Dead Man's Rule (35 page)

He took a deep breath and said a silent prayer to Allah. Then he opened the door. No alarm screeched. No strobe lights flashed. He smiled. Either the alarm system wasn’t turned on or he had successfully tricked the door sensor. In any event, he was now past the first barrier.

He cautiously leaned through the doorway and peered inside. The house had a wide entranceway floored with dark walnut, which was mostly covered by a large Persian rug. He scanned the walls, but saw no motion detectors.

Good. Any pressure sensors would be under the rug, and he could just walk around that.

He took out his gun and stepped into the house, feeling a pleasant tension as he shut the door softly behind him. There was nothing quite like the thrill of the hunt.

At the far end of the foyer, a door stood partially open. Ibrahim walked quickly but quietly around the rug and stopped to listen. Silence. He carefully looked around the edge of the door. It led into a high-ceilinged living room with a large marble fireplace and a scattering of elegant, comfortable-looking furniture. The tired light of a November evening came in through a wide picture window, giving the room a peaceful, slightly melancholy look. But Ibrahim cared about only three things in the room: the motion detector in the far corner and the two security-system control panels next to the door. Fortunately, only one of the panels showed the red light indicating that it was armed; the other glowed green.

He unscrewed the cover of the armed panel and attached two wires from a handheld device that looked like an overgrown calculator with wires of various sizes coming out of its top. He spent several nerve-racking minutes typing on the device’s small keyboard, expecting his target to walk in at any moment. At last, the numbers he needed appeared on the screen: 42235. He typed them into the security-panel touchpad and pushed the “Enter” button. The panel gave a soft chime and the red light turned green. He quickly disconnected the wires and put the device away.

He would have to move fast now. The lawyer might have heard the chime or there might be another panel elsewhere in the house—in the master bedroom, for example—that also chimed and went green, alerting the lawyer to the presence of an intruder.

He moved through the house with the speed and silence of a cat on the trail of its prey. He rapidly searched the downstairs but found nothing. He went upstairs, checking each bedroom with care, all too aware that his target could be waiting with a shotgun behind any door. But he wasn’t. Ibrahim went downstairs again and searched the basement. Still nothing.

There was only one place left to look. Gun at the ready, he went to the garage and eased open the door. In the dim light he could see a silver Jaguar parked on the far side. He walked cautiously around it—and saw something that sent a stab of real fear through his heart: another door.

While doing his surveillance, he had carefully positioned himself so he could see anyone entering or leaving through either the front door or the sliding door that opened onto the patio at the side of the house, but he had not realized that there was a third door tucked away in a little niche between the garage and the main body of the house. It was possible—in fact it now seemed likely—that the lawyer had somehow realized he was being watched, set the security system, and slipped out through this door.

What’s happening out there?
Tony wondered. First he had heard the faint sound of the alarm being disarmed in the next room. He had anticipated that this would happen. Still, a moment of unreasoning fear gripped him when it actually did.

Then he’d listened as the intruder searched the house. Footsteps went through the study, not ten feet from the rum closet. They went upstairs and came back down again a few minutes later. They went back through the study and then faded from Tony’s hearing.

There was silence for a long time—or what seemed like a long time until Tony looked down at the glowing hands of his Rolex and saw that he had been in the rum closet for less than twenty minutes.

Had the intruder left? Or was he still on the prowl? Was he hiding somewhere in the house, waiting for Tony to make the next move? Whatever was happening in the rest of the house, Tony knew that his best strategy was to stay put for the duration, however long that might be. He leaned against the concrete wall and tried to relax.

Ibrahim stood in the garage pondering his options. He could reset the security system and wait for the target to return home. Then he remembered the van outside. There was no way the lawyer would miss that. If he left the house to move the van, it would create an unacceptably high risk that he would be seen on the way back.

If he had possessed sufficient foresight, he would have brought the materials necessary to rig a bomb under the lawyer’s Jaguar. He silently cursed his stupidity, but at least now he had a plan. It would be a simple matter to put together a car bomb and pay a visit to the parking lot at the train station where the target parked his car on most weekdays. He would need to borrow a tow truck to avoid suspicion about what he was doing under the lawyer’s car, but that could be arranged.

For now, he needed to get out of the house as quickly as possible. But first he would cover his tracks. He couldn’t hide the fact that he had been there—the sawn-through dead bolt in the front door made that impossible—but he could hide the purpose of his visit by making it appear to be a simple burglary. He holstered his gun and went back into the house. Jogging upstairs, he quickly cased the bedrooms and grabbed a pair of diamond cufflinks and a gold Cartier watch from the nightstand in the master suite. Back downstairs, he walked quickly through the rooms, looking for something small but valuable. He paused briefly in front of the ancient bronze statuette in the study, looking regretfully at the defiant Titan. From his days as a smuggler, Ibrahim had a fair idea of the market value of a perfectly preserved classical Greek artifact, and it would be quite high. Unfortunately, it would take too long to get the statuette out of its sealed case, and it would be difficult to dispose of such a unique item safely on the international market.

Ibrahim scanned the room for other items worth stealing. The bookcase along one wall held an assortment of knickknacks, but few of them looked valuable. One item, however, caught his eye: a gold-hilted dagger with a black-velvet sheath. Ibrahim wouldn’t mind keeping that for himself.

As he walked over to the bookshelf, he noticed something he hadn’t seen before: the rug in front of the bookcase was bunched and crooked. It was the only imperfection he had seen in the lawyer’s immaculate house. His curiosity piqued, he examined the shelves more closely and found a set of well-hidden hinges where one section of shelves ended and another began.

He smiled and drew his gun.

As the rum closet door began to open, Tony threw himself against it. The door burst open and he fell forward into the study. A man he had never seen before tumbled to the floor a few feet from him. The stranger was about forty and had short salt-and-pepper hair. He was a big man, and his baggy coveralls did not disguise his muscular build. His gloved hand held a black semiautomatic pistol.

Tony lunged for the gun, but the man jerked it away and punched him in the face with his free hand. He wasn’t able to put much force into the blow because he lay half-sprawled on the floor, but it knocked Tony back while the intruder scrambled to his feet.

Tony got to his hands and knees. He saw a paperweight lying on the floor next to him and hurled it at his opponent. It hit the man in the forehead and he staggered back, cursing in a language that Tony didn’t understand.

Tony grabbed a letter opener from his desk and took a step toward the intruder. Blood dripped down the man’s face, but he had recovered from the blow. He brought his pistol up and fired.

The shot hit Tony in the left side of the chest. Agony knifed through him. He stumbled and coughed uncontrollably as blood poured into his lung. He steadied himself and looked the man in the eye, knowing what was coming.

The assassin fired again, hitting Tony in the upper chest. The bullet smashed through his spine on the way out and he collapsed backward, falling through the doorway that led from the study into the living room.

As he lay on the floor, he saw the alarm panels beside the front door. His vision was fading, but he could see that all the lights showed green. Despite the pain from his wounds, Tony smiled in victory. He had specifically asked Peter LeGrand to make the driveway alarm light green, not red.

At least that worked,
he thought with relief as consciousness slipped away.

C
HAPTER
E
IGHTEEN

N
IGHTFALL

“Mr. Corbin, my name is Pierre LeGrand of LeGrand Security Services,” said a tense, French-accented man’s voice. “I installed a security system at Tony Simeon’s home. It included a custom-built device in the driveway. He asked me to call a list of people if the alarm for that went off. It did, and you’re on the list. I need you to meet me at his house right now. The address is 415 Hancock in Wilmette. It’s two houses from Fifth and Hancock.”

Ben hit the mute button on the TV remote control, cutting off the announcer in midsentence. “Wait—who are you? Is Tony in trouble?”

“I’m Pierre LeGrand of LeGrand Security,” the man repeated in irritation. “Tony might be in serious danger. Someone set off a custom-built security device at his home. He told me to inform you if that happened. You are to meet me at Fifth and Hancock
now
.”

Ben thought quickly. This didn’t feel like a trap. Even if it was, it made sense to play along until he knew more. “Okay. I’m on my way.”

“Good. I’ll explain more when we’re there. I have more calls to make now.” The line went dead.

Ben dropped his phone into his pocket and looked at the circle of inquiring faces gathered around him. “That was a man who claimed to be from Tony Simeon’s security company. He said his name was Pierre LeGrand.”

“I know LeGrand,” said Sergei. “I’ve worked with him a couple of times. He’s a sharp guy. What did he want?”

“He said someone broke into Tony’s house and they’re getting away. He also said Tony might be in trouble.”

“Chechens,” said Sergei.

Elena and Will nodded. “Where’s his house?” asked Noelle.

“Fifth and Hancock. That’s less than a mile from here,” he added for the benefit of their guests.

“Then we might get there in time to do some good,” said Sergei as he headed for the door.

Sergei and Elena took Sergei’s car and Will went with the Corbins. Noelle called the police on her cell phone as Ben sped along the empty streets. Will had his gun out and his eyes darted back and forth as they drove, scanning for ambushes and evaluating firing angles.

“The police are already on their way,” Noelle announced as she clicked off her phone, “but they won’t be here for at least another five minutes.”

They turned from Fifth onto Hancock and saw a white van with a LeGrand Security Services sign parked on the north side of the street in front of a stately brick mansion with a long, winding driveway.

The two cars pulled up behind the van and everyone got out. The FBI agents immediately went around to Sergei’s trunk and pulled out bulletproof vests, including ones for Ben and Noelle. The unfamiliar body armor felt stiff and heavy to the Corbins, but they were glad to be wearing it.

Ben and Sergei went to talk to LeGrand while Elena and Will checked the house. “I’m Ben Corbin. What’s going on?”

“Mr. Simeon had me build a one-of-a-kind system for his driveway,” LeGrand said, pointing to the metal plate on the driveway. “If you drive over it, it pops a magnetic bug onto the bottom of your car. Here’s the tracker.” He handed Ben a device that looked like a bulky laptop computer with a large antenna protruding from the back. It showed a bright dot moving toward the top of the screen. “It looks like he’s on I-94 heading north. You’re going to have to hurry if you want to catch him. He’ll be off the screen in another couple of minutes.”

Will and Elena emerged from the house and jogged over. “He’s dead,” Elena said, her face drawn.

“Murdered?” asked Sergei.

Will nodded. “Multiple fresh gunshot wounds. I could still smell the cordite in the air. I’d say he’s been dead less than fifteen minutes.”

“If we hurry, we may be able to catch whoever killed him,” said Sergei. “We’ll take my car. It’s faster and it handles better.”

“Won’t he recognize it?” asked Ben.

“You don’t think he also recognizes your car by now?” Sergei replied. “I’m sure they’ve been watching both of us at least since the trial ended. Anyway, we won’t have to get too close to him with this.” He gestured to the tracker in Ben’s hands.

Ben looked down and saw that the dot had grown fainter and was less than two inches from the top of the screen. “Sounds good. Let’s go!”

They all crowded into Sergei’s car and drove off, leaving LeGrand to talk to the police. Ben sat in front with the tracker and Noelle was in the back, sandwiched between Elena and Will.

Sergei drove at breakneck speed down the narrow, tree-lined suburban streets as they tried to keep the bug’s fading signal on the screen. They all held on tight to the armrests and braced themselves as Sergei squealed around corners and roared through quiet neighborhoods. Ben struggled to keep the tracker on his lap, glad they weren’t trying this in his Camry.

After two miles, they reached a four-lane street with few stoplights and little traffic. They all breathed a little easier as Sergei accelerated on the open road and the signal held steady on the monitor.

“I wish Simeon had taken our offer,” Elena said. “We could have protected him.”

“I don’t think he wanted to be protected,” Ben replied, “at least not if it meant the Vainakh Guard would escape with Variant D. I think he planned to trap them by using himself as bait.”

“He may wind up handing us the whole nest,” added Sergei. “I’ll bet the guy with the bug on his car is heading back to their base right now. Even if he isn’t, he’ll lead us to them sooner or later if we put him under surveillance. Simeon’s trap may have worked even better than he intended.”

“Oh, I’ll bet he intended this,” said Ben. “Remember who we’re talking about. In fact, I’ll bet he intended everything except his death, and he was willing to risk that. He saw it coming too. Why else would he give LeGrand a list of numbers to call? He knew he might not be around to make the calls himself.”

The car was silent for several seconds as they each thought of the urbane, potbellied old lawyer. “He showed us how to find the cancer,” said Sergei at last. “Now it’s up to us to remove it.”

Ibrahim drove north, scrupulously obeying every traffic rule. He checked his rearview mirror regularly and took measures to make himself difficult to follow. The last thing he wanted was to get pulled over or tailed now. Just because he had accomplished his mission did not mean he could relax.

After a successful mission, a soldier was tempted to loosen up and maybe get a little sloppy. In fact, a favorite Chechen tactic during the wars with the Russians had been to hit them on the night after they had won a victory. Their guard was generally down and they were often in the midst of a drunken celebration. Ibrahim’s celebration would wait until he could share it with all Muslims, when the corrupt colonial empires of the West and Russia collapsed.

Still, he could not resist just a little self-congratulation. He had taken down his target despite setbacks that forced him to abandon his primary plan, despite a state-of-the-art residential security system that took considerable skill to evade, and despite surprisingly tough resistance from the target.

Ibrahim touched the lump and cut on his forehead. The lawyer had fought hard, and he had faced his death with courage. He had proven a worthy—if overmatched—opponent, making Ibrahim’s victory over him all the sweeter.

A police siren went off behind Sergei’s car. He was going about seventy in a thirty-five-mile-an-hour zone and had blown through two red lights, so it was hardly a shock that local law enforcement had taken an interest in him.

“I’ll call and explain the situation,” volunteered Elena.

“Good idea,” said Sergei. “We can’t pull over, and we can’t have that siren behind us while we’re trying to tail this guy.”

Elena called the Evanston Police Department, but the desk sergeant and dispatcher both insisted that none of their units were pursuing a black Mustang Cobra convertible. By the time she ended the call, there were two cars behind them. “I’ll try the Wilmette department,” she yelled over the sirens.

“This is Special Agent Elena Kamenev of the FBI,” she shouted into the phone. “There are two black-and-whites chasing a black Mustang west on Lake. Are they yours?”

“They’re ours,” confirmed the desk sergeant after a brief pause. “Are you in the car?”

“Yes,” said Elena with relief. “I need your officers to turn off their sirens and stop following us. They’re interfering with a federal investigation.”

“Pull over and show them some ID—and explain to them why your investigation requires you to drive through the middle of town like that.”

“We can’t pull over! We’re in the middle of a hot pursuit.”

There was a long pause. “The officers behind you say they don’t see anything in front of you,” the desk sergeant said suspiciously. “What exactly are you pursuing?”

“A car with an electronic bug,” replied Elena, her voice growing hoarse with the effort of shouting over the noise of the chase. “It’s not right in front of us!”

“Look, you’re just going to have to explain all this to the officers at the roadblock.”

“What roadblock?” she asked.

Before the desk sergeant could respond, Sergei slammed on the brakes. The car fishtailed and he fought to control it, bringing it to a halt less than a foot from two squad cars parked sideways on the street. Policemen with drawn guns crouched behind the cars. “Out of the car!” one of them ordered. “Hands on your heads!”

Sergei slammed his fist on the dashboard in frustration. As they got out of the car, Will Conklin yelled, “We’re FBI! Right now a murderer is escaping, and you’re letting it happen!”

“Just keep your hands up,” the policeman ordered. He turned to one of the other officers. “Carl, go check their IDs.”

An officer holstered his gun and ran around the roadblock. “Back left pocket,” Will told him as he approached.

The policeman pulled out Will’s wallet and examined it. “Looks genuine,” he called to the other officers.

“Mine’s in my purse in the backseat,” said Elena. “It’s the black one.”

The officer briefly surveyed the interior of the car, grabbed her purse, and checked her wallet. “This one looks legit too, and they’ve got some kind of computer with an antenna in the front seat. Looks like it might be electronic surveillance gear.” He held it up for the others to see. As he did so, Ben saw that the screen was blank. They had lost the signal.

Elbek stood in the back of the old brewery, watching with satisfaction as Squad One loaded their deadly cargo into the white Dodge Caravan that would take them to their destination. Flying was out of the question, of course, as was any form of transportation that might allow security personnel access to their bags. There was still a chance that they might get stopped, but they could minimize it by driving nondescript vehicles that police were likely to ignore.

Their cargo was surprisingly small: one banker box per vehicle. Each box held twenty-five aerosol dispensers—five for each city they would visit. The dispensers were little more than modified spray bottles designed by Dr. Umarov. The team members would each take one or two bottles and walk around their targets, spraying discreetly. Building-ventilation systems and Dr. Umarov’s tiny particles would do the rest.