Rebecca York (11 page)

Since Lucas had been a proponent of the paperless office, his only copy of the report was on his hard drive. Now that the uproar over his death had faded, Jim was going to collect that information.

He had been here during the day, studying the layout. He had no trouble going right to the office, no trouble using a set of picks to unlock the door.

At the desk he turned on the light, booted the computer, and began making educated guesses about the doctor's password, based on the information he'd collected. The code turned out to be Lucas's sister's birthday. When he got into the files, he began downloading information.

The transfer was almost finished when the door opened and a security guard stepped into the office.

Jim's face remained impassive, but inwardly he was cursing. The hospital security staff was missing a couple of men tonight, and he hadn't expected anyone to challenge him.

"What are you doing here?" the guard asked.

"I'm with the State Department of Health, checking out the material on this computer."

"In the middle of the night?" the guard asked, his gaze fixed on Jim.

"We do this kind of work at night, so that we don't disturb the day-to-day work of the hospital," Jim answered, holding up the official-looking ID that hung on a lanyard around his neck. It was issued in the name of Ted Ryland.

While the guard inspected the ID, Jim considered contingency plans. Killing the guy was always an option. But then he'd have to get rid of the body.

He was glad when the guard nodded. "How long will you be here, Mr. Ryland?"

"Not long," he answered easily, thinking that this guy didn't know how close he was to death.

The guard withdrew, and Jim waited a moment before going back to work.

He had no qualms about killing in the line of duty. Long ago he'd decided that Kurt MacArthur should be running the country—if not from the Oval Office, then behind the scenes. And he was willing to do what it took to accomplish that goal.

After downloading the entire hard drive, he checked to make sure he had all the material, then wiped out all of the doctor's research reports so that the theft of the Todd Hamilton information would not stand out. He left the computer where it was. It might be days or weeks before anybody went into Lucas's files and discovered they had evaporated.

Forty minutes after he'd entered the hospital, he was back in his car and heading toward the airport where he would turn in the car and pick up his own vehicle from the short-term parking lot.

Kurt wanted to know who had requested the report. He was hoping he could dig that information out of the man's correspondence files—even if they had been altered.

* * *

The hour she'd spent at his apartment with him had shaken her to the core. By the time she got home, she'd convinced herself that the best favor the could do herself was to stay as far away from him as she could.

But now that she was alone, the business part of the conversation kept nagging at her. And sometime before dawn—as she tossed restlessly in her bed—a name popped into her mind.

Todd Hamilton.

She'd gotten it from Jordan's mind in the restaurant. Now she thought she knew who he was—the victim she had read about in that medical report.

And once she started focusing on him, she was also sure she had encountered him before.

In person?

Again she chewed on the problem.

Although she caught a lew hours ot sleep in the small hours of the morning, she felt like she'd been run over by a D.C. Metro bus when she climbed out of bed. The image in the bathroom mirror confirmed the opinion, but a hot shower helped her return to the world of the living.

Usually she made do with coffee until lunchtime. This morning she stopped at the basement takeout shop and treated herself to a latte and a blueberry muffin.

Sometimes there were advantages to being known as a loner. Since she didn't want to chat with anyone, she put on her "got too much work" look as she walked through the office to her desk.

While she drank her coffee and nibbled on the muffin, she checked her e-mail and phone messages.

Nothing needed her immediate attention, so she went into the file room and opened the drawer where the "nutcase" folders were kept.

The names on the tabs sounded straightforward—like "Environment" or "Alternate Sources of Energy."

But they all contained letters from constituents and other citizens who had directed various off-the-wall complaints to Senator Bridgewater. For the record, the office kept the correspondence on file.

With hands that weren't quite steady, she thumbed through the folder on "Military Inquiries—Closed Programs." When she came across a letter from Todd Hamilton, her heart began to pound.

It had been sent three months ago and answered a few days later. Both pieces of correspondence had been produced on a computer and printed out.

Todd's letter was signed in bold black ink. The reply was also personalized, although the senator's signature had been produced by a machine.

Repairing to a chair in the corner, she read the correspondence.

Dear Senator Bridgewater,

Although I am not one of your constituents, I am writing to you in your capacity as the chairman of the Senate Armed Services Committee. It is vitally important for you to be aware that a secret lab is hiding information from you and the other members of the committee, as well as from the public you serve.

Several years ago U.S. chemical weapons programs were in full swing. In accordance with our treaty agreements not to pursue the development of such weapons, the projects were terminated at Fort Detrick, where most of this research is carried out. But I have recently come across disturbing evidence that several of these programs have resumed operations at a secret location in CONUS.

Talking about this project is dangerous. This information must not get into the wrong hands.

But I would be glad to meet with you at your convenience to discuss this matter.

Sincerely,

Todd Hamilton

A reply was stapled to the letter.

Dear Mr. Hamilton,

As the chairman of the Senate Armed Services Committee, I have had a continuing interest in the military preparedness of this country including new weapons systems, troop strength, appropriations, and intelligence matters.

Since my own sendee in Vietnam, military affairs have been a prime focus of my career. In my capacity as chairman of the Senate Armed Services Committee, I have immersed myself in these issues and have been at the forefront of making sure the public is kept apprised of developments in these critical areas.

I am always glad to hear from citizens with information that is of importance to me. Your continued support of my vital work is appreciated. Thank you for writing to me. Feel free to contact me again with any of your concerns. One of my staff members is reviewing the matter.

Sincerely,

Daniel Bridgewater

An intern had composed the answer, plugging in stock paragraphs from the computer files. She knew from the way the office worked that Bridgewater himself had not seen either of these pieces of paper.

But Lindsay had taken a quick look at the material before the answer had gone to the mail room and the copies had been filed.

Because she had a good memory for names, she had put Todd Hamilton together with the letter.

Now she wondered if she'd made a mistake by dismissing what sounded like paranoid claims. She scanned the top sheet again, wishing he'd been more specific about where the secret facility was located.

Then she checked in the H section of the drawer to see if Todd had rated his own folder. He hadn't.

So—should she call Jordan Walker and tell him about the letter? Should she do some checking first? Or was that a fatal mistake? He'd warned her about asking questions. Was that because he was worried about the consequences? Or did he want her to come back to him for answers?

When she felt the edge of the folder digging into her fingers, she ordered herself to relax. With the smallest excuse, she was thinking of Walker again.

No, not a small excuse. Something was going on. Something dark—and dangerous. It looked like Todd Hamilton had stuck his nose in the wrong place and gotten his head chopped off.

Not with a terrorist's sword, but with some chemical agent. He hadn't mentioned the name of the program he was worried about. But she was willing to bet it was Granite Wall. Had he been murdered just for asking questions about the project? Or had he accidentally exposed himself to the stuff?

And did Granite Wall have anything to do with Sid's cousin? Maybe not. But the alternative was equally disturbing—since it might mean that two chemical weapons programs had been jeopardized.

Although she felt like a sneak thief, Lindsay kept her expression unruffled as she carried the folder to the photocopy machine and duplicated both Todd's letter and the generic answer. Then she put the folder back.

Still trying to look casual, she put both letters into her purse. Once she'd hidden the evidence, she went back to her computer and plugged Todd's name into her favorite search engine. When she did, she got another surprise.

There were some small newspaper articles about the death of Todd Hamilton and his friend Glenn Barrow—in a boating accident in the Chesapeake Bay. From them she learned that he was the son of multimillionaire Leonard Hamilton. When she read his name, and saw a picture of Todd with his father and some business associates, another piece of the puzzle clicked into place.

She'd seen an old man's face in Walker's mind. Now she was sure the man was Todd's father.

She moved restlessly in her chair, burning with the need to communicate with Jordan Walker.

But she couldn't phone him from the office because there would be a record of the call.

At lunchtime she walked down to the business district on Pennsylvania Avenue, all the time thinking about Jordan's hair-raising drugstore story. And about Todd Hamilton, his friend, Glenn Barrow, and the doctor who had done tests on his body. The three of them were dead— the doctor to protect the secret of what had happened to Todd and Glenn.

She kept assuring herself that nobody could connect her with any of that. Still, she stopped to face a window display, then looked to the right and left to make sure she wasn't being watched.

Trying to appear like she was just running errands on her lunch break, she walked into an electronics store and up to the front counter and paid cash for a cheap cell phone, the kind that couldn't receive calls—only make them.

Walker had given her his phone numbers. When she tried to reach his home and his cell, she got a recording asking her to leave a message. Each time she hung up because she didn't want to speak to a machine.

Ten minutes after she got back to her desk, the phone rang, and she jumped.

"HELLO, THIS IS Jordan," a chipper voice said.

"How..." Lindsay stopped. She wasn't going to ask how he knew she had called and failed to leave a message.

"I enjoyed yesterday evening. I was hoping we could get together again after work."

He made it sound personal—like a man interested in a woman. It was personal—but she felt as though she were in the middle of a spy movie.

She dragged in a breath and let it out, then tried to match his light tone. "Sounds good."

"We can meet at the Woodley Park Metro. There are a ton of restaurants right there." he suggested.

"Six-thirty again?"

"Give or take rush hour."

"I'll meet you at that weird little cement triangle with nothing but the Metro entrance. Across from the back door to the Marriott."

"I know where you mean."

She tried to be productive for the rest of the day. But she could barely focus on any of the work piled up on her desk. Finally she left early, walked over to Union Station, and wandered around the shopping hall before heading for the Metro.

Woodley Park was one stop up from the Dupont Circle area, where she'd met Walker the day before.

After she came up the escalator, she looked around, but he apparently hadn't arrived yet. When he still wasn't there ten minutes later, she tried to fight the tight feeling in her chest.

As a silver Mercedes pulled up to the curb, she tensed. Had someone found out about the meeting? Was she going to be hustled into a car and spirited away?

She took a quick step back. Then the window lowered, and Jordan called out to her, "Get in."

As soon as she climbed into the car and closed the door, he sped away from the busy intersection.

She stared at his set profile. "I thought we were going to eat around here."

"I have other plans."

While she fumbled with her seat belt, he turned right onto Connecticut, then right onto Calvert, heading in the direction of Wisconsin Avenue.

"What are we doing?" she inquired.

"Making sure nobody is looking for us."

When he caught her strained expression, he said, "I'm just being careful. The same way you didn't leave a message when you called my home and cell phones."

* * *

The temptation to reach out and press his hand reassuringly over hers was almost overwhelming. But he didn't touch her because he knew that with the contact, his mind would shift away from the traffic, and he didn't want to risk getting into an accident. So he only looked at the hands she'd knit together in her lap.

They had things to discuss, but he didn't ask her any questions yet. Instead, he drove toward Thirty-first Street, then onto the grounds of the National Cathedral, the massive stone structure rising like a medieval anachronism along Wisconsin Avenue.

Lindsay looked around as he parked beside the building.

"Are we going to talk in the crypt?"

"The Bishop's Garden." He led her along the sidewalk to a wooden gate. Inside they took one of the paved walkways wandering among carefully tended beds of herbs and flowers. Only a few other people were taking advantage of the garden, so it was easy to stroll in privacy through the series of stunning outdoor rooms.