JARVIS BURNS sat in his cluttered row house in southeast Washington near the Capitol rubbing his forehead. Three Advils had not done the trick, but he had a bottle of Dewar’s in his drawer that might. He looked up at the man who sat across from him. Ned Armstrong. Real name Daniel Tyson. He’d worked for Burns for ten years and had never failed him. And yet the only reason he had not sent Mary Bard for a final meeting with Tyson was the fact that the man had followed Burns’s order to the letter.
Put her in the fridge alive.
“A bullet to the head would be better,” Tyson had told him at the time.
And he’d been right, of course. But Burns wanted the woman to suffer. He wanted her to wake up and see the hopelessness of her situation with warmth and air only a few inches away. It had been a mistake, a rare occurrence for him, but still a mistake.
“You said she went to the microwave and saw that it was broken?” Burns asked.
“She never said anything, but that seemed to be what she was thinking. So she might know I was lying about that. And if they know Tolliver was dead on Friday, they’d know I lied about that too.”
“And you didn’t hear who Perry was talking to or what she said while on the fourth floor?”
“I was waiting on the other side of the door. I just heard mumbles.”
“We can check her cell phone records. Probably either her sister or Roy Kingman. If the former, the concern is vast. If the latter, it might be manageable.”
“But they took her to the hospital, sir. And Beth Perry was there. She might’ve talked about what she knows.”
“She may know about the subterfuge regarding Tolliver’s death. And the fact that you might be involved somehow. If you disappear then they might think you did it acting alone, and then tried to cover it up.”
“Perhaps,” said Tyson, as he shifted his bulk in the chair. “But they went to the restaurant where Tolliver ate on Friday. If they put two and two together?”
“I am fully aware of the ramifications of that potential development, Tyson. No solution is perfect. We are clearly in damage control territory. We knew something like this might happen. That was why we had you stationed there as the security guard. Gave us eyes and ears on the ground and complete access to the building. It also allowed us the intelligence about the old soldier sneaking in.”
“He makes the perfect patsy.”
“Maybe not so perfect now. They must’ve figured out that the sperm was planted, and that he is not nearly smart enough to pull this off. That was always a risk.”
“But unfortunately my own cover is probably blown.”
“You’re on the next agency flight to Riyadh. You’ll spend two years there to let things quiet down before reassignment. I strongly suggest you lose about eighty pounds and have facial reconstructive surgery by approved agency surgical personnel. I’ll provide full paper coverage for you. We may be able to convince them that you are indeed one of the great serial killers of all time.”
“I’m sorry the mission wasn’t successful, sir.”
“It was my call, my fault. You were following orders. That is what you’re supposed to do. I will never blame you for that.”
“Will you require a close-out report?”
“No. Enjoy Saudi Arabia.” Burns nodded at the door. A few seconds later he was alone once more.
He spent most of his time alone, thinking through the next doomsday scenario. He was tasked to keep America safe by any means possible. He thought about nothing else 24/7. He had used his muscle, training, and wits in uniform for his country. And now in a suit and tie he used what he had left to serve America.
He spent twenty minutes on three different calls. As he set the phone down for the last time, his mind went back to Mace Perry.
He didn’t like losing. Never had since he was a small boy running through the cornfields of Kansas chasing dreams. She was good, but she was still just a street cop.
He picked up his phone and made another call. “It’s time for the contingency plan,” he said into the receiver.
It was very late but Chester Ackerman was awake and sitting in the living room of his lavish apartment in the Watergate Building. The managing partner of Shilling & Murdoch had traded his suit, wingtips, and braces for khaki pants, an orange cashmere sweater, and Docksiders. As soon as he heard Burns’s voice his thoughts about taking a ride the next day in his forty-foot cabin cruiser vanished.
Ackerman put his tumbler of scotch and soda down, sat up straight, and gathered his courage to say it. “I really think I should maintain a low profile with all this. I already told you about Diane when she came to me asking questions. I fired Kingman. I’ve kept the money flowing. I think I’ve done enough.”
Burns’s retort was like a cannonball fired right into his belly. “You’ve also made a bloody fortune for basically sitting on your fat ass because of business deals that I got for you! Now here’s where you repay the kindness of your beneficent government. So just shut up and listen. You should already have the legal documents prepared like I told you to do.”
“I do,” he said in a shaky voice, his meager courage gone.
“Now you will act exactly in accordance with my instructions. And if you don’t…”
Burns spoke uninterrupted for nearly ten minutes. When he’d finished he hung up and leaned back in his chair.
That sonofabitch has made more in one year than I’ve made in my entire life. A draft dodger who pays his first-year know-nothings more than I’ll ever make. And he wants to lay low. He wants to take a time-out after making millions! He’s done enough!
Part of Burns wished that Ackerman would fail to follow his orders just so he could order the man’s execution. Mary Bard could probably kill him with simply a stare.
Don’t tempt me, you parasite. Don’t you dare tempt me.