The Hunted (11 page)

He shoved his tennis shoes back on and faced the task of having to somehow bend over to tie the laces. He was able to knot the right by resting his foot on the display, but there was no way he could lift the left to do the same. Gingerly, he knelt down as far as he could, resting his head against the display for balance. He tied a quick knot, then pulled himself up and glanced around to see if anyone was watching.

Convinced he had remained unnoticed, he moved off into the sportswear department in search of a jacket, where he found himself staring at a full-size fashion photo in the adjacent lingerie section of a twenty-something woman smelling a red rose.
Rose—

“Can I help you?” The voice was sweet and youthful.

Chambers turned and a woman in her early thirties was standing there, her eyebrows raised. “Uh, I’m looking for the entrance to the mall.”

She directed him out of the store, and a couple of minutes later he was moving past the various cart vendors who had set up shop along the center of the ground-floor walkway. The one selling fresh cut flowers caught his attention. He was greeted by a thin woman holding an arrangement of long-stemmed roses accented by a smattering of baby’s breath. She smiled broadly and locked eyes with Chambers. “Would you like a bouquet for your loved one? It’s only eleven ninety-nine...”

Chambers was staring at the roses, mesmerized by the deep crimson velvet of the petals. He shook his head, then backed away from the woman, who had turned her attention to the next customer standing at her booth. He turned and bumped into a blue kiosk with the GlobalNet logo emblazoned on the side. He stood there reading the advertisement scrolling across the computer screen: “The world within your reach.” His eyes glided down to the keyboard, where instructions were mounted: “To access the Internet via GlobalNet’s lightning fast broadband, swipe your credit card in the slot to the left...”

The Internet.

Chambers sat down in the seat and watched as the words scrolled by him: “Send or retrieve e-mail messages, surf the Web, make purchases...” He looked down at the console again. “Set up your own free Hotmail® e-mail account. Just swipe your card to log on...”

Chambers glanced at the screen.
The world within your reach.

He shook his head.
That’s what we have at the office. The office—what office?
He slammed his fist down on the console and tried to concentrate.

The world within your reach.

Roses.

No, just rose.

Just Rose.

Then it hit him: just_rose@hotmail. Yes, that was familiar. But what did it mean? Was it his own e-mail address? A friend’s? His mother’s? A girlfriend’s? Who was Rose?

Chambers let his eyes roam around the mall. He needed a credit card. He headed toward the other end of the mall, then entered a Dillard’s department store. He wound his way to the women’s petite section, where he chose a rack that provided an adequate view of the cashier. Waiting for the right moment to approach, he watched four women come and go, only one of whom had placed her credit card on the counter in such a position that he could have safely taken it. But it was a proprietary Dillard’s card, and it would not have done him any good.

Just then, the cashier placed a Citi MasterCard on the countertop and moved to lift the phone. Chambers quickly made his way toward the register and placed his hands on the cold laminate—his right hand covering the credit card.

As the woman hung up, he excused himself. “Which way to the parking lot?” He reasoned that when they finally realized he was the one who had taken the charge card, they would first search the place they thought he was headed: to a car, out back, in the lot.

“Behind you, just past the shoe department.” He turned to look where she was pointing, as did the woman whose card he was now palming.

“You sure it’s not that way?” he asked, pointing in the opposite direction as he slipped the card into his front pocket.

The woman forced a smile, trying to mask her impatience. “I’m sure. It’s back that way, behind you.”

“Must’ve gotten turned around,” Chambers said as he flashed an embarrassed smile. He turned and quickly made his way down the aisle in the direction of the parking lot. As soon as he was out of view, he circled around the store and headed back toward the mall.

As Chambers was approaching men’s sportswear, he heard an announcement over the public address system. “Security to women’s petite, security to women’s petite.” He grabbed a blue baseball cap, tore the tag off, and pulled it down over his head.

A minute later he was back in the mall, hobbling toward the GlobalNet kiosk. He was only hoping he could swipe the card before the bank put a hold on the number. Even if the woman—Ellen Haskins, according to the name on the card—reported the theft immediately, he figured it would take a few moments for them to take the information and freeze the account.

Only a few steps away now, he could see that the chair was occupied by a youth about eighteen years old.

“Hey, you going to be long?” Chambers asked, trying to allow some of the urgency to pervade his voice.

“A few more minutes,” the youth said, keeping his face glued to the screen.

Chambers glanced around. He waited another few seconds, then leaned over the teen’s shoulder. “Look, I need to log on, get a message out. It’s real important.”

“Hang a second, dude, and I’ll finish my surfing. Just checkin’ the scores. ESPN just posted the—”

“That’s great. But this is urgent. I need to get online.”

“If it’s that important, why don’t you just use your phone,” the kid said, brushing the long, stringy hair off his face.

“Why don’t you?”

“Don’t have a data plan.”

Chambers looked around, back toward Dillard’s, to make sure the search for him wasn’t spilling into the mall. “Me, either.”

“Whatever. It’s yours.” The youth stood and shuffled off, his baggy jeans rubbing against themselves as he headed away from the kiosk.

Chambers settled into the seat, held his breath, and swiped Ellen Haskins’s card. A few seconds passed. He suddenly became aware of his heart thumping as he peered around the edge of the kiosk, expecting to see security guards heading his way.

Just then, an acknowledgment popped up on the screen. The GlobalNet homepage came into focus and he clicked on the Hotmail ad banner. He zipped through a series of welcome and registration screens until he was confronted with the field that asked for his name and a user ID, which would become his e-mail address. He thought for a second, then chose [email protected] as his address.

Finally, he was logged in as a registered user. He hit the COMPOSE MESSAGE link and waited for the screen to appear.

With his fingers poised over the keyboard, he took a second to glance around the mall. Two men in dark suits were a little past Dillard’s, their heads rubbernecking back and forth.

Walking in his direction.

No doubt looking for him.

Douglas Knox was pacing his expansive suite at FBI headquarters, one of several offices in the high security area known as Mahogany Row, so named because of its wood paneling.

Up six steps, back six steps. Before turning, Knox would glance out his window at downtown D.C., then spin and resume his pacing. Each time, the same number of steps. A path had been worn into his carpet twice in the past two years, and it was scheduled to be replaced again by building maintenance once the current crises were resolved.

As he made another pass in front of the window, his phone buzzed. He pressed the intercom.

“Agents Waller and Haviland to see you, sir.”

“Send them in.” He put his hands on his hips and barely waited until they had passed through the door. “Well?”

Haviland cocked his head a bit, shot a glance at Waller, and shrugged. “HP LaserJet, standard Hammermill copy paper, probably purchased—”

“On the fucking East Coast in a Staples office supply store. Yeah, I know that shit. Anything I don’t know?”

“Aside from your prints, it was totally clean, sir,” Waller said. “No saliva on the stamp or envelope. Must’ve used a sponge.”

“Must’ve used a sponge.
That’s all you can give me? The best fucking crime lab in the world and you tell me the perp used a fucking sponge?” Knox punched the intercom button on his phone. “Liz, I want to see the Lab Section chief in my office in ten minutes. And the deputy assistant director.” He slammed the handset down and turned back to Waller. “What kind of sponge, what trace elements were in the damn water they used to wet the sponge? You understand what I’m saying? I can’t believe none of this was done.”

“It might have been, sir. I’ve only got a preliminary report. The tests are all run sequentially—”

“Don’t try to cover for the section chief,” Knox ordered. “Just give me your report.”

“Alternate Light Source has been completed,” Haviland added, “without result. Questioned Documents is scouring every sixteenth of an inch of the paper for indented writing and anything else that’ll tell us who sent it.”

“If there’s a speck of dirt embedded in the fibers, I want to know the origin of the mineral composition of the goddamned dirt.” Knox paused for a moment, then started to pace again. “What about the postmark? I want the postal inspectors flown in from California. Am I making myself clear?”

Waller nodded. “Postal inspector is en route, sir.”

“Anything back from Division Six?”

“BAU just completed their threat analysis,” Haviland said, referring to the Behavioral Analysis, or profiling, Unit. He handed Knox the hastily prepared report. Knox took it and tossed it on his desk.

“And, what’s their risk assessment?”

Haviland cleared his throat. “They concluded that it’s extremely valid. Based on all known information, they gave it a rating of Good credibility and a High level of risk. The fact that they had your home address, gained access to your yard, and had accurate and detailed knowledge of Mrs. Knox’s personal habits all indicated a high degree of preparation and sophistication.” Haviland paused, but Knox’s pacing continued without a break in stride.

“On Division Six’s recommendation,” Waller said, “we’ve initiated a full-scale investigation. As we speak, I’m having the phone records and list of visitors to Anthony Scarponi pulled, which should—”

“Scarponi?” Knox stopped pacing and faced the agents.

“The Viper,” Haviland said, “the international hit man—”

“I know who he is, Agent Haviland.”

“Sir,” Waller said, “with all due respect, we believe there’s a strong indication Scarponi is behind this. Word on the street is that Scarponi put a contract out on Harper Payne six years ago. Payne’s the only one who can hurt him. He gets rid of Payne, his problem’s solved.” Waller stopped, no doubt allowing his comments to fester a moment on the director’s brain.

Knox turned and looked out the window at the city. “I agree with your assessment. But keep your eyes open. Scarponi may be the most obvious, but I don’t want to ignore other possibilities. Am I clear?”

“Yes, sir,” Waller said.

“Scarponi’s gotta be under surveillance,” Haviland said. “I can check with the marshal, find out who’s in charge of his case, see who he’s called. That might help us rule him in or out as a suspect.”

“I’ll handle it,” Knox said.

“Sir, you don’t need to be burdened with that. I can—”

“I said I’ll handle it, Agent Haviland,” Knox said.

“Yes, sir.”

“I won’t let them have the upper hand. Regardless who it is, I’m not giving them Payne.” Even though Knox knew that was the proper response, his voice wavered slightly, as if he might actually consider trading the life of Harper Payne—a man he had never met face-to-face—for the life of a member of his family. He wondered for a second if the two agents had picked up on the slight unevenness of his voice. “Not that I have Payne to give them, even if I wanted to.”

“No, sir,” Haviland said.

Knox turned to face them. “Status.”

“After our initial contact two days ago,” Waller said, “we’ve not been able to locate him. There’s a report of someone possibly matching his description at Virginia Presbyterian, and SAC Lindsey has sent a contingent of agents over. That’s our only lead.”

“Have Lindsey get four agents from my security detail over to my house, separate cars, round the clock. My wife leaves, I want two of them with her. Get another two on my daughter. She’s a sophomore at GW. And get every available agent on this investigation. I want answers and I want them fast. Lindsey has a problem, have him call me—no, have ADIC Maguire call me.”

Waller was nodding. “Yes, sir. Do you want Metro PD alerted—”

“No, I want this handled internally.” Knox was aware that it wasn’t every day that two special agents were called into the director’s office. They didn’t have any new information of substance to offer him, and they certainly didn’t have the answers he wanted. Knox knew they were shitting in their pants. But he didn’t care. He wanted information, answers, results.

Control.

He turned back to the window, sighed deeply, and bowed his head. “I’m making you two personally responsible for finding Payne.”

“Yes, sir,” they answered simultaneously.

Waller cleared his throat. “Sir, about Scarponi—”

“If he’s involved, I will personally see to it—” Knox stopped, focused his eyes on the cars crawling along Pennsylvania Avenue, seven stories below. “If he’s responsible for this letter, he’s declaring war, gentlemen. Witness Protection or not, Harper Payne is still one of ours.”

Five minutes after Waller and Haviland had left his office, Knox turned away from the window. He reached across his desk and hit the intercom button. “Elizabeth, a moment please.”

Seconds later, Knox’s assistant, Liz Evanston, entered with pen and pad in hand. She was a thick woman of sixty, silver hair coifed and trimmed to perfection, just like her work. Liz had been the FBI director’s personal assistant since 1968. Having started her employment under J. Edgar Hoover, she knew the ins and outs of how to find information within the Bureau, and because of that she was an invaluable resource. As each director came and went, she was one constant that maintained continuity and helped keep the director’s office running smoothly.