plastic piece inside a leaf of his ID. He slipped it back in his pocket, discarded the box, the hat, and the glue in the trash can, washed his hands and face, and stepped back out.
The flight to Dulles Airport was on a Canadian Regional twin-engine jet operated by United Express. Sean got on ahead of the man he was following. He settled in the back in an aisle seat and opened a newspaper someone had left in the seat pocket. He alternated between reading the paper and eyeing his target as the man took off his jacket, folded it quite deliberately, placed it in the overhead bin, and sat down. He had his phone out and was talking to someone, but there was no way for Sean to hear any part of the conversation. When the jet door closed and the flight attendants made their announcements about electronic devices, the man turned off his phone. A minute later the jet pushed back and the man gripped his armrest as they began to taxi to the runway.
Nervous flyer, thought Sean.
They lifted off into the airspace over New York City. They turned south, accelerating on the climb out, and once they hit their cruising altitude the onboard computer punched the throttles forward and they were soon soaring along at nearly 550 miles per hour.
Thirty minutes later they began their descent into Dulles through quite a bit of cloud cover. They raced along, fighting a decent headwind and changing altitudes. Sean watched the man’s right hand tighten on the armrest with every little interruption of the relatively smooth flight path.
The guy would never have cut it in the Secret Service, thought Sean.
They landed and taxied to the gate. The passengers deplaned and headed to the main terminal. They had come in through Terminal B, so they didn’t need to use the people movers that transported passengers to and from the more distant terminals.
Sean followed the guy down moving walkways and up and down escalators until they came out into the main terminal. When the guy headed to the baggage claim Sean knew what to expect next. The guy had had no baggage. He must be meeting his driver.
And so here comes the dicey part.
As they approached the baggage area, the limo drivers were lined up holding white placards with names written on them. Sean tensed when the man he was following pointed at one of the drivers. Sean eyed the sign the burly driver held.
Mr. Avery?
Sean followed them through the airport and out the exit. He eyed the Dulles Flyer taxi lines. Pretty full. He watched as Avery and the driver headed to the area across from the terminal where the car services routinely parked.
Sean made his move.
He butted in front of the people waiting in line for taxis. When they complained and an airport employee whose job it was to get folks in and out of cabs approached, Sean pulled his ID and flashed his gold plastic badge and identification card. He did so quickly but confidently, giving none of them time to focus on it.
“FBI. I need to commandeer this taxi. I’ve got a suspect under surveillance.”
The people in line backed off when they glimpsed the badge, and the airport employee even held the door open for him.
“Go get him,” he told Sean.
Feeling a little guilty, Sean managed a smile. “I will.”
The cab headed off and Sean gave the driver instructions. They exited the airport and pulled in behind the Lincoln Town Car. He wrote down the license plate number just in case he might need it later. They drove along the Dulles Toll Road, which was also known as Silicon Valley East because of the large number of tech companies headquartered along it. There were also numerous defense contractors and companies working in the intelligence field located here, Sean knew. Several former Secret Service agents he’d worked with now made far more money on the private side toiling away at some of these for-profit outfits.
The car ahead turned off at an exit and proceeded west. The cab followed. When the Town Car pulled into an office complex, Sean told the taxi driver to stop. He got out and handed a twenty to the man, who refused to accept it.
“Just keep us safe,” the guy said before driving off.
A little embarrassed, Sean put the cash away and looked at the office building. He quickly discovered that it didn’t belong to simply one company. It housed a number of firms. That was problematic, but he had to keep going. You typically got only one true break on any case, and this might be it.
He watched as the Town Car driver headed off. Sean watched Avery walk into the building. He reached the lobby at about the time the elevator arrived to take Avery up. A quick glance allowed Sean to see that Avery was the only one in the car. There was a security guard in the lobby behind a marble console, and he glanced at Sean.
“Visitors sign in over here, sir.”
Sean walked over and pulled out his wallet. He dropped it and took his time picking it back up and pushing some cards back into place in their respective slots. When he stood and turned he saw that the elevator carrying Avery had stopped on the sixth floor.
Then the car began to descend. Avery must’ve gotten off.
He turned to the guard.
“You may not believe this, but I’m from out of town and I’m a little lost.”
“It happens,” said the guard, though he didn’t look pleased by Sean’s confession.
“I’m looking for the Kryton Corporation. They’re supposed to be somewhere around here, but I think my secretary got the damn address wrong.”
The guard frowned. “Kryton? Never heard of them. I know they’re not in this building.”
“They’re on the sixth floor. That I do know.”
The guard was shaking his head. “Only company on the sixth floor here is BIC Corp.”
“BIC. Doesn’t sound anything like Kryton.”
“No, it sure doesn’t,” said the guard firmly.
“Kryton’s in the intelligence field. Government contractor.”
“So is just about every company in this area. All looking for Uncle Sam’s last dollar. That is to say, my last dollar as a taxpayer.”
Sean grinned. “I hear you loud and clear. Well, thanks.” He turned to leave but then said, “BIC. Is that like the pen?”
“No, Bunting International Corp.”
“Bunting? Wasn’t he a baseball player and then a senator?”
“That’s Jim Bunning you’re thinking of. From Kentucky. Retired now.”
Sensing the guard’s patience was coming to an end and his suspicions were heightening, he said, “Well, I better get going or I’m going to miss my meeting.” He pulled out his phone. “But right now I’m going to give my secretary hell.”
“Have a nice day, sir.”
Sean walked out the door and called Michelle. “We finally got a break,” he said triumphantly.
CHAPTER
41
“WHEN?” ASKED PETER BUNTING, his voice shaky.
He sat behind his large desk holding the phone receiver to his ear. He had just been told that Carla Dukes had been murdered in her home.
“Do the police have any leads? Any suspects?”
The person answered.
“All right. But the minute you hear anything I need to know.”
Carla Dukes had been his handpicked person to take over the director’s slot at Cutter’s. They went a long way back. They hadn’t been close friends, but they had been professional colleagues. She was good at what she did. And Bunting had respected her. He’d also unwittingly led the woman to her death.
Instead of taking the long walk to the pizza building he decided to phone.
James Harkes picked up on the second ring.
“What the hell is going on?” Bunting said.
“I’m not sure what you mean.”
“Carla Dukes was murdered last night.”
Harkes said nothing. All Bunting could hear was the man’s breathing. Regular, calm.
“Did you hear what I said?”
“My hearing is excellent, Mr. Bunting.”
“She was my operative. I put her at Cutter’s for a specific reason.”
“Understood.”
“Understood? What does that mean? If it was understood, why did you have her killed?”
“You need to calm down, Mr. Bunting. You’re not making any sense. I would have had no reason to kill Ms. Dukes.”
Bunting had no way to know if Harkes was telling the truth or not, but something told him the man was lying.
“Not only is a good person dead, I have no eyes at Cutter’s now. Roy is up there with no coverage.”
“I wouldn’t worry about that, sir. We have the situation in hand.”
“How?”
“You’ll just have to trust me on that.”
“Are you insane? I don’t trust anyone, Harkes. Particularly people who won’t answer my questions.”
“If you have any other concerns just let me know.” Harkes clicked off.
Bunting slowly put the phone down, rose and went to the window, and stared down at the street. His mind was literally catapulting forward to one devastating scenario after another.
Why would anyone have wanted Dukes dead? She was the director of Cutter’s, but it wasn’t like she had any real power. If Harkes had killed her, why?
He sat down and called Avery, who had just flown in to the D.C. office. Bunting knew he had met with Dukes last night. It had been a last-minute thing, prompted by a frantic text to Avery, who had gone back up to Maine only the day before. Dukes had wanted to meet with Bunting, but since Avery was already on the ground in Maine and Dukes had wanted to meet immediately, Avery had gone instead.
“Avery, Carla Dukes is dead, murdered, not too long after she met with you.”
Avery said, “I know, I just heard it on the news.” His voice was shaky.
“What did she want to meet about? When she texted me that she wanted to meet, she didn’t say why. That’s when I texted her back to contact you directly.”
“Sean King had approached her at her home.”
“King? About what?”
“He said he knew she was working with someone other than the FBI. That the Bureau wouldn’t be happy when they found that out. He really shook her up.”
“How the hell did he know about that?”
“No clue.”
Bunting thought quickly. “It must’ve been guesswork on his part.”
“But she was frightened. He gave her an ultimatum of sorts.”
“What did he want?”
“Us, I guess.”
“How good is our wall?”
“No one at Cutter’s Rock will talk to him.”
“But they suspect someone else is involved.” Bunting had a sudden, terrible thought. “Did King meet with her right before she came to see you?”
“Yes. She was upset. Sent me a coded message and in it she said King had told her the FBI had tapped her phones and e-mails.”
“And you met with her where?”
“The rendezvous point we had designated previously. It’s a little picnic area really off the beaten path, even for Maine.”
“So King put the fear of God into Carla with the result that she got spooked and went running to you. Was Michelle Maxwell with King when he met with Carla?”
“She said he was alone.”
“Shit!”
“What is it?”
“They played us.”
“What? How?”
“While King was busy scaring the crap out of Carla, Maxwell was doing something else, maybe placing a tracking device on Carla’s car. Then King bullshitted her about the FBI tapping her phone and e-mails. The result was that the only way to safely communicate with us was face-to-face.”
“They followed Dukes to the meeting?”
“Of course they did. And then they saw you there.” Bunting felt a dull ache in his head. “And then they followed you. They’re probably standing outside your office as we speak.”
“Oh shit.”
Bunting rubbed his temples. “Did you notice anyone that looked like Sean King on your flights?”
“No, but I really wasn’t paying attention.”
Bunting nervously tapped the top of his desk. “Did you cab it from the airport?”
“No, I had a driver meet me at the airport.”
Bunting ground his teeth together. “So they have your name now, too. Okay, they followed you to the office and have no doubt discovered that you work for BIC. From BIC it’s only a Google search to Peter Bunting.”
“But, sir—”
Bunting hung up on him and paced his large office, nervous energy feeding his system like liquefied rocks of crack.
He calmed himself, sat back down. He had to think. Even if King had connected the dots to BIC, he had no proof of any wrongdoing because there was none. But that wasn’t the point. Revealing to the public what Edgar Roy really was could be catastrophic.
And now Bunting had no one he could really trust.
Except myself, apparently.
Right now that was small comfort.
CHAPTER
42
KELLY PAUL SAT at her desk in her hotel room in New York and looked around the small, comfortable space. How many such rooms had she inhabited over the last twenty years? She wouldn’t sound clichéd and say too many. Actually, the number had been just about right.
She didn’t doodle with the hotel-supplied pen and paper because she might inadvertently leave behind some clue that might one day lead back to her. Her bag was packed, her traveling documents in order. She carried no weapon with her but had ready access to any she might need only five minutes from here.
She had learned of Carla Dukes’s death at six thirty a.m. She didn’t spend much time wondering who had killed the woman. The answer to that question was important. But not as important as the matters she was focusing on presently.
By now Peter Bunting had to know about the woman’s death, too. His inside source at Cutter’s Rock had allowed him to take certain liberties in seeing her brother. Well, Paul had her own sources, and they had told her that the prisoner’s condition had not changed.
Keep it that way, Eddie, keep it that way. For now. Don’t let them get to you.
She glanced down at her cell phone, hesitated, and then picked it up. She punched in the number. It rang twice.
“Hello?”
“Mr. King, it’s Kelly Paul.”
“I was hoping to hear from you. Do you know about Carla Dukes?”
“I heard.”
“Theories?”
“Several. That’s beside the point right now. Where are you?”
“Where are you?”
“East Coast.”