Authors: Jonathan Javitt

Tags: #Thriller

Capitol Reflections (44 page)

BOOK: Capitol Reflections

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“Gregory Randall and Henry Broome may share other business interests,” speculated Mark, “but I’m willing to bet that Broome’s getting a very nice price for selling his wife’s beans to the high and mighty Randall. That means those beans must be very special. On paper, who’s buying the Transpacific beans?”

Peter moved the mouse and hit the down arrow key several times. Laughing, he said, “Transpacific is being paid by several different West Coast companies—The Coffee Gourmet, The Perfect Cup, Roastmasters, A Finer Bean, and several more.”

“I doubt those outfits even exist. Print out as much hard copy as you can. We should check out those names when we get back home. That’s assuming, of course, we do get back home.”

Peter leaned forward, planted his elbow on the desk, and dropped his chin onto the open palm of his hand.

“You’ve found something else?” inquired Mark.

“Indeed I have. An entirely different batch of files, all labeled ‘Asian Trade’”

“Let me have a look,” said Mark.

They switched places. Sitting at the computer, Mark started scanning the files. He knew exactly what he was looking for. “Holy crap, it’s actually on file.”

“What’s on file?” asked Peter, standing near the door.

“Hundreds of profiles of young Asian women, ranging in age from sixteen to thirty-five. Each file lists name, nationality, age, height, weight, bust size, and a complete medical file. And every single one claims that the woman has been tested for STDs and is clean.”

“Gracious,” said Peter. “Transpac is a flesh-peddler, too?”

“No mention of Transpac, though the data’s on Transpac computers, which is unquestionably weird.”

“What’s the affiliation then?”

“Give me a minute. There’s so much here.”

Mark heard heavy footsteps in the hall. He turned and looked at his colleague, who had already spread his feet, angled his body, and lifted his arms in a position that Mark associated with one of the martial arts.

The sound of the footsteps faded.

“I hope this doesn’t take much longer,” Peter said, glancing at the bodies on the floor. “Sooner or later, either someone is going to come in here or those two down there are going to regain consciousness.”

“I know, but we flew a long way,” said Mark, suddenly emboldened by what he was reading.

“All right, but just remember, time is of the essence.”

Mark continued to work at the terminal. “No affiliation is listed, nor would I expect to find one. What I do see at the bottom of each file is a broker.”

“I’m not following.”

“The person who procured the woman, no doubt. I bet you … yes … there he is!”

“Keep your voice down,” urged Peter.

“Tassin,” said Mark. “Dieter Fucking Tassin is on dozens of these files, maybe hundreds. Let me try a quick search.”

“For whom?”

Several seconds elapsed before Mark triumphantly said, “For Tuyen and Mai Nguyen, the daughters of the client Marci Newman was representing.” Mark sat back in the chair, astonished. “I knew that Gregory Randall had a passion for Asian women, but the fact that he’s actually providing them for other people and keeping records of it—this is absolutely incredible.”

“Any indication where these women are being sold?”

“Yes,” said Mark excitedly. “Some of the files are labeled as ‘open’ others as ‘closed.’ On those marked ‘closed’ there’s further notation, ‘designated recipient.’”

“A rather cold term for a cold business,” said Peter, shaking his head. “I’m all for a robust sexual appetite, but this is disgusting by the standards of anyone decent.”

“I recognize a good many of these ‘recipients,’” said Mark. “Several of these men are CEOs of major corporations. And a very prominent senator—Henry Broome, to be specific.”

“Get that printer working, and not just on the Asians,” Peter advised.

For the next ten minutes, Mark printed files pertaining to both coffee shipments and the slave trading done by Randall. He kept Mai and Tuyen’s file on top of the thick stack of papers that came out of the printer. A Fortune 500 CEO was their “designated recipient.”

“Okay, let’s get the hell out of here,” said Peter. “We’ll leave our friends on the floor and out of sight in case anyone opens the door a crack. With any luck, people will think they’re on a coffee break.”

Mark tucked the printouts underneath his shirt as Peter opened the door.

“Good afternoon, gentlemen,” said a man—definitely not part of the crew—standing outside the warehouse office. “You’ve been very busy inside, I take it.” He polished the toe of his boot on Pedro’s inert form, slumped next to the door. His neck appeared to have been broken.

Mark and Peter froze where they stood.

“Get in the Jeep,” ordered Op One. “And give me whatever you found inside the office—no games.”

Without hesitation, the reporter removed the sheaf of papers from beneath his camouflage shirt and handed them over. A nine-millimeter pistol tended to make people cooperative.

Op One marched Stern and Tippett from the warehouse. He brought them to the army Jeep they’d arrived in.

“Get in and drive,” Op One said to Tippett. “We’re going into the desert. A little off-road trek to find a picnic spot. It’s time we really got to know one another. Of course, you might have to do a little digging before lunch. And you might even be in the mood for a long nap afterward.”

Tippett got behind the steering wheel. Stern got in the passenger seat while Op One climbed into the rear. A scowling Panamanian with a Glock automatic and two shovels climbed in next to him. Tippett fastened his seat belt and the reporter did the same.

“I’m glad mommy taught her children to be careful,” Op One mocked as he leaned back in his seat to provide the maximum distance between his gun and the men in front. “It’s always wise to use safety rules on the way to an execution.”

Tippett started the engine. “Where to, mate? Wouldn’t want to be late for my own burial.”

“Very cute,” said One. “I’ve always hated the glib sense of humor you English have. Just drive the way you came for now. I’ll tell you when to leave the beaten path.”

They drove for thirty minutes until the Jeep passed low hills to the north.

“Okay,” said One. “Slow down, ease onto the shoulder, and start driving. We have ten miles of desert between the road and the hills.”

Mark had no idea what Peter was planning. The man had signaled for him to put on his seat belt—Peter had made no such insistence on the ride down—but he couldn’t imagine what could save them from an assassin’s bullet now.

The Jeep had gone about five miles from the turnoff, the nearest hill looming large now. Mark wondered how his obituary would read. Would his colleagues assume he died on the trail of a Pulitzer-level story and eulogize him accordingly? Or would the people he pissed off along the way get the last laugh and relegate the news of his death to a couple of lines?

Suddenly, Peter cut the wheel sharply, sending the vehicle into a tailspin through the sand. A shot from the nine-mill shattered the windshield as their captor, attempting to squeeze a round at Peter’s head, was thrown off balance.

“Hold tight!” Peter called to Mark.

He accelerated and cut the wheel again, sending the Jeep into a 360-degree roll. As soon as the Jeep righted itself, bouncing from the left tires to the right several times, Peter turned around to see if the gunmen were still aboard. The one who captured them was lying face down, making incomprehensible sounds in the sand about twenty feet away. His Panamanian colleague, however, had managed to keep his place in the Jeep—at least his torso had. The roll and the slide had left a bloody object the size of a soccer ball spinning on the white sand.

“Thank God for seat belts,” shouted Mark.

“Get out and lie flat!” called Peter, running to the prostrate body of their captor, who was beginning to stir. As he approached, the other man gripped the gun, preparing to fire.

“Not today!” Peter said, lunging.

What ensued was a martial arts contest that Mark, raising his head from the ground, watched in amazement. Their would-be assassin was obviously trained in the same moves as Peter. Sand flew as the combatants struggled to their feet, arms and legs thrust forward in lightning-quick strikes as they turned, ducked, and postured. After several minutes, Peter managed to trip his opponent with a flying ankle twist. He then knelt next to his foe and administered old-fashioned punches until the man was dazed and bleeding badly from his mouth.

“Give me a shoelace!” Peter ordered, looking back at Mark.

Mark removed the long, thick lace from his right boot and handed it to Peter, who rolled their captor over facedown and tied his hands behind his back.

“Have a gritty little snack,” Peter said. “It’s good roughage. I don’t mean to be rude, but we’ll be off now.”

“Is the Jeep okay?” asked Mark.

Peter was already in the driver’s seat. He turned the ignition, and the engine started without hesitation. “Let’s pick up our papers before we head on back,” he said, letting the engine idle as he eased out of the driver’s seat.

They collected the documents copied at the warehouse, got in the Jeep, and drove back to the road, where they turned east and headed for the Gulfstream.

“Does this happen frequently in your line of work?” asked Mark.

“No, but remember that I was in the RAF. I’m used to flying upside down.”

An hour later, the Gulfstream was airborne, climbing over the Gulf of Mexico on a course toward a narrow strip hidden in the Virginia pines.

Gwen and Karn were at Quantico 7:45 the following morning.

“Did you find anything, John?” Gwen asked as soon as she and the doctor had been ushered into Van Rankin’s office.

“Yes and no, Gwen. I’ve run a dozen different tests on that bean, and I see no evidence of any kind of adulteration. My conclusion is still the same. The coffee, which is Arabica as opposed to Robusta—the two main kinds of beans used by most of the world—can’t produce seizures.”

“And the plant?” asked Gwen.

“We have a bit of a mystery there. It’s definitely a coffee plant and, like the bean, it’s Arabica. Both have forty-four chromosomes. What’s strange is that in both the plant and the bean, there’s a dark band on chromosome number two. Never seen anything quite like it.”

“Mind if I have a look?” asked Karn. “I’ve studied human genomes for a good portion of my career. I’d love to see what that band actually looks like under an electron microscope.”

“Be my guest,” answered Van Rankin. “I’ll take you to the lab right now if you’d like.”

Karn smiled graciously. “Thank you.”