Fatal Conceit (28 page)

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Marlene almost ran past the spot where Baum had forced the women off the trail, but happened to stop in order to listen for any
more sounds following the gunshot. She heard a woman groan. “Ariadne?” she called out softly, her gun ready.

“Marlene,” Stupenagel answered weakly from a small distance. “They're after her. Save the girl, I'm okay.”

Torn between going to her friend, who was obviously not okay, and saving Blair, Marlene hesitated for a moment. Just long enough for Constable Spooner to come huffing and puffing up the trail. “My friend's over there,” she said, pointing. “I think she's hurt. Would you check on her, please?”

Spooner crashed into the bushes and Marlene took off again down the trail. Helped by the moonlight, Marlene flew over the ground, running as fast as she could and grateful for the roadwork she'd been putting in.

Near the end of the lake, she broke into a clearing and saw a man with his back to her aiming down at Blair, who'd fallen or been knocked to the ground. “Hold it or I'll blow your fucking head off,” she said.

The man raised his hands, but he didn't drop his gun. “You don't know what you're dealing with,” he said.

“I have a pretty good idea, and it starts with you, asshole,” she replied. “Now drop the gun.”

Then another man spoke up off to her side. “No, you drop
your
gun,” he said.

Baum's partner had arrived. “Shoot the bitch,” he said. “Then I'm going to get me a piece of this one before I drag her ass back. Looks like we'll need a bigger hole.”

Marlene started to turn and fire, knowing that the other man had the drop on her and she'd probably lose. But before she or the second man could shoot, a shotgun roared. And from the corner of her eye she saw Baum's accomplice blown off his feet by a load of double-oh buckshot that caught him in the side of his chest.

At the same moment Baum turned to shoot, and might have won the battle, but Blair kicked at his legs just as he pulled the trigger, and the shot whizzed by Marlene's head. Her .45's first
slug caught him in the stomach, doubling him over; the next shot hit him in the head as he tried to straighten up to shoot, and he was dead before he hit the ground.

Marlene ran up to where Blair lay on the ground crying. “You okay?”

“Yes, thank you, thank you,” she said before she broke down into uncontrolled sobs.

Marlene turned as Spooner hurried up and checked the assassin's pulse. Unnecessarily, as it turned out. “Just in the nick of time, constable. I owe you big time.”

“You're welcome,” Spooner said with a grin. “Your friend back there caught a bullet in her shoulder, but I think she'll live. And boy howdy, she can curse up a storm, told me to get my fat ass on down here.”

“That's Ariadne,” Marlene said with a laugh as Blair stood and they headed back up the trail. “Thanks again.”

“Think nothing of it. Sure beats the hell out of wrestling raccoons. Now what?”

T
UCKER
L
INDSEY PULLED UP IN
front of the 13th Street Repertory Theater and got out of the sedan. The street was relatively quiet. He noted the homeless bum pushing a shopping cart loaded with assorted junk on the other side of the street, the hooker leaning against the corner of the building on 13th and Sixth Avenue, and the hot dog vendor on the east side of Sixth Avenue. None of them paid any attention to him.

“Everybody ready?” he said quietly so that only the microphone disguised as a tie clasp would pick up his voice.

“We're in place, boss,” a voice said in his ear. “All the exits are covered.”

“All right, await my signal,” Lindsey said as he approached the front door of the dark theater. “If she runs, take her down. And try not to hit any civilians.” He pulled on the handle, half-expecting it to be locked.

Maybe I just hoped it would be
, he thought.
This isn't what I signed up for. Never mind that, just stick with the program, Tuck, the girl got in over her head and now she has to be eliminated. Then everybody keeps their jobs; you . . . the president . . . it's for the good of the country.
He entered the lobby; it was dark but then the red light over a door leading into the theater suddenly
glowed.
And when this election's over, I can tell that fat fuck Fauhomme what I really think of him.

Two nights earlier, Fauhomme had been in New York at his girlfriend's condominium sweating bullets as he waited for Ray Baum to report that the problem with Jenna Blair had been resolved and that her laptop computer was in his possession. The last they'd heard from Baum was that he'd located where the girl was hiding and was on his way to get her. Then there'd been nothing until Thursday morning's stunning development; Baum and his partner, Craig Rose, had been killed in a car accident.

The constable in Orvin, some hick named Tom Spooner, had called the FBI in Albany and the special agent in charge there had called Lindsey, who'd flown to New York, on his cell phone. They were in Fauhomme's office talking about what to do next when the call from the FBI came in and when Lindsey reached out to Spooner, who'd explained what happened.

“I'm afraid some of our dirt back roads are pretty tricky, especially at night, lots of twists and turns,” Spooner said. “Your boys were driving too fast, missed a turn and went head-on into an oak. One of the neighbors heard the crash and called, but they were both dead at the scene. Wasn't pretty . . . like I said, they were driving fast. The driver, I guess his name was Ray Baum, though he was pretty unrecognizable from his driver's license photograph, wasn't wearing his seat belt and went through the windshield. I found his NSA ID card in his wallet but didn't know how to reach you so I called the bureau in Albany. They also gave me a positive ID off their fingerprints.”

“I appreciate your efforts. Where are the bodies?” Lindsey asked.

“With the medical examiner,” Spooner said, “awaiting a toxicology report. The agent in Albany said he'd be up, because they worked for the federal government. All I can say is that they must have been drunk to be driving that fast on a dirt road at midnight.”

Fauhomme handed Lindsey a note with a question scribbled
on it, which he'd asked Spooner. “Can you tell me if there was a laptop computer located in the car?”

“No computer,” Spooner replied. “I was there at the scene and went through the car at our lot yesterday morning. We recovered two 9mm semiautomatics, wallets, a few personal items, but that was about it. . . . You mind telling me what they were doing in my neck of the woods?”

Lindsey looked at Fauhomme, who wrote down another note. “They were looking for a cabin owned by General Sam Allen. . . .”

“Oh . . . yeah, well, they were close . . . good man, Allen. We were shocked as hell to hear the news.”

“We all were,” Lindsey said. “Do me a favor and secure the area around the cabin—no one in or out. We'll have another team up there as soon as possible. We are also looking for a fugitive. White female, blond, hazel eyes, about thirty years of age. Her name is Jenna Blair but she may be using an alias.”

“Not ringing a bell at the moment,” Spooner replied. “We're a pretty quiet little burg, but I'll ask around. Want me to hold on to her if I see her?”

“Just keep her under surveillance if you would; we don't want to spook her before my team arrives. If she tries to leave the area, go ahead and pick her up, but no one—and I mean no one—is to question her. This is a national security case and we don't want it compromised. Same thing with that computer. If it's located, no one is to touch it; it contains highly classified material.”

“Gotcha,” Spooner replied. “Don't spook her. Don't question her. Don't look at the computer.”

“Perfect,” Lindsey said. “Again, I appreciate your contacting me and your cooperation. I'll see that the president is aware of your assistance. Oh . . . and I'm sure I don't need to tell you that for the time being we need to keep our agents' identities quiet and the whole thing out of the press if possible; this is still an active investigation and we wouldn't want to tip off our fugitive if she's in the area.”

“Mum's the word,” Spooner replied.

As soon as he got off the phone, Fauhomme slammed his fists down on Lindsey's desk. “Son of a bitch! God damn Baum!” he shouted. “Send him to do a simple job, and he runs off the road into a tree and gets himself killed.”

Lindsey didn't say anything. He'd never liked Baum—he wasn't part of the NSA “team” and had been issued an identification card only at Fauhomme's insistence and then reported only to the fat man. Still, he would have thought the president's campaign manager would have shown a little more loyalty to his handpicked guy, even if that guy should have still been locked up for what he had done to civilians in Afghanistan.

“And Blair . . . who knows where that fucking whore is now?” Fauhomme continued raving.

“She could still be there,” Lindsey pointed out. “Baum didn't get the computer so she might not even know he was around. My guys will find out soon enough.”

“We need that computer. We have no idea what's on it or what it depicts Baum actually did,” Fauhomme said. “And that girl doesn't make it back to New York, or anywhere else . . . am I clear? It's Thursday, five fucking days until the election. Five days, dammit! I want this problem taken care of before then. Find her!”

He didn't have to; two hours later, Jenna Blair called Fauhomme's girlfriend, Connie Rae Lee, who recorded the conversation once she knew who was on the phone. Lindsey was in his hotel room when Fauhomme showed up and played the recording back with a look of grim satisfaction.

The recording had picked up with Lee exclaiming, “Jenna! We've been so worried! Where have you been? Rod sent one of his security guys to your apartment last week and you were gone. It looked like somebody had torn the place apart!”

“That man . . . the man I told you about who killed Sam . . . he showed up first,” Blair responded. “He must have been listening to my telephone calls. I recognized his tattoo on the security camera,
but I went down the fire escape and got away. I was so scared; I didn't know who to turn to . . .”

“Oh, honey, you should have called me again,” Lee had said. “Rod . . . and the president's national security adviser, Tucker Lindsey, I overheard them talking. They didn't want to worry me, but they think that man works for the terrorists!”

At the word “terrorists,” Blair sobbed into the cell phone. “He found me!”

“What?” Lee exclaimed in mock surprise. “Where? Are you okay?”

“Remember that cabin I told you about in Orvin, Sam's place?” Blair said. “I was hiding there, and he still found me!” The young woman had started crying again.

“How did you get away?”

“He saw me leaving the cabin and chased me. I think I lost them, but I can't go back to the cabin! I don't know where to go. I just want this nightmare to be over!”

“Jenna, listen to me. Do you still have your computer? Rod thinks that's what they're after!”

“Yes. I take it with me everywhere.”

“You need to let me know where to find you . . . so we can protect you!”

“I'm scared,” Blair wailed. “That man will find me!”

“Jenna! We . . . I . . . need you to get a grip. You remember Tucker Lindsey, right? He's the president's top security guy, you trust him, right?”

“I suppose so.”

“Of course you can. And he wants to help. You name the place where you'd feel comfortable and Mr. Lindsey will meet you there. Then he can protect you. Okay?”

Blair sniffled a couple of times. “Yeah, okay. Remember where we first met?”

“The little theater on 13th Street?”

“I have the keys. There's nothing playing there now. I'll meet Mr. Lindsey there. But if I see anybody else—especially that guy
with the tattoos—I'll be gone. And I'll send that recording of what happened to Sam to the television stations!”

“I don't understand why you think Mr. Lindsey would want to hurt you?”

“That's not the point. Somebody is following me, and maybe if the media sees what he did, he'll have to leave me alone. So just do what I said or forget it. I'll move to Canada or something. You'll never find me!”

“Okay, okay . . . I'm your friend, Jenna. When do you want to meet?”

“Tomorrow. Friday. Eight o'clock. Have him come in the front door. I'll meet him inside.”

“I'm sure he'll be there. And Jenna . . .”

“Yes?”

“Don't forget the computer. You'll be safe when you don't have it anymore, and Mr. Lindsey can arrange for you to go someplace where you'll be taken care of.”

Fauhomme turned off the recording and turned to Lindsey. “I guess you'll be going to the Big Apple.”

“You should have asked me first,” Lindsey said, and scowled. “I could have handled this with a team in New York. How'd you get that, by the way?”

“She doesn't know it, but I have an app on her phone that records everything,” Fauhomme said with a shrug. “Besides, I was standing right there, writing little notes so that she'd ask the right questions. And what was I supposed to do? Have Connie put her on hold while I called you? I had to think of someone she would trust. Besides, I think you're forgetting who got us into this mess in the first place.”

“I wasn't the one who sent an amateur to murder an American general in a New York City hotel as a way to get us out of it.”

“Touché, Tucker,” Fauhomme sneered. “So we all fucked up. Now we all need to unfuck the situation. Right?”

After Fauhomme left his room, Lindsey seethed. A campaign manager ordering the president's national security adviser to run
and fetch like a Labrador. But he held his tongue. Blair was expecting to see him; she might cut and run if she saw anyone else. And he had other business with a certain attaché to the Russian delegation at the United Nations; the other part of “unfucking” the situation.