Terror in D.C. (14 page)

For a moment Hawker thought a couple of them were actually going to do it. But then they brought their handguns up to fire, which is exactly what the vigilante expected them to do. He dropped to his belly and held the Ingram on full automatic, spraying it like a garden hose. In less than two seconds it was over. Eight Iranians lay at the bottom of the stairs, hands still quivering, mouths open with screams that never made it past their lips. The white marble floor was splattered with red.

From the floor above, Hawker heard the muted thud of someone running. He turned and sprinted up the stairs, reloading the Ingram as he went. As he got to the top of the stairs, he saw an older man disappear into a room and slam the door behind him. Hawker went to the door, jiggled the handle, and stepped back against the wall.

The old man fired through the door four times. The weapon made the substantial
ker-whack
of a heavy-caliber revolver.

Hawker pivoted, kicked the door open, and once again stepped back against the wall.

The old man fired twice more.

Calmly, then, James Hawker stepped into the door, the Ingram held at hip level. “Smith & Wesson, right?” The vigilante's grin was cold. “You're empty, friend.”

The man stood behind an ornate bed, cowering against the wall. His hair and pointed beard were gray, and he wore burgundy pajamas. He pointed the gun at Hawker and pulled the trigger three times in rapid succession.

The hammer made an empty clapping sound.

“See?” said Hawker. “What did I tell you?”

The man dropped the gun. “Please,” he cried, “please don't kill me. I'll do anything, anything you say, just don't hurt me. I have money, a lot of money. I'll give it all to you—”

“How about just telling me your name for starters.”

“Shiraz. Isfahan Shiraz. I am a very important man. If you have already … accidentally killed some of my staff, I'm sure a word from me to the police—”

“Isfahan Shiraz,” Hawker interrupted, making a friendly, expansive gesture. “Gosh, I've been looking forward to meeting you.”

The old man was immediately wary. “You … you have?”

Hawker walked calmly toward him. “Yes, indeed. I've heard a lot about you. Things that might surprise you!” The vigilante's manner became frigid in an instant as he grabbed the man by the collar and banged him against the wall. “I've been looking for you, you sick old son of a bitch, because I want the names of the three students who have been doing your bombing—”

“I don't know what you're talking about—”

Hawker backhanded him across the face. “Don't lie to me, you goat-fucker. You have one chance to live, and one chance only—tell me the names of those students and where I can find them.”

Isfahan shuddered, tears rolling down his cheeks. “If I tell you, will you promise … promise not to kill me?”

“On my honor.”

“You swear it?”

Hawker shook him roughly. “I'm running out of oaths. I gave you my word of honor, didn't I?”

The Iranian began to talk then, too rapidly at first, and Hawker had to make him slow down. He made him repeat everything twice. The students hadn't killed Rultan at the restaurant—one of Isfahan's hit men had because they suspected him of being too friendly with CIA people. But the students had been doing the bombing. When the vigilante was satisfied, he released his grip, smiling. “There, now, was that so hard?”

Isfahan straightened his pajamas, taking a deep breath. “And let me tell you something else. Because you have spared my life, I swear to you that I will say nothing about your presence here. I will tell the authorities that I do not know who broke into my house. I will swear I did not see the man—the
men
. Yes, the men, who broke in.”

Hawker nodded, thinking,
In a pig's eye you won't tell the authorities. You'll tell them everything you can remember about me
. But he said, “That's awfully damn kind of you. Now can I tell you something, Isfahan?”

“Certainly, my friend.”

“First of all, sport, I am not your friend. Let's get that straight right from the beginning. Secondly, Isfahan, you can push people like us for a long, long time, and we'll take it. You can take our people hostage, and torture us and screw us every possible way in international business. But do you know what happens when you push just a little bit too hard and go just a little bit too far?”

The Iranian smiled nervously. “No, I do not know.”

“I'll tell you what happens,” said the vigilante. “We begin to lie like … well, like Iranians.”

Hawker drew the Colt Magnum, pointed it at the head of Ambassador Isfahan Shiraz, and pulled the trigger.…

twenty

Hawker was awakened the next morning by a discreet tapping on his hotel door that grew progressively louder.

He cracked his eyes and checked his watch.

It was 9:15
A.M.

So much for sleeping late.

“Who is it?”

A familiar voice called through the door, “It's your old friend Lester Rehfuss. Mind if I come in for a minute, Hawk?”

Hawker pulled a pillow over his head. “I don't know any Lester Rehfuss—go away!”

“Now, now, I can always use the passkey if you won't let me in.”

Hawker grunted and threw back the sheets. He pulled on a pair of jeans, then swung the door open. Rehfuss stood beaming at him. He wore the same baggy gray suit as when they had first met. In his left hand he carried a leather briefcase. “Good morning!” he exclaimed.

“Don't smile so brightly. It hurts my eyes, damn it.” Hawker sat down heavily on the bed and rubbed his face with his hands. “Okay, Lester, this'd better be good. I've been asleep for just about three hours, and I'd really like to sleep for at least another three.” Hawker looked at him meaningfully. “If you haven't heard yet, I earned it last night.”

The CIA agent sat down on the bed beside him. “I heard, Hawk, I heard. The television people are talking about nothing else. They keep interrupting the regularly scheduled programs to update the nation's citizenry. Really pissed me off this morning. I like to watch the ‘Beverly Hillbillies' reruns as I eat my breakfast.”

“Please,” said Hawker, “you're breaking my heart.”

“Don't you want to hear what else you earned—besides our undying gratitude, I mean.” Rehfuss swung the briefcase onto the bed and popped open the latches. The briefcase was filled with neat bricks of money that were bound in brown teller's paper.

“A half-million dollars,” Rehfuss said just a little wistfully. “Take a closer look at it if you want. It's in small used bills—fifties and twenties, mostly. When the agency makes a seizure of currency, the dough goes into a special slush fund for occasions just like this.” He grinned. “I hate to see it wasted on a rich playboy like you, but I have to admit, Hawk, you earned every penny of it. You did one hell of a job.”

Hawker looked at him oddly. “I'm flattered, Lester, but I haven't earned anything. Not yet I haven't. I'm not done with this case. I gave the Iranians a pretty hard shot last night, but there are still at least three more members on the loose. They're the same ones who murdered the Chester Rutledge family—in fact, had it not been for them, I wouldn't have broken the case at all. They're students at American University, and they're just about as cold-blooded a trio as you'll ever find. They blew away the whole Rutledge family just because they got mad over some fender-bender auto accident.” Hawker shook his head. “You don't owe me one red cent until I deal with those bastards.”

The CIA agent stared at him steadily. He motioned at the money without looking at it. “Take it, Hawk. Take the money. You've done a fine job.”

Hawker looked at him warily. “Take the money and then go ahead with my plans for the three students?” he asked slowly.

Rehfuss shook his head. “Just take the money, Hawk. Your job is done here.”

“But what about the students—”

“Your job is
done
, James,” Rehfuss said a little too sharply. Then he shook his head and turned his palms upward in apology. “That's what I've been trying to tell you, James. Your performance last night was phenomenal. I spent the sunrise hours at Isfahan Shiraz's estate—I know. It looks like the Grim Reaper himself made a trip through there. We also found the storage area for the components for the bombs they were using, and enough other evidence to safely conclude that the Iranians were behind the bombings that terrorized Washington, D.C., and killed twenty-seven innocent people. You hit the right people, and you hit them hard enough to knock them out of business for good. We were ready to send in our own team if you failed—”

“You mean you
knew
it was Isfahan's bunch?” Hawker asked incredulously.

“Only after you asked me to check on his name,” Rehfuss said quickly. “I said I hadn't heard of Isfahan, but I had. I just wanted to make sure. We had, of course, been compiling data on every diplomat from the Middle East, so it didn't take me long to get a line on him. Within two hours after talking to you, our people had data available on every Iranian in the area who had had public contact with Isfahan within the last six months—and that includes the three students you were talking about.”

Hawker nodded slowly. “So the CIA wants them? I can understand that. I don't like it, but I can understand it. The CIA wants its share of the credit, so by arresting the three assholes and charging them with murder—”

“The CIA isn't going to charge them,” Rehfuss interrupted uneasily. “Nor is the FBI or the D.C. Police Department.”

“What?”

“I shouldn't be telling you this, James—”

Hawker leaned toward him, his face red. “Damn it, Lester, you'd better not stop now! What the hell do you mean they're not going to be arrested?”

“Don't get mad at me, Hawk! Hell, I told you what would probably happen if the bombers were caught by the official police. I said they would probably be scolded and deported. If we did anything else, we'd jeopardize the safety of our own foreign diplomats.”

“Then why don't you let me go in and finish the job—”

“Because you've had your one chance!” Rehfuss snapped. “We're being blamed for it as it is, but if it happens again, it really is our ass.” He leaned toward the vigilante, trying hard to make his case. “James, drop it, for Christ's sake! You've performed beautifully! You've stopped the bastards, and you've left plenty of Iranian corpses in your wake. You made them pay more dearly than any of us ever thought possible. Take my advice, damn it. Take the money, go for a long vacation, and rest assured that, if we ever need you again, we will get in touch.”

James Hawker was silent for a long time. “And what happens if I don't drop it?” he asked. “What happens if I go ahead, track down those three slime balls and give them exactly what they deserve?”

Lester Rehfuss's eyes grew serious and he spoke carefully. “James, you once asked me what happened to people who were allowed into CIA's inner sanctum, but later returned to the outside world. It was a legitimate question, and I told you I would tell you when the time was right. Well, the time is right, James, and I'm afraid you're not going to like my answer very much. For you to go against our wishes, for you to turn renegade now, is the same as trying to blackmail us. You may figure that you are safe from disciplinary action because you can always threaten to tell how you were involved with us. But please believe me, James, the organization will not allow itself to be blackmailed. I repeat, it will
not
allow it.” Rehfuss looked carefully at Hawker. “Do you understand what I'm saying, James?”

James Hawker nodded. “I understand, Lester.”

“I hope you do, James, because if you were to eliminate those three students, you could never stop running. Our people would trail you all over the world. It would not end until … until …”

“Until I disappeared from the face of the earth, right?” Hawker finished, smiling slightly. He paused for a moment, deep in thought. Then he winked. “That's exactly why I'm going to take your advice and drop it, Lester. Hell, I'm not crazy! I don't want you to sick those Blue Light boys on me!”

The CIA agent grinned with relief. “James, you had me very damn worried for a minute. I thought you were going to get stubborn.” He patted the money. “A half-million dollars won't erase your disappointment, but it will go a long way toward
easing
it. Hell, go down to the bar, get drunk. But don't get too drunk. We have a company jet waiting to fly you back to Chicago or Florida, wherever you want to go.” Rehfuss glanced around the hotel suite. “I'll send some of our people over to help you pack—say, about noon? They'll do all the crating. You won't have to lift a finger. And I'll notify the pilot you'll be taking off about three this afternoon.”

Hawker shook his head. “I know you're anxious to get me out of town, but let's make it later.” He smiled rakishly. “There's a certain U.S. senator I want to see. How about if I leave at nine?”

Lester Rehfuss stood up and put out his hand. “The plane will be waiting for you. And thanks, James … thanks for everything. It's been a real pleasure to work with you.” He clapped the vigilante on the shoulder. “Good luck, my friend.”

James Hawker watched him disappear into the hotel elevator. “And good luck to you, too, my friend,” he said softly.

twenty-one

At 7
P.M.
, just after dark, an auburn-haired stranger confronted Mosul Aski, Zanjen Tabriz, and Karaj Khunsar as they were about to enter their dormitory on the campus of American University. He flipped a badge out at them and quickly returned it to his pocket. He said, “My name is James Hawker. I'm with the CIA.”