Shadows and Lies (28 page)

When he was finished he checked Alta carefully and found nothing of use. Then he wrapped the tapes, letters and disc from the camera into a tight package which he addressed and placed in his coat pocket.

“So she’s dead.”

The voice startled Powers so badly he jumped in his seat. It was Nasr.

“Yes. I’m sorry. It happened a few hours ago. I thought... I thought I was going to get her away but...”

Nasr was wearing the same raincoat and except for needing a shave appeared rested. “I blame myself. I was too concerned about finding her than being trapped. I thought it safer for all to let you do the finding while I followed and made certain of your opposition.”

“You saw the body down the road?”

“The fat man?” Nasr moved to his cousin. “The bastards tortured her,” he said more to himself than to Powers.

“There are two Frenchmen in the woods over there. I killed them last night.”

“Slowly I hope.”

“No. I was too busy trying to stay alive. Julie helped me.”

“She was a courageous woman. Even as a child. Perhaps if she had been less reckless she’d still be alive.”

“Was there anyone else after me?”

“Just the two-car caravan, the fat man and this woman here. You killed her?”

“Yes.”

“You were lovers, weren’t you?”

“Yes.”

Nasr nodded. “A difficult act. You didn’t hesitate when it became necessary. These people seriously underestimated you.”

The man with whom Powers had struggled Sunday night appeared in the doorway and spoke in Arabic, glancing briefly at Powers then lingering over Marei’s body. His nose was bandaged and both eyes were blackened. Nasr answered and the man moved off.

“Hisham says there are two bodies in the nearby woods. Your Frenchmen.” Nasr drew a pack of cigarettes from inside his coat and extended it to Powers. “These are Turkish, guaranteed to break you of the habit or hook you for life.” Powers took a cigarette and Nasr lit them both with a wooden match. The smoke was very strong and heady. His lungs were raspy from the previous day and night and he coughed.

“Not a healthy sound,” Nasr said with the slightest smile. They smoked in silence before he spoke again. “The fat man made an unusual maneuver during the storm. I knew he was following you and where you were so it caught me off guard. That’s an American expression, isn’t it? I thought so. It made no sense and I lost him. I was forced to employ other devices to locate this place and because of the storm and road conditions arrived only minutes ago.”

“He had planted a tracking device in a cell phone I had. He could afford to lose me to be certain no one followed him because he knew he could pick me up again.”

“A transponder? They are so small and powerful these days I forget about them. Technology will be the death of me yet. My error cost Julie her life.”

“It was my mistake. I should have realized Alta was here to kill her and never let her close.”

Nasr smiled knowingly. “They sent her because they knew you
wouldn’t
do that. No, to be honest, my dear cousin killed herself and her parents with this stupidity.” Hisham was back and speaking in Arabic. “My cousin has something to say to you.”

“Of course.”

Hisham stepped into the cabin and said with a thick accent, “I apologize for attacking you. I ask your forgiveness.”

“That’s not necessary. It was a natural error.”

Nasr said, “You refused me the name of the man who killed Khalil when I asked for it before.”

“Your cousin was trying to kill me, remember? He had to shoot him to save me.”

“A distinction important to you, but not to us. His name?”

“He goes by Lily. He’s with the Office of Naval Intelligence on detached duty. His real name is Pribble, Jarrett Pribble. My source wasn’t able to learn much else. All I know is he’s a professional assassin.”

Nasr looked at Hisham who nodded once then disappeared again. “That should be enough. We know what the man looks like. It is only a question of time, and we have plenty of that.” Nasr looked down at Powers
’
jacket pocket. “You have something of value?”

“Yes. For my safety. For Julie’s if she had survived.”

Nasr contemplated his answer then said, “Keep it. This was always personal for me, never political.” He rose and stubbed out his cigarette. “We have my dear cousin here, this person at my feet, the two French dogs and the fat man. Are there any others I should know about?”

“That’s it. I am so very sorry about Julie.”

“Yes. You should have known her in better times. You would have loved her, as we all did.” He handed Powers a slip of paper. “My number. I am indebted to you.”

“I don’t see how. After all, I got her killed.”

“For warning Dr. Kandari and his daughter, for trying to save Julie when all you really had to do was save yourself, and for seeing that her body was returned to us. These are not small matters. Call when you need me. I can arrange somewhere warm for you to hide. Don’t doubt that if you survive the next 24 hours you will need to. You should leave with us after we are finished.”

“I have matters to settle in Washington.”

“I suspected you would. Don’t be foolish. It is time to take cover. This affair is over. Events will run their course.”

“You said a moment ago that this was personal for you, not political?” Nasr nodded slowly. “I’ve been used, set up. I’m not just walking away from this.”

Nasr sighed. “Then I fear we’ll not speak again.
Quel dommage.
”

Peut-être nous rencontrer à nouveau
.
“Perhaps we will meet again.” Powers smiled.

Nasr grinned. “So you
do
speak French.”

“A bit. I worked in Montreal for more than a year with a partner who was a committed Francophile. I’m afraid my accent is heavily Quebec.”

“If we get the opportunity we shall correct that. You mustn’t speak like a provincial.”

Nasr looked towards his dead cousin, set his jaw and approached the body of Julie Marei. He tenderly covered her exposed flesh and face with the blanket. Then he collapsed on the floor beside her and wept.

            
 
TWENTY-FIVE

Northern Virginia, 3:02 p.m. 

It was slow going from Seven Fountains. The streams and tributaries were filled to overflow and Powers eased his way through hubcap deep water several times. Though the county and state road crews were working doggedly to clear the roads, he was forced twice to wait more than an hour at bottlenecks.

The sun was unexpectedly bright following the clouds of the last three days, and the afternoon was warmer than he expected, thick with humidity. Once he reached I-66 he lowered the windows since he was forced to drive slowly time and again. He worked his way through a packet of Turkish cigarettes Nasr had forced on him. His leg throbbed but he dismissed any thought of seeking medical treatment. The doctors and hospitals were busy enough and he had no desire to make the mandatory police report such a wound required.

Nasr’s solution to the troublesome bodies was simple enough. Marei would, of course, leave with him, as would the two Frenchmen. She would receive a proper burial while the agents, Powers surmised, would be dropped into an acid bath outside of Newark. Alta remained where she was with her gun, as it had fallen from her hand. Shanken was carried to the cabin and given the Walther that Powers used to kill her. The police could try and figure that one out. Nasr and his cousin were sanitizing the area when he left and would take the other weapons with them.

Powers pointed out that both Alta and Shanken were on the White House payroll and this couldn’t be swept under the carpet. “All to the better,” Nasr replied with a thin smile. “There will be so many theories no one will know what really happened but us. Let them try and explain it away. My guess is a clandestine love affair gone awry. That is the most obvious approach.”

At Centreville, outside of Arlington, Powers exited the interstate and mailed his package. Though he had no appetite, he bought a sandwich at a convenience market and agreed with the retirement-age clerk that the storm sure had been terrible. Then he drove to Washington, D.C., and parked Marei’s Taurus on 18th Street, just north of the World Bank, and west of the White House. He sat in the car smoking, listening to convention coverage, and thinking.

The hourly news announced that the French government had issued a statement that they possessed information President Tufts had been in secret negotiations with Saddam Hussein for some months and that he had entered into a private agreement which forfeit the territorial sovereignty of Kuwait. Their commitment to military force in the Gulf was under review. 

When it was well dark, Powers locked the car and walked to the White House.

The West Wing, 8:39 p.m.

“Ala
–
bama!” the woman shouted though she had several large microphones in front of her. Standing behind her were two grinning women, one black, one Latin, clipboards pressed against their bosoms. The delegates cheered at the start of the nominating roll call vote.

“Madam Chair!” a male voice boomed, “the great state of Alabama, the Heart of Dixie, chosen nesting ground of the magnificent yellow hammer, site of the Civil Rights Memorial in beautiful downtown Montgomery; Alabama!!, the...”

Karp sipped his single malt scotch, took another hit on the Esplendito, and shook his head derisively at the tiresome ritual that went with nominating a presidential candidate. It had always seemed to him the only proper way to assume power was with a coup. Armed men leading a raid on the palace in the dead of night, the media ominously silent, then the blare of trumpets, enthusiastic announcers, and the new leader stepping onto the balcony to receive the adulation of the masses. That’s the way it should be, not this idiotic part-carnival, remainder-freak-show that the conventions were. He’d been there last time but once had been enough. Anyway, tonight he needed to be close to the reins of power, at least until Shanken returned from Seven Fountains and he could finally wrap this up.

The telephone warbled. “Yes?” he answered irritably. He’d left word not to be disturbed.

“Mr. Karp, this is the Ambassadors Entrance sentry. Sorry to bother you but a Mr. Powers is here and is not on the list. He says you will want to see him because he has tapes and communiques. I’m sorry to...”

Karp heard nothing after that though the voice was continuing somewhere in the distance. Finally he interrupted to say, “Have someone escort him to my office.”

It was a Wednesday, a night of the week that was generally as busy as any day, but the East Wing was, practically speaking, deserted. Everyone who was anyone was in New York at Madison Square Garden, with the throngs of sycophants, and the insignificant others were on vacation or pinned at home by the storm. Karp refilled his drink and reminded himself he’d been drinking for some time. “Be cautious,” he said aloud.

Powers stopped at the entrance to the office. He had not been surprised to find Karp here. In fact, he’d been counting on it. The President’s chief counsel waved the suited escort off. Karp was looking smooth as ever, Powers observed. His suit jacket was on a hanger and his tie was undone. He wore crimson plaid bracers, that were supposed to make a power statement of some kind, but which Powers thought made him look foolish. Karp appeared in shock Powers was actually in his office. “You look like shit,” the President’s lawyer said. “Want a drink?”

“Bourbon if you have it.” Powers couldn’t have agreed more about his appearance. His dress shoes were nearly destroyed, the Levi’s were torn and caked with dried mud as was the shirt he’d put on the night before. He’d left the jacket in the car. He hadn’t shaved in more than a day, or bathed in two. His right eye was blackened, and there were two long, deep scratches along his left cheek that would leave slight scars. He felt as hard as he looked, and took the glass of bourbon without a thanks.

“I hear you’re supposed to be some kind of half-ass super sleuth,” Karp said. “I’m not impressed with Midwestern hicks. I can find a dozen men better at it then you’ve ever been, inside of 60 seconds.” Karp hesitated as if reconsidering his approach. “I guess we have to talk.” He took his place behind the desk, where he drew himself up in an obvious attempt at composure. From hostility he turned slightly euphoric.

Karp was also, Powers realized, more drunk than tipsy. The television continued with the roll call of states in a muted voice. “Connecticut!”

“What’s this about?” the lawyer demanded, his words slightly slurred. “If this is some kind of crude shakedown, I warn you that...” His voice trailed away. Karp paused, then took a pull of scotch.

“It’s over,” Powers said. “The house of cards is coming down.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“I’ve got the letters between the President and Saddam Hussein.”

Karp blanched, then said, “Forgeries.”

“No. They’re genuine. Haven’t you been listening to the news? The French government is accusing your boy of secret negotiations over the future of Kuwait. They’ve got the letters now and are satisfied they are genuine. The game’s up.”