Hot Ice (24 page)

She pointed to the screen. “Not only have a number of the hotel guests paid multiple visits in three months, the ones that have give a local address”—she pointed—“see? Same zip code as the El Convento, Calle Luna 23. How weird is that, checking into a hotel in the same zip code as your home address?”

“Maybe they weren’t alone. Maybe …”

He could have sworn Sybil blushed. “I wouldn’t think four hundred dollars a night and up would cater to the hot-pillow trade.”

Jason thought a moment. “Can you call up their bills? I mean, did they have their meals at the hotel?”

Keys clicked.

“I’d say these gentlemen have a strong preference for vodka. Not a piña colada or daiquiri between them. And they must have taken meals out of the hotel. Any other questions?”

Jason patted her shoulder. “Only how much do I owe you?”

“As always, depends. If you’re paying by check or want a written bill, my fee is six-fifty. Five hundred in cash will do as well.”

Like so many small businesses, Sybil operated below the IRS’s radar.

Jason was already going for his wallet. “I remember. Tax evasion is also illegal.”

She was reaching for five crisp bills. “It is also the American pastime.”

As Jason left the house, the heat of a Southern summer hit him like a slap across the face. He slipped off his jacket. The back was covered in cat hair. How had that happened?

Jason had returned to Washington and gone from the airport to Brooks Brothers’ Connecticut Avenue store, the one at which Monica Lewinsky purchased a tie for the president whom she would soon bring into national ridicule, if not disgrace. Jason was here not to revisit history but to supplement the meager wardrobe he had brought from Ischia. A half dozen polo shirts (Golden Fleece Performance in varying hues of pastel), a couple pair of Bermuda shorts (plaid), pre-hemmed khakis (with retro pleats), two swimsuits, and a pair of canvas shoes with rubber soles, the sort of things seen in resort areas and on Ivy League campuses.

“Headed to the beach?” the oversolicitous clerk wanted to know as he slid the credit card.

“Something like that,” Jason said noncommittally.

But not the Hamptons, Newport, Martha’s Vineyard, or any of the other places where the people who wore that stuff were likely to go.

Jason’s attention then focused on a homeless man who had staked out his territory across the street. Between Dupont Circle and the Cathedral of St. Matthew the Apostle, this section of Connecticut Avenue had heavy vehicular traffic and relatively few pedestrians to panhandle. The begging would be far more lucrative at, say, the National Mall, Capitol Hill, or the hotels clustered around Pennsylvania Avenue, Lafayette Park, and the White House.

The guy wore a long-sleeved, worn flannel shirt, soiled and wrinkled denims belted with a length of rope, and a pair of sneakers. He seemed determined, stopping the occasional few passersby. Most ignored him, a few made a show of detouring around him, and even fewer reached into their pockets. No matter what the result, though, the man seemed to always be in a position to observe the store’s entrance.

The fact he had chosen this specific spot had first attracted Jason’s attention, the long-sleeved shirt despite the day’s heat his suspicion, and his interest in the comings and goings of this particular store his anxiety.

The sales clerk was folding the purchases into paper bags when Jason asked, “Is there a back entrance?”

The young man looked puzzled that a patron of such a high-end store would ask the question. Few if any of his customers would want to sneak out.

“Why, yes, there is. But it’s there because of fire code. An alarm goes off if you open it. Why?”

What do you say? That the bum out there is not really a street person but someone who followed me here and wants to kill me? That he’s part of a group that seems so dedicated to that purpose that I, personally, killed two of them and seriously wounded a third last night?

“Thought I saw my ex on the street. I make it a practice to avoid her whenever possible.”

The clerk’s face registered understanding. “If you’d describe her for me, Mr. Peters, I’d be happy to take a peek outside.”

“Better yet, could you call a cab?”

As the taxi pulled away from the entrance to the store a few minutes later, Jason thought, but could not be sure, the homeless man’s lips were moving as though speaking into the mouthpiece of a concealed cell phone.

Imagination, or was Jason being overly cautious? For certain, he had never known anyone who died from an overdose of paranoia. Four men had been either killed or disabled last night. The force arrayed against him must be substantial if it numbered enough to mount a surveillance operation so quickly.

Good thing Jason wasn’t sticking around.

The cab stopped at the guard shack at the gate of Joint Base Anacostia-Bolling. Jason flashed his credentials and temporary visitor pass a second before the armed guard waved them through. The security here certainly wasn’t what it would be in a war zone or even on foreign soil, but being adjacent to one of the nation’s most crime-ridden urban areas assured the fence’s electric charges were constant, the perimeter patrols vigilant, and the gate guards armed. It was, Jason supposed, ironic that here in the nation’s capital, guards were necessary to ensure the safety of the lives and property of a military against the very citizens they had sworn to protect.

They also protected Jason against GrünWelt.

It was close to eighteen hundred hours, six p.m., when, in front of the BOQ, Jason paid the cabbie, took the packages, and went to his quarters. At the door, he stooped, checking the knob. The telltale he had left was gone; someone had entered his suite in his absence.

Leaving the packages on the floor, Jason put his ear against the door.

Nothing.

Either the intruder had come and gone or was silently waiting to spring his trap. Whoever might be in there could well have seen Jason get out of the cab, since the windows faced the front of the building. So much for the security provided by a military base.

Leaving the packages in the hallway, he retraced his steps to the elevator and returned to the lobby. Behind the front desk, an Airman First Class looked up from his
Washington Post.

“Help you, sir?”

“I think there’s someone in my quarters.”

The young man stared at him blankly for what felt like a full minute. “That would be Major Ferris, Captain.”

“The doctor? In my quarters?”

“She made it quite clear you were expecting her. She had a number of grocery bags. In fact, I helped her with some of them. Said she was fixing dinner for the two of you.”

A look at Jason’s face made him ask, “Anything wrong, sir?”

“Quite frankly, I’m not sure.”

Not remember my name, indeed!

Back upstairs, Jason used his key to open the door. Instantly, an aroma swirled around him that made his mouth water. He dumped his parcels on the couch and followed his nose.

The kitchen was small and full. Full of pots, pans, containers, and Major Ferris, wearing blue-jean cut-offs under an apron that nearly reached her ankles. Jason couldn’t help but think she looked even sexier now than in last night’s red dress.

“Oh! Hello!” she said as though surprised to see Jason in his own rented suite. “I do hope you don’t mind! I’ve been trying to call you all day. The switchboard said you were out.”

“I was out of town on business.”

He lifted the top of a pot. In it, a small chicken was boiling amid strips of carrots, slices of onions, specks of herbs, and material he did not recognize. “What’s this?”

“The broth for Brodo di Carne.”

“You mean the soup with the noodles stiffened with ground meat?”

“The same.” She pointed to a flour-covered cutting board. “You can see them there.”

He lifted another top. “And this?”

“The yeast batter for the stuffed squash flowers. I had to look all over the District to find zucchini blossoms.”

She took his hand away from the top of the pot. “Now, be a sweetheart and pour me a Martini.”

“I’m afraid I don’t have any gin.”

She tossed her head toward the suite’s diminutive refrigerator. “Standard medical supplies. In the freezer.”

Using one of the wine stems in the cabinet, he made a makeshift shaker, handing her a frosting glass.

She took it, kissing him on the nose. “Now, be a sweetheart again and go amuse yourself for an hour or so while I finish here.”

Jason was unsure he had ever been kissed on the tip of his nose before, and relatively certain no woman had ever told him to go amuse himself while she finished preparing dinner.

The meal was a pastiche of regional and seasonal Italian culinary art: the Brodo di Carne a wintertime Tuscan favorite; spring’s squash flowers from Rome’s ancient ghetto, batter-fried and stuffed with cheese and anchovies; and Piccata di Vitello, veal in lemon sauce, a Milanese specialty. She had even found a bottle of Gaja.

The after-dinner cheese selection consisted of an Asiago d’Allevo, a firm but creamy-tasting product from the Dolomite Mountain region northwest of Venice; Lombardy’s buttery, semisoft Bel Paese; and a Sicilian Caciocavallo.

Jason sliced a bit of the latter onto a toast point. “I understand the
‘cavallo’
part of the name comes from the fact the Romans made it from mares’ milk.”

Judith’s face scrunched into an expression of disapproval. “I don’t know why, but I find that mildly disgusting. I understood the name came from the fact it was delivered by horseback.”

“I think I like your explanation better. Where’d you learn all the Italian dishes?”

“I was married to an Italian—at least, a first-generation American one.

“An Italian in Iowa? I didn’t know there was anything but corn and cattle out there.”

She gave him a playful shove on the shoulder. “Silly! I met him when I was stationed at Lackland in Texas. Like me, he owed the service five years.”

“Obviously it didn’t work out.”

She shook her head, stood and began clearing dishes. “No, he was a
mammone
.”

Jason understood the word describing a uniquely Italian phenomenon that gave new meaning to the term “mama’s boy.” It was not uncommon for some men well into their thirties to still live with their mother. Once married, they would insist their unfortunate wives duplicate Mama’s cooking, even the way she did his laundry. The woman would exist under the tyranny of her mother-in-law.

Judith stopped halfway to the kitchen, a stack of plates in her hands. “He even had his mother take an apartment in San Antonio. Every week, he’d bring seven days’ worth of her cooking home. I should have known better when I had to put my foot down on the subject of her coming along on our honeymoon.”

What were the odds of that, of having the two women presently in his life, Maria and Judith, both with Italian exes? Coincidence, or a commentary on Italian men?

“From the information I could get,” Judith continued, “the Army’s correspondence with you after retirement went to Italy, so I figured a Italian dinner might be appropriate.”

“That information isn’t in a service jacket. You must have done some digging. I’m flattered you went to the trouble.”

Her eyebrows knitted in thought. “You have no idea. That was about all I could find out, that and you were based at Fort Bragg before being posted to the Pentagon. Your service record had more redactions than a CIA agent’s diary.”

She took the few steps needed to deposit the dishes in the kitchen sink. “With the First Special Forces Operational Detachment Delta based at Bragg, it doesn’t take a lot of imagination to guess what you did. That, plus your performance last night.”

Jason’s raised eyebrows asked a question.

Judith giggled. “I mean what you did
before
you came home with me. I’ve never seen anyone handle a knife like that.” She grinned. “Of course, what you did afterward was pretty spectacular too.”

“You weren’t exactly a slouch on either count.”

She was wiping her hands on the apron as she grew serious. “I’ve given a lot of thought to that, too. I mean, like I said, I’d never killed anyone before.”

“Not even a patient? Not many docs can say that.”

Her hand brushed away the attempt at levity. “I’m serious. I thought I’d feel terrible about it. Now, I feel terrible that I don’t.”

Jason’s experience with first kills was as varied as the individuals making them. Usually, if the event occurred at long range and in the confusion of unit combat, there was as little remorse as there was elation. Close-quarters, individual combat was another matter. It was up-close, messy, and personal. Near enough, and the victor was more often than not splattered with his enemy’s blood, sometimes his entrails as well. Some had lingering guilt that ultimately impaired their usefulness to the service. Some felt godlike with the realization it was in their power to end a human life, an unmatchable high. Others simply saw the act as an unpleasant necessity of service to their country and went on with their lives. Jason was definitely not in the guilt category and refused to speculate as to the other two.

Jason moved from the small dining table to the couch and picked up the watery remnants of his pre-dinner scotch as he sat. “You did what had to be done. If you hadn’t … well, I doubt I’d be here right now.”

She tugged off her apron and sat beside him. “I’m not sure doing what you have to do is adequate justification. I mean, those people who tape bombs to themselves and blow up innocent women and children use that rationalization.”

“There’s a difference in killing in defense of yourself or someone else and blowing up people you don’t even know. Where’s the scotch?”

“You left the bottle by the fridge. I’ll get it.” She took the glass from his hand and stood. “Not to put too fine a point on it, but my understanding is killing people you don’t even know is part of what Delta Force does.”

“But I
do
know them. They’re my enemy, the people you were talking about: the bombers, the people who want to take us back to the Dark Ages, to force their religion down our throats. Fanatical Muslims.”