Terror in D.C. (12 page)

“Thy, don't people usually exchange telephone numbers and addresses when they've had an accident?”

“Yes, I guess so, James. But these three students skipped, as I said. Besides, Betty said something about Chester having a tough time communicating with them because they were foreigners—”

“Foreigners? From what country, Thy?”

The woman shook her head slowly. “You know, James, I've finally realized why you're so interested. God, I am dense sometimes. I don't know where the students were from, Betty didn't say. Chester
did
get their license number before they drove off, but I don't know what the number was of course. Do you really think there might be some connection?”

Hawker shrugged. “I told you how I felt about coincidence. Don't you think it's probable that Chester called their license number in to the police?”

“Chester was a meticulous man. I'm sure he would have notified the police.”

“Don't you think it's possible that Chester also gave the students his telephone number, hoping they would have their insurance company contact him?”

The woman gestured with her palms upward. “I really couldn't say. I just know the three students were very abusive. Betty said they called him horrible names. He ignored the things they said. Lukie couldn't, and I guess it hurt him to see his father so humiliated.”

Hawker stood up quickly. “I need to get back to my hotel room, Thy. I need to check something. It's important. Can I drop you at your home?”

The pretty woman stood, touching the table as if to steady herself. “That last glass of ouzo put my head to spinning,” she said smiling, “… and, no, you can't drop me at home. I really don't care to fight with my husband tonight. You can take me back to the Capitol, if you like—they have rooms for us there. Lately, I've been calling the office home.” Her green eyes grew sharp, glistening. “Or, if you think you could use my help, I'd be happy to come back to your hotel room.”

Hawker dropped three tens and a five onto the check tray and took her arm. “The Capitol it is, Senator.…”

sixteen

Alone in his hotel suite, James Hawker sat looking intently at the screen of his Apple III computer. He had booted it with the Modem 1200 software and flicked on the modem unit, which had been jacked into the telephone line. He reset the configuration parameters and entered the two telephone numbers given to him by Lester Rehfuss. One of the numbers was for the National Crime Information Center (NCIC), the other for the D.C. Police Department's computer center.

That done, he slid the ingenious but illegal RUSTLED software into the second disk drive. RUSTLED (Random Ultraspeed Taps on Locked Entry Data) had been conceived and programmed by a friend of his. Using a brilliant system of probability, it tried and retried various ID numbers and passwords until it broke through a computer's security system. Using RUSTLED, Hawker could tap into almost any high-security computer bank in the world.

Finally the vigilante switched to the terminal mode. From the modem's speaker he could hear the number of NCIC being dialed. Since NCIC was an open information data system, RUSTLED wouldn't be needed. When the menu flashed on the screen, Hawker indicated the D.C. area, then indicated “vehicular.”

The screen began to roll a seemingly endless list of stolen cars, names of wanted car thieves, descriptions of cars involved in hit-and-runs. Hawker watched the hit-and-runs carefully, but found nothing that mentioned Chester Rutledge. He wasn't surprised. A fender-bender hit-and-run wasn't likely to make NCIC, but since it was the easiest to get into, Hawker had tried it first.

He returned to the computer's phone director and selected the number to the more confidential Washington P.D. data system. The modem dialed it and Hawker watched the screen for a few minutes as RUSTLED offered a name, was cut off by the security system, then dialed again and tried another.

It might take a while.

Hawker got up and cracked a cold bottle of Strohs, stripped off his clothes, and settled down into the hot tub. He tried to concentrate on what he would do if he found the names of the three students, but his mind kept wandering. He kept thinking about Senator Thy Estes, wondering what magic she possessed to capture him so swiftly. Had she really offered herself to him, or was it just part of the politician's facade? She had offered to come back to his hotel room—but was it anything more than a polite gesture?

For some reason, Hawker couldn't let himself believe it was.

He pictured her alone in her room in the Capitol Building. What would she be doing right now? Reading, probably. Maybe working late in her office. Hawker's imagination took over, and he found himself trying to picture her naked, the dark mahogany hair hanging down, her face, like polished wood, looking up into his. It was with some surprise that Hawker realized he had never bedded a woman older than himself. But a United States senator? Hawker had no interest in public women. Fashion models, actresses, dancers—he had known his share, and they were all a disappointment. Still, the image of Thy Estes naked, with her dark hair hanging down lingered in his mind.…

The soft chime of the computer yanked his attention back to reality.

RUSTLED had broken the code. His computer was now linked to the data banks of the Washington Police Department.

Hawker dried himself quickly, pulled on his clothes, and seated himself at the computer. Once again, he maneuvered through the computer's menu, zeroing in on the information he needed.

This time, he did not come up empty-handed:

#141769 … complainant Chester A. Rutledge/1212 Kenwood/Bethesda, MD/'84 Olds Cutlass, Lic. VJ431J; Est. Damage: $800. Hit-run charges pending on driver of '85 Lincoln Mk.4 Blk 4-door, Lic. Diplomatic Service 117, registered to Hon. Isfahan Shiraz/(Tehran, Iran)/U.S.: 2007 Bleaker/Fairmoor Heights, D.C. Warrant issued 5-14-85.

Isfahan!

With a coldly steady hand, Hawker noted the information on a slip of paper and immediately began dressing himself. To bang into the name of Isfahan twice was no coincidence. There was no doubt in his mind now about who was behind the deadly series of bombings that had killed so many people. Now it did not matter what the dead Syrian's, Rultan's, appointment calendar said. Nor did he need the investigative resources of Lester Rehfuss or the CIA or the FBI or any other agency.

Now it was all too clear. He knew what country was behind the carnage—Iran—and he knew that a diplomat named Isfahan Shiraz was involved with the bombings. Hawker also knew that three of Isfahan's goons, three foreign students, had vaporized the family of Chester A. Rutledge because he had exchanged insults with them after a minor traffic accident.

How many others were involved? There was no way of knowing. But one thing was for sure: tonight, he would find out. And he would bring the Iranian bastards to their knees.

Hawker checked his watch. It was only 10:23
P.M.
The ideal time to attempt his break-in would be after 3
A.M.
He had a hell of a lot of time to waste before he could drive to 2007 Bleaker in Fairmoor Heights.

Sleep was impossible. Hawker toyed with the idea of calling Thy Estes, but shrugged it off as bad judgment. But while selecting his weaponry, a way to waste the time was provided for him.

The phone rang.

It was Thy Estes.

In an alto voice that was softer than he remembered it, she said, “I don't want to sound brazen, James, but I could use a friend right now. Interested?”

“My place or yours, Senator?”

Her laughter was good to hear. “How about
our
place, citizen—your taxes helped pay for the Capitol too.”

seventeen

“I'm glad you could come, James. It's funny, but out of all the people I know, there are very, very few I can talk to intimately. You see, a senator is supposed to solve problems, not share them. People get nervous when they see a chink in the armor. You're not that kind of person, James. Are you?”

Once again, Hawker stood in front of the vast oval desk. Thy Estes sat in the great leather chair, her fingers interlocked, drumming among themselves with a nervousness that did not show on her face.

“We all have our weak days, Thy. Even senators. Why should it bother me?”

The woman unlocked her hands, took off her amber-rimmed glasses, and remounted them on her head, like ski goggles. She now wore pale green warm-up silks. The jacket was not zipped, and the burnt-orange body stocking was taut over the mature swell of her breasts. There was a light scent in the air, a mixture of shampoo and soap and, fainter yet, body musk. Hawker guessed she had been working out before he arrived.

“Would you like a drink, James?”

“I'd like a beer.”

She stood and motioned him through a door at the back of the office. Hands in his pockets, Hawker followed her into a room about the size of the office. The floor was plushly carpeted and there were heavy drapes that were to give the impression of a window—but there was no window. On the near wall was a couch already pulled out into a bed. Opposite it was a multitiered electronics station that held three television sets, a stereo system, a personal computer, an intercom, and two telephones.

“My private chambers,” she said, stepping behind the portable bar. “Judging from the carpet and curtains, the senator here before me must have been in love with Holiday Inns. I keep planning to have it redone, but I never seem to find the time.” She opened the door of the small refrigerator. “What kind of beer do you like?”

“Any kind but Pearl Light.”

She smiled and handed him a steaming bottle of Becks. “I won't tell my honorable colleagues from Texas you said that. And I guess I'll have … let's see, a good stiff scotch and soda.”

“Still upset about your husband, senator?”

Ice clinked in the heavy bar glass as she looked up at him. “No. The relationship with my husband ended long ago, even before I was elected to this fair office. I guess I didn't divorce him then because I didn't want it to hurt my political career. Pretty selfish, huh? I don't divorce him now because I don't want our private lives dragged through the mud by the newspapers.”

“Then you're upset about something else?”

She took a long gulp of scotch, then seemed to sag a little as the alcohol moved through her body. “Yes, James, I am upset about something. I'm upset about … about you.”

“Me?”

“Yes, you!” She put the glass down on the bar and leaned toward him. “Tell me one thing. Why don't you like me?”

“Like you? Thy, I like you very much—”

“Then why did you spend the whole early evening giving me the cold shoulder?”

Hawker actually stuttered in surprise. “I did … didn't give you a cold anything—”

“Don't forget about my built-in bullshit detector, Mr. James Hawker. You got your ten-foot pole out and held me at bay the entire time!” Both hands were on the bar now, and she leaned across glowering at him, half in jest but half serious too. “What's the matter with me? Are my eyes too dark? Too bright? Am I too tall, too short? Or maybe I'm too old, is that it? I'm only forty-three for Christ's sake.
Geeze!”
She jammed her hands on her hips and turned slightly away from him, refusing to meet his eyes. “After all that I had heard about you from Jake Hayes, I was really anxious to meet you, like a girl excited about a big date. I spent half an hour last night picking out just the right clothes, just the right way to wear my hair. I wanted to seem professional, but not stodgy; I wanted to look attractive but not cheap. That first hour with you was wonderful. It was so good to actually have a
conversation
with someone. You liked me! I
know
you liked me. But then, for god knows what reason, you started acting like I had spinach between my teeth. Why? I forced down three of those damn ouzos to get my courage up, and then I practically insisted you take me to your hotel.” She looked at him once more. “And you turned me down you … you …
Republican!”

Hawker began to laugh. It began as a low cough, and when he could hold it no longer, the laughter became a long, rolling peal. “God,” he gasped, rubbing his eyes, “what an idiot I've been!”

“Don't expect me to contradict you!”

“But don't you see? It was because … because …” Hawker broke down in another chorus of laughter.

“Why, damn it? Why?”

Hawker stood, took the woman's hand, and hugged her. “Take me for a walk, woman. Show me around this mansion of yours—but get me out of here or I won't be able to stop laughing.”

Steering him by the hand, smiling like a schoolgirl, Thy Estes led Hawker down the long marble halls of the Capitol. They walked past the empty committee rooms, restaurants, through the Hall of Columns. At a massive double door she stopped and said to a uniformed guard, “Hi, Jack! I'm showing a friend of mine around tonight. Mind if we go in?”

The guard grinned, happy to be called by name. “Sure thing, Senator Estes. Go right ahead. Anything else I can do for you?”

“Not a thing, Jack. We'll probably go out through the back way, so don't worry about us. Good night!”

They stepped into a basin of a room, built in tiers with aged, ornate wood and marble, with plush carpet, flags, and galleries overhead. In the center of the basin, on the lowest floor level, were five massive desks, three in a line and two off to the side, like a pyramid. The room smelled good, like a library.

“Welcome to the chambers of the United States Senate,” Thy Estes said grandly. She took Hawker's arm and pulled close. He could feel the heat and weight of her left breast. “Care for a tour?” she asked.

Hawker looked down into her green eyes. They seemed to be burning. There was no mistaking the heavy-lidded, sloe-eyed, flushed expression. “As long as you keep it short, lady,” he said. “I'm kind of anxious to get back to your room.”