The Assassin's Case (20 page)

              Before Tedesco could respond Grant continued.

              “My friends and co-workers. They didn’t know how to talk to me. What to say. People began avoiding me. Afraid to say the wrong thing.” Grant threw an arm over his face. “Jaime and my boss, Steve Jenson, were the only people there for me.” He sat up, placing his elbows on his knees. “We belonged to a church. Attended regularly, especially Susan and Sawyer.” His voice cracked a bit at the mention of his wife and son. “I went whenever I could. After they died some of the members would drop by to check on me. Bring food. I appreciated it. But after a while it seemed their attempts at comfort were so trite. Spewing platitudes like … God will see you through it … Your family is with Him.” Grant slammed the edge of his fist on the mattress. “My favorite was time heals all wounds.” He shook his head. “Time. Heals. What a load of crap.” Grant pointed a finger. “And even worse. I worked for the FBI. We knew who did it and nobody would do one damn thing about it.” He dropped his hand. “Well, by God, it cost me my career, but I did something.”

              “I’m sorry.” Tedesco wished he could convey how truly and deeply sorry he was. He sat up, to look the man in the eye he had hurt so deeply, one palm on the Bible. “I really am sorry.”
Now.
The time to tell him was now.

              “I realize that, Jimmy.” Grant scrubbed his hands over his face before dropping them to the bunk. “But it doesn’t change what you did.” He lay down and rolled onto his side, facing the wall. “I can’t absolve you anyway. Now, enough talk. Get some sleep. I have a feeling tomorrow’s going to be a long day.”

              Tedesco lay back on his pillow. His thumb caressed the damaged pages of the Bible. “So. What’s the deal with you and Jaime?”

              “Shut up, Jimmy.”

              A smile formed on Tedesco’s lips. This was progress of a sort. At least Grant’s fingers weren’t at his throat.     

TWENTY-THREE

Jaime settled the phone’s handset in its cradle and sank back into the soft chair. Morning sun filtered through sheer curtains that riffled in the sea-scented breeze, the surf pounded out a mellow tune. But none of it did anything to ease her agitation. She tapped a hand on the armrest, her foot bounced. The call had, again, been kicked into Steve Jenson’s voicemail. The message on his office and cell phones indicated he would be out of the office for the next couple of days. A call to his home the previous evening put Jaime in contact with Pamela Jenson, Steve’s wife. She informed Jaime her boss was in Washington at a sudden and apparently urgent meeting with the director. Pamela promised if she talked to Steve first she would make sure he called Jaime back.

              She needed to get in touch with someone at the bureau, get the ball rolling to investigate this mad man Colonel Cane. Get Dr. Morgan’s family in protective custody. Of course Jaime hadn’t discussed that option with them yet.

              She consulted the notepad on the table by the phone and grabbed the handset, before tapping in the number to the U.S. embassy in Mexico City with the tip of a pencil. She needed to contact the LEGAT, the FBI legal attaché stationed at the embassy. The FBI had legal attaché offices in more than 50 foreign countries, stationed at their various embassies. Although LEGAT’s didn’t have any arrest authority, and usually didn’t carry weapons, supposedly, the agents worked with their counterparts in their respective foreign countries on cases of mutual interest. The Legal Attaché program was intended to create a network of relationships with foreign law enforcement agencies to address the rising tide of international crime and terrorism. Right now though, she just needed somebody to be informed she was here, to give her presence the weight of the FBI. Also, Stan Friedman, the current LEGAT, happened to be a friend, they had worked together when he was a field agent. And more importantly, she trusted him.

              The switchboard operator connected her, and of course, Stan’s voicemail fielded the call. “Stan. It’s Jaime Pendleton. Long time, huh. Look, I’m in Mexico and … well … it’s kind of a long story. Can you give me a call as soon as you get in? Thanks.” She left her cell and room phone numbers.

              She grabbed her cell from the table, removed the charger, and powered it up. Damn the colonel and his henchmen. She stuffed a hand in her robe pocket and clutched the SIG. Even if they knew she was involved in this and tracked her phone, she didn’t plan to be here much longer anyway.

              The phone trilled its welcome tune and its readout indicated she had voicemails. A number of them. She listened to four messages, none of them from Steve, and none of them important. The fifth message however chilled her blood. “Agent Pendleton. I’m afraid we’ve gotten off on the wrong foot.” The cold voice left a number. “Call me and we can work something out. Oh, and agent Pendleton, don’t contact your superiors. I assure you it will do you little good. It just may tick me off. This is all way above your pay grade.” The message ended and Jaime saved it.

              She shoved the device in her left pocket, moved to the door connecting her room and the next one, and pounded on the door.

              Scott Evans eased open the door. A toothbrush jutted from his mouth, his skin sparkled with moisture, and a towel was the only thing covering him.

              “Good morning,” Scott said. It sounded more like
goom morwing
thanks to the toothbrush.

              “We need to talk.”

* * * * *

Seated at a table littered with the remains of a room service breakfast, Jaime and Evans faced Dr. Morgan’s clan. On the other side of Tim Peterson’s spacious suite, Alex and Tabitha sat on the couch, enamored by Spongebob Squarepants and the rest of the Bikini Bottom clan.

              “No offense, Jaime,” Tim Peterson said. “But I would rather leave my family’s welfare in the hands of my own security staff.”

              The refusal of Jaime’s offer to put the family in protective custody was understandable but she still needed to offer. “I understand.”

              Jaime’s phone twittered in her pocket. The incoming number blocked. “Excuse me.” She stepped onto the balcony for privacy before answering. “Pendleton.”

              “Jaime, Stan Friedmen. Just got your message.”

              “Stan. Thanks for calling me. Listen, I just wanted to inform someone I was down here. Just in case.”

              “What’s going on, Jaime?”

              She took a breath. Deciding on what should be said, and what not to say. “Stan, I can’t really explain. I’m down here helping out an old friend. He’s in a little trouble. It’s strictly freelance. If any thing goes sour and the local authorities contact you, I wanted you to know I’m here.”

              “Can you tell me what this is all about?”

              “Stan, if I could, I would. I promise you.”

              “Understood. Hey, it must be old home week. I just heard, sort of, from another friend. A name I haven’t heard in a very long time.”

              “Who?” Jaime asked.

              “Do you remember Grant Sawyer?”

              All the moisture in Jaime’s throat evaporated. She swallowed. “Umm … yes.”

              “It’s a terrible damn thing happened to his family. Terrible. Well, anyway, it’s seems he’s been picked up by the local authorities. Gave them some cock-and-bull story about being down here on an undercover op.”

              “Stan I—”

              “That’s not all either. I heard over the wire this morning that he’s wanted for questioning. Doesn’t say what for, or why. Just to call a number at DOD if we get wind of him.”

              So, Cane’s tentacles reached into the Department of Defense. “Stan, did you call the DOD?”

              “Yeah, just before I called you. That’s what took so long. Is everything okay, Jaime? You sound a bit rattled.”

Jaime combed her fingers through her hair, resisting the urge to tug a handful out by the roots. She considered a moment. “I need some help, Stan.”

              “Just say the word.”

              “Grant Sawyer is the person I’m down here to help.” Jaime stitched together a tale of partial truth, with just enough details to convince Stan. She moved into the room and grabbed a piece of the hotel’s stationary. Stan gave her the town and address of the police station where Grant was being held. “Have you called the police station yet?”

              “No. That was my next call.”

              “I need one more favor. Well two, actually.”

              “Are you trying to get my butt in a sling Agent Pendleton?” Before she could answer he laughed. “What do you need?”

              “Let me go get Grant. And fax me something official to take with me.”

              “Okay.” He said the last with a sigh.

              Jaime gave him the hotel’s fax number. “Stan, I can’t tell you how much I appreciate it.”

              “Denada. You take care of yourself. Grant was, is, a good man. Nobody blames him for what happened. Hell, I probably would have done the same thing.”

              Jaime was about to hang up when the LEGAT blurted out. “Jackrabbit.”

              “What did you say?” Jaime asked.

              “That’s the name of the fake operation Grant gave the police.”

              “Jackrabbit?”

              “Jackrabbit.”

              Jaime hung up and went inside. She looked at the expectant faces at the table. “It just keeps getting better.” She explained the new hitch. “Well, I’ve got to go get Grant and Tedesco.” She turned to Evans and waved a hand at the group seated around the table. “You get them home.”

              Jaime turned to Dr. Morgan. “How can we get Cane off our backs?”

              The elderly scientist shook his head. He seemed to have shed fifteen years in the past day. “I have to contact him. Assure him our secrets are safe. Colonel Cane is a patriot. Apparently misguided, but loyal none-the-less.” He gripped his wife’s hand. “My family is safe. That’s all I cared about. I’ll make him understand.”

              “And if that doesn’t work?”

              “It will. I know it.”

              Jaime considered. “Well, if it doesn’t. You need to be prepared for the worst. Just in case.”

              Tim reached over and clasped his own wife’s hand. “What should we do now?”

“All of you should stay together for the time being. Your people can protect you better that way. We’ll know more after your father-in-law speaks to Cane. If Cane won’t quit we’ll come up with something.” Jaime turned to Dr. Morgan. “We may have to go public. Get the FBI involved. Is that going to be a problem?”

              The doctor considered. “I took an oath to keep the secrets in my care safe. But I’ll do what I have to in order to protect my family. But you realize that the facility at Playas Lake is a black operation. Our government will guard its secret at any cost. I don’t know exactly who it is, but the operation is overseen by a highly placed individual in the Department of Defense.”

              “You don’t know who Cane reports to?” Jaime said.

              Morgan shook his head. “When I was reassigned to Biodyne from the Army’s Research Institute of Infectious Diseases main lab, it was on a need-to-know basis. Everything and everyone involved in the operation is considered classified. Above top-secret.” He peered into the faces of his family. “Until now, none of you even knew what I really did.”

              With a secret this large Jaime suspected going public might not be in their best interest. It could make things worse. And she wasn’t convinced Cane would walk away. She needed to speak to Steve. She swallowed her doubt. “Okay. After I spring Grant and Tedesco out of jail, I’ll be in touch. We’ll go from there.”

              “Boss,” Evans said. Glancing from Jaime to Tim. “I would like to stay, help out Agent Pendleton.”

              “Of course.”

              Evans nodded. “I’ve got two good men from our security team, men I trust, accompanying your jet here.” He checked his watch. “They’ll be landing within the hour.”

              Jaime passed a note with the number Cane left her to Dr. Morgan. “When you get in the air. Call him.”

              He nodded and stuffed the paper into his pocket.

              “So,” Jaime said. “Where do you guys plan to go?”

* * * * *

When Evans returned from escorting Morgan’s family to the airport, Jaime was ready. The family had decided to return to Gulf Shores. Dr. Morgan was concerned for the safety of his sister.

Before answering Evans’ knock, Jaime took a last glimpse of herself in the mirror. She tugged her blazer and turned to make sure the bulge of the gun in the shoulder holster beneath it wasn’t too obvious. Her fingers brushed the lapel of the blazer, parting it just enough to view the badge clipped to her belt. It gleamed against her white shirt. She felt confident. Professional. Ready. The beige suit had cost a fortune in the hotel gift shop, but it was the only business suit to be found.

              Evans rapped again.

              “Coming.” She hoped to make it to San Blas in less than the estimated four hours. And hoped it would be soon enough.

              Her feelings of confidence abated, just a bit, when she saw the rental car waiting for them in the parking lot. A maroon mid-90’s model Ford Taurus. It was a bit difficult to intimidate, pull off the hard-edged persona she hoped to convey, when you stepped out of the king of the middle aged traveling salesman automobile.

              Evans threw a bag, certain to be filled with a variety of useful items, into the trunk. Something in her face must have betrayed her lack of enthusiasm for the rental.

              “Sorry,” Evans said. “It’s the best they had.”

              They survived the chaotic traffic of Mazatlan and made it to Highway 15, the road they would remain on for the majority of the journey. Her fingers drummed on the armrest, her foot tapped on the stained grey carpet. As the traffic thinned Jaime attempted to relax. Her eyes darted from the windshield to the speedometer to her watch. The speed limit on the highway was 100 kilometers, approximately 63 miles per hour, but it seemed as if they crawled along the road like a salted slug. The road peeled by as slowly as cold syrup poured. She wanted to scream,
Are we there yet?

              Out of desperation she fiddled with the radio, but of the few stations she could tune in, none played music. Announcer’s voices crackled through the speakers in rapid fire Spanish. She shut if off and leaned back in her seat, crossing her arms.

              “If I could drive faster, I would,” Evans said. “But the last thing we need is to get pulled over.” He patted the console between the seats and inclined his head toward the trunk. “We would have some explanations to make if the car is searched. And that would cost us even more time.”