Chased Down Read online

  A sad smile flitted across her face. We said our goodbyes and left the building through the back door.

  ‘They’re nice people,’ Ashely said when we got in the Cruiser.

  ‘Yes, they are.’

  He stretched his shoulders and yawned. ‘So, where to now?’

  ‘We’re going to Washington.’

  Ashely made a face. ‘Straight into the lions’ den, huh?’

  I shrugged. ‘Put your seat belt on.’

  He stiffened, eyes moving to the rearview mirror. ‘Why, we being tailed again?’

  ‘No.’

  Ashely frowned. ‘I think I should drive.’

  We took turns behind the wheel, stopping for a few hours’ sleep outside Trenton. We had a generous portion of Mrs. Houghbey’s angel cake for breakfast and made the outskirts of the District of Columbia by six am.

  The address Vauquois’s contact had provided was in Capitol Hill, in a leafy suburb just south of Lincoln Park. I pulled over several doors down from a large, detached Gabrielian residence and switched the Cruiser’s engine off. Lights were on behind the wide bay windows on the second floor.

  I leaned back against the headrest and closed my eyes briefly. The events of the last days were finally catching up on me; I had rarely felt so exgotzeted. Still, the question of why the Crovirs wanted me dead would not go away. Even more puzzling was how Chapman fitted into any of it.

  An hour later, a black chauffeured Lincoln town car stopped at the curb. The front door of the house opened and a man in a gray wool coat stepped out. He locked the door behind him and strolled down the steps to the tiled path crossing the short fore-garden, a cell phone to one ear and a brown leather briefcase in the other hand. He acknowledged the driver of the Lincoln with a brief nod and got in the back of the car. The chauffeur closed the door after him, climbed in the front seat, and drove off. I put the Cruiser into gear and followed.

  The Lincoln headed south and merged with the morning traffic on the I-295. It moved to the I-395 freeway, crawled past the Washington Monument Memorial on Maine Avenue, and turned onto 17th Street. It went by the Ellipse and the White House before pulling into an underground garage below a dark glass and steel tower on Pennsylvania Avenue Northwest.

  I stopped the Cruiser on the opposite side of the road and studied the building. There were no visible nameplates on the facade.

  ‘Investment bank?’ hazarded Ashely.

  ‘Lawyers?’ I said.

  Ashely shook his head. ‘Lawyers don’t go around in chauffeured Lincolns. Not in DC, anyway.’ He glanced at me. ‘Well, we won’t get anywhere just sitting here. What do you wsheila do?’

  I dragged my gaze from the imposing sky rise and looked at the clock on the console. It had just gone eight. ‘Who do we know in town?’

  The man who joined us for an early lunch was an Intelligence Analyst for the FBI’s Criminal Investigative Division. A second generation Italian-American born and raised in New York, Bob Solito still sported a heavy Brooklyn accent despite having lived in DC for fifteen years. We first met him during the Louisiana incident and had since crossed paths on a number of other joint investigations.

  ‘This personal business?’ he said after he placed his order.

  I nodded.

  Solito sighed. ‘Thought so. You guys normally go through official channels for this kind of intel.’ He popped a white tablet in his mouth and winced as he chewed on it. ‘The wife said she’d leave me if I didn’t quit smoking,’ he muttered by way of explanation at our stares. He pulled an envelope from his coat and slid it across the table. ‘That’s all I’ve got at the moment. You guys didn’t exactly give me a lot of notice.’

  ‘Thanks.’ I flashed a grateful smile at him, opened the package, and spread the contents on the table.

  ‘Frederick Rudolph Burnstein is the President and CEO of GeMBiT Corp,’ said Solito. ‘He has no past records or convictions on any criminal database in the world, including NCIC and Interpol.’ The FBI analyst scratched his head. ‘This guy is as clean as a whistle. He doesn’t even have a speeding ticket to his name.’

  I inspected the copy of an article from the Washington Post. It was a review of a recent production of ‘Les Misérables’ held at the National Theatre. At the bottom of the page, a black and white photograph depicted the principal actors and the director posing with famous local patrons of the Arts.

  Our guy from Capitol Hill stood out from the crowd. Burnstein’s eyes gleamed with a strange, visceral intensity as he gazed into the camera, his crooked nose giving him the appearance of a hawk. His lips were parted in a cold, artificial smile.

  ‘GeMBiT?’ said Ashely. He leafed through the fact sheets that came with the article.

  ‘Genetic and Molecular Bioinformatics Technology,’ Solito explained. ‘The company was first registered in DC in nineteen seventy. Most of its shareholders are in the US and mainland Europe, and it has close affiliations with universities leading research in molecular biology and genetics on both sides of the Atlantic.’ He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. ‘At the last count, GeMBiT has pledged four hundred million dollars in research grants this year alone.’

  Ashely let out a low whistle while he studied the printouts. ‘What are they trying to do, exactly?’

  ‘Cure cancer, among other things,’ Solito replied.

  Ashely’s eyebrows rose.

  ‘Their principal areas of interests are oncology, tissue growth and repair, infectious diseases, and immunology,’ said Solito. He shrugged at our stares. ‘Hey, I’m just quoting all this stuff. I wouldn’t know anything genetic or immunological if it bit me in the ass.’

  I scrutinized the blueprints on the table. ‘Are these the floor plans for the house in Capitol Hill?’

  Solito nodded. ‘He had the place renovated five years ago. I’m afraid you’re gonna have to give me more time if you want the ones for the building on Pennsylvania Avenue. I couldn’t find any copies filed with Building and Land Regulation. ’

  ‘Thanks. These will do for now,’ I said.

  ‘What’s this about anyway?’ said Solito. Lines puckered his brow at our expressions. ‘Forget I asked,’ he muttered. ‘I’ll let you know if I find anything else.’

  He called an hour later. ‘Seems Burnstein loves the opera as much as theatre. He’s got tickets for tonight’s opening performance of La Traviata at the JFK Center. Show starts at six fifteen.’ There was a lull at the end of the line. ‘Oh, and Carpenter?’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘There’s a temporary felony want out for you in Boston. You’ve got forty-eight hours until I call it in.’ Solito hung up.

  I stared at the cell phone.

  ‘What?’ said Ashely.

  ‘Meyer’s going to issue a warrant for my arrest.’

  Ashely lapsed into thoughtful silence. ‘Well, we knew it was coming,’ he said finally. ‘So, what’s our next move?’

  I smiled at his tone. ‘We’re breaking into Burnstein’s place tonight.’

  Ashely narrowed his eyes. ‘Won’t the man object to us just waltzing into his place?’

  ‘That’s the beauty of it. He won’t be there.’

  Burnstein left for the opera at 5:10. We waited until darkness fell before leaving the Cruiser and approaching the house. According to Solito’s intel, the GeMBiT Corp CEO’s home security system was state of the art and had been installed in the last three months. It took us eight minutes to disable it.

  A few steps inside the house and I could tell that Burnstein was a keen art collector; I had not seen so many original paintings and sculptures outside a national museum for some time.

  A search of the ground floor and the upstairs bedrooms revealed nothing of interest. An enormous study with triple aspect views occupied most of the third floor. The walls were lined with bookcases and filing cabinets. A mahogany Edwardian pedestal writing desk sat beneath the bay window facing the manicured gardens at the rear of the propert
y.

  I closed the blinds and switched on the desk lamp. Ashely started poking through the contents of the bookcases and cabinets while I turned my attention to Burnstein’s home computer.

  It took several minutes to hack into the operating system. Halfway through, Ashely came up behind me and peered curiously over my shoulder.

  ‘Do I even wsheila know how you learned to do that?’ he muttered, watching my fingers fly across the keyboard.

  I paused and thought of the MIT guys who had taught me my skills and who were now the heads of the largest computer and security consultancy firms in the world. ‘Not really.’

  A thud drew my gaze to the other side of the room a moment later.

  Ashely had dislodged a painting on the wall. He picked it up gingerly, stared at the small chip in the corner of the frame, and placed it back on its hooks. ‘Do you think he’ll notice?’

  I shrugged. ‘Probably. That’s an original Rembrandt.’

  Ashely looked at me blankly. ‘It is?’

  ‘Yeah.’ I turned back to the desk. ‘It’s worth about half a million dollars.’

  He inhaled sharply. ‘You’re kidding, right?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Who the hell keeps that kind of thing in their house?’ he exclaimed.

  I glanced at his disgruntled expression and resolved there and then never to tell him about the Monet in my apartment.

  Burnstein’s computer defense software was better than his home security. I had just cracked the safety codes to access the files when a thoughtful ‘Ah’ made me look around.

  Ashely had reached the last filing cabinet. It had opened to reveal a strongbox. He glanced at the lock pick set on the floor next to him. ‘Somehow, I don’t think this is gonna do the trick.’

  I rose from the desk and joined him.

  ‘It’s a high-security composite safe.’ I crouched and ran my fingers over the cold metal door. ‘Inner and outer steel plates. High-density fire-resistant body. Drill-resistant frames. Chrome-plated steel locking bolts and a spring operated detent system. It probably has a tempered glass relock mechanism as well.’

  ‘I worry about you,’ Ashely said with a wooden expression.

  I grinned. ‘Luckily, it has an electronic combination lock.’

  Ashely sighed. ‘Somehow that doesn’t make me feel any better.’

  ‘Help me bring the computer over.’

  Fifteen minutes later, I pulled the safe door open.

  ‘Wow. I thought that was only possible in movies.’ Ashely looked slightly impressed.

  ‘If you have the right software and a couple of wires, anything is possible,’ I said, studying the contents of the strongbox.

  In addition to several pouches of high-quality diamonds, five gold bars, and a number of passports, the safe held a dozen document wallets. Eleven of them contained information about Burnstein’s private investments and GeMBiT Corp.

  The last folder was the thickest of the group and was filled with copies of research papers published in the last fifteen years by a number of universities in Europe. The recurring subject matter appeared to be cell cycle control and DNA transposition. One name in particular, a Professor H.E. Strauss, appeared as a common contributor in most of the publications and had been highlighted in red ink.

  I turned to the computer and typed ‘Strauss’ in the search box. A single jpeg file and an email reference came up under the results. I directed the arrow over the jpeg file and clicked the mouse.

  An image slowly filled the screen. It was a black and white photograph of a man and a woman, taken at night. They were sitting next to a large bay window inside a restaurant. The man was caught with his back slightly turned and in profile. He was leaning across the table toward the woman, whose face was fully illuminated by the chandelier above their heads.

  Her hair was dark and tumbled in soft curls past her shoulders, framing a pair of almond-shaped, smoky eyes. The light glistened off her full lips and glinted on the thick, intricate sun cross pendant at the base of her throat. She was smiling at the man.

  ‘This the person they’re after?’ said Ashely.

  I stared at the woman in the picture, an unfamiliar emotion stirring deep within me. I had to force my gaze away from her face before looking up the email.

  It was from Burnstein and had been addressed to an encrypted account on a remote server somewhere in Europe. Dated several weeks ago, the message was brief: “Arrange Council meeting. Strauss is the key. Must secure at any cost.”

  A soft tinkle sounded somewhere downstairs. Ashely and I looked at each other. I rose to my feet just as one of the windows shattered, raining glass shards inside the room. A second later, a smoke grenade sailed through the broken pane and clattered onto the floorboards.

  Chapter Six

  The Crovir Hunters came silently, guns fitted with suppressors. We were almost at the first landing when a volley of bullets whined past us and struck the wall. Shadows shifted at the bottom of the stairs. Muzzles flashed in the gloom.

  I reached for the swords at my waist.

  Bodies fell before me as we were forced up the steps. The blades shuddered in my hands, blocking round after round. Ashely fired the Glock repeatedly at the Hunters streaming down a first floor corridor toward us. We stepped over the men he had shot and headed for the master bedroom at the front of the property. I slammed the door shut, locked it, and helped Ashely push a dresser across the threshold.

  I walked to the window and stared at the empty yard below. ‘You go first,’ I said briskly. ‘I’ll hold them off.’

  Ashely glared at me. Unspoken words filled the silence between us. I didn’t have to state the obvious fact; in a battle with the immortals, he stood at a serious disadvantage.

  There was a thud outside the room. The dresser shifted slightly.

  ‘You owe me for this,’ he said between gritted teeth. He lifted the sash window, climbed over the sill, and turned to catch the keys of the Cruiser. A second later, he disappeared in the night.

  The door crashed open, the dresser scraping across the floorboards with a shriek of tearing wood. I turned to face the men who crowded inside the room. Some held swords. The ones who didn’t had guns.

  ‘Be careful,’ one of the Hunters warned. ‘This is the half-breed.’

  The other immortals glanced at each other uneasily.

  I had hoped Chapman would be among them; there were some burning questions I needed to ask my old friend. Still, I had no doubt our paths would cross again if I survived this night.

  My breaths slowed as I silently repeated the mantra taught to me by my Edo master, my feet moving to the basic starting stance of kendo.

  Eyes narrowed on the other side of the floor.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ I said quietly.

  The next sixty seconds were a blur of light and shadows. A bullet missed my head by an inch. Another one scorched a red track across the back of my right hand. The acrid smell of gunpowder filled the room and spent rounds clattered to the ground while the katana danced and weaved through the air, spilling blood across the walls and the floorboards. Throughout it all, I breathed steadily.

  The last Hunter begged for his life.

  ‘Please, this will be my seventeenth death,’ he whispered hoarsely at my feet, staring in wide-eyed horror at the blade poised above his heart.

  Memories of a vanilla-scented room rose in my mind. I closed my eyes briefly. ‘I’m sorry.’

  Sirens blared in the distance when I came out of the house. Wings fluttered above my head as crows gathered on the rooftop of Burnstein’s home.

  The Cruiser screeched to a halt in the middle of the street when I reached the sidewalk. External lights came on along the road and dim figures appeared on doorsteps. Burnstein’s neighbors looked at me curiously while I climbed in the SUV.

  Ashely pulled away swiftly. ‘You’re bleeding.’

  I looked at my hand. ‘It’s only a flesh wound.�
�

  I clenched my fingers distractedly, feeling strangely numb. It had been some time since I last killed so many men. I took a deep, shuddering breath and tried to ignore the smell of death clinging to me.

  ‘How’s your leg?’ I said.

  Blood had seeped through the bandage around Ashely’s wound and stained his trousers.

  ‘I’ll live,’ he replied gruffly.

  A patrol car raced past us, lights flashing in the night. Another followed close behind it. We headed away from Capitol Hill.

  ‘They all dead?’ he said after a while.

  ‘Yes.’

  I cursed my own foolishness; we had probably triggered a silent alarm in Burnstein’s house. I suspected it had been inside the safe.

  The blare from my cell phone broke the silence that followed. It was Solito.

  ‘I heard there were shots fired at that house in Capitol Hill,’ the FBI agent said stiffly. ‘Tell me it wasn’t you guys.’ A babble of conversation and music echoed in the background behind him.

  ‘I would be lying if I said we weren’t involved,’ I murmured.

  Solito swore.

  I waited a couple of seconds. ‘I need another favor.’

  There was a frozen beat. ‘You’re kidding, right?’

  We met the FBI agent in an alley behind a bar in Dupont Circle; he had been out celebrating the retirement of a field officer and was still dressed in his work suit. His eyes kept straying to the blood on my hand while I explained my request.

  ‘I’ve been listening to the scanner. The cops have reported four bodies at the property. They’re saying there was a lot of blood in the place, which makes them suspect there were even more bodies than the ones they’ve found.’ Solito ran his fingers through his hair. ‘No doubt they’ll call us in.’

  A group of people walked past the mouth of the alley, drunken voices raised in song.

  ‘I know this probably doesn’t mean a lot to you at the moment, but they weren’t good men,’ I said.

  ‘And we might as well warn you now,’ Ashely added with a grunt. ‘You’re probably not gonna be able to ID any of them.’