Blacksnow Zero Page 13

  The Palm Restaurant

  Washington, D.C.

  Erica Blake pulled the Taurus into the parking lot of the upscale restaurant and parked by the valet station. She climbed out and tugged down the hem of her clingy black dress. Erica rarely wore dresses, but Steve had insisted. When he asked her out to lunch a couple of days ago, he said he had something important to discuss. He insisted she wear something special. Against her better judgment, she finally relented and wore the cocktail dress. Now she was paying the price.

  One of the valets came over and gave her a ticket stub. The young man scrutinized the shabby-looking Taurus as he took the keys.

  “Park it in a safe spot,” she said, sarcasm dripping from her voice. “This car is priceless.”

  He gave her a perplexed look, got in and drove away.

  Erica went into the restaurant and approached the maître d’ station. She had never been here before because she couldn’t afford it. But she knew the place was a hangout for the D.C. elite.

  “I’m Erica Blake,” she told the officious-looking man in the tuxedo. “The reservation is under McCord. Steve McCord. Is he here yet?”

  The man glanced down at his book. “No, Miss. He hasn’t come in yet. Would you like to wait in our bar?”

  “Sure,” she replied.

  She went into the crowded bar area, which was filled with well-dressed patrons, mostly men. Sleek, glass-topped tables were clustered in the front, with a long, teak bar along the wall. Drawings of famous celebrities hung on the walls.

  She found an empty stool at the bar, sat, and signaled the bartender.

  “Budweiser,” she said loudly, trying to be heard over the noisy conversations in the room.

  “Would you like a glass with that?” he asked.

  She glared. “Just bring me the beer, will you?”

  He nodded, moved away.

  Pulling her cell phone out of her compact purse, she dialed Steve’s number. She had called him several times, but it had been going to voicemail. Hearing the recording again, she turned off the phone.

  The man seated on the stool next to her leaned over. He was wearing a pin-stripe suit and cloying, probably expensive, cologne.

  “Buy you a drink, honey?” he asked, his words slightly slurred.

  “Screw off, buster.”

  A confused look crossed his face. “You’re not a working girl?”

  “I’m not a pro, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

  He held up his palms. “Sorry, honey. We get a lot of that here.”

  She tugged at the spaghetti straps of her dress, which had slipped off her shoulders. “Get lost, buddy.”

  He picked up his drink, stood, and moved to another stool.

  The bartender come over and put the Budweiser in front of her.

  She took a sip from the bottle. It was her first drink of the day and the familiar taste was refreshing. Then she took a long pull of the Budweiser and put the bottle down.

  Glancing at her watch, she realized Steve was thirty minutes late. Impatient, she cursed to herself. She dialed his number again, got the same recording.

  Erica signaled the waiter for another beer.

  A minute later he set the bottle down and moved away. Draining it in seconds, she wiped her mouth with her hand.

  She was about to order a third when her cell phone buzzed. Picking it off the bar, she took the call.

  She recognized the voice immediately. “Erica,” Senator Lewis said, “I’m glad I caught you.”

  Erica got off the stool, went to a quieter area of the room. “Hi. What’s up, Senator?”

  “I’ve got some bad news for you.”

  Erica strained to hear over the loud, boozy conversations all around her. “What?”

  “It’s about McCord.”

  “Steve? What going on?”

  “He’s been arrested by the NSA.”

  “What the hell?”

  “It’s hard to believe, I know. Some trumped-up terrorism charge.”

  Erica pressed the phone to her ear, not sure she’d heard the woman right. “Terrorism?”

  “Look, Erica. I think this is connected to his trip to LA, if you get my drift.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yeah. It’s that. The subject you mentioned, I think it’s true.”

  Erica’s brain processed the information, then realized what Lewis was talking about. The president’s assassination. The possible cover-up. “I understand, Senator.”

  “Good. Now listen. If they arrested Steve, you may not be safe.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Erica, I think you’re in danger. You’ve got to get out of town until things cool down.”

  “Senator, where’s Steve?”

  “Don’t know. I’ve got my sources trying to find out.”

  “I’ve got to get to him, post his bail.”

  “It may not be that simple, Erica.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He could be in rendition.”

  Her heart sank when she heard the words. While at the Bureau, she’d heard whispers about this happening after the enactment of the Patriot Act. Steve could be incarcerated anywhere, not just in the United States. And the interrogation methods used were – she stopped her mind from going there.

  “What should I do, Senator?”

  “Go to some place safe. Do you have any family, out-of-state?”

  “No. My parents passed away and I don’t have any brothers or sisters.”

  “I see. Then just pick anyplace away from D.C.”

  “There is one place.”

  “Don’t say where, just go.”

  “Yes, Senator.”

  “One other thing. Get rid of your cell phone. Get a burner. Hopefully they won’t be able to track you that way.”

  “I already did that, a couple of days ago.”

  “Get a new one. The NSA is involved now, and they’ve got sophisticated tracking systems. Call me when you get settled. I may have more information about Steve then.”

  “Okay.”

  “Good luck, Erica. We’re both going to need it.”

  The call clicked off and she put the phone back in her purse.

  Still dazed by the news, Erica left restaurant.

  While she waited for the valet to bring her car around, she spotted a trash bin and threw in her cell phone.

  Moments later she was back in the Taurus, speeding home. On the way she made two stops. She filled her tank at a corner Shell, then bought a new burner cell phone at a Wal-Mart.

  Parking on the street, she went into her apartment building. She skipped the elevator and raced up the stairs.

  Once inside, she paused a moment, trying to decide what to do first.

  Going to her bedroom, she pulled an empty suitcase from her closet and threw it on the bed. Then began stuffing it with a week’s worth of clothes. Slamming it shut, she went to the small lock box beneath the bed.

  From it she retrieved a wad of cash, her passport and her personal weapon. The handgun was a Smith & Wesson .38 caliber revolver with a two-inch barrel.

  Realizing she was still dressed in the uncomfortable cocktail dress, she unzipped it and let it drop to the floor. Kicking off her high-heeled shoes, she grabbed a pair of jeans and sneakers and put them on. Lastly, she found a gray polo shirt and threw it on, leaving the shirt tail out.

  Slipping the gun into her waistband, she then stuffed the cash and passport into her pockets. After a last look around, she grabbed the suitcase and headed out of the bedroom.

  There was a knock at her door and she peered through the peephole. Two men in black suits were standing in the corridor.

  There was another knock, this time louder.

  “Who is it?” she asked.

  “Miss Blake,” came the muffled reply, “we’re Federal officers. We need to speak with you, please.”

  “I’m not dressed,” she lied. “Give me a moment while I put something on.”

  “Of cours
e.”

  Dropping the suitcase to the floor, she sprinted back to the bedroom. Quickly sliding open the window, she climbed out to the fire escape. Descending the metal stairs two at a time, she reached the end and dropped the last ten feet to the sidewalk.

  Running to her car, she got in, slamming the door shut behind her. She cranked the engine, but then heard a knock on her side window.

  A bulky man in a black suit and opaque sunglasses stood there, holding a badge in front of him. With a sinking feeling she realized they had sent more than two men for her.

  “Erica Blake,” he said loudly, “I’m a Federal agent. Please step out of the car.” He drew his gun, pointed it at the ground.

  Out of the corner of her eye she spotted two more men in suits climbing out of a parked SUV.

  “No problem, sir,” she replied. “I’ll just turn off my car.”

  “Okay, but no sudden moves.”

  Her heart thudding in her chest, she made a split decision.

  In a blur of motion she slid the transmission lever into drive, took off the parking brake and cranked the wheel hard left. Then she stomped on the accelerator pedal. The car roared out of the spot, but not before clipping the Nissan parked in front of her. She felt her car shudder from the impact and heard the crunch of metal.

  The Taurus veered left as she sped away, almost out of control. She spun the wheel right to avoid the oncoming traffic.

  Stomping the gas pedal with her foot, she raced down the street, the tires squealing all the way.

  She heard men shouting, then the clatter of automatic weapons. The back windshield of her car imploded, the glass shards showering her head.

  Cursing, she swerved the wheel hard right, took the next corner. The car was going so fast two of the wheels came off the pavement as she took the turn.

  Then she stepped on the gas again, weaving in and out of traffic, desperately looking for a place to ditch the car. The men had gotten a good look at her Taurus and would issue a BOLO in minutes.

  Several blocks later she spotted an empty, grassy lot between two buildings.

  Slamming on her brakes, she steered the car into the area, dodging the pedestrians on the sidewalk. Driving the car through to the alley behind one of the buildings, she cut right, scraped the wall as she slammed on the brakes again. The car screeched to a halt and she climbed out. But she left the engine running, with the key in the ignition. If she was lucky, someone would steal the damn thing.

  Erica sprinted down the alley and after several blocks, found a street with run-down retail shops. She spotted what she was looking for moments later.

  Going into the scruffy, second-hand shop, she quickly grabbed a baseball cap, a black windbreaker and sunglasses from the shelves. She paid cash, tucked her long hair under the cap, and put on the jacket and glasses.

  She glanced at herself in a cracked mirror on the wall. It wasn’t a great disguise, but would have to do. Then she left the shop and walked quickly away, but not too fast to avoid suspicion.

  An hour later she was at the Greyhound bus terminal.

  Winded from her trek, she stood in line to buy a ticket. Scanning the routes on the reader board, she picked the one that had the earliest departure time. Paying cash, she walked toward the boarding area.

  She only had to wait a few minutes then she climbed on the bus. Grabbing a seat behind a Hispanic-looking couple speaking Spanish, she settled on the cramped seat and tried to stretch her legs as best she could. It was hot in the bus, as if the A/C was broken. And the seat smelled of garlic from the empty take-out bag on the floor.

  Warily looking out the window as the bus pulled away from the terminal, she breathed a sigh of relief. But the feeling was temporary, she realized. Those men back there are pros.

  ***

  Washington, D.C.

  Bobbie Garcia was in his home office when his cell phone buzzed. He immediately answered the call.

  “It’s me,” he heard the general say. The connection sounded weak and a bit garbled.

  “Is this a secure line, sir?” Garcia asked. “It doesn’t sound right.”

  “Yes, Captain. I’m calling from Air Force One. We just got a break on the leak at the State Department. Make this your highest priority. We want this dealt with immediately. I’m e-mailing you the details after I hang up.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The line went dead and he put the phone back on the desk.

  A minute later an encrypted e-mail popped up on his screen. He opened the attachment and read it thoroughly. Rereading it again to make sure he memorized it, he then deleted the e-mail.

  Thinking it over a few minutes, he decided to tackle this one by himself. The fewer people involved the better.

  He turned off the computer and went to the kitchen. He made himself a sandwich, which he ate standing up. He washed it down with a Pepsi. Then he went to the bedroom, picked out a dark suit, tie and a starched, button-down white shirt. Dressing quickly, he looked closely at himself in the bathroom mirror, satisfied that he appeared official.

  Then he grabbed his go-bag from the floor and headed out of the apartment.

  Four hours later he was on K Street, following the BMW sedan as it wound its way out of D.C. and into nearby Virginia. It was six in the evening and traffic was still heavy.

  He kept his Suburban two cars back, but it didn’t really seem to matter, because the woman driving the Beemer had been on her cell the whole time. Although she seemed oblivious to the traffic around her, he still kept a safe distance back.

  According to the mission specs, she lived in an upscale townhome in an exclusive area of Virginia, not far from D.C. The route she was taking would bring her directly home.

  He would have liked to have more time to prep, but the general had been very specific. It had to be taken care of today.

  Half-hour later, the BMW took a left off the main road and onto a quiet side street. Elegant four-story townhomes lined both sides of the road. The upscale homes were in the Federal style, with large, symmetrical windows. Three-car garages made up the lower level of each townhouse.

  The Beemer pulled unto the driveway of one of the homes. The door to one of its garages opened and the car slid in. A moment later the garage door closed and he saw lights going in the house.

  Driving past the home slowly, he scouted the area. He went to the end of the street, circled at the cul-de-sac and went back to the woman’s home, where he pulled into the driveway.

  Glancing in the rear-view mirror, he adjusted his tie and combed his hair. Then he climbed out of the SUV and walked up the stairs to the front door.

  He pulled a badge from his suit pocket and rang the bell.

  “Yes?” a woman’s muffled voice came through the closed door.

  “Secretary Cruz,” Garcia said, “I’m Special Agent Sanchez with the FBI. I need to speak with you.” He was sure she was looking at him through a viewer on the door, so he held up his forged badge.

  The door opened and the woman stood there, wearing a stylish, blue pantsuit. The secretary of state was a stunning woman who looked better in person than in the news clips.

  “You’re with the FBI? What’s this about?” she asked, concern in her voice.

  He handed her his badge and a business card that matched it. She looked at the badge closely, handed it back, but kept the card.

  “Madam Secretary, I’m sorry, but I have some bad news for you.”

  Her eyebrows arched. “What?”

  “Your niece, Samantha, has been kidnapped. The FBI has been given the lead on the case. As I understand it, you and her mother Estella are very close. She’s asked for your help in getting her daughter released.”

  Cruz’s eyes went wide. “My God! I can’t believe this. Of course, I’ll do anything to help.”

  “Very good, Miss Cruz. We have Estella at a safe house – I’d like to take you there now.”

  “Do I have time to let my office know where I’ll be?”

  “No, th
ere’s no time. You can call when we get to the safe house.”

  “Of course. I’ll just get my purse.”

  The woman went into the house and was back a moment later clutching her Louis Vuitton purse.

  “Do you want me to follow you in my car?” she asked.

  “No, we’ll go in my vehicle – it’ll be quicker that way.”

  She nodded and followed him to the Suburban. They both got in, and he pulled out of the driveway and sped away.

  Twenty minutes later, the SUV got off the state road and wound its way for another mile through the suburban Virginia area. The homes were modest, but set on large pieces of property. Garcia slowed the Suburban and turned into the gravel driveway of a large, ranch-style home on a wooded lot. Built probably in the ‘60s, the non-descript brick home was plain-looking with faded white trim. But it was set well away from the neighbors, the reason the general had purchased it specifically for these types of operations.

  “We’re here,” he said as he drove on the driveway, the tires crunching on the gravel. “This is our safe house.”

  Cruz peered at the house. “Where’s the rest of the cars?” she asked. “I thought there would be a lot of other agents here.”

  “They’re parked in the back.”

  She nodded, but apprehension clouded her face. “The house is dark. You sure this is the right place, agent Sanchez?”

  “Yes, Secretary,” he replied in an even tone. He could tell the woman was getting suspicious.

  Pressing the garage door remote button, he eased the large SUV into the garage as soon as it opened. The fluorescent lighting of the garage cast a bluish glow inside the vehicle.

  Cruz pulled a cell phone from her purse, turned it on. “I need to call my office,” she said in a shrill voice. She began to stab numbers on the phone.

  He grabbed the phone away, and with his other hand struck her on the face with a closed fist. Her head snapped back, hitting the closed side window with a thud. The whites of her eyes showed and she slumped on the seat, unconscious.

  Using the remote, Garcia closed the garage, climbed out of the Suburban and went into the house, putting on the lights. He came back, lifted Cruz out of the car and carried her into one of the bedrooms. After dropping her on the bed, he methodically took off all her clothes and bound her legs and arms to the bed posts. For a moment he admired her curves and flawless skin, then pushed those thoughts aside. He had no intention of sexually assaulting her, but knew she would feel much more vulnerable nude.