full thirty minutes. A glimmer of a bright red sun was starting to appear in the eastern sky as she ran along the Potomac toward the Lincoln Memorial. The reflecting pool was nearly deserted at this hour. Gwen slowed to a trot as she climbed the steps, following the path of thousands of tourists who came each year to pay a visit to Honest Abe. Gwen had insisted they meet at the Lincoln Memorial. There was absolutely no way anyone could set a trap for her there.

A figure in a long black coat was waiting for her at the top of the stairs, facing away from Gwen, standing at the base of the massive marble feet. When Gwen's sneakers tapped against the stairs, the figure wheeled around quickly and stared at Gwen, the wet T-shirt plastered against her body.

"The gardener hasn't confessed yet."

"I didn't think he would."

"What now?"

"You don't have to know the details. You hired me. It's my job to get the result you wanted. I'll decide on what happens next. Do you have what I asked for?"

By way of reply, a white envelope was extracted from a pocket in the long black coat and handed over to Gwen. Quickly, she tore open the flap and looked at the single picture.

"It's Clyde Gillis's wife, Lucinda, and their four children. Address and telephone number on the back."

"And the money?" Gwen asked.

"Five million U.S. will be deposited in Credit Suisse on the Bahnhofstrasse in Zurich within the hour. The contact there is Heinrich Winkler."

From the other pocket of the long black coat came a small piece of paper with an account number, W32A27LGR42, which Gwen looked at and returned.

"That's for you."

"I don't need it," Gwen said. "The number's committed to memory."

As Gwen knew it would, her words produced admiration and fear.

"What about the other materials I wanted?" Gwen demanded.

"Are you sure that you need them?"

Gwen was irritated. "I told you when you hired me. If you want me to do a job, I do it my way. If that doesn't suit you, then get someone else."

"I didn't mean—"

"Then give me the stuff." Gwen mentally counted to ten, and when there was no response, she moved up quickly and slammed her contact hard up against the marble base of Lincoln's statue.

"Look here," she said. "My ass is on the line as well as yours. The stuff I asked you for is what I need to save both of us."

Her actions produced the desired result. This time a brown envelope came out of the coat pocket. Inside were two photographs. One was a man around forty, Gwen guessed. He wasn't bad-looking, but what struck her most about him was the intensity in his dark brown eyes. She knew that look. Like her, he was driven and purposeful. He couldn't be underestimated. It was a small bonus for her that he was a lawyer. She hated lawyers.

Gwen looked at the second photograph. It depicted a girl about four years old with curly brown hair and crooked baby teeth. She was sitting on a swing and waving at the camera. Gwen glanced down at the stairs, making sure that the area was still deserted. It was too early for tourists. The sun was beginning its slow ascent. The water of the reflecting pool was beginning to sparkle.

"The man's name is Ben Hartwell. His daughter is Amy. There's a piece of paper in the envelope with his home address and telephone number. Also the address of Amy's preschool group."

Gwen nodded, then stuffed the contents of the two envelopes into a pocket in the back of her shorts. "Don't worry. You'll get the result you want. And unless something goes wrong, which it shouldn't, this is our last meeting."

* * *

They were back in the conference room at the FBI. Bill Traynor, a piece of chalk in his hand, was standing in front of a blackboard. Ben, Ed Fulton, and Director Murtaugh were watching him carefully.

On the board was a list of six George Nesbitts, each with a number of identifying facts. The last six possibles. Lines had been drawn through four of the six George Nesbitts.