Deadly Echoes (9 page)

“Is that all?” Donovan said, his rage boiling up inside at being taunted and threatened at such a personal level.

“Remember what Meredith always told you? How she tried to get you to slow down and enjoy the moment? Well, she was right. Enjoy them; you don't have all that many left. Good-bye, Robert.”

“Problem?” Wells asked as soon as Donovan lowered the phone.

“No.” Donovan shook his head trying to contain his fury. “Just some Eco-Watch business.”

Donovan leaned against the railing that surrounded John Stratton's deck. He couldn't quit thinking about the earlier call. Meredith
had
always tried to get him to slow down and enjoy the moment. It was a cloudless night, so clear that he could see up the coast to Long Beach, and out to Catalina Island. Boats of all sizes were lit up, coming and going into the city that once had been his home. He had known that tomorrow was Meredith's birthday; she would have been forty-eight. Thinking of all the living she'd missed made him immeasurably sad, both for her and him.

He thought of the few birthdays that they had shared, each one in a different house. Back then he'd had many homes, one of the many privileges of being Robert Huntington. Los Angeles, or more precisely, Malibu and Bel Air had been his playground. Though after he'd met Meredith, everything had changed. They'd left Los Angeles and moved to his house in Monterey, California. The pace was slower and the setting more natural and all of the trappings and distractions of Southern California vanished. The thought of who and what he'd once been now gave him a pang of embarrassment at the excesses of his life. There'd been the houses, the cars, the airplanes, and before Meredith, there'd been many women. That was then, and since, he'd become a completely different man. As he often did, he wondered if she'd be proud of him. The answer was usually yes, and it was what drove him. Tonight, though, he didn't have an answer, or one that he wanted to admit. Right at this moment, he wasn't pleased with what he'd become.

They'd arrived hours ago and William had parked himself at John
Stratton's desk, remaining on the phone and reviewing files since they'd arrived. Donovan, too, had been busy. The
da Vinci
had been moved into a hangar, and Michael was meeting with several technical representatives sent from Gulfstream to assess the problem.

There'd been one visitor. John and Beverly Stratton's attorney delivered a sealed file to William. Though there were plenty of bedrooms in the 7,000 square foot Stratton home, Peggy, on William's suggestion, had booked them rooms at the nearby Montage Hotel.

Donovan's phone rang. Seeing it was Buck, he skipped the greeting and answered, “Where are you?”

“I'm changing planes in Seattle. Any new developments at your end?”

“No, we're at the Stratton house. William is still going through paperwork, but I think we're about to call it a day.”

“I already spoke with Peggy, and she's been in touch with the head of security at the Montage Hotel. The property has protocols in place for visiting VIPs with security as a priority. All of that has been implemented, so I'm confident that you should be safe.”

“What's the update from Alaska?”

“The
Pacific Titan
has been safely towed back into the Seward harbor and secured at the wharf. A perimeter has been established by a combination of Alaska National Guard troops and the State Police. All non-essential Eco-Watch personnel will be evacuated as soon as I get there. We're being given full support from the military as well as the governor of Alaska. I think we're in good shape.”

“What about repairs? Are there facilities there that can handle the ship?”

“Yeah, we're good. Though I don't have any kind of time frame on that yet,” Buck said. “Speaking of repairs, have you heard anything about the condition of the
da Vinci?”

“Michael is working with Gulfstream. If we need to go anywhere, we'll look at chartering an airplane.”

“I think that makes sense,” Buck replied. “There is one more thing. Peggy sent me a list of phone calls that were logged into the
Eco-Watch main number earlier today. Anything that sounded like a threat was passed on to the FBI. There was one from someone named Erica. Peggy ended up talking to the woman since she expressly asked for you. Peggy said the woman sounded frantic and that she needed to talk with you immediately.”

“Did she give a last name?”

“She said she wouldn't give it on an open line. She did leave a number though. It's a 949 area code, which means it's a phone issued from Southern California.”

“Sounds like a reporter. Let me know if this woman calls again.”

“Will do. I've got to run. My flight is boarding.”

“Buck,” Donovan said, “nice work. I appreciate all you're doing.”

“No problem. Talk to you tomorrow.”

Donovan once again surveyed the peaceful ocean, but underneath the placid surface, he knew there was a life-and-death battle being waged, as it had for eons. It occurred to him that his own life wasn't much different. He spotted the red light on his phone that told him he had a message. He saw that it was from Lauren and he quickly opened the e-mail and began to read:

Did some digging and this is what turned up. It's classified, so don't share. Not sure what to make of all this, but would be nice to find this woman. Take care of William, Stephanie says he and the Strattons were very close. Call when you get to Laguna.

Lauren

The October 5th arson and multiple homicides at the Klasen-Drescher medical clinic in Dusseldorf, Germany:

All patient files were declared destroyed—no evidence of off-site storage. It was suspected that the records and staff were eliminated to destroy witnesses to criminal activity. By all outward appearances the assailants were professional and effective.

Bank records of the clinic were intact and nothing out of the ordinary was found, so any off-book payments were handled through different channels, and have so far remained undetected by German police or Interpol.

After your inquiry, we initiated a further sweep and uncovered payroll records for the clinic. They used a small payroll service and we began to compare payroll records with victims and think we found something. There were twelve employees listed as active at the time of the murders. All twelve were killed. We went back a month before the crime and again found the same number of employees, but one of the names was different. A physician's assistant left the clinic a month before the killings; she was replaced two weeks before the attack.

The woman who left is named Erica Covington. (see her attached passport photo) She's thirty-five years old, fluent in both English and German. She has dual citizenship, her mother German and her father American. She graduated six years ago from the University of California Davis with full certification as a physician's assistant. After graduation, she went back to live in Germany and was there until seven months ago. When she returned to the United States, she cleared U.S. Customs at LAX and after that there is no address on record, nor is there a current driver's license issued to her in any state. There's no cell phone in her name and no living relatives. Erica Covington is off the grid. This makes her one of the assassins, or a witness, or deceased.

Identity of dark-haired woman who is wanted for questioning in the clinic murders is still underway. Am looking into this further, but do know she's of the highest priority to Interpol.

Donovan frantically redialed Buck's number. He started pacing as he silently urged the former SEAL to pick up.

“I was just turning this thing off,” Buck answered. “What's up?”

“Erica's number. I need it now,” Donovan said in a rush.

“Hang on a second. There. I just forwarded it to you. What's up, why the shift?”

“It just started to bother me is all. If she asked for me by name, it could be important.”

“Okay. Talk to her, but be careful. Get the FBI involved. This could be anything.”

Donovan saw that he had a new message and that the number was there. “I'll be careful. We'll talk in the morning.”

Donovan reread the message then clicked on the attachment that would bring up the photograph. Erica Covington's passport picture filled the screen. Donovan's first impression was that she could be a model. Shoulder-length blond hair parted on the side, her complexion was flawless, her eyes were bright blue, and her perfectly proportioned lips hinted at a pretty smile. As he studied the image, he knew that typically there was nothing more unflattering than a passport picture, yet Erica was beautiful. She would be someone easy to spot.

Donovan quickly punched in Erica's number and hoped she would pick up. It rang two times and then a woman answered with a simple hello.

“My name is Donovan Nash. Is this Erica?”

“How do I know it's you?” she asked.

“You don't,” Donovan replied. “But you called my office today and spoke with my assistant. Your message was passed along.”

“What's the main number of your office?”

Donovan rattled off the number published on the website.

“What's your assistant's name?”

“Eventually you spoke with Peggy. She's in charge when I'm gone. Where are you?”

“No, you tell me where you are.”

“I'm in Laguna Beach, California.”

“You're close.”

“Pick a spot and let's meet.”

“There's a Mexican restaurant at the northwest corner of El Toro Road and I-5. It's by the Laguna Hills Mall.”

“I know the place. I can be there in twenty minutes.” Donovan pictured the location, well lit and busy, with easy access onto the San Diego Freeway. A smart choice. Donovan hurried from the deck and started through the house. He cut through the Strattons' massive formal living room, hurried through the kitchen and down the four steps that led to their garage. He threw open the door. Inside, parked diagonally in two precise rows, were eight cars. In an instant Donovan saw the one he wanted.

“How will I recognize you?” she asked.

He leaned over and spotted the keys in the ignition of the car he'd chosen. “I'll be the one driving a red Porsche 911. It has California vanity plates, 911FLYS.”

“Come alone or you'll never see me. And bring me proof you are who you say you are.”

“I'm on my way.”

Donovan ran back into the kitchen and down the hall to where William was working. He barged in, unzipped his bag, and yanked out the extra clips to his gun.

“What's happened?” William got up from his chair. “What are you doing and why do you need bullets?”

“Hopefully, our first break. Read this. I just got it from Lauren. Remember the clinic in Germany I told you about?” Donovan handed him his phone open to the message. “I just spoke to Erica. We're going to meet.”

William was right behind him, reading as they headed toward the garage.

Donovan opened the door to the 911 and slid behind the wheel, then reached down and adjusted his seat and mirrors. Satisfied with his position, he wedged his pistol between the seat and console where it wouldn't slide, but was within easy reach.

“You spoke with her?” William finished reading and handed Donovan his phone. “How did you find her?”

“She found me. Cover for me, I'll call you later.”

“Donovan, slow down. For all you know this could be a trap.”

“Hence the gun.” Donovan pushed the clutch and turned the key. The throaty V-8 filled the garage with an authoritative roar. He switched on the headlights and then found the button for the garage door. He stretched out the seat belt and snapped it into place as William stepped aside.

He let out the clutch and eased the Porsche out of its spot. He threw a parting wave to his longtime friend and wound away from the house toward the exit from the exclusive community.

Donovan gunned the 911 out onto the Pacific Coast Highway and headed north, going as fast as he dared before slowing as he reached downtown Laguna Beach where he turned onto Highway 133 and headed up the canyon. Moments later he was out of town, and he quickly had the German sports car going eighty. His eyes swept the road and the rearview mirror for any sign of a tail, police or otherwise. It was late enough on a weeknight that the road was his. His phone rang and he saw that it was Lauren. He answered and put her on speaker.

“Donovan, did you get my e-mail?”

“Yes. I'm on my way to meet with her now.”

“You found her?”

“She called Eco-Watch earlier today. The intelligence you sent me, who's the source?”

“I went through someone I know at the State Department, but if I had to guess, I'd say it came from Langley.”

“I was afraid the CIA was involved. Can you wave them off? I don't want them involved.”

“Too late, the fact that you've found a certain person of interest has put me in a compromising position. Protocol dictates that I inform my contact.”

“Don't do that yet. I'm serious. I'm driving right now, but we have to talk about this. I'll call you back.” Donovan hung up and downshifted as he made the right turn onto El Toro Road. He checked the mirror and didn't think he had a tail, but William and
Buck were both right, he could be heading into a trap. The fact that the CIA was involved elevated the risk both he and Erica faced. The only advantage he had was that, thanks to Lauren, he'd seen what Erica Covington looked like. If anyone but her showed up, he'd know immediately.

He swung into the parking lot of the Mexican restaurant and came to a halt. There were cars parked everywhere, and there was no way he wanted to be trapped in a busy parking lot. He put the 911 into a tight right turn, swung through a gas station, and pulled to the side and stopped. He could easily make a fast exit if need be. He held the pistol down low between his legs and waited.